A blog I started in order to hide and be brutally honest in January of '08.
31 August 2009
02 April 2009
a fair question
Mrs. G, what's that thing on your face? the seven-year old asked. I knew exactly what she was referring to. It was large enough to have an economy larger than that of the Czech Republic and sustain a standing army.
It's a big zit, I replied calmly. I don't have any cover up, and it was so painful that covering it up at 6:45 a.m. would have hurt much more than letting it die a natural death.
What's a zit? she inquired further.
It's a thing that sometimes grows on grown-ups faces, I explained, still smiling serenely at the child. I hate being a teacher sometimes.
Oh, okay. She skipped down the hall.
I popped it on the way to my car.
It's a big zit, I replied calmly. I don't have any cover up, and it was so painful that covering it up at 6:45 a.m. would have hurt much more than letting it die a natural death.
What's a zit? she inquired further.
It's a thing that sometimes grows on grown-ups faces, I explained, still smiling serenely at the child. I hate being a teacher sometimes.
Oh, okay. She skipped down the hall.
I popped it on the way to my car.
17 February 2009
"want more fuck" or "no shit mama!"*
*Note the quotation marks. I have not said a swear word in several months. I did not say these swear words. My not quite two year old did.
I'd heard the stories about small children who make the f-sound instead of the t-sound and how it leads to dirty looks from people whose children were obviously raised properly with a grasp of phonics upon leaving the womb. Since Mr. Independent has been calling trucks "rucks!" for months, I assumed I was safe from dirty looks related to my child's dirty language. This weekend I had an inkling that I might be wrong.
We were in the car. I don't remember where we were going or where we were coming from, but I thought I heard an excited "fuck!" from the backseat. I turned my head slightly and asked, "What's that, baby?"
"Ruck!" came the excited reply. I felt assured that I'd imagined it.
I didn't imagine it today. Driving home from daycare we saw a truck.
"Look, Mr. Independent! It's a truck!"
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he squealed wriggling with delight. His arms waved and his entire body shook with joy as we passed the truck.
Then: "More fuck? More fuck?"
"I don't know, sweet boy. Maybe we'll see more trucks." I honestly didn't know if I wanted to see more or not. I didn't know if I was more amused or mortified by this recent trend.
"More FUCK! WANT MORE FUCK! WANTMOREFUCK!" He became more and more agitated and less and less inclined to accept my insistence that I am not, in fact, in charge of whether or not we see trucks on the drive home. Luckily an airplane distracted him, and he forgot all about the trucks.
But he didn't forget about sitting. Mr. Independent has definite ideas of who should sit, when they should sit, and where they should sit. If I'm sitting, and he doesn't want me to be sitting somewhere, he'll say, "Get up, Mama!" When several "Get up, Mamas!" don't work, he switches tactics. "No shit Mama! No shit!" His volume increases until I am caught in that parenting no-man's land of letting him get what he wants (me getting up) or listening to him yell "No shit Mama!" at Bible study. Tonight, I opted for getting up and leaving.
I'd heard the stories about small children who make the f-sound instead of the t-sound and how it leads to dirty looks from people whose children were obviously raised properly with a grasp of phonics upon leaving the womb. Since Mr. Independent has been calling trucks "rucks!" for months, I assumed I was safe from dirty looks related to my child's dirty language. This weekend I had an inkling that I might be wrong.
We were in the car. I don't remember where we were going or where we were coming from, but I thought I heard an excited "fuck!" from the backseat. I turned my head slightly and asked, "What's that, baby?"
"Ruck!" came the excited reply. I felt assured that I'd imagined it.
I didn't imagine it today. Driving home from daycare we saw a truck.
"Look, Mr. Independent! It's a truck!"
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he squealed wriggling with delight. His arms waved and his entire body shook with joy as we passed the truck.
Then: "More fuck? More fuck?"
"I don't know, sweet boy. Maybe we'll see more trucks." I honestly didn't know if I wanted to see more or not. I didn't know if I was more amused or mortified by this recent trend.
"More FUCK! WANT MORE FUCK! WANTMOREFUCK!" He became more and more agitated and less and less inclined to accept my insistence that I am not, in fact, in charge of whether or not we see trucks on the drive home. Luckily an airplane distracted him, and he forgot all about the trucks.
