I have always been fascinated by the way that people lived, survived, ate, and lived in the past. Maybe it was too much Little House, but i have always been amazed at the things that people knew how to do. Baking, and sewing, candlemaking, fire banking, farming and building things with their hands.. . these have always been things that interested me in a way. I often think of how far removed I have become from those skills in just two generations. My grandparents did not have tvs, cars, electricity and running water when they were small. They had no heat or air conditioning. No malls, target, or Walmart. They had the rolling store. They had Grandma's Singer sewing machine. They had lathes and planes and saws and mills and plows. They had mules, horses, and wagons. They had chickens and eggs and pigs. They knew how to wring a neck and kill a pig. They made hoecake. They had gardens, and wells. They canned. They made their own clothes.
All of this is becoming lost to us. Sure, I can remember my grandparents talking about these things, but talking and doing are not the same thing. So, sometimes, I like to try and learn little skills such as the ones they knew.
No, I didn't kill a pig. I made Grandma Palmer's banana pudding.
This may not seem like a lot. But i didn't even know that the stuff in the pudding is actually custard. Until i made the custard, I did not even know what was in custard. That fluff on the top is meringue? Huh. I had no idea that was just egg and sugar. I made that bitch and it looks damn good, too. Haven't tasted it yet, but i don't know how it could go wrong with ingredients like that.
Not sure why i wanted to make the pudding, except that it makes me think of my grandma Palmer, and i have been thinking about my grandmas a lot lately, and my mom, too. I don't think that growing up as a tomboy and a daddy's girl I ever realized just how hard my mother and grandmas worked to put meals on the table, or to make holidays as wonderful as they were. And I never heard a complaint from them.
Rollie and Tiller will not such peaceful memories of their own mother at Christmas time.
Fucking custard and meringue, sugar cookies that look like blobs, and fudge that won't set up . . .
Seven years later, and I am still amazed that it ever happened. It seems like it was just yesterday, and yet another century somehow. I wonder at the fact that I am responsible for two little lives that will never know what it was like to live in the world before that horrific day, and for whom the knowledge of an event of such magnitude will always be conceivable. My children will never know what it is like to live in the thought that it will never happen here. I know that the person I was on September 10, 2001 was not the same person who finally fell into fitful sleep late on September 11, 2001. But I'm pretty sure none of us were; A pebble was tossed into the pond that day, creating something that will touch us all, in one way or another, sooner or later.
Me and T, before
Me, pregnant with Rollie, after
I am still touched by the way our country banded together in those first few days, and I still have hope that we will be that way again. Sometimes I still have that hope.
My thoughts and prayers today are with the many, many families who were affected by the tragedy of 9/11, the ones who can't say that everyone they loved came out unscathed that day.
Dear Tiller, Today you turned two. We celebrated your party on Sunday. It was a Hello Kitty themed party. Aunt Lisa and Papaw Palmer couldn’t make it, but your Grandma Palmer was there, and also your Johnson Grandparents. Uncle Mark showed up, even though Aunt Lisa didn’t make it – I think he is either in love with you, or cupcakes. Maybe both. Other attendees were Mama and Dada, Rollie, Ned, Vanessa, and Scarlett. We had chocolate cupcakes, and some with colored icing, but everyone wanted chocolate. We ate pizza for lunch, and you received way too many gifts. You received a stroller, baby bed, and infant carrier, a couple of baby dolls, two cel phones (just what a little girl needs), a stuffed dog on a leash, a vacuum cleaner that really vacuums, a tea party set, a doll case, and a ton of clothes. You are a very lucky girl to have so many friends and so many people who love you.
I remember when Rollie was two, and you were about to be born. It seems like just yesterday, and now he is four and you are two, and I am really, really a mother. You have learned so many amazing things in the last year. You learned to walk a little after you turned one. Now you are running and hopping. Of course, you don’t actually leave the ground yet, but you say "I am hopping!" and do a lot of bending at the knees. You like to do whatever Diego and Dora are doing – All the actions: Climbing, swimming, rowing, hopping, swinging, climbing. Thanks to Dora and Diego, you intersperse your English with Spanish words. Sometimes I have to act out actions to figure out what you are saying to me.
Your talking is just amazing – what a vocabulary! You string so many words together in run on sentences and your dada and I just look at each other, wondering what it is you are saying, because we just don’t understand all of it. That doesn’t matter to you, though. You just keep on talking, and are so expressive when you do it, nodding your head convincingly, or holding your hands palm up when asking a question of us. You repeat everything that we say, and think that Rollie’s word is God. If Rollie says or does it, you want to say or do the same thing.
You are starting to show a bit of stubbornness. When we say “time to change your diaper,” or “Let’s put on pjs” your first reaction is to take off running. We spend a lot of time chasing you down. You love the water and will pour water over your own head when in the bath and then laugh and laugh. You are the laughingest goofball of a child I have ever known. Your sense of humor is corny and quick. You love to sing in goofy voices and then laugh at yourself. Did I mention the dancing? You love music and singing and love to dance. Your dances are a sight to behold, too – You do one where you move your arms around. I couldn’t explain it if I tried, but will have to show you the video someday. Your favorite songs are “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,“ “The Wheels on the Bus,” “You Are My Sunshine,” and “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
You love animals and babies. You crack us up, because when you talk about the other kids in your Mommies’ Morning Out class, you call them “babies,” but you think you are a big girl, even though you are all the same age. You started the MMO this fall, and I was worried you would miss me, but you love the class, and the other kids (Kai, Claire, and Abby) and your teachers, Miss Betsy, and Miss Janet. You cry on the days when Rollie has class, but you don’t.
You are kind of a bruiser. Sometimes I am in another room, and I hear Rollie screaming bloody murder and I walk in, and you have him in a headlock, or you are lying on top of him and won’t get off. I am hoping you will turn out to be a gentle soul, but it is nice to know that you stand up for yourself, too.
You love swimming. I am amazed at how much you love the water. You laugh and laugh in pools, and you love the kiddie pool at the lake. When we take you in the lake, you lie back as if you could just float on your back, all by yourself.
When we go to the park, you like to swing, swing, swing. You are not scared to climb or slide, but swinging is where it’s at for you. I have pushed you on a swing for almost an hour at a time before. You cry when I make you get out of the swing.
In the mornings, you scream and cry, “Mama” or “Daddy, come get me.” “Mama, Help!” You sound pitiful and sick, but as soon as we walk in, you start chirping away in your excited, sweet morning voice, asking "Where's Dada?" or "Where's Rollie?" You start talking in a waterfall of words and if other people in the house are still sleeping, I try to shush you, and you just won’t quiet down. It is endearingly annoying. When you wake up from your nap, you are the same way, except crankier, just like your Mama and Aunt Lisa, and Grandma Palmer. I carry you down the stairs, you crying the whole way, and when we get to the bottom, I ask if you want a snack, and you turn the tears off immediately, a smile breaks across your face, and you say, “Sack” while nodding your head at me.
