Cracklin' Rose

So after days of soul searching J, Bear, and I have come to a decision. We are ending the foray into the world of soccer. J and I discussed it, recalling our days spent on the field and it was revealed that we both HATED soccer and can't think of one time we said, "I'm really glad my parents forced me to play."

What we do remember (rather painfully) are the bruised shins, the groans that rose when when we missed a pass or got the ball stolen from us. Also, Shannon Poty's dad yelling, "SHANNON!! GET. THE. G'DAMN BALL! SHANNON!!" So yeah, we learned not a whole lot from our YEARS of forced soccer play. The first opportunity our parents gave us to quit, we did so jubilantly, with much relief, and never looked back.  After that I stuck with softball, piano, drama and writing clubs until college and after. J became a swimmer, a scout, joined the school band , and started tinkering with computers. (NERD!! OHMYGAWD WHAT A NERD!) All things he still persues.

Quitting soccer did not set a precedent. (Neither did quitting the accordian [c'mon. Ma, the accordian???} Or quitting ballet. Or Rainbow Girls.) Once we found something we loved and were truly good at, we stuck with it. It reminds us of the Mastercard commercial where the Dad freaks out with joy when after trying all the other sports, his son finally does well in chess. Soon we will find her chess.

Next order of business...

Sex in the shower.

There, I said it. And at 36 years old I'm wondering about the logistics. Especially when one partner is over a foot taller than the other. Things just don't line up and... well... holding the partner up while engaging in the act? Yeah. That's not gonna be a possibility. So, short of building a special waterproof, non-skid kinkstep, any suggestions?

Next...

Keeping Rosie out of the fireplace.

Swear to God the girl can't help herself. She loves eating the pepples in our fireplace. It's a gas fireplace, so I'm assuming they special rocks we put on the floor are specially treated with something that will give her some sort of disease or illness. I've moved the couch in front of it - a lovely designer touch. For a few hours she was fooled. Now she merrily contorts herself and slithers about until she gets where she wants to be: on the hearth, wedged between the (not very effective) safety screen and the couch, munching chemical infused rocks. Suggestions? Cigars? Cigarettes?

Finally...

Dee loves soccer almost as much as she loves basketball. It confuses her why her sister would want to give up something as MARVELOUS as running and sweating and mixing it up with the other kids. Dee understands being on a team, working as a team, and the role competition will play in her life. She will also never have to actively worry about weight. She doesn't worry about friendships. She assumes - and not in a stuck up way - that she is entitled to friends, and as a result people are drawn to her.  She seldom pouts, seldom gets her feelings hurt. If she has a problem she brings it up, insists we talk about it until it's solved, and then it is filed away and she goes on with her life.

How did we create such different children? I wonder what birth order has to do with their differences. I wonder what the two year's between their birth has to do with their differences.  I wonder if their differences are going to bring them together or tear them apart.

Oh, and uber-finally...

The Office. Funny, funny, funny show. You should watch.

So in an effort to help my daughter maintain a healthy weight we signed her up for soccer. She was gung ho. It was actually her suggestion.

Four practices down and she hates it. In fact she spent the last practice sitting on the sidelines crying. Charlie pulled me aside and suggested that I might still be able to get my money back if we pulled her out before the first game. Said that she just didn't want to be there. Said maybe it was because it's her first year and she's not as skilled as the other girls, or maybe it was because she doesn't have any friends on the team yet, but whatever the reason she's unhappy.

I will have to admit that my first reaction was disappointment in the Bear. I wanted to get all Sgt. Carter on her and tell her to suck it up. No one's good when they first start out. It takes dedication, practice, a stubborness. NO ONE LIKES A QUITTER!!!

Then I slid into annoyance with her coach. How dare he suggest that he doesn't want my kid on his team. He's the coach, figure out how to motivate her. Figure out how to get the other girls to include her more. COACH HER so that she becomes a better player!

