When I met my husband he had a pet bird who had no name. At first I was dismissive, thinking perhaps he had recently acquired the bird and had not yet come up with a moniker. As the weeks passed and she remained nameless, I started fretting. 3 weeks or so into our relationship The Hubster went to Africa. I volunteered to watch his bird thinking that should he encounter some irresistible exotic south African woman, he would still have to return to me if he ever wanted to see his bird again (insert devious laughter). She was easy enough to take care of. I already had a flock of parakeets that were all appropriately named and no name bird seemed to like their company enough. The roommate and I would chuckle over the birds and after a few days she too grew exsasperated referring to The Hubster’s bird as “that bird.” We took to the task of naming her and after great deliberation, we finally settled on the name Winnie. Upon The Hubster’s return, after being ravaged and mauled by me for a good amount of time, he was informed of his birds new name - which he accepted and implemented.
WHY CAN”T NAMING A BABY BE THIS EASY?
Honestly?
I cornered him 2 days ago and demanded to know his naming intentions… He brought up the nameless bird and denied even having thought of boy names for a moment. When pressed he asked what I like (which irked me as I have been rambling about this for awhile but OBVIOUSLY in his stereotypically mannish way has been tuning me out).
Jude
I like the name Jude - a lot.
He hates it… I’m not sure that hates covers his reaction. He made it seem as though Googenlach Habbleburger would be less offensive to his delicate senses than Jude.
The blue screen of computer death started putting in appearances this past weekend. Once I stopped hyperventilating over the thought of being internetless and forced to blog from my local library (gah, the idea of blogging on some strangers computer just makes me feel DIRTY), my thoughts immediately turned to my hoard of pictures. I am an avid chronicler of my family’s life but not such an avid developer of said chronicles. “Not such an avid developer” is an understatement of mammoth proportions…. It’s been over a year since I last had pictures made- A YEAR. Once the computer seemed temporarily stabilized I started uploading like a mofo. 728 pictures later I am now having an heart attack at the cost of developing our year, not to mention pangs of guilt from having neglected this for so long. Of course 2 years ago instead of panicking over losing photos in a horrific computer melt down, I was worried that the film was too old to develop… Which reminds me I’ve been sitting on 2 rolls from disposable cameras since April, I really should get that taken care of too. Please tell me I’m not the only lazy slack-ass photo junky mama floating around in cyber space. I would have never forgiven myself if i managed to lose gems like this:
In my quest for non medical options for easing my asthma, we purchased a Hepa filter for our bedroom. It’s run at night under the pretense that I will wake up refreshed. In it’s ceaseless quest to suck up poisonous dust and pollen laden air it also happily pulls in fart fumes. On the surface this is a great thing, my bedroom no longer smells like dog ass. However, the control panel light vexes me nightly (I like things as dark as possible) and I have discovered a flaw pertaining to it’s air filtering and freshening operations. You see, with the current unfinished state of my house I have little choice as to the positioning of my Hepa filter and thus am left with it on my night stand. My husband lays to the other side of me and beyond him is Dozer - 110 lbs of American Bulldog farting fury. Here’s a little illustration of how things look:
Note the queasy green of my face as all the rancid butt air is drawn away from the offending side of the room and directly in the path of my lungs. Until modifications are made to my bedroom set up the dog will no longer receive his meaty treaty things and there is a moratorium on chili dinners for The Hubster.
Every time I venture to share a piece of art, I always hear the same things:
-How do you think of these things?
-I would never have come up with that, where does it come from?
-What made you do that?
I guess I feel I owe a lot of you a small and sensible explanation as “I just do it” doesn’t seem to satisfy and might possibly infringe on some Nike copyright…..