But he didn't forget about sitting. Mr. Independent has definite ideas of who should sit, when they should sit, and where they should sit. If I'm sitting, and he doesn't want me to be sitting somewhere, he'll say, "Get up, Mama!" When several "Get up, Mamas!" don't work, he switches tactics. "No shit Mama! No shit!" His volume increases until I am caught in that parenting no-man's land of letting him get what he wants (me getting up) or listening to him yell "No shit Mama!" at Bible study. Tonight, I opted for getting up and leaving.
11 February 2009
08 February 2009
24 January 2009
Is this the end of bubble-neigh?
For me, one of the best parts of having a kid is watching him acquire language and new abilities. These days it seems like his brain is exploding with new words and sounds and knowledge. We can show him a picture of something and tell him what it is, and he'll repeat it and often remember it.
On Tuesday we talked a lot about Obama, and he can now say Obama and point to Obama if he sees his picture. It's really amazing to watch how he just tests words and sounds and retains them or forgets them.
His words are becoming more refined, as well, and he's losing that toddler incomprehensibility that I've found so endearing this past year. Again is no longer ga-ga, and want to dance isn't uncle dad anymore. I about cried the other day when he pointed to the cat in the hat and said cat-hat, rather than meow-yat.
Out of everything I've experienced being a mama so far, I think this is what I want to hold on to and this is what I will long for. I don't miss the days of holding a sleeping baby or nursing a baby to sleep, nor do I miss that time between about 6 and 9 months where he started learning that he can manipulate his environment, and he can move from place to place on his own. I remember being awed by it, but I don't miss it.
Today, at the zoo, Mr. Independent saw a zebra. Husband asked him if he could say zebra, and he did. He smiled and cried, bye zebra! as we walked to the next exhibit. Until then his only exposure to zebras is his wooden zebra from Africa, placed on a shelf in his room next to a jar of bubbles. Each morning, and occasionally in the middle of the night, he gleefully cries bubble-neigh! and points to the zebra. One day soon, he'll wake up and point, and say zebra! bubbles!
On Tuesday we talked a lot about Obama, and he can now say Obama and point to Obama if he sees his picture. It's really amazing to watch how he just tests words and sounds and retains them or forgets them.
His words are becoming more refined, as well, and he's losing that toddler incomprehensibility that I've found so endearing this past year. Again is no longer ga-ga, and want to dance isn't uncle dad anymore. I about cried the other day when he pointed to the cat in the hat and said cat-hat, rather than meow-yat.
Out of everything I've experienced being a mama so far, I think this is what I want to hold on to and this is what I will long for. I don't miss the days of holding a sleeping baby or nursing a baby to sleep, nor do I miss that time between about 6 and 9 months where he started learning that he can manipulate his environment, and he can move from place to place on his own. I remember being awed by it, but I don't miss it.
Today, at the zoo, Mr. Independent saw a zebra. Husband asked him if he could say zebra, and he did. He smiled and cried, bye zebra! as we walked to the next exhibit. Until then his only exposure to zebras is his wooden zebra from Africa, placed on a shelf in his room next to a jar of bubbles. Each morning, and occasionally in the middle of the night, he gleefully cries bubble-neigh! and points to the zebra. One day soon, he'll wake up and point, and say zebra! bubbles!
23 January 2009
nothing changes
I had a strange experience at the gym yesterday. All during my time on the treadmill and walking back to the locker room I thought about how I was going to record all the witty thoughts I've been having lately about the trials of having to change clothes at a gym that's frequented by my students' parents. But then the 8th grade girls barged in on me in the locker room, and all my brilliantly funny thoughts died.
My shirt was halfway over my head when a giggling girl tugged on the curtain of my changing stall. Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you she giggled. Can you please tell her-she nodded her head at the giggling, much shorter girl next to her-that she's not fat?
I studied both of them, one short, like my height, the other a head taller, lanky, not quite grown into her limbs yet. Neither of them had a visible ounce of fat on their bodies.
I smiled and told them, Neither of you is fat. You're both lovely.
See, the first girl said to her friend, then turned to me. She's like 90 pounds and she's in eighth grade, and she thinks she's fat. I was like 90 pounds in first grade. If anyone's fat, it's me.
Yeah, I replied. You're really not fat. I wish I had known that when I looked like you. Now that I'm a bit lumpier than I used to be, I wish I'd enjoyed it more when I wasn't.