Let’s see. What else:
You sleep well at night, usually going to bed between 7:30 and 8, but you aren’t a great napper. Most of your naps are 35 to 45 minutes long. I am thankful when you give me a whole hour. You never let me fix your hair, which I guess is part of the curse. I never liked having mine fixed either. You love eating. I have been lucky that both kids have healthy appetites. I try to feed you healthy stuff, and you do a pretty good job with it. You do love gold fish. You call them, “Olefish.” So cute. You are starting to love to read, and we read to you every night, but you also will grab a book and sit down with it, turning the pages and pretending to read.
Since your birthday party, you have been walking around saying, “I’m a baby!” and then “I’m a big girl!” You may be growing up to be a big girl, a young lady, but you will always be my little baby girl, even when you are fifty. I am so lucky to have you for a daughter. I knew that being a parent was special, but I never knew how amazing it would be to have a boy and a girl. Mom always said that there was something so very wonderful about having a daughter, and now I understand what she meant. You are sweet and mercurial, tough and sensitive, beautiful and ornery, girly and tomboyish, smart and silly, all wrapped up in the cutest, roly-poliest package I have ever seen. You are a little like your father, and a lot like me, and better than both of us put together. I have learned so very much from you and Rollie. Having a little girl, though, is a slightly more daunting task for me. I know that I am your foremost role model, the woman from whom you will learn so very much in your life. You bring out so many things in me that I didn’t know I had inside. You make me a better person. You make me want to be someone you can look up to, someone you can learn valuable life lessons from, and someone you can respect. I hope that I do as wonderful a job as my Mom did. I hope that I set an example for you that will make you as proud of me as I am of you.
Happy Birthday, Baby Tiller.
With love, Mama
Thanks to Uncle Mark for the cute Tiller with Stroller vid.
Most of the time i feel like Dogwood Girl is a great outlet for me, a healthy exercise in purging my sick mind and all that. But lately? It is just another damn thing that I am not getting done. Who needs something else to make them feel guilty? I am not going to let it get me down. I will post when I can post.
But some things require taking the time. Like when one of your bestest friends, the one that introduced you to your husband, which resulted in your life becoming boring and parental, and yet you still love her, is getting married and you spend the weekend with the girls, acting trashy and pretending that you don't have children or husbands. Much fun.
In case you haven't visited the town, Helen is totally kooky, touristy, and a total fucking riot. Here's a town where everyone drank the Kool Aid and decided to make their little town a theme park. With beer river tubing and taffy and Ye Olde Fudge.
We spent the weekend in a cabin, with a pool table, a panoramic view of Mt. Yonah, a hot tub, rocking chairs, four couches, and three tvs. Anyone who knows me can tell you that if you put me up with a pool table, a stocked bar, an IPod, and a hot tub, I might never leave. I watched Auburn beat out those detestable Gators while pounding beers, playing pool, and hot tubbing. It was awesome. We are even mature enough that we could afford a place where everyone had a bed. I shared a King with my little sis and I barely knew she was there.
This was the first Bachelorette party I have been to, i realized later, at which only the Bride-to-be was a Bachelorette. The rest of us were all Matrons. That is a little disturbing. Didn't get in the way of the shenanigans, though. And as Lisa and I informed the others, we are still way cute when we drink. You can see evidence of this in the following picture, as Leelee exudes cuteness:
High points, other than aforementioned view and hot tub, were the excellent meals, and the company. Great group of girls. Okay, it's a tossup - Girls vs. very frightening, nightmare-inducing Deer Anus Cyclops Head. It could go either way.
More pics: Keri, Robbie, and Nessie:
Robbie solo, and with her very cool future Sis-in-law, Katie:
Et moi, basking in the heat of the tub and two beautiful field goals against the Fucking Florida Gators (Yes, this Bulldog hates them just. that. much.) And to top off a great weekend, on the way home, i met a couple of bikers on Harleys at the gas station. One of them asked me to go for a ride with him. He was cute in a pushing-50s, Marlboro-Man-gravelly-voice kind of way. I was tempted. It was a great day.
"I need to get back to Atlanta," I said.
"I live in Atlanta," he replied with a devilish grin. "I'll take you home."
"I can't. I gotta get back to the husband and kids."
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry. I didn't see your ring. I didn't know you were married."
"That's okay," I said. "You made my day!"
And it did. We're still cute, girls, even when we're not drinking. And chivalry is not dead. At least not in the hills of North Georgia.
To think that not that many years ago, women regularly wondered where their next meal would come from, as they waded down towards the river to wash their clothes by hand. They knew that after a long day, they were expected to service their husbands. They were in constant fear that their beloved family members were going to die from some terrible disease for which there was no cure, no antibiotic.
I am sitting around today worrying about my slow internet, the fact that I didn't get a chance to write once last week, and that I couldn't fit my long run in this weekend, so I ended up doing it today. I was kind of disappointed that I only finished 7.5 miles in the time between dropping off and picking up my son from preschool, when I wanted to finish 9.5 miles.
I cannot believe that I dropped off my little Tiller for her first day of school today. Okay, not real school, but the Mommies' Morning Out program. She goes Tuesdays and Thursdays for three whole hours. She was so excited to put on her big girl backpack. Keep your traps shut about the fact that it is Rollie's hand-me-down backpack; He got a brand spanking new Diego backpack for his birthday, and it just seemed ludicrous to throw the old one out, so I just crossed out his name and put hers on the backpack. I also drew her a nifty flower to girl it up a little. Then I felt guilty for not drawing anything on Rollie's backpack, so I drew him a car. Two more fun things about being a Mom - 1) You can guilt yourself about just about anything where your kids are concerned and 2) You will need a Sharpie. Often.
Both kids got out of the van, with Todd's help. He followed us over to school for her first day, since we did it last year for Rollie's first day. Yes, Todd is the best Daddy ever. They were so cute, with backpacks and raring to go. They humored me while we took some pictures to commemorate the big event. Rollie was cracking me up, saying hello to the Pastor and to his friends from last year. We took him to his classroom first. He went right in, found his hook, hung up his backpack, and started playing. He said, "Hey guys!" when he walked in the room. Tiller followed him in at a run, with her backpack too big for her body, and mimicked big brother with a very cute, "Hey, guys!" to the big kids in Rollie's class. Luckily, she was not upset when we put her in the room with kids her own age.
We walked her down to the room, and the door was shut. She went right in, starting to play before we could get her backpack off her. We showed her where her hook was and hung up her backpack, because she wasn't able to reach the hook yet. She went right back to playing with cars. Todd and I said bye-bye, and slipped out. No tears, not even a glance.
Then I went to meet Lisa for coffee and unadulterated adult conversation (can adult conversation be unadulterated?) for over two whole straight hours. It was good. Really, really good.
We Did It! Kept One of These Critters Alive for Four Years!