Music has always been tied to my life. Not just one song in particular, but a sound track that weaves through my memories. Covering the mundane to the deepest most poignant moments in my life, a few notes of a familiar tune can bring me to my knees. It is from this wealth that I draw my creative spirit forth. Many find it unbelievable that even the most hopeful and light images that spring from my mind are usually surrendered while I am weeping, reliving some moment that forever changed me. It is in these memories that my feelings, passions, and vision are most clear. It is not to say that I am never happy creating. Sometimes, weeks after I have worried an idea out and over, after the weeping, the image comes together - but that nugget of an idea still grew in the stormiest part of my heart. To some I may look insane- singing at the top of my lungs, heaving myself over and around, giggling and crying all at once but I would not trade these moments for all of the peace and serenity in the world. I endure my challenges, accept my sorrows, fly high as a kite knowing that it will all come to a fruitful end. And when I find, for the sake of my family, that I must temper my daemons.. that I must abandon my crying spells in a dark and empty bath tub… I wait until sleep pulls her shade over the house, creep to the CD player and pour my memories onto paper. For all who have ever wondered, ever asked - that is it.. my secret. I ride a daily tide of highs and lows, my life seems destined to crash hard every few years and I pick myself up, I take what I can, I bring it forward and out onto paper or canvas. As I sit here typing this, Counting Crows is wailing in the background, easing my fear over being quite so candid about what, for me, is an intensely private affair.
Sunday October 15th: me briefly hospitalized with puking induced contractions from stomach flu.
Tuesday October 17th: Mira’s running at both ends, Tessa’s finger is smashed. Both kids home from school.
Thursday October 19: return home from long day to find that Pickles, our little dog, has vomited copiously all over every inch of the living room. Spend much time dry heaving while mopping up dog puke and pondering how best to clean a hurled on beanbag chair.
Saturday October 21: Tessa vomits in her bed 2 separate times in addition to blowing out her diaper. Thankfully The Hubster is there to help me deal with the gore. I spend 30 minutes gagging while bathing my poor ,confused,sick and bodily excretions covered baby.
Monday October 23: Returning home from dropping Mira at school, my stomach decided it’s time to drop all contents. Spend 10 minutes hurling into mulch in front yard, while Tessa looks on fascinated and scared. Upon seeing corn kernels I start crying. Look at this beautiful food I am wasting. Stagger back into the house, assume stomach plague was passed on to kids, mutated and passed back to me. Sit shaking and cold sweating at computer sharing my puke filled week so someone will take sympathy and send a maid brigade and a nurse to sponge cool water on my head while I lay in bed awaiting the next round on the Wheel Of Vomit.
Forgive me bloggers, for I have sinned. It has been 1 week since my last confession and what I am about to tell you may not only be troubling to some, but entirely embarrassing to me.
I have a crush, well 2 crushes. I like to think of my self as being impervious to the mass marketing of celebrities. I belong to no fan clubs, I quickly passed through my Tiger Beat phase with few battle scars and I have never felt compelled to stalk a celb. I realized sometime last year, while scrapbooking, that I might have a true celebrity crush. I found the very idea repugnant and yet I have found no way to stop it. You see my dear readers, while working on Tessa’s 1st year scrapbook I actually did this:
It may be hard to spot the small caption, but it says “making her John Cusack face.” Covers eyes with shame. Yes my love of John Cusack has become so pervasive that it has even bled into my child’s scrapbook. But look at him… There is just *something* that makes me quiver
Not long after this shocking realization my similar crush on the lead singer of Reel Big Fish suddenly fell into focus… They look alike!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eL99-VB1868]
Then today I drew yet another parallel in attempt to make this insanity logical and less embarrassing. I have concluded that they both bear some resemblance to my own husband
Tell me I’m not crazy. Tell me it will be ok. Tell me that I’m right. Tell me your secrets, the confessional booth is now empty.
Sure he leaves me love notes, but you know it’s true love when he stink palms my face with my own funky butt and doesn’t lose a limb.
Up on all fours I was trying to convince Fetus Boy to move off my bladder when The Hubster pulled a reach around move and began caressing my tummy. I felt a flush of love and emotions as he ran his hands over me, around to my back and then in my BUTT CRACK??
“Dude, you just seriously stink palmed yourself. I was sweating like a baboon in heat today”
“No actually I just stink palmed you” and he proceeded to wipe his butt hand across my nose while cackling gleefully - you heard me, the man cackled.