Oh my God! she giggled. You are not lumpy at all! Thanks for telling her she's not fat. We're sorry we bothered you!
No bother!
Thank you! Bye! They ran off, giggling and arguing over who was fatter.
I wasn't at my loveliest yesterday. I say that as objectively as a female can. My hair was a disaster since I'd gotten up late and couldn't fix it the way I normally do on a Thursday. My shirt fit too tightly, and when I exercise my entire body turns red, as does my face. I'd forgotten my contacts and a hair tie. I am on the lumpy side. Obviously I have the excuse of having a baby, but I think the statute of limitations on that one runs out after a year.
I have a picture taped to my desk at home. I'm looking at it right now. It's me, on a beach when I was 11 or 12. I'm wearing a two piece bathing suit that's not a tankini and striking a pose. My stomach was flat. I had no idea.
In some respects I think I have a healthier self-image than a lot of females because I can leave the house without make-up and I don't think about the way I look a whole lot, but when I do it's a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing (although, with me, what's not a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing?).
Yesterday, in that locker room, I knew my words to those girls were useless, but I had to say them anyway. I could have told them all sorts of things that I've learned about being fat and being not fat that I've learned in the fifteen years since I've been in eighth grade. It wouldn't have mattered, though. In eighth grade, and ninth, and tenth, and eleventh, and twelfth, and all through college and graduate school and the early years of marriage, I had that conversation, the no, I'm the one who's fat; you're not fat conversation. No amount of people telling me I wasn't fat, that I was beautiful made any sort of difference. I believed what I saw, skewed though it might have been.
My words to those girls have disappeared. They won't come back to them for years, when they've put on a few pounds, maybe had a kid or two and see someone who looks like they once did, someone dissatisfied with their weight and looks. They'll remember. They'll remember they weren't fat, they were beautiful, and they didn't know it.
It's the circle of life.
My shirt was halfway over my head when a giggling girl tugged on the curtain of my changing stall. Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you she giggled. Can you please tell her-she nodded her head at the giggling, much shorter girl next to her-that she's not fat?
I studied both of them, one short, like my height, the other a head taller, lanky, not quite grown into her limbs yet. Neither of them had a visible ounce of fat on their bodies.
I smiled and told them, Neither of you is fat. You're both lovely.
See, the first girl said to her friend, then turned to me. She's like 90 pounds and she's in eighth grade, and she thinks she's fat. I was like 90 pounds in first grade. If anyone's fat, it's me.
Yeah, I replied. You're really not fat. I wish I had known that when I looked like you. Now that I'm a bit lumpier than I used to be, I wish I'd enjoyed it more when I wasn't.
Oh my God! she giggled. You are not lumpy at all! Thanks for telling her she's not fat. We're sorry we bothered you!
No bother!
Thank you! Bye! They ran off, giggling and arguing over who was fatter.
I wasn't at my loveliest yesterday. I say that as objectively as a female can. My hair was a disaster since I'd gotten up late and couldn't fix it the way I normally do on a Thursday. My shirt fit too tightly, and when I exercise my entire body turns red, as does my face. I'd forgotten my contacts and a hair tie. I am on the lumpy side. Obviously I have the excuse of having a baby, but I think the statute of limitations on that one runs out after a year.
I have a picture taped to my desk at home. I'm looking at it right now. It's me, on a beach when I was 11 or 12. I'm wearing a two piece bathing suit that's not a tankini and striking a pose. My stomach was flat. I had no idea.
In some respects I think I have a healthier self-image than a lot of females because I can leave the house without make-up and I don't think about the way I look a whole lot, but when I do it's a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing (although, with me, what's not a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing?).
Yesterday, in that locker room, I knew my words to those girls were useless, but I had to say them anyway. I could have told them all sorts of things that I've learned about being fat and being not fat that I've learned in the fifteen years since I've been in eighth grade. It wouldn't have mattered, though. In eighth grade, and ninth, and tenth, and eleventh, and twelfth, and all through college and graduate school and the early years of marriage, I had that conversation, the no, I'm the one who's fat; you're not fat conversation. No amount of people telling me I wasn't fat, that I was beautiful made any sort of difference. I believed what I saw, skewed though it might have been.
My words to those girls have disappeared. They won't come back to them for years, when they've put on a few pounds, maybe had a kid or two and see someone who looks like they once did, someone dissatisfied with their weight and looks. They'll remember. They'll remember they weren't fat, they were beautiful, and they didn't know it.