Dear Rollie -
I cannot believe that you are four years old today. It seems like just yesterday that I was lying around taking naps, and anticipating your arrival. If only I had known how drastically my life was about to change. You turned everything upside down from the moment you arrived, and I will never be the same.
In the last year, you started school for the first time. You just went three days a week from 9-noon, but it was so hard to drop you off that first time. You were so excited, with your little backpack. I don’t know why I worried – you did great, and you made lots of friends, and you loved going to school. You didn’t get in too much trouble, although I did have to go pick you up one time for biting. I was mortified. We talked about it, though, and you never did it again. Your teacher at the beginning of the year was Miss Michelle; you loved her, and sometimes you didn’t want to leave school and would hug her legs and cry and scream when I came to pick you up. After Christmas, they moved the three-day kids into a different class and your teachers were miss Reshma, who was from India, and Miss Janice. Both of them were very sweet to you, and liked you very much, although you went through a difficult stage there for a while. You were pushing a lot. That was our fault, though, because we let you watch the movie, “Cars.” It was a movie about a racecar, and in his races, he and other cars would bump each other, and you started bumping other people in real life, including your friends at school, and your little sister. Any time you ran into someone, you would say that it was “bumping.” We took the movie away when we (finally) realized the movie was causing the behavior.
Your friends at school are Jackson, Reese, David, Ezra, Zoe, Shruthi, Toby, and Sarah. I loved to come pick you up and see you playing happily on the playground. I always had to bring home a pile of artwork that you did at school. The box in my closet is about to explode, it has so much artwork in it. I don’t know what I will do when you and Tiller are both going this coming Fall. The teachers last year always said that you were very smart and doing well with your ABCs and counting and letter sounds. I am very proud of your intelligence and how quickly you learn things, and I know that you are going to be reading in the next couple of years; I cannot wait to see your excitement when you realize that reading a book is like opening a door to a whole new, unexplored world. I look forward to discussing books with you, and to seeing what subjects you get excited reading about.
Your favorite things to play right now are cars and trains. You are a pro at riding your tricycle, and Daddy and I finally got you a new bike for your birthday. It is a Huffy Rockit, and it has flames on it. We took you to the park to ride yesterday and you did great. You were a little scared, and had a few wobbles when your training wheels went off the sidewalk, but if I walked beside you, holding the end of the handlebars, you were confident. If I let go, you would cry and scream for me to hold on to it again. I admit that I was annoyed that you were too scared to try it, but I was proud that by the end of the outing, you were riding without me helping you, and riding ahead of Daddy, Tiller, and I. You showed us how you could ride in circles, and you were so proud of yourself. I know that years from now, I will wish that you need me more often, that I will want to hold on to your handlebars, or help push you up the big hills, so to speak, but I know that part of being your Mama is watching you become an independent little boy.
You received other stuff for your birthday: A bunch of matchbox and hot Wheels cars, an Auburn shirt (I am hoping you will grow out of that ugly thing pretty soon), a game with a monkey, a football set and a cool die-cast truck from Uncle Mark. Uncle Lyle got you a racetrack for your cars, and a cool Snoopy Snow Cone machine. Grandma and Papaw Palmer got you a baseball glove and tee with a whiffle ball and bat. The glove looks so small, and yet it is too big for your hand. We are taking them to the Lake for Labor Day this weekend, and I am looking forward to playing some catch with you and Papaw (when we’re not watching the Dawgs play, of course – Football season starts this weekend!) Your party was a cookout at our house. We filled the kiddie pool up for swimming, and had hot dogs, hamburgers, cake, and ice cream. All of your Grandparents were here, but Meemaw and Pop couldn’t make it. Uncle Mark and Aunt Lisa were here, and also Uncle Lyle. Aunt Denise was sick, and Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Wade couldn’t make it because they had baby Luci on Friday. That’s right! You and Tiller have your first cousin. I am a little sad that you don’t have a cousin closer in age, but you and Tiller are such partners in crime, that I know you will always have each other to play with. Other people at the party were: Harmony, Gabe, and baby Chase; Ned, Vanessa, and Scarlett; cousin Adam, and Jenny and Addie; Matt Stewart showed up in time for a burger, cake, and ice cream.
Let’s see, what else happened this year? Your vocabulary has rocketed. I am amazed when you ask me things like, “Mama, what are consequences?” and you really caught me off guard last week, when you asked me how babies get out of their Mama’s tummies. For the record, I just told you the truth – babies come out of their mama’s vaginas, kind of like when they go pee pee. You looked confused and then asked me if the baby went into the toilet. You like to say that things are “crazy” or “cool.”
You are a great big brother. You teach Tiller lots of games, and you are pretty patient with her, even when she is a complete pest. You both love to dance, and to sing. Your favorite songs this year have been: Just about anything by Kings of Leon, although your favorite is probably “Charmer.” You love to sing to Sufjan Stevens’ “Chicago,” The Decemberists’ “Crane Wife 3,” and Lily Allen’s “LDN.” You totally rock out to MC5’s “Kick Out the Jams” (I am a good mom, and always do something to distract you from the first line, so that you won’t learn that one) and The Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” Your favorite song to dance to is Peter Bjorn and John’s “Young Folks.” The big dance move you do is what we call “The Big Dance.”
You finally potty-trained this summer. I was frustrated as all get-out, and then one day at the lake, you just started pooping on the potty all by yourself. It was like you decided to finally do it once we gave up trying to teach you. I think you may get a little bit of obstinancy from both your Mama and your Dada. Whatever. I am just glad that I am not changing two diapers anymore. You still wear one at night, and during naps. Not that you nap anymore. Unless you fall asleep in the car, or you are sick. I get pretty frustrated with this, because it means that I never get any alone time during the day, but I know that I will miss our afternoons together when you start school for real.
I really, really try to cherish every moment with you, and I think that I do a pretty good job of checking myself when I am not making the most of our time together. Right now you are sitting next to me watching Diego while I type this. Tiller is sitting next to you. You are wearing a purple, plastic lei that you got at the gym this morning, Thomas the Tank engine underwear, and an Auburn shirt. You just turned to me, yawned, and said something about Baby Jaguars.
I cannot believe how much you are the center of my world, how much I love you, and how fast you change. Lately, you have become more pouty when you are mad at us, and sweeter, to the point of saccharine, when you are trying to show us affection. If you are mad at us, you will tell us “You are a joke!” which we reprimand you for, but secretly think is cute. You also sometimes say that “I am not loving you today.” That one hurt the first time you said it, but now it makes me laugh, because you would have to do a whole lot more to make me not love you back. I don’t think I could love you one iota less. I think you yourself have summed up my love for you: You have taken to telling us, when you are being sweet, that “You are my heart, mama. You and Daddy are my hearts.”
