This is not Going to Help

I like my problems

Today was Henry's 3 year check-up, also known as the well-child appointment.  He did not want to go, which puzzled me, because he's always enjoyed going to the doctor.  I think he just forgot what it was, because the doctor informed us that we hadn't