It's the circle of life.
20 January 2009
not there
All year I planned on being in DC today, shoving my way into the crowds on the Mall. I didn't care who won; I was going to be there. I told my mother I was going to do that. I told a co-worker I was going to do that.
And then I got scared. I got scared of guns and bombs and people yelling terrible things and doing terrible things and whatif I took Mr. Independent up there and something terrible happened. So I didn't take my personal day. I didn't trek up 95 last night. I swam and went to Book Club and came home. I told myself that my students needed me and that it wasn't good for Mr. Independent to be in the cold for hours on end and that really we can't afford the gas anyway. But really, I got scared. And that's why, in the school gym, watching it on a screen with poor audio hook-up I squeezed my eyes to keep the tears away.
And then I got scared. I got scared of guns and bombs and people yelling terrible things and doing terrible things and whatif I took Mr. Independent up there and something terrible happened. So I didn't take my personal day. I didn't trek up 95 last night. I swam and went to Book Club and came home. I told myself that my students needed me and that it wasn't good for Mr. Independent to be in the cold for hours on end and that really we can't afford the gas anyway. But really, I got scared. And that's why, in the school gym, watching it on a screen with poor audio hook-up I squeezed my eyes to keep the tears away.
18 January 2009
Awesome...
At Target, the day after Christmas, I saw the following shirt on sale for $5. Was it necessary? No. Is is awesome? Oh, yeah.
17 January 2009
a conversation*
The following is an actual conversation between Husband and Mr. Independent that took place this afternoon:
Husband: Mr. I, Mama doesn't like Daddy very much right now.
Mr. I: jews!
Husband: Mama and Daddy are getting a divorce.
Mr. I: Bye Daddy!
*I am in no way trying to mock anyone who's been through divorce. Nor was Husband.
Husband: Mr. I, Mama doesn't like Daddy very much right now.
Mr. I: jews!
Husband: Mama and Daddy are getting a divorce.
Mr. I: Bye Daddy!
*I am in no way trying to mock anyone who's been through divorce. Nor was Husband.
16 January 2009
more words
As previously mentioned on here, Mr. Independent has an, um, interesting vocabulary. I recently made a comment about one of his daycare teachers, turned to him and said, Can you say 'surly teacher?'
He replied: urly eecher.
So I've tried to watch what I say around him, lest he start saying these things on his own, without prompting.
Most of what he says is endearing, and we get stupidly excited, like last week when he saw two buses and said do bus! (two buses, for those not fluent in toddler). He can't stop talking about his cousins and says their names together, followed with a pause, then 'ma! for Grandma. He can name cars, buses, trucks, bikes, and tractors, and he can also provide sound effects (the all go -roomroom!). He can make the animal sounds for dog, cat, horse, cow, donkey, snake, duck, and porcupette. He can say work and school, shirt, pants, and hat. The other day he pulled out grilled cheese for the first time and often requests reh-ries. Go ahead and send the mom of the year award this way. He knows his name and the name of his friends at daycare and recently pointed to a picture of Leighann and said eeenan. Football is buttball. He can say wine and then point to my mother or say memere wine. He knows that anything from Starbucks is Mama juice and anything in a plastic 20 oz bottle is Daddy juice.
I taught him how to say Daddy's pooping (Daddy poop!). Husband retaliated in kind, and now whenever anyone walks into the bathroom, even if it's just to get a hair tie or lotion, he points to the door and yells Daddy poop!, or occasionally, Mama poop! He says eeeeeeeeeeeewwwww whenever we change his diaper. We should probably start saving for his therapy now.
Occasionally his words are embarrassing, like when he yanks his shoes off in Target and yells Uh-oh, jew! or when he sees clocks (cocks) or decides that he wants to cook, which often comes out as cock as well. Mama cock? he'll ask. Daddy cock?
We can track the origins of most of his words; a lot of them come from us trying to entertain ourselves, like when I asked him if he could say butt, so he did, and the pointed at his butt. Or how his current favorite books talk about hot dog parties, so sometimes he comes up to us and says dog-barbie. We cannot, however, figure out why he knows the word goggles. I'm not sure there's word less useful for an almost two year old than goggles.
He replied: urly eecher.