But then I looked into my child's tear stained face. How can I force her to continue with something that's making her miserable? There are other things out there we can try if it's her level of physical fitness we're worried about. What harm will it cause if I nod wisely, like I've considered all the options and say, "Sure honey, let's try something else"?

Thing is, I don't want to raise a quitter. I struggle with giving up when things get difficult. I don't often do it, but it's definitely in me to just say, "Screw this" and walk away. I don't like that I'm like that and I don't like that I see it in Bear. I want her to learn how good it feels to finish something out of pure will alone. I didn't think I could do it. I didn't even want to do it. But I did it and I FEEL AWESOME! She deserves to know how good that feels, but how am I going to give her that opportunity if I show her it's okay to give up?

WWYD?

I offer you exhibit A:

   Me after giving birth. That btw is a placenta and umbilical cord. Baby in the trash? (Right to Lifers can email me at Cacklin-Rose@justajoke.net)

This (Exhibit B):

 is my neighbor exactly 3 minutes after giving birth to her 4th spawn. Doesn't she look haggard?

I'm not finished. I haven't stopped thinking about what I "owe" my husband, and conversely, what he "owes" me.

To be fair, J makes a good living and he's v responsible with our finances. To be fair, I am irresponsible with money. I don't understand it. I don't like it. I like what it gets me, but I don't like it. Left to my own devices I would be the loser on Dr. Phil wondering how I got $334,000,547. 86 in debt in just under a year. For that reason we have divided accounts. I am "paid" a monthly stipend to stay at home. And in return for that "payment" I do feel that I owe J certain things.

He works hard to provide for us. I feel that the house he comes home to each night should be inviting. Welcoming. It should say, "Come. Rest your weary self on the cat fur free sofa. Eat your warm, home-cooked meal including dessert. Watch as your clean children frolic and/or diligently finish up that school project without complaint. Behold as your smiling wife, in her cute outfit and freshly scrubbed face, loads the dishwasher and hums to herself while she switches of the laundry!"

Are you gagging yet? I am. On the guilt. Because that is not what he comes home to. We have 4 cats. Everything's catshmere. Including the couches. Especially the couches. Dinner is usually microwaved, and I haven't set a proper table since I hopped in my time machine and traveled back to the 1950's. Our children are clean enough. I guess. Bear's going through this hygiene boycott, Dee can never keep a brush, and Rosie (cutest. baby. evah!) has probably just smushed banana in her hair. And me? I'm only smiling because of all the illegal drugs me and the other neighborhood mommies score during naptime. The only song I'm singing lately is Evanessannccee's "Wake Me Up Inside."

I haven't had a cute outfit since I had my first baby. It seemed selfish of me to spend on myself when I had children that needed to look cute. Then, when we divided the accounts, clothing suddenly came out of *my* budget, and then it was even MORE selfish of me to spend on ME because J was the one going into the office. He was the one who had to look good and pressed. I'm home. Who sees me? I can wear the same ratty sweats. He needs the Tommy's to give him the psychological edge on the other alpha men in his office. (Men are such GIRLS when it comes to fashion!!) It's important to us that our girls look clean and well-dressed when presented in public. Like it or not, dirty children in ill-fitting, stained clothes are not as fairly treated as their spit polished counterparts. I don't buy my girls many name brand things because they are hideously over-priced and don't hold up. Still, it costs to keep them dressed. Especially my oldest since she's got this funky bigger on top than on the bottom thing happening ... but that's another post. I'm last in line when it comes to newsies.  Do I owe it to my husband to move myself up on the list? Or do I owe it to the family unit to make sure they're dressed and pressed? Or do I owe it to the family to up that clothing allowance at the expense of something else?

J and I are working toward paying off our home, building a strong retirement fund, and creating college accounts for the girls. In addition to that we're also socking away money to replace our cars without adding debt, as well as saving for home improvements and those all important, memorable family vacations. Every extra penny is budgeted. Which fund should I draw from?