I think that people who are not parents cannot possibly understand the all-encompassing love a parent has for their children. It is a double-threat, a totality of body and mind. It is a love that occupies my mind at all times, even stealing into my dreams to wake me in a terror. It is the physicality of the love, though, that awes me so; the physical sense of feeling sick when you are hurt, or even at the thought of you being in pain. The knowledge, fearless and involuntary, that I would take a bullet for you without a moment’s hesitation. I know that I would kill for you, or die trying. I guess it is biology, a primal instinct to preserve my offspring, but I also like to think that there is a bigger power in our world and that it is fueled by loves like the unalterable love that I feel for you and your sister. You are my heart, sweet Rollie, and you will always be my heart.
Yesterday afternoon, I was changing Tiller. When one of the kids has a really large poopy diaper, I exclaim "Poop-O-Rama!" Everyone gets excited. Tiller was excited about her Poop-O-Rama, and as she is starting to mimic everything we say, she let out a gleeful, "Poop-O-Mama!!!"
Today, I had Rollie try to go on the potty. I try to remind him hourly and after eating or drinking. Today has been a banner day - so far, no poop in the diaper. Only on the potty. To my joy, Rollie said, "I have to go poop." I told him to go, go, go. He rushed to the bathroom, took off his pants and diaper, sat up on the toilet, and closed the bathroom door. He sat for a second, and I was on the couch waiting to hear something from him, when he opened up the door and darted out towards his toy box.
Next time someone at the church preschool asks you to come help out tomorrow because they might need a few extra hands with both class pictures and the Easter egg hunt occurring on the same day, all somewhere between 9 a.m. and noon?
Run.
You will no doubt end up both running the whole Easter Egg hunt and being in charge of capturing the whole thing on digital. I had to hide eggs for the one year old class, then help them hunt for them, then the two year old class eggs had to be hidden, then the three year olds had to find theirs.
After each group went, we then had to have them turn their baskets in, so that we could distribute the eggs back out evenly. (Neal Boortz would keel over at this "redistribution of wealth" lesson in action.)
You think the animal kingdom is cutthroat? You should see these little things pushing, shoving, and biting - yes, biting - to get a cheap plastic egg with a Peep in it. Human beings, on their basest level, are not pretty.
And the fact that I am leading the Easter egg hunt and I don't even know if I believe in the whole resurrection story? Well, that is just . . . ironic. And so very, very not punk rock.
Tiller, you are 17 months, and I have been pretty bad about documenting your milestones. You started walking a while back and now you are on fire, hurtling forward so quickly on your not-so-steady feet that I fear you will fall face-first into whatever is in front of you. Sometimes you do, but often you recover, and I laugh at my nervous stomach afterwards. You have learned to climb stairs and just started coming back down on your own (backwards on hands and knees, of course.) Thank God, because I was getting pretty tired of coming up the stairs to rescue you at the landing when you got up there and then cried, realizing you couldn't get back down. I am amazed by the way you little ones push the envelope, exploring everything, even when you don't know what you will find, or how you will return. It is like a person choosing to fly a plane without knowing how to land, or climbing a mountain without knowing how to come back down. You are pretty fearless.
You are talking up a storm. It started very slowly, mostly "Dada." Then: "ball," "bear," "bowl." Other words: dog, kittycat, book, moon, balloon, elmo, shoe, ear, milk, hello, bye-bye. Now you are chatting us up, and the other day you said your first two-word phrase: "My Dada." You are Daddy's little girl already; I almost feel sorry for him, for he has no idea how much a little girl can love her Daddy and how much suffering she will put him through later. Most of the time, though, I just roll my eyes, because you and Rollie both prefer him to me. You would think Jesus Christ was walking through the front door every afternoon, the way everyone flips out and brightens and dances in the streets. I mean, come on, I change the poopy diapers all day, and plan the meals, and pick up your coveted damn Goldfish at the store - Show your mama some love.
I am kidding, though, because you are the lovingest thing I have ever seen. You love to hug, and kiss and get kisses. You pat us on the back when we hold you. Rollie and you have hugfests, where you hug, he kisses you on the head, and then while still locked in the hug, he drags you around until you both fall over and you hit your head on the floor. Then the tears begin, but it is hard to get mad at you guys for hugging each other so vigorously.
You are very adamant about whatever you want. At dinnertime, once you realize food is in the picture, you cling and cry and follow me around, saying "bowl" which seems to be your all-purpose word for anything having to do with food or drink. If you can get your hand on a bib or bowl or cup, you bring them to us to tell us you want to eat. Now. If I am in any part of the house and the words snack, dinner, lunch, or breakfast come out, it is all over. You are ready to be picked up and taken downstairs, or you will rush straight and with purpose into the kitchen, ready to be fed. Same thing with "outside," or "go." You hear those and go find your shoes and jacket and bring them to us, ready to be dressed for whatever journey we embark upon.
Bathtime? Bedtime? Same thing. You love the bath and you love being naked. I have no idea where you got that. :-) The only thing that makes you run for cover? The word diaper. You will run like the wind to avoid having to lay down and put on a diaper and pjs. Once we have pinned you down and dressed you for bed, though, you are all business. It is story time and you will not be swayed. You bring us your favorite books and then go walk over to the rocking chair to climb up and be read to. Right now, your favorites seem to be "Goodnight Moon" and "The Moon in My Room." You also like the Sandra Boynton books and the duck book whose name I can't remember. You sit up in our laps as we rock and read, clutching your bear, pointing out your favorite things in the books, and twirling your hair, which is what you do when you are sleepy. When we finish reading and turn out the light, we hug or talk or sing for a minute, then put you down. You start twirling your hair again, clutching the bear as we shut the door. You never make another peep.
You have a funny little laugh, and you think Daddy is the funniest, then Rollie. You like to sit with us and play games. You LOVE to dance. Sometimes we have dance parties before dinner, but often a song you like will come on the radio, or the computer or the t.v. You will start turning circles to it, then look at us with big smiles to make sure we see what you are learning to do.
We see it all, and every bit of it is as thrilling as watching Rollie do it for the first time. I just wish I had more time to treasure it all, to make sure you know how important these little milestones are, and how much prouder we are of you with every step you take.
I love my kids, really I do. But I have to say I am much more disappointed that my DVR is fucked up and can't be fixed until Tuesday than I am that my kids are gone for two nights.
I was kind of looking forward to an evening at home completely vegging out by myself, maybe even eating dinner in front of the t.v. - we never do that anymore, because of all that eating dinner together promotes familial wellbeing crap. I miss my coffee table being my dinner table. I miss Alex Trebec over dinner.
I guess I will, as my sister says, make like the Amish, and catch up on my reading.
As I said, I felt like SHIT on Saturday. Nausea and splitting headache, which i think were due more to lack of sleep than quantity of alcohol. Complete and utter shit, all the same. I told Todd I didn't want to drink a lot, so that I would feel good on Saturday. He made me drink.