So I've tried to watch what I say around him, lest he start saying these things on his own, without prompting.
Most of what he says is endearing, and we get stupidly excited, like last week when he saw two buses and said do bus! (two buses, for those not fluent in toddler). He can't stop talking about his cousins and says their names together, followed with a pause, then 'ma! for Grandma. He can name cars, buses, trucks, bikes, and tractors, and he can also provide sound effects (the all go -roomroom!). He can make the animal sounds for dog, cat, horse, cow, donkey, snake, duck, and porcupette. He can say work and school, shirt, pants, and hat. The other day he pulled out grilled cheese for the first time and often requests reh-ries. Go ahead and send the mom of the year award this way. He knows his name and the name of his friends at daycare and recently pointed to a picture of Leighann and said eeenan. Football is buttball. He can say wine and then point to my mother or say memere wine. He knows that anything from Starbucks is Mama juice and anything in a plastic 20 oz bottle is Daddy juice.
I taught him how to say Daddy's pooping (Daddy poop!). Husband retaliated in kind, and now whenever anyone walks into the bathroom, even if it's just to get a hair tie or lotion, he points to the door and yells Daddy poop!, or occasionally, Mama poop! He says eeeeeeeeeeeewwwww whenever we change his diaper. We should probably start saving for his therapy now.
Occasionally his words are embarrassing, like when he yanks his shoes off in Target and yells Uh-oh, jew! or when he sees clocks (cocks) or decides that he wants to cook, which often comes out as cock as well. Mama cock? he'll ask. Daddy cock?
We can track the origins of most of his words; a lot of them come from us trying to entertain ourselves, like when I asked him if he could say butt, so he did, and the pointed at his butt. Or how his current favorite books talk about hot dog parties, so sometimes he comes up to us and says dog-barbie. We cannot, however, figure out why he knows the word goggles. I'm not sure there's word less useful for an almost two year old than goggles.
12 January 2009
Does not use time wisely
Productive things I've done today:
gone grocery shopping
washed a load of laundry (not dried)
ran the dishwasher (not emptied, am in the hoping someone else will do it mindset)
signed up for the Monument Avenue 1ok
wiped Mr. Independent's snotty nose approximately 643 times
Non-productive things I've done today:
slept until 9:15
ate lunch at Five Guys with Husband and Mr. I
watched Shrek
checked Facebook approximately 643 times
checked my local moms board approximately 643 times
lamented curly hair while looking in the mirror
changed Facebook status 3 times (cause, you know, people care what I do all day long)
ate popcorn
gone grocery shopping
washed a load of laundry (not dried)
ran the dishwasher (not emptied, am in the hoping someone else will do it mindset)
signed up for the Monument Avenue 1ok
wiped Mr. Independent's snotty nose approximately 643 times
Non-productive things I've done today:
slept until 9:15
ate lunch at Five Guys with Husband and Mr. I
watched Shrek
checked Facebook approximately 643 times
checked my local moms board approximately 643 times
lamented curly hair while looking in the mirror
changed Facebook status 3 times (cause, you know, people care what I do all day long)
ate popcorn
11 January 2009
Sunday
Sundays are tricky. It's a challenge to get everything done, and the idea of the next morning's alarm looms constantly, reminding me that soon a new week will start, soon I will work again, and things planned will have to go undone until the next weekend. One day, I am sure, it will all come together, but this is not the day. One day, I am sure, Sunday will be a day of rest. This is not the day.
09 January 2009
um, yeah
I'm not sure when I became this awesome, but I am seriously considering going to bed right now. At 9:30. On a Friday night. Go me!
06 January 2009
What's a girl to do?
I read Fast Food Nation over break. As a result, I have temporarily given up beef, especially ground beef. Tonight, my mom cooked ground sirloin steaks for dinner.
05 January 2009
Day 1
I swam! I didn't sink! My swimming teacher said I did well! The endorphins are still going strong!
04 January 2009
The genius of Wii Fit
My parents got me a Wii Fit for Christmas. I set it up last night while Husband went to pick up some take out. It's fun and difficult at the same time, and it has all the addictive qualities of a video game. I don't play video games much, but when I do, I find myself saying things like, I'll stop when I get to the next level, or I just have to beat this one thing, then I'll stop. And then it's four hours later.