I would love to get back to the chiropractor. A monthly mani/pedi/faci/hairy/browy would be divine. Three hours a week at the gym? Are you kidding me? That's better than a trip to Paris. Don't I owe it to J to take care of me so I can offer him and the family my best self? Fill the well and all that? But again I ask, at the expense of what? Trust me, if there were a good answer, one that didn't take away from my family's goals, one that didn't leave me fretting about overdrawing my account and having to dip into his (which would in turn dip into our future), I would jump on it.

It's not that simple because I see the value of our financial goals. My grandmother died with NOTHING. My father supported her, at the expense of his family's lifestyle. I don't want to do that to my children. I don't want them growing up and being financially responsible for us while trying to raise their own families. I like paying cash for large items because it means we aren't beholden to anyone. We don't have to worry about losing our cars because we can't make that month's payment. I like that. I like that our house is almost paid off because then it is OURS. We will always have it. We won't be like my grandmother, moving from family to family, unable to afford even the smallest squat. I like the idea of paying for my girls' education. Why should they start out their adult lives already in debt when it's within our means (with careful planning) to prevent that? My education was paid for. J's parents paid for his. We still valued our education. We started off on excellent financial footing. We have 3 daughters. We will most likely have 3 weddings to pay for (or 2 and a committment ceremony), or 3 cars to help fund, or possibly, if you believe the psychic, an out of wedlock child to help raise. Feels wrong to take money out of those funds just 'cause mommy needs a personal trainer.

I do clean our house. Occassionally. When we're having guests or when J gets that look on his face as he surveys his environment. Or when I can't find Rosie. It's a rare day, especially in the winter, when he comes home to reflective surfaces. Still, I owe him that. He doesn't always get it, but I owe it to him to keep things tidy. In return though, doesn't he owe it to me to pick up after himself? Are not then the dirty socks shoved between couch cushions a slap in my face? Does not then, the sprayed toilet seat offend me?

I do the laundry. It gets to the washer, to the dryer, and to the floor in front of the dryer. Sometimes it will get folded. Sometimes it will get transported to rooms and dumped on the appropriate bed. In my opinion that is all that I owe him in terms of laundry. C'mon. I don't wear his clothes. I'm not the one who left the skid, although I am the one constantly on the lookout for a bigger, better, BOLDER stain remover!! Still, I cleaned his clothing and FOLDED his jockies. Doesn't he owe it to me to be a big boy and put it away?

I buy his mother, father, sisters, brother, niece and nephews gifts. I put thought into them. I wrap them. I find delightful and gut-busting cards. Doesn't he owe it to me to say thank you? At the very least doesn't he owe it to me to sign his own damn name to the card?

I got a fourth degree cut giving birth to his children. Let me repeat myself. They cut my cha-cha all the way through the muscle because all THREE of them inherited HIS BIG HEAD. I farted uncontrollably for 6 months. I could not hold my pee for almost a year. I grew this whole other organ to support our growing fetus. I stay home with them. I'm here when they're sick so he doesn't have to miss work. I teach them how to navigate the world. I give them the dollar and force them to meet the salesperson's eyes. I take them by their little hands and show them how to apologize and right wrongs. I teach them to always look a person in the eye when talking, to mind their manners, to address adults respectfully, and to behave in public. They have never embarrassed J when he takes them out. I clean up their vomit because I know it makes him want to pass out. He owes me.

But what? More money? More me time? How much more can he give? The money is spoken for. The time? On weekends he lets me sleep in. On vacations he's the one out there with them, exploring the sand crabs or playing football, while I read or nap. When things come to blows between the oldest and myself, he's the one stepping in to cool things off. He's the one running soccer drills with the girls so they can catch up with the rest of their team (who've been playing soccer since pre-conception it seems). He's the one fixing their computers, playing games, thinking of neat things to do when they're bored. As flawed as the man is (oh, and he is flawed ), there is no better father out there.