I held so much hope for Monday’s IEP meeting. I thought I was dealing with people who understand my daughters issues and want the best for her- silly me. I felt like I was sitting in front of a firing squad with little to no comprehension about the situation at hand. I was explain basic autistic traits while everyone blinked loudly and stared as though I was the first person to ever utter a word about autistic traits. Over and over I heard about how my daughter is a superstar at school. I’m glad that she is working hard, but from her behavior at home it’s obvious that she is working too hard. Everyone was smiles and compliments about how well she has learned to control her behavior… for most kids this would be excellent news, for mine, it is symptomatic of the problem at hand. Mira at some point or another realized it was not social acceptable to have a breakdown in the company of strangers or people she is not fully comfortable with. This made things like leaving the house, a lot less complicated. This made things like returning home, a lot more emotional. Once in a safe zone she falls apart. Often she can’t even get through the car ride home anymore without snarking, yelling, or lashing out in some way. That combined with signs of depression, panic attacks, nail biting and a regression in speech set off alarm bells. I called for a meeting, a BIG meeting, thinking that having the school psychologist there would help… she was mildly helpful, just not enough. The teacher was on the defensive and I felt like she was unwilling to hear and or understand what I was talking about. I didn’t even bring up the fact that Mira told me point blank that this teacher makes her sad - I didn’t want it to go unnoticed as the truth and have it taken more as a weapon. I did get the teacher to agree to try and work on destressing Mira before she has to come home, even allowing me to bring in a bean bag chair and pillows for squish therapy. I explained the symptoms of stress in Mira - tip toe walking, obsessive hand cleaning, refusal to touch things, spinning, repetitive speech and am hoping the teacher will take this to heart and not push her so much when she is symptomatic. I found out that Mira barely qualifies for occupational therapy and will receive it only once a month. The purpose will be more to track that she is improving and staying the course so she can mainstream into a normal kindergarten next year. With what seemed like a discouraging meeting I did get one tiny nugget that seems to have grown into a huge blessing. They passed along the phone number of a group that offers free play therapy, with the warning the wait list is typically a minimum of 4 months long. Today I called. At first I was informed that the wait list was not a mere 4 months long, but rather 8 to 12 months depending on the age. With a heavy sigh I agreed to add her to the impossibly long list and started giving our information- Name, Age… Wait.. She’s under 5. Yes she’s 4 1/2 (receptionist voice drops and is almost a whisper) We have 1 opening at 130 on Thursdays, she would have to start tomorrow. What? Yes yes yes! We’ll take it! There will only be a few sessions before the therapy is ended for the year. There are no sessions in December or the first part of January, but we can immediately work on the major problem at hand and she will be in ongoing play therapy when the baby is born. I am VERY excited about this. Perhaps this will help her cope with the school situation that is obviously not the best for her but also seems next to impossible to change at this moment.
I locked myself out of the house today. Of course to accomplish this feat I also had to lock my purse (with my cell phone) in my car with the keys in the ignition and the car running. This task came on the heels of my deciding to keep Mira home today, as she is exhibiting ass eruptions that make me suspect she may have caught my stomach flu.
Being proactive and not in the mood to spend my entire day on the front porch with a sour stomached 4 year old, I knocked at the neighbors door… the neighbors who don’t speakie the English so well and I no habla de espanole so bueno. After some gesturing she lends me her phone and I proceed to call The Hubster 943 times, leaving two messages. During the second message a loud keen, not unlike a wild animal caught in a steel trap, emitted from my front porch. I sprinted over to discover that Tessa, who is now 30 minutes late for school, had her finger pinched / crushed in the screen door. The force of the door burst the tip of her finger open and it was bleeding heartily; the pad of her finger looked like it had run through a crimper and her finger nail was 10 different unnatural shades of pain.
There I sat in my driveway with Mira making loopy circles on her bike and Tessa curled in my lap, hysterical. Rocking to and fro I sang “You are my Sunshine” while Tessa snarled in response. The Hubster rolls up and of course he is not alone. A trainee must also be there to witness not only my stupidity but the finger carnage that happened while I was attempting to rectify the stupidity situation - chalk one up to lax parental supervision I suppose.
Now I sit, pondering what to do with a sick child, a child in pain, a mother on the edge and a new found fear of locking myself out. This is the first time I’ve locked myself out of the house, though the Hubster once locked us out on a cold and rainy night when I was bare foot and very pregnant with Tessa. Hasn’t this week just been the bees knees?