Wii Fit seems to operate on that same principle. The games are very short-several are about a minute long, and it gives results immediately. So, for example, if I'm playing the game where I have to try to hit soccer balls that my Wii friends and family are throwing at me, while at the same time avoiding the shoes and Panda heads they're also throwing, I can see how I did at the end, and my instinct is to try to beat that score. I suck at that game, but I'm inclined to keep trying. I think I may get skinny after all.
Wii Fit seems to operate on that same principle. The games are very short-several are about a minute long, and it gives results immediately. So, for example, if I'm playing the game where I have to try to hit soccer balls that my Wii friends and family are throwing at me, while at the same time avoiding the shoes and Panda heads they're also throwing, I can see how I did at the end, and my instinct is to try to beat that score. I suck at that game, but I'm inclined to keep trying. I think I may get skinny after all.
02 January 2009
I will call him Mini-Me
This is Husband's favorite outfit for himself. When I can get a picture of both of them together, I will post it.
01 January 2009
Hell Day, or in which I give the baby cake for breakfast, ketchup for lunch, and realize I'm not in college anymore
For most of my life, we've spent Thanksgiving in a beach house on Hatteras Island. When I was in elementary school, and middle school, and high school going to Hatteras really sucked. I was never allowed to bring a friend, and the kids from the family we share the house with were all younger than me, and there was an eight year gap between me and the family's daughter. I spent many Thanksgivings bored and restless and resenting my parents for making me come on the stupid trip. College changed all that when I had the freedom to arrive when I chose and leave when I chose. I'd drive down for a night or two, eat my fill, and head home. When Husband started coming around, Thanksgiving improved quite a bit. Finally, I was allowed to have a friend at the beach with me! Finally, I had someone to hang out with and talk to. Since being at Thanksgiving didn't suck anymore, and since my mom started sponsoring spa day, and since the daughter from the other family and I are both adults (sort of), I stopped coming in just for a night or two. This year, I dragged it out as long as I could, getting in late on Tuesday night and leaving on Saturday morning when everyone else left.
I can't remember the last time I was around for the day after Thanksgiving. Apparently, each year, everyone drives for 45 minutes, rides a ferry for 45 minutes, and drives for another 30 minutes to an island that has even less life to it than Hatteras. Husband and I, while not feeling particularly social, didn't want to be rude, and there was the promise of going out to lunch, so we tagged along on this year's outing to Ocracoke Island.
We drove, with four grown people and one small person, in our Civic, until we got to the ferry. Mr. Independent wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy with me since I took his cake away from him earlier that morning. Husband wasn't happy, since he found out that I'd allowed Mr. Independent to eat "gake" for breakfast. I wasn't happy because if Husband didn't want Mr. Independent to eat cake for breakfast, then he could have dragged his butt out of bed at 7:15 like I did and given the child a proper breakfast rather than fussing at me about it.
Exhibit A: Mr. Independent licking the last remnants of cake off of his fingers.
Exhibit B: Me, reading a book, which is not Goodnight, Moon, while Mr. Independent wins the pacifier battle.
He was clearly tired, as evidenced by him getting up at 7:15 that morning, and eating an improper breakfast, but he would not sleep. He preferred fussing and playing the game where he wants to go to whoever is not currently holding him, but only for about a second and then he wants to go to whoever was just holding him. It's an awesome game, I promise.
His mood had deteriorated by the time we got to the restaurant, and he asked over and over and over again for milk. We promised to get him some milk, as well as a grilled cheese sandwich. The milk arrived, and Mr. Independent took a sip, got angry at it, swatted it like a kitten swats a string toy and squawked. We (okay, I) spent the time between when he got his milk and when our food arrived trying to keep Mr. Independent sitting in his high chair and prevent him from getting us kicked out of Howard's Pub. When the food finally did arrive, Mr. Independent glared at it. Then he glared at me, patiently and lovingly tearing his grilled cheese into toddler sized portions. Then he glared at it again, and swatted his plate. It barely stayed on the table. I decided to pour some ketchup onto his plate, thinking that maybe he wanted to dip his grilled cheese in ketchup. He eyed the ketchup, then took his index finger, dipped it in the ketchup and sucked his finger. He repeated with the rest of his fingers. No amount of coaxing could get him to eat anything other than ketchup for lunch that day, and finally, I gave up trying and requested that the Mom of the Year award be sent to me in tequila form.