We woke up, ate some continental breakfast, then headed out to get a new digital camera. (Ours finally pissed us off enough to be retired.) Then we had a tasty sandwich at a sub place and headed back to the room for naps. I was disappointed that I was so tired on Saturday - I far would have preferred strolling the squares all day Saturday, but knew I must sleep or I would never make it through the wedding on Saturday night.
We slept for two hours, then woke up, had a snack and dressed for the wedding. The trolley (ring! ring! ring! goes the bell) was picking up at 5:40 for the 6:30 wedding. We rushed around getting dressed and got on the trolley. We picked up more wedding guests at the Mulberry Inn and the Desoto Hilton. I have never seen so many women wearing dead animals in my life.
The wedding was at The Oglethorpe Club. Another beautiful house, right across the street from the original Armstrong College, where my father once attended classes. As we pulled up around the corner on to Bull St., we heard the piper playing. I swear to God, they had a bagpiper greeting the guests on the corner.
We got off the trolley, then proceeded up the stairs (festooned in beautiful greenery and white roses - I think they spent more on flowers than I spent on my whole wedding. There were white roses all over the whole house.) We checked my coat, then went up to the second floor for the ceremony. They conducted the ceremony in an upstairs, wood-paneled, long and narrow room. It was dark and candlelit. The bride wore a beautiful dress, and the the whole wedding party was decked out in Scottish tartan. The groom and his family wore their tartan; the bride and wedding party wore their own. Women wore a tartan sash with a brooch, including the bride. Nice, unusual touch. The piper piped as the wedding party entered. They also had a four-piece string instrument thing going on. The ceremony was very short, which was nice, because about half of us were standing in the back of the room.
After the ceremony, it was off to the bar. The Oglethorpe is a men's club. I was a little weirded out about things I have heard about it (no black members, no women allowed to walk up the front steps, etc.) All of that didn't matter - they could have made me crawl around on my knees as long as I could partake of the buffet.
I'm going to throw down the gauntlet: BEST. WEDDING. BUFFET. EVER. There were the usual carving tables, and an open bar, but the piece de resistance was the asparagus/cheese/tomato sandwich/oyster table. If you know me, you know they had me at "cheese," but if you throw in tomato sandwiches with the crusts (I still call them "the bones") cut off, I am yours. There were so many different kinds of stinky, blue-veined cheeses that I would have been sick even trying a bite of each one. Todd, meanie that he is, didn't think it was appropriate for me to put a whole chunk of cheese in my purse at the end of the evening. I am horrified at the thought of the cheese in a trashcan in the basement of the Oglethorpe Club.
Add in a bottomless pan of freshly-fried, hot oysters? Holy crap! I am surprised I didn't get sick. I spent half the evening hovering around the oyster dish with a bunch of old southern men, waiting for the next batch to come out. I think I impressed them with my oyster-eating prowess. I was so tired that night, that i took it easy on the drinking. Well, I did start at 7:00 or so and drink till 3 something in the morning, but i was a good girl. I felt fine on Sunday. One reason? I ate my weight in buffet. The reception lasted a long time, and people were pretty toasty by the end. I was pretty sober myself, having spent more time stuffing my face and looking at old weapons and pictures of Civil War generals.
In the end, the bride and groom came down the wide front steps of the club as we showered them with white rose petals. Both had changed: The groom was wearing ridiculous plaid pants, a bowtie, and a tam. The bride wore pants and sweater, along with a wide-brimmed hat and her tartan sash as a scarf. The "getaway" car was not a car at all - Definitely the cutest "Just married" getaway ever: They climbed onto a vintage tandem bike, complete with basket and bell, then rode off into Monterrey Square. (I think it was Monterrey Square). Adorable. I got a little choked up, and I don't even know them.
We took the trolley back to the hotel, then changed, and met people at the bar the wedding party had chosen. I am going to go ahead and say it was possibly the most hideous place I have ever been. Some kind of karaoke bar, attached to a bar that looked just like an Applebee's. I guess I am a snob, but I am picky. It is bad enough hearing the original versions of crappy rock songs (think Creed or one of those bands with numbers in their names), but hearing drunks butcher them even further was downright painful.
I drank PBRs with Kate (the bride's sister and Todd's friend), her husband, and her lecherous uncle from Bogota. They gave up the ghost and headed home. Todd was just kicking it into high gear (for those of you who know Todd, this is the part where he starts stirring his drink with his fingers, and then licking them merrily one by one) and so despite the fact that I was ready to fall into bed, I took one for the team and accompanied him for a few more hours.
We finally found a couple other like-minded guests who decided to venture with us to another bar, Hang Fire. My friend Donnie had recommended this place as having an excellent jukebox, and so when a fellow wedding guest mentioned it as a place where they might go, I jumped at the chance. It was pretty cool, but by the time we got there, everyone was wasted, and they had a band playing, so I didn't get a chance to check out the jukebox. I did get to see the shocked look on the face of the little South Carolina girl who had joined us, when she saw two girls making out in the corner and about ten guys taking camera phone pictures of them. That actually made the trip worthwhile. She then got into an argument with her date, who had somehow offended her by putting down "Carolina" and "the status quo in Columbia." They were a riot. We met a very nice Chicago girl who had been living in Savannah for a couple of years and tried to convince us that since we like Wilco we like jam bands. Ain't gonna happen. We finally walked back to the hotel with the feuding Columbian (of Columbia, SC) couple. I was asleep within five minutes.
I woke up feeling wonderful; Todd, not so much. Ah, sweet feeling of a Sunday morning without hangover or regret. We looked around in vain for somewhere neat to eat, then in desperation and hunger, I phoned my friend Jason, who recommended The Firefly Cafe, which looked awesome, but had a wait of what looked like hours (think Flying Biscuit waits). We went down the street to a J. Christopher's, which was actually really good, and had IHOP-style bottomless coffee on the table.
On the way, I caught sight of this guy who was carrying an interesting sign. I am guessing he strolls the streets every Sunday to put fear of God into Saturday night's hangover victims roving the streets searching for a cure; Everyone out on Sunday morning seemed to be a slow-moving student, or a well-dressed churchgoer in a fancy hat. It was Sunday, crisp and bright, and the people were walking their dogs with coffee in hand, and the church bells rang at noon. Lovely morning. Todd looked like death eating a ham sandwich, which only cast into relief my elation at having a sunny morning without kids or hangover.
Some things are indescribably perfect. We had a wonderful time (hard not to without kids), and I didn't even mention all the six degrees of separation, or the menage a trois come-ons (or so we like to flatter ourselves,) or the Episcopal Mafia. You can see more of our pictures from the trip by clicking on my Flickr link to the right. They should be up some time today.
Oh, p.s.! On Saturday, even with my hangover, we "discovered" an awesome artist at Chroma Gallery on Barnard. I posted about it here on Atlanta Metblogs, as the artist is an Atlantan. If you ever want to see what I am saying about Atlanta, there are links to my posts on Metroblogging Atlanta to the right.
