Blog-worthy Asides

Conversation between Monkey and DearDR

(To illuminate, DearDR still plays the “what is this game” with Monkey):

DDR: What is this?
M: Your nose!
DDR: What is this?
M: Your chin!
DDR: What is this?
M: Your eyes!
(You get the picture…)
DDR: What is this?
M: I don’t know.
DDR: My forehead!
M: No, Daddy, it’s only one head. (She points with her finger.) See? One!

 Just askin’

DearDR came in from the yard. He says to me, “Have you been out yet? It’s almost cold.” It is in the mid-60s after weeks of 80 and 90 degree days.

Monkey says breathlessly, “Daddy, is it snowing?”

Cooler Heads Prevail

I spent some time looking for this post because it is on my mind. DearDR and I had a tiff yesterday — well, a bit more than a tiff, truth be told. And for an instant I thought (much later, after the not-tiff) about writing about it here. Because there are things going on with us that are hard. Not leave-each-other hard, or hate-each-other hard. But married-people hard, married-people-with-kids hard, married-people-with-kids-going-through-some-shit hard.

But yelling was involved. And head-busting anger. And then I thought, I could get this off my chest and write about it.

And then I thought, “Only it’s not my story. It’s our story, and not such a great part of our story. Which is usually much nicer than this.” So, sorry, I’m not writing about it here.

Also because I think some of my friends stop by here every now again. Probably hoping to see pictures, or other videos. Which, in the latter case, if I could download them from my flip-camera, you would see. But we lost the thing-a-ma-jig that connects to my computer for downloading purposes, and haven’t replaced it yet. And a couple of those friends may hear about this tiff, because they are up on the background of why that kind of tiff may have occurred. But most people I wouldn’t tell this not-nice-story to, not because they are lesser friends or anything like that. Just ’cause. Some people you let inside of your side of a marriage, but most people you don’t. Because it’s yours and your side. And his marriage and story, too. You can’t let a lot of people see the dirty laundry.

Oh, and I also like this post because my husband, too, is a manly man, like HBM’s, and, lastly: we are not perfect, but we are perfect for each other. More on that later, because Saturday is our anniversary.

Nothing Much to See Here

It’s been a week, a busy week, yet at the same time, oddly eventfull-less. Shopping trips (grocery-type shopping, not the fun-type shopping), a birthday party, visits to a waterpark, the library.

A few updates:

DearDR passed his first test to become a licensed psychologist. He — and therefore we — is (are) on his (our) way. As he said as he embraced me this morning with the letter still in-hand, “This is going to happen.”

Monkey pooped in the potty. She has also peed a couple of times in the potty. We have a ways to go, but we are going. (Oh, sorry, pun.) M&Ms are, indeed, fantastic motivators.

Bun not quite crawling forward. But so close. Crawling, almost, backwards instead. I wish I could motivate her with M&Ms! Chewing ziewback toast instead (she does not eat it, per say, as the goop down her bib and on her food tray can attest. Pictures coming soon). Being sweet, sweet, sweet (this isn’t new, but bears repeating, IMHO).

I am still unemployed, but not for lack of wanting not to be (if that makes sense). We were even thinking up strategies to “run into” my old boss downtown in the elevator at 6 or 7 a.m., and make the argument to get hired again. But then I discovered the firm had hired another writer. So, as I said to DearDR: “Next!”

Oh, and, um, ashamed to say, have bought pack of cigarettes. Have smoked a few on my front porch/stoop. First one from said pack smoked in a restaurant with Beck’s “New Pollution” playing. No, not ironic at all.

Thought provoking stuff to read online:

Her Bad Mother points out that foisting Bratz Dolls on the “matriarchy” is simply nonsense. (What an awesome argument this is. I wish I had said it even half as well. Especially as the mom of two girls.)
Cynical Dad realizes how lucky he is.
Earthmother talks about the unkindest cut and — more importantly — how to avoid it.
Girl’s Gone Child is lonely, as a lot of moms are. I think young moms, like GGC, are a little lonelier than us “older” (I think I have about ten years on GGC) moms. I miss my friends a lot, though, being able to see them whenever. Although I don’t want to stay out with them until 1 a.m. any longer. What I would really like is a day or two to not get up at 7 a.m. and go until 8:30 p.m. with kids, alone. That is my fondest wish (my fondest selfish wish; my fondest wish is that my children grow up to be beautiful and brilliant and happy and well-adjusted).