But still, for the vomit thing? He owes me.

 

 

First, why do I have a banner for vaginal odor on my blog? I dunno. Maybe someone knows something I don't? Seriously. Dudes. Can we change the banner to something less personal? I dunno... maybe hairy toes or chronic halitosis. But vaginal odor? C'mon.

Second, I had this really great post about how J and I met and the events that led to us getting married, but as I reread it, I realized that either I'm a really bad story teller, or our love story is kinda dull. Suffice it to say, we started dating when we were 16, broke up five months or so later, lost contact until our junior year in college when my fiance decided it was okay to have a "friend" outside our "committed relationship" (fuckbuddy), and I in turn decided that what was good for the gander was good for the goose and called J. Turned out that his girlfriend had also had the same epiphany as my fiance only months earlier and J had been a listless heap of a man since he'd found out that not only had she been cheating on him, she'd gotten pregnant while doing so. Funny that, because a few months after J and I started talking? My then ex-fiance got his "friend" (fuckbuddy) pregnant. So anyway, my call was timely and I fell in love with him and his gentle eyes and sweetness and willingness to buy me stuff and broke things off for goodsies (i.e. no more waffling, no more accepting ex's phone calls. no more lonely sex. just no more him) with the old and concentrated solely on the greatness that was and usually still is my J.  It's way sexier than it reads. ;).

And finally, i guess I'll jump on the "False Advertising" bandwagon and write about weight and marriage. It's such a loaded issue. One woman states that it's poor form to be a 120 fiance and explode into a 160 pound wife. That's not the woman the man married. Well, to that I say tough noogies.

Trust me, barring a serious eating disorder, a woman just doesn't wake up one morning and decide that today's the day she's going to get fat. She's gonna take it one bag of chips at a time, pace herself, slowly cut back on the exercise, increase her carbs, and hopefully (fingers crossed!!) by Christmas, she'll be her BIGGEST EVER!!!! In my experience it doesn't happen that way.

Did I gain weight because I'd finally landed a man? Nope. I gained weight because we went out all the time. I gained weight because we comfort ate together. I gained weight because eating was what we did. I didn't do it to get back at him. I didn't do it because I hate who I am. I did it because we fell into a pattern of eating, eating, eating.

The reason it stays on? It's not to punish him. It's NOT ABOUT HIM OR MY FEELINGS TOWARD HIM. I love him more than I did the day I married him. The weight stays on because I have 3 children. I have days that bleed into others because they are that mundane. The weight stays on because who is going to watch my kid while I go sit at yet another meeting where some former fatty tells me I've got to start loving me. The weight stays on because by the day's end I'm too tired to go to the Y, and going during the day means putting Rosie in childcare, and while I'm not opposed to childcare, I am opposed to the slimey green stuff coming out of your hacking child's nose and eyes. You know who you are!!  The weight stays on because we fall back into our 13 year pattern of eating to mourn/celebrate/fight boredom.

Do I owe it to my husband to be as physically sexy as I was the day I said, "I do?" These arms, however lush have held him when no one else would. This soft belly has given him 3 beautiful children. The wrinkles that are slowly appearing are a result of laughing at his jokes, crying when he was inconsiderate, smiling as I watch him. If anything, in the grand scheme, the meta-physical (??) scheme, I am sexier now than I was then.

My husband is proud of me. He thinks I am funny. He thinks I'm smart. He thinks I am beautiful. Would he like for me to be an airbrushed centerfold? Sure. Would he trade me for one? I don't think he would. When we talk about weight he never says, "I'd like for you to have fewer chins." He says, "I'd like for you to not have a heart attack and leave me alone. I need you." He has never once accused me of the old bait 'n switch.

This is not saying I would not like to drop about 50 pounds by say, this evening. That I wouldn't take the magic pill and wake up with the perfect body so I could fit in the perfect clothes. That I wouldn't rather my bra had 2 hooks instead of 4. That I haven't joined Weight Watchers and am obsessively counting points. Because I would (and have). Just not "for him." 