We finally left the restaurant, drove around the island, and Mr. Independent finally fell asleep in the car. I informed Husband on the way home that I needed wine, and requested that he stop at Food Lion so I could purchase some Arbor Mist. Usually I don't drink wine like that, but Arbor Mist, set in the freezer for several hours, turns into an Arbor Mist slurpee. It's something we did in college occasionally, and I felt nostalgic. I grabbed a large bottle of blackberry merlot and strawberry something, and we headed home.
Several hours later, the baby was in bed, the parents were in bed, and it was just us kids, but now in semi-grown up form. We had wine, shots of Jaeger, board games, a deck of cards, leftover pizza, and ramen noodles. It was great. I ended the evening in an eyepatch.
I wasn't satisfied with his response, so I did what any good wife would do in my situation. I poked him, repeatedly, until he rolled over, woke up, and started speaking English.
I'm really sick, I repeated. I don't know why. I didn't drink that much.
No, you didn't, he agreed.
I don't know why I'm sick. I feel horrible. I want to die.
You don't want to die, he said.
Yes, I do.
Husband fell back asleep. I didn't. I lay in bed for the next two hours praying that my internal organs would stay internal and that I'd be granted at least a little sleep before the five hour car ride home.
I thought about everything I'd eaten that day. I thought about all I drank. I thought about everything I'd done and watched on TV and read, and somewhere around 8 a.m., it hit me. Blackberry merlot. Merlot is red wine. Red wine makes me violently ill. I'd had blackberry merlot slushies with my husband and friends. Just because it was cheap didn't mean it wasn't still red wine. I woke Husband because I knew he'd want to know as well. I moaned to him what I'd just realized. He shrugged his shoulder, burrowed further under the covers, and mumbled, Why are you telling me this? I didn't know. Why do I ever tell him anything? I thought back to the last time I'd gotten sick off of wine. June 1, 2008. Husband's birthday. We'd gone to a fancy French restaurant. I anguished over the wine list desperately wanting a glass of red, but knowing that red makes me mean-and occasionally ill. I ordered the red anyway and found myself, at 2 a.m. with my head over the toilet praying that my puking would not wake the baby. I think I'm allergic to red wine, I announced to my mother and Husband the next day. As I explained several years of corretaional evidence, the nodded and humored me, and for once didn't tell me that my theory was stupid. I vowed to give it up and stick with white, which doesn't make me ill, and only makes me occasionally mean. And I did, until I forgot that cheap sorority girl red wine is still red wine and red wine makes me violently ill. Lesson learned.
I can't remember the last time I was around for the day after Thanksgiving. Apparently, each year, everyone drives for 45 minutes, rides a ferry for 45 minutes, and drives for another 30 minutes to an island that has even less life to it than Hatteras. Husband and I, while not feeling particularly social, didn't want to be rude, and there was the promise of going out to lunch, so we tagged along on this year's outing to Ocracoke Island.
We drove, with four grown people and one small person, in our Civic, until we got to the ferry. Mr. Independent wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy with me since I took his cake away from him earlier that morning. Husband wasn't happy, since he found out that I'd allowed Mr. Independent to eat "gake" for breakfast. I wasn't happy because if Husband didn't want Mr. Independent to eat cake for breakfast, then he could have dragged his butt out of bed at 7:15 like I did and given the child a proper breakfast rather than fussing at me about it.
Exhibit A: Mr. Independent licking the last remnants of cake off of his fingers.The ferry kept Mr. Independent entertained for awhile, as did Goodnight, Moon (in the middle of the day).
Exhibit B: Me, reading a book, which is not Goodnight, Moon, while Mr. Independent wins the pacifier battle.
He was clearly tired, as evidenced by him getting up at 7:15 that morning, and eating an improper breakfast, but he would not sleep. He preferred fussing and playing the game where he wants to go to whoever is not currently holding him, but only for about a second and then he wants to go to whoever was just holding him. It's an awesome game, I promise.