In case you don't know, or don't read Dogwood Girl regularly, parenting is hard as fuck. The hardest part, by far, is the worry in the back of your mind that something might happen to one of your children. It is constant. It never goes away. One can imagine losing a parent, sibling, or spouse. Losing a child is unimaginable. There is a saying, and I'm not sure to whom it is attributed, that having a child is forever having your heart walk around outside your body. You are helpless in protecting it. I can imagine no more frightening exercise in letting go of one's fear than seeing a child walk away from you for the first time, or seeing a child drive away alone in a car.
The second hardest part is the sheer relentlessness of the physical requirements of caring for a child. You can schedule it to death, but the unscheduled will occur, and you will have to take care of it, right then and there. You can plan to write for an hour while the children watch Sesame Street, but they will make countless requests for snacks, diaper changes, channel changes, outfit changes, toy dispute reconciliations, and the occasional refereeing of to-the-death grudge matches. Having children means that things that usually take one minute will take ten. Things that take an hour will take at least two hours. It is a job that starts around 7a.m., but might start at 5:30 a.m. some mornings. (No advance notice is given if that is the case, but you can rest assured that if you stay out dancing with the girls until 5:30 a.m. the night before, that your son will wake up at 5:30 the next morning.) You do not get a breakfast, lunch or dinner break. You do not get an anything break. You are lucky if you get to take a shit by yourself, or if you do not have to cut that short to make sure that after you heard that shattering glass noise your child is not now eating glass. You are lucky if you get to wipe before getting up from the toilet. I have actually stood up from the toilet and not had the time to pull up my pants before rushing out of the bathroom to check on the latest catastrophe, my pants still around my ankles. The day usually ends at 7:30 or eight for us, but if someone is sick, or teething, or scared, or cold, or wets the bed, then you might have wakeup calls at any hour of the evening. And you still might have to get up at 5:30 a.m. the next day. So, you have anywhere from 12 to 14 hour days, with no breaks, and with being on call 24 hours a day. And weekends. In a good, healthy, sane week, you might work about 85 hours. Unpaid, but for the satisfaction of a snuggle here or a kiss or hug there. There is also the laughter. Kids say some damn funny stuff, and you have to appreciate that the laughter is part of the payoff, or you would be left with nothing.
And here is what to me is the next hardest part of parenting: Being sick while you are a parent. It sucks the biggest cock EVER.
It started Friday. Rollie was being a total shit, and even had to be taken out of the restaurant at dinner for his behavior. I should have known what was up, because he wouldn't eat anything at dinner, including french fries, which is Mommy 101 for "You are going to be up all night with a puking kid." Sure enough, we put the kids down Friday night at the Lakehouse, where we were staying because we were having the downstairs walls in our house painted. Now, the heat died this fall at the Lakehouse, so it is heated by only gas logs, but if you dress like lumberjacks and keep the logs on all the time, and sleep in two or three quilts at night, you are okay. It is not, however, conducive to being a sickhouse, where one has to get up out of bed multiple times in a night to clean up pukey kids, change puked-on sheets, and make up clean beds. Todd shivered the night away on the couch next to a drafty window, while I slept in his bed, and got up with Tiller who awoke crying multiple times. We made it through the night, thought maybe Rollie had just had too much chocolate milk at dinner, then he puked up his breakfast. Did I mention that the Lake has a washer, but no dryer? We dry the clothes on the line outside. It was about 30 degrees and cloudy. Time to go home. Todd packed up Rollie, while I cleaned up at the house with the help of my Dad, then followed with the still-healthy Tiller.
We came back to the house, and unpacked everything, starting to do laundry, while William, our painter, finished up painting downstairs. Todd and I, in our great wisdom, do not have a television in our bedroom. We feel it promotes a healthy marriage, where we talk or read before going to bed, rather than flipping through channels, or one of us watching something downstairs, while the other watches t.v. in bed.
We are idiots. It is pure hell to be stuck in a sickroom with two puking kids, and NO TELEVISION. Pure. Hell. Yep, Tiller went down for a nap at about 2 pm and woke up screaming bloody murder five minutes later. Covered in puke. I almost threw out her pitiful Hello Kitty doll, the one where kitty is wearing a Jackie-O pillbox hat, and carrying a cute pocketbook, and has a poodle on a leash. Very cute. Doesn't machine wash. (Note to non-parents: Gifts that do not machine-wash end up in the trash.)
Diarrhea began not long after that. That was Saturday. No more puke out of either of them, but diarrhea continued through Sunday at 5 pm, when I started puking.
You know when you are really sick? I mean uncontrollable puking until the dry heaves hit, and you are still nauseated, when you start throwing up bile and possibly cracking ribs in the process? That's when the diarrhea hits, and there is a lovely crossover period where you are sick from both ends, and you wish that your toilet was withing puking distance of your bathtub, so that you could do both at once. Then the vomiting subsides and you are left with an emptying diarrhea that lasts for hours and you shiver and are cold and you break out in a cold sweat and then the covers are too much, but it doesn't matter because you can't lie in bed for more than five minutes before having to rush back into the bathroom, and you are spent and so dehydrated and thirsty, but you are scared to drink anything, because every time something enters your mouth, it comes directly back out the other end.
Most of all, you want your Mommy, and unfortunately, you are the mommy.
Now imagine being that sick, and having two kids who are also sick. To give credit where credit is due, my dear husband took care of me and the kids while we were all sick this weekend, but just the guilt alone of being sick and not feeling like taking care of the little ones when they are sick is terrible. I was sick all night Sunday. I was weak and spent all day yesterday. The other bad part of being a sick family is when you are the non-sick one: All chores fell on Todd Sunday night and all day Monday. Not only are you responsible for puke and diarrhea cleanup, but you are responsible for planning and preparing meals (a land mine field of menu planning that dictates what kind of puke and diarrhea you will be cleaning up in the coming hours), laundry detail, and the gnawing fear that you have a toilet with your name on it in the future.
I started feeling better yesterday afternoon, but I was still weak and tired and unable to eat much. The kids seemed to be feeling better, but everyone was kind of laying around. Todd fixed dinner and Tiller puked it up. Both kids had more diarrhea after dinner. They had baths and went to bed. I made it till about 9 and then hit the hay myself, hoping to get a decent night's sleep and recoup some energy. Tiller puked at 10, awakening with a cry. It is hard to describe how pitiful kids are when they puke in their beds: They wake up scared and in the dark and covered in their own sick. It is also hard to describe the sinking feeling you get as a parent when your kids wake up sick. Let's just say that when I heard Todd utter "crap" upon checking on Tiller, I knew what had happened. She woke up puking again at 11. Luckily, she slept through the rest of the night uneventfully, because we only had one clean sheet left for her crib. Rollie crawled into bed with us at 6:30 a.m. All in all, a fairly decent night's sleep.