 

Here it is the first day of spring and the flowers are flowering and the buds on the trees are budding, and we're under a winter storm warning. Go figger.

Other things --

Have new favvy movie. Pride and Prejudice. I didn't think they could improve on A&E's version - although, i have to say that I had issue with the way Elizabeth smirked her way through the entire series. GOD! No wonder Mr. Darcy veered left!! I am proud to report that Miss Kiera Knightly hardly ever smirked and that made me happy. But more than that, Mr. Darcy? Whoever played him? Ph-ROWR. I still *heart* Colin, but d-yang, this new guy? Me likey long time. Run, don't walk, to your local video bagoda and get this flick.

And that's all I got.

 

 

My biggest downfall is my lack of physical self-confidence. It started in jr. high when genetics starts separating the pretties from the enhs. I had glasses and braces and about 10 extra pounds, so guess which group I fell into. Thing is, I didn't realize it until I overheard my friends talking.

They were spending independent reading time paring up the people in our class with their perfect mates. Everyone knew who the pretty ones were: Rhonda Samms, Kristi Luucas, Rhonda Claark, Angie Dunnawaie, and their male counter parts: Tracy D'wire, Tony Hiil, Mike Layne, Chris Parrnil, so they were no brainers. They'd hook up and have gorgeous kids. I knew I wasn't on par with them. The chances of Tony Hiil asking me to dance were low. But I didn't think I was too far below, C list at worst, ya know?

Well, the pairing summit continued and finally my name came up. I perked up, wanting to see who I was going to marry and make babies with. The A listers were taken, and the B listers too. We were down to the C listers (Troy [I crushed on him big time], Donnie, Doug, and Adam) D lister Geoffry. Obviously Geoffry and Stacey Haand were a match made in heaven so that left me with any one of the C listers.

Except it didn't. They paired me with Todd Daaum. An E lister if ever there were an E lister. He was mean and big and awkward for his age, and he had zits and bad hair and did I mention he was mean? And... he was just kinda... skeezy. Like, pervy skeezy. You could tell even the teachers were a little uncomfortable around him. Of course, now I can look back and see that there was a whole lot going on with Todd, home issues and probably some molestation, but then I didn't see it. All I saw were the zits and the bad hair and the odor.

And the girls said, "Rose and Todd are perfect for each other." Then they laughed and said we were both fat and wore glasses and smelled funny, and I bit my lip and went back to pretending to read Are you there God? It's me, Margaret.

I'm not sure if I'm getting the humiliation across.  I remember distinctly that burning sense of shame, the way I wanted to hide. More than hide, I wanted to disappeaer. I was pretty sure I didn't smell funny because I'd been wearing deoderant since 3rd grade and took a bath every morning, but they'd said I did. How could they be wrong? These girls were my friends. I hung out with them in lunch and recess. I got offended for them if someone looked at them the wrong way. It was hurtful what they said, but maybe they were right. Maybe I was a big, fat, smelly girl who deserved a life with Todd Dauum.

I never really saw myself as beautiful from that moment on. It's been 24 years and deep inside I'm still that embarrassed little girl. Sure, I'll have my moments of mirror love, when I like what I see. Sure, I have parts of me that I think are pretty (I like my eyes... and my calves), but I have problems looking in the mirror and seeing beyond the flaws. The weight. The chins. The aging.

I'm never truly comfortable in the presence of pretty women. Deep, deep down inside I don't trust them. I'm afraid that I'm going to befriend them and then suddenly at a Pampered Chef party or while trying on Mary Kay I'm going to hear something I don't want to hear. I'm afraid they're going to look at me and at J and whisper that I don't deserve him. That I'm not pretty enough for him. "Did you ever see a couple and wonder what he's doing with her?"

Scars run deep.

I have 3 daughters.