His mood had deteriorated by the time we got to the restaurant, and he asked over and over and over again for milk. We promised to get him some milk, as well as a grilled cheese sandwich. The milk arrived, and Mr. Independent took a sip, got angry at it, swatted it like a kitten swats a string toy and squawked. We (okay, I) spent the time between when he got his milk and when our food arrived trying to keep Mr. Independent sitting in his high chair and prevent him from getting us kicked out of Howard's Pub. When the food finally did arrive, Mr. Independent glared at it. Then he glared at me, patiently and lovingly tearing his grilled cheese into toddler sized portions. Then he glared at it again, and swatted his plate. It barely stayed on the table. I decided to pour some ketchup onto his plate, thinking that maybe he wanted to dip his grilled cheese in ketchup. He eyed the ketchup, then took his index finger, dipped it in the ketchup and sucked his finger. He repeated with the rest of his fingers. No amount of coaxing could get him to eat anything other than ketchup for lunch that day, and finally, I gave up trying and requested that the Mom of the Year award be sent to me in tequila form.
Exhibit C: ketchup for lunch. I guess it's sort of a vegetable.
We finally left the restaurant, drove around the island, and Mr. Independent finally fell asleep in the car. I informed Husband on the way home that I needed wine, and requested that he stop at Food Lion so I could purchase some Arbor Mist. Usually I don't drink wine like that, but Arbor Mist, set in the freezer for several hours, turns into an Arbor Mist slurpee. It's something we did in college occasionally, and I felt nostalgic. I grabbed a large bottle of blackberry merlot and strawberry something, and we headed home.
Several hours later, the baby was in bed, the parents were in bed, and it was just us kids, but now in semi-grown up form. We had wine, shots of Jaeger, board games, a deck of cards, leftover pizza, and ramen noodles. It was great. I ended the evening in an eyepatch.
Exhibit D: Eyepatches
Murmphsmuruhumphhup, he commiserated.I didn't feel drunk. I'd tried to match my alcohol with water and food. I went to bed and slept soundly until 5 a.m. when I ran to the bathroom to puke my brains out. I eventually scraped myself off the bathroom floor and crawled into bed whimpering just loud enough to wake Husband.
Murmphsmurm? he asked.
No, I replied. I'm really sick.
Murmphsmurm? he asked.
No, I replied. I'm really sick.
I wasn't satisfied with his response, so I did what any good wife would do in my situation. I poked him, repeatedly, until he rolled over, woke up, and started speaking English.
I'm really sick, I repeated. I don't know why. I didn't drink that much.
No, you didn't, he agreed.
I don't know why I'm sick. I feel horrible. I want to die.
You don't want to die, he said.
Yes, I do.
Husband fell back asleep. I didn't. I lay in bed for the next two hours praying that my internal organs would stay internal and that I'd be granted at least a little sleep before the five hour car ride home.
I thought about everything I'd eaten that day. I thought about all I drank. I thought about everything I'd done and watched on TV and read, and somewhere around 8 a.m., it hit me. Blackberry merlot. Merlot is red wine. Red wine makes me violently ill. I'd had blackberry merlot slushies with my husband and friends. Just because it was cheap didn't mean it wasn't still red wine. I woke Husband because I knew he'd want to know as well. I moaned to him what I'd just realized. He shrugged his shoulder, burrowed further under the covers, and mumbled, Why are you telling me this? I didn't know. Why do I ever tell him anything? I thought back to the last time I'd gotten sick off of wine. June 1, 2008. Husband's birthday. We'd gone to a fancy French restaurant. I anguished over the wine list desperately wanting a glass of red, but knowing that red makes me mean-and occasionally ill. I ordered the red anyway and found myself, at 2 a.m. with my head over the toilet praying that my puking would not wake the baby. I think I'm allergic to red wine, I announced to my mother and Husband the next day. As I explained several years of corretaional evidence, the nodded and humored me, and for once didn't tell me that my theory was stupid. I vowed to give it up and stick with white, which doesn't make me ill, and only makes me occasionally mean. And I did, until I forgot that cheap sorority girl red wine is still red wine and red wine makes me violently ill. Lesson learned.
Monster Butts!!!!
Someone I know has an etsy shop and sells children's clothing and other accessories. One of my favorite items that she sells is called Monster Butts. Check out her etsy shop here. Here is Mr. Independent modeling his Chirstmas Monster Butt.
Checking out what's in the fruit bowl (fruit, duh).
If I were a good mom, I'd get him down, rather than yelling at him to turn around and look at Mama.
Climbing, unsupervised, onto his learning tower (aka cage).
Checking out what's in the fruit bowl (fruit, duh).
If I were a good mom, I'd get him down, rather than yelling at him to turn around and look at Mama.
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