This morning? Both kids have had breakfast and still no puke or cha-chas. (My sister and I call diarrhea "cha-chas". We got it from Beavis and Butthead - they ridiculed their friend Daria by singing "Diarrhea Cha Cha Cha," and it stuck with us. It makes something terrible sound so much cuter, no?)
Anyway, wish us luck. Todd is still healthy. I think i am feeling better. Tiller is asleep on my lap, as I type this w1H.
Rollie's latest thing, other than learning the word "Dammit" from his Grandma, is to say to people, "You are a joke." The first time he said this to me, I even kind of had my feelings hurt. He just hadn't said that many mean things before. I got over that, though, and explained to him that it wasn't nice to say that to people, and that it would hurt feelings, etc. He looked at me blankly, laughed, and said, "Mama, you are a joke."
I am so good at this job.
It seems that he picked this little gem up from (where else?) t.v. He loves the movie Cars, and in fact, it was the first movie Todd ever took him to see in the theater. (He made it about 20 minutes.) We have it on DVD. It is a pretty benign movie, rated G, but the cars race and bump into each other and say things like "You are a joke." There is a laughably "mean" car, too.
It is scary how easy it is to imprint things upon the blanket of freshly fallen snow that is the mind of the three-year-old. They are without a single imperfection, and then language begins to assail them from every side, and suddenly, they are saying, "mama, You are a joke," or "We're home, dammit!"
This is a very heavy job, raising a kid. For a perfectionist, or even a failed perfectionist, it is really difficult to know that there are no A +s in parenting. Parenting involves watching the slow erosion of a perfect being into an imperfect person, and simply trying to prevent them from sliding below average into sociopath. There is no other way. It is terrifying and beautiful, and the weightiest responsibility I have ever felt.
There are small victories, though. Like getting to wipe your son's ass after he poops in the potty. Because at least he pooped in the potty, instead of in the diaper, or in his Batman undies, or crouched under the kitchen table hiding from you.
I should not look a gift horse in the mouth, or be ungrateful, but when you leave the vacuum cleaner, broom and dustpan, windex, paper towels, and furniture polish all over the house, it is pretty obvious what you think of my housekeeping skills. That is okay - I will overlook the insult as long as you keep my kids. Even if you did stock my pantry with vanilla wafers, double stuff Oreos, two kinds of jelly with sugar (even though we had two sugar-free versions already), a tin of Hershey's kisses, Rice Krispies, and two new containers of pourable sugar (as opposed to the cheap bagged type I use). I mean, if I wanted my kids to eat that crap, it would probably be in the pantry already, but whatever. More with which Mama can sabotage her diet after 8 pm.
Seriously: I cringe at the thought of what has entered my children's mouths throughout the various times they have been taken care of by their grandparents. I know it will not kill them, and the free time is worth a cavity or two, but the worst part? I cannot physically bring myself to throw out those Oreos. A full bag? I cannot do it. They will sit there and slowly ruin my weight loss until Todd comes home on Saturday, when they will succumb to one of two scenarios: 1)Todd shows extreme willpower and kicks them to the curb. 2) Todd goes out for drinks with the boys, and then comes home, skulks around the kitchen as the rest of us sleep, then eats Oreos in one sitting with a peanut butter jelly sandwich.
I know this is our weakness, and not theirs. Why does it have to be so hard?
In addition to the cast of characters we have seen here in Orlando, we also took in some sights. I skipped the theme park stuff, and hit the outlet malls yesterday while Todd was working. I took the trolley line and on the way there, i had the pleasure of being surrounded by a bunch of German conventioneers. i have no idea what they were saying, but it doesn't really matter, as German accents always sound sinister to me, even when they are laughing and smiling. As if they are going to give me one last cigarette before they make me turn around and shoot me execution-style into the grave I have just finished digging for myself. On the way back, I met a stereotypical large Irish family, replete with mischievous sons. The mom loved the Simon and Garfunkel that looped on the trolley, over and over. The driver on the way back was from Chicago, and he was new, and he didn't know where he was going. It is not a good sign when you have to tell the driver how to drive his route.
After I got back to the hotel, Todd and I went to Outback, mate. Seems that everything in Orlando is themed, franchised, and a chain. Todd and I competed in a contest against one another for who could come up with the most Australian words (bonzer! Billabong! Didgeridoo?); they must be pronounced with an Australian accent, of course. Anyone who knows my husband knows that he killed me in this game. If there is anything Todd loves, it is slang. He also loves to make me do any kind of accent or sound effect, because I am exceedingly terrible at both. If you want to illicit giggles from the both of us, the way to do it is to get me to do a machine gun sound effect, or get Todd to do R2D2 imitating Chewbacca. Good stuff. Chains are lame, but don't worry, I managed to choke down a prime rib and a bottle of wine. I will survive.
After that, we headed back to the mall (Orlando is basically one big mall with some roller coasters thrown in for good measure.) Todd had a balance left over on a $500 gift certificate a client gave him last Christmas to Bass Pro Shops. Todd doesn't really hunt, so we have been stretching the gift certificate for years now.
Bass Pro Shops are just awesome. There is so much stuff that you don't need in there to catch a fish! There are also knives, guns, ammo, live fish tanks, and camping stuff. Did I mention the bird calls and cute dog toys to teach your lab to retrieve dead birds? They have huge boats in the parking lot and ATVs on the showroom floor inside. They also have really nice Columbia clothing that makes me want to go camping. By the way, ladies, if you are ever stranded in a Bass Pro Shops megastore, just go to the electronics section and get the cute young Irish boy to show you how the GPS works. You will have no idea what they are talking about, or if you do, just act like you don't, and he will keep on talking. In that accent. Until your husband comes and finds you and breaks the two of you up. (Actually, i really did want to check out the GPS, because I am fascinated by them and want to try Geocacheing. But I wasn't about to tell Patrick the Irish boy that.)
One more thing about Bass Pro Shops? You can play these fun target practice games. It is fun as shit, and old, grizzled hunter types think you are really cute when you whoop and holler when you hit the targets and make the bells and whistles go off. What I'm saying, girls, is Bass Pro Shops is a great ego-booster. You are so much cuter than the other wives in there, with their "Kiss My Bass" shirts on.
Okay, so after that, we went back to the hotel bar to have one last drink, because I was really tired, but we ended up drinking with a bunch of tire salesmen from all over the southeast until about 2 a.m. One of them looked like a cross between Al Sharpton and Morris Day. (See picture of him from across hotel bar.) I felt a little doodieish this morning, but still managed to get out for lunch and to go with Todd to drop off Ronnie at Universal Studios. It was a real live backlot for a film studio, and I saw absolutely no famous people. Tonight? Dinner and a movie. Home tomorrow to kiss my babies, whom I miss very much, not that you can tell it from anything I've written here.