You know Rosie. Cutest. Baby. Ever.

Dee is our beauty. I know it's wrong to classify your children, to separate them, to identify them by their looks and abilities, but I have. She won the genetic slot pull. She's thin. She's athletic. She has wavy, bown hair, and large anime eyes. She's in the gifted program already and there's talk of skipping her a grade. She's a leader. She's v funny and people are drawn to her. I'm not sure she's mine. Maybe J had an affair. But I worry. I'm afraid that she's going to be a mean girl. I'm afraid she's going to permanently scar some little girl who hasn't come into her own yet.

Bear is my clone. She sees the world the way I do. She reacts to the world the way I do. She is gentle-spirited. She has friends, but she's more on the outside than in. She's smart, but she's not gifted. She's not athletic, but she tries because she knows it pleases us. She's chunky, but she's growing at a rate of about 3 inches a day it seems. She can sing well, but it's always softly, like she's afraid to be heard. She loves babies, and roller coasters, and has the funniest belly laugh. She is pretty, but she's definitely has her freaks and geeks moments. When she figures herself out she will be gorgeous. I just hope she never overhears mean girls.

Listening to: Shame spiral - the opera

I'm sure you'll be glad to know that God did not smite the church full of basketball playing Christians the other night.

But...

It's time for me to get medicated because I feigned illness so I could go home. I know. I know. J and the girls caught a ride home with friends and I took Rosie and drove home, keeping my eye on the darkening sky.

Let me repeat myself. I left my husband and 2/3 of my children to die in a church I was sure would be toppled by a tornado. I missed an impotant event because I could not get the feeling of DOOM! (doom! doooooom!) to go away. I couldn't carry on conversations with my neighbors. I couldn't wave at my kid. I couldn't do anything but picture the balcony we were seated in falling on the people below us and then the lumber-y aftermath of a twister.

I knew my thoughts were irrational. I knew the likelihood of anything happening was pretty slim. I knew all that, but I couldn't stop the what ifs. I'm already sweating the visits to the lake this summer and I love the lake. I love the lazy days spent in the water, the reading, the complete family time. And I'm dreading them because there might maybe be a strong tornadic type storm. Possibly.

I'm pretty sure folded laundry will not solve this problem.

Mood: Apprehensive
Listening to: the waking whinings of Rosie

If you're a loyal reader (and you know you have me bookmarked ) You'll know that I don't deal well with storms. Especially storms that could result in the T word. You'll recall former posts written about being caught on a highway in a storm and taking shelter in a bathroom of a campground. Let me be precise; when I am away from my house, I. Hate. Storms.

So it stands to reason that tonight, the night when 3,500 people will be gathering in a church to culminate Dee's basketball season, we're due for some pret-ty powerful sumpin' sumpins. Lovely. I can already imagine being trampled as 3,500 people sprint for shelter.

But, you're saying, you'll be in a church. God doesn't smite churches filled with Christians with tornados, I offer you this and this as evidence. Just think about it. Is there a better place? All those sinners tryin' to pretend they're not?

Okay, yeah, I'm joking about a smiteful God, but dang, it does get the anxiety up and runnin'. I'm a serious wreck in incliment weather. I get the cold stomach, the tunnel vision, the hyperventilating. Gads. Maybe we'll get lucky and Dee'll come home from school with a fever.

Except that probably means she's been exposed to the Bird Flu.

Even though J and I are rapidly approaching middle age, we have sex. Not like... every day... or even, sometimes every week, but we do have sex. We go in waves, and right now we're on the upslope. Which is good. We like upslopes. Much better than the downward slide that ends up with nothing for a month or more, but i digress.

So last night? We were makin' with the love, and mere seconds after J'd surfaced for air? Dee opened our bedroom door. Dear God I would have rather it had been my own father and mother than my daughter. We recovered rather well with the sheet pulling and the arrangement of bits and pieces so that all was covered. I'm fairly certain she didn't see anything untoward.