A Peaceful Interlude

The best hour of my weekend was spent outside, under a tree. I blew bubbles for Monkey. Bun tried to eat the grass and dirt (even though we were on a blanket; even though I had Bun toys with us).

Monkey tried to eat the bubbles. When she “got” one, she said, “Yumm.” I said, “What does it taste like?” She said, “It tastes like bubbles, Mommy!” in a tone that was equal measures delight and exasperation. A tone that said, “Yum, bubbles” and “Come on, woman, what do you think it tastes like?”

Monkey chased and chased bubbles. She tried to blow some on her own, and sometimes succeeded. When she didn’t succeed, she got frustrated and stomped around a little. I managed to distract Bun from trying to eat dirt with bubbles. She gave them a look that said, “Hm. Pretty. Ephemeral. Dirt!”

Monkey got grass and pine needles to feed the horses. (These are not real horses, but we feed them all the same.) I sat with Bun. Monkey chased butterflies. “Butterfly! Butterfly! Come here, butterfly!”

Monkey wandered in great big circles around the two yards. She didn’t wander away. Bun rolled and pulled up grass and tried to climb up me and got her binky all dirty.

It was nice. Quiet, kind of. Not 115 degrees with humidity of 400 percent. Bun had on a hat, and we sat in the shade. We all have runny noses, but that doesn’t matter outside.

This hour was the best hour. I can tell you about the rest of the hours, many of which were not so great. But I don’t think I will. I think I will just share the best hour. Because sometimes the best hours are hardest to remember. I hope you remember yours while you read this.

They Feel My Pain

In a recent trip around my little blog-o-sphere, I found two people who know what I’m going through.

MaryP goes through it with kids who are not even her own (God bless her!).
Dad Gone Mad goes through it with his adoring daughter.

The endless round of questions and comments. The ones that are repeated over and over and over and… you know. Regardless of the answer, the explanation. It doesn’t end; it doesn’t stop.

Recently, in the absence of the nap, and my inability to enforce Monkey’s quiet time (short of tying her to the bed), I thought that if she joined me in the kitchen as I made cherry walnut muffins she would be sufficiently occupied and/or distracted.

Instead, I barely got muffins made. The noise didn’t stop: “Can I have a spoon? Can I do that? Can I hold the egg? Can I stir it?” Answering no just let to escalation: “I have to want to stir that!” “I have to want a spoon!” Answering “in a minute” led to more questioning: “Can I hold it? Can I hold it? Can I hold it?” I finally staved her off by having her line the muffin tin with paper cup liners, and then letting her continue to play with them (on the shopping list: new paper cup liners for muffin pan).

It is the shocking amount of noise my toddler makes that is getting to me (these days, anyway). A day or two before the muffin incident, I had to send Monkey next door. I needed the silence. She was making me nuts! I don’t know how to describe it, except to say that sometimes I have to tell Monkey, “Please go in the other room. Mommy needs quiet time.” That usually doesn’t work for very long, as you can imagine.

I also know that my PMS is making it worse. I swear before I had children, my PMS was barely noticeable (to me, anyway; ex-boyfriends, family members, and DearDR may have a different take on this). My period recently resumed (while I was on vacation as a matter of fact), and about a week or 10 days beforehand, I am extremely emotional. Monkey was running up and down the yard the other day, yelling her head off, and I was overcome by how beautiful she was, her perfect little body hurtling through space, how she is not a baby anymore, and I was literally getting choked up, and I stopped and thought, “Oh, I must be PMS’ing” because I am not usually such a wet noodle.

So the combination of PMS and the endlessly chattering thing that is my toddler is deadly to my nerves. I get frayed very quickly.

And I also recently thought, “Well, does the effect of hormones on my emotions make those emotions invalid?” I mean, in the absence of PMS, would I still be driven crazy by the Monkey? Would I still have to send her away from me? Or would I be able to handle it because even though she were getting on my nerves those same nerves are not awash in PMS hormones?

Is this making sense?

How do you make a hormone?
Don’t pay her.

(Thank you, Lori, the Midwife).