Unfortunately, Todd would be a shitty paparazzo; When he had the opportunity to snap a picture of Ray Parks at the breakfast buffet this a.m., he totally choked. Or maybe he just didn't yet know how to use his new Treo. But yes, we had breakfast with the actor who played Darth Maul. He was there with wife and child, who was a bit of a cutie with her pink Pumas. Not cute enough to make me miss my kids, though. I slept in, drank coffee over the newspaper, and am now on my way to run. This afternoon? Outlet malls, and maybe a movie. Ahhh, the life of a non-Mom on vacation. Sheer bliss.
Wake up. Wake Todd up to feed kids so I can clean blood that stained my inner thighs during the night. Jump in lukewarm bath to rinse, then dry off and throw on clothes. Run downstairs. Make coffee, then pack backpack and diaper bag. Drink cup of coffee, poop (I mean, shit) and then put jackets on everyone, get them to car, strap in carseats, and drive 30 minutes to Rollie's school. Drop Rollie off. Go to local coffee shop. Drink cup of coffee. Get back in car with Tiller. 10 am meeting with todd to look at house. Leave there to go to grocery store. Go pick up Rollie, and then drive 30 minutes back home. Take kids inside, where todd serves them lunch. Unload groceries. Choke down microwave lunch. Put kids back in car. Drive to Sandy Springs for matilda's 15 month checkup. Dr. Jeff checks her ears. Ear infection. I ask him to re-check Rollie's ears. Ear infection. Drive back to East Atlanta, drop prescriptions off, take kids home, give them snacks. Do dishes from breakfast and lunch. Start planning dinner. Blog.
They know when to cut their losses. When things are going kinda crappy with the offspring, they just go ahead and eat the little fuckers.
My day started with hunger, because I am dieting, and then I am not allowed to eat anything until the lady gets here to take my blood and urine for the life insurance policy we are taking out on me in case (duh) I die, which of course doesn't give one a whole lot of incentive to fast, because what the hell are you going to get out of it, anyway. Todd is a sweetheart and got up with the kids so that I could sleep as long as possible and not have to sit around hungry. I got up at 9 a.m. (the high point of the day). I started my period.
I proceeded to drink black coffee until the nurse arrived at 10. The kids cried and whined and bugged the crap out of the nurse while she asked me about every runny nose I have ever had, and the name, number, and address of the doctor for which I saw each runny nose. She then tried to take blood from one arm, then the other, then my hand. It was awesome. I peed in a cup and there was blood in it and i had to explain to her that I was on the rag. Lovely. Did I mention she brought her own scale? It said I was 9 pounds heavier than my scale says I am. Fucking great. Todd called to say that he wouldn't be home for lunch. By the time the nurse left it was noon. I put lunch on for the kids. I ate my crap diet lunch. I tried to watch Antiques Roadshow while the kids ran around pushing their cars and shopping cart and couldn't hear a thing. I shut off the t.v. and finished eating while staring out the window at a squirrel. I did the breakfast and lunch dishes, and put on dinner. I changed two poopy diapers.
Went upstairs, read to the kids, and then put them down for their naps. This consists of putting down Matilda, and then tucking Rollie in, shutting the gate, blowing kisses, asking him to please, please, please not wake Tiller because Mama will be mad, and please stay in bed, and don't make any noise, and maybe when we get up we will watch Curious George and eat snacks, Yes, raisins, and please? And then i hope for the best.
I laid down for an hour, and I could tell Rollie wasn't asleep, because he was talking the whole time, but it never occurred to me that he was up there taking off his diaper, putting the poop into the back of the remote control truck, and then taking little pieces and running them over with the treads of his monster truck and smushing them into the carpet, and running the truck roughshod over the books he had pulled off his shelves, which were now empty.
When I finally went up to check on him, he was standing naked at the gate, smiling at me. He went over and picked up two little pieces of poop, one in each hand, and held them out to me, palm up, as if in offering. When I opened the gate, he cheerfully walked around the corner and turned his palms over above the toilet, neatly depositing them into the bowl, then turning to me in expectation of approval.
I think he may be slightly retarded.
After that, I gave him a bath, put Batman underwear on him, and with the exception of the times when we are out, at school, napping, or sleeping, he will Goddamn be wearing them, until he is potty trained. So help me God, amen.
She still doesn't walk regularly, although she can. She just takes a couple steps, then crawls. I guess it is faster that way. She still wants to be held all the time. She is addicted to pushing things - her pushcart, a shopping cart, any chair that isn't nailed down. She has a hysterical laugh, and is completely and totally in love with Todd now. I think he likes her a bit, too. She loves playing peek-a-boo, and the first time she said "mama" to get my attention, it was because i had stopped playing peek-a-boo with her to answer the phone. She was not happy.
She is going to be on debate team next year, because she LOVES to talk. She doesn't really have a lot of words yet, but tons of babbling sounds. She does say, Mama, dada, kittykat, doggie, elmo, milk, cup, book, ball, bath, bear, and she has tons of funny repetitive sound effects. The funniest one is something she picked up from Rollie. Todd taught Rollie to say "redrum" and "rollie isn't here" in a The Shining voice, and Tiller can't say those things, but tries to do the voice. It is hysterical.
She smiles a lot, but when she is in a new place, she is very serious until she has checked everything out. She just today started screaming and screeching, just to hear herself do it, and hopefully that will be short phase, because she's got some pipes.
She eats an enormous amount. The other day, she ate two pieces of pizza in one sitting. Large, new york-style pizza slices. Her little tummy is so distended after she eats. It is cute. She will beg or take food if she is out and someone else has it. Her hair is starting to grow out and she looks like a girl, even when she is wearing rollie's hand-me-downs. Lisa and I cut her bangs last month, though, because they were in her eyes and she had a bit of a skate rat thing going.
She loves to read more than Rollie ever did at this age. He destroyed so many books. She loves the Sarah Boynton books and has a particular order she wants you to read them in at bedtime. She is no shrinking violet - she speaks up when she wants something.
She still only has five teeth, so i have plenty of those to look forward to.
At bedtime, she splashes like crazy in the tub, and we are having trouble disciplining her, because she doesn't listen to No. She knows it, but ignores it. We just have to take her out of the situation when she does something, and that is usually a big screaming fit. In the bathtub, when she splashes, we say no, and she laughs maniacally and keeps doing it. She is going to push my buttons hard in about 10 years.
Another cute thing she does is the Nestea Plunge. She is so trusting of us, that if we are anywhere near her she will fall straight backwards and expect us to catch her. It is nerve-wracking, and I know she is going to crack her head sooner or later. We can't figure out how to teach her not to without letting it happen.
The best thing about her? She LOVES to hug. Over and over. She is starting to give kisses, too, but they are open-mouthed and wet. She will also pat you on the shoulder while you are holding her, as if to comfort you. The hugs, though? They kill me, they are so sweet.
I never thought that my heart could hold two. I thought it would explode with just one. I was so wrong; The heart expands to accommodate what you find to love.
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