But she'd heard.

"You woke me up."

"Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Go back to bed."

"Why do you keep saying 'Oh God?'"

*chirp* *chirp* *chirp*

"You want some water sweetie before you go back to bed?"

"I heard moaning. Are you sick?"

"Mommy's fine. I was laughing. Daddy's funny. Go back to bed."

"I need you to tuck me in."

Yeah... It's one thing to talk to your child immediately after a... uh... you know... but to walk? But, I am a mother to the core (and no way was J gonna do it) and if it was what she needed then I had to do it so I slid off the bed, found my robe, and led her back to her room.

"You smell funny," she said.

You know how sometimes you say you want to die? I wanted to die.  "Yeah. I need a shower. I'll take one in the morning. Good night, Dee. Sleep tight. Stay in your room." I kissed her and turned off the lights.

"Mom?" she asked before I could make my escape. "Dad must be really funny 'cause you were laughing a lot!"

Mood: proud as punch
Listening to: silence. sweet silence.

Let me preface this with a resounding I'm not a fan of mothers who proclaim their kids to be the best and the brightest. I think their insecurities are showing when they parade their kids around, forcing them to point to their eyes, say bye-bye, or do a backflip for Aunt Gimme Gimme.

That said... Rosie is learning sign language. It's amazing. She's no Helen Keller, but damn, the girl got mad skillz. Okay, maybe not mad, but they are definitely annoyed! To date she has four signs that she can mix and match to suit her needs. They are "more," "milk," "slide," and "all done." And she uses them correctly and consistently. And she's only 13 months old.

Whaddya think? Should we call Mensa now?

Okay, okay. Yeah, lots of babies know sign language and lots of 13 month olds know way more than 4 words, but you have to admit that it is exciting. Well, it's exciting to us.

The kid can tell us when she wants more and when she's all done. Do you know what that does for meal times?? She can tell me when she wants to nurse (which, if you must know, looks like someone milking a cow, so, enh, BUT STILL!!!) or when she wants to play on her slide. A-mazing. Even more amazing? It's lessening the whole cry factor. It's true. I've noticed.

Today we're working on adding the sign for "book" to her vocabulary. She looks interested. Yesterday we added "slide" and today she's using it correctly.  I'm wowed, and yeah, if you were here right now I'd be putting her on parade.

My daughter's soccer coach Charlie called me earlier today asking if I thought they should have practice tonight.

"It's raining and cold," he observed. "What do you think, should we have practice?"

"Uhhh, I don't know. You're the coach," I said, trying to wrap my mind around why he'd ask.

"I want your opinion on this," he said.

Now, I've met this man once. How does he know my opinion's worth anything?

"Aren't you spring soccer types supposed to play in this crap?" I asked, remembering back to my misspent youth on the SAY fields.

"I guess we are," he says and then signs off to call the other parents to tell them that practice is on.

Then I decided to look at the weather. It's 36 degrees and it's raining. And I sentenced these girls to spend an hour outside.

I suck.

Or maybe I'm just that competitive.

 

Listening to: My kids and husband play video games

So last month we celebrated Rosie's first birthday. I am notoriously sentimental about milestones for my kids. I sobbed like a baby at Bear's birthday party 9 years ago. Same thing with Dee's. I just love this stage, this time of spontaneous hugs and sloppy lick kisses, of smiles that say, "You're so great! Now give me a banana." I haven't screwed them up yet, ya see.

I'd learned my lesson though, with two first birthday parties under my belt. The trick, I thought, is to not read the cards. It's the cards that getcha. So this time, as Rosie and I opened gifts I pretended to skim, and then I passed them around for all to enjoy. Yes, I thought triumphantly as my eyes remained dry. I've done it! This is one birthday party that will not reduce me to a sloppy puddle of sentimentality.

Then it was time for cake and ice cream.

Everyone piled into the dining room and we lit the candle and started singing. And as they sang to her I looked around the room and thought, "Everyone who is essential to her life, who loves her without hesitation is in this room right now celebrating HER."

Yeah. I cried like a girl. The tradition continues.

So happy birthday Rosie. Your smile, your laugh, your exuberance fills our souls. You have blessed us.

Listening to: Roman Vice - The History Channel

That title has no connection with this entry, but I'd T'vo'd Oprah and she's all about the Oscars and it's now my white noise as I try to update this blogigo. Makes me kinda sad, because I haven't seen ANY of these movies. I have no idea who these people are. Felicity Huffman came on and I had to call my best friend Lu. "I thought the Oscars were for movies. Did they expand to television?"

"OhmyGAWD," she shrieked, "You are so stupid. You gotta know who Jake Gylleennnhaalll is. The guy who fucked Heath Ledger? Donny Darko? Jesus. Does J ever let you leave the farm?!"

Because I am that far out of touch with popular culture.

Except for my latest and greatest pretend boyfriend Vincent D'Onofrio. C'mon y'all. Give Vincent your love. Can we get a whoop whoop? Awwwww yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. Soulful, intelligent eyes? Check. Sculptured lips? Check. Cute as a button nose? Check, check, check.

But I'm not all about the physical. God! What, you think I'm shallow? (ignore the slam on Rique and Love below) The guy can act. He's got the chops. Gomer Pyle? (No, not that one. this one.) Thor the God of Thunder/car mechanic in The Adventures of Babysitting? Edgar? From Men in Black? Surely you remember! But most recently? Detective Bobby Goren of Law and Order's Criminal Intent. I know, I know, but give it a chance!! You'll be hooked and pretty soon you'll be all, ""Fuck American Idol. I want to see Bobby battle Nicole Wallace again!"

Okay, so you watch Law and Order: Criminal Intent for the first time and you think, that guy's kinda weird. And tall. Then you give it another chance because it's on all the freakin' time and you're suffering from insomnia, and slowly you start to get into this character. Before you know it your T'vO has 25 LOCI's that you have to watch (over and over and over), you're a member of the Bobby Goren fanfic sites (hush now), you start rattling off details about his life, and then before you know it, your husband starts poorly imitating Detective Goren's halting speech pattern (calling him the James T. Kirk of NYPD), his gangly walk (which, J? JUST LIKE YOURS), and it's then that you realize that he's jealous, which is kinda sexy.  So thank you very much LOCI and more specifically Vincent, for helping him remember just what a damn great catch I am. What else do you realize? That LOCI has replaced your Buffy obsession, and that you desperately need a hobby outside USA (now accepting characters!).

Where was I?

Oh yeah, where I've been for the past monthish. Busy. Fighting depression, writing the next great American novel, trying my damndest to keep my kids healthy, but failing miserably, especially when it comes to Rosie. I just can't get that girl's snot to stop flowing. Currently we're suffering a reaction to MMR, a double ear infection, and the cutting of molars. It's like fun, only not. Especially the part where for the past 3 days she's been waking up every 2 hours during the night to scream, play for an hour, and then scream again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The depression. It's a bitch. A bitch that hates laundry, getting out of bed, and finding the motivation to shower. J seems to think it's the laundry problem that's causing the depression. Silly man. Clean underwear; the new prozac. I have a problem convincing him that it might be a symptom of something a bit more serious. But then, he's terminally happy. I don't think it's in him to understand the blahness that comes with depression. But whatever, point is I've gots a depression that needs dealin' with. More on that later.

Great American Novel(la). I've got pages and a strong idea of who the hero is. Unfortunately, what I don't have is a plot. Word on the street is, plots are kind of... needed if one is to publish. Still, I press ahead with whatever tidbits my characters are giving me. Plot will come. Maybe. Or perhaps I should write porn. Do porn writers sit around and wonder what their characters are going to do? I think not.

Or maybe they do. Porn writers, set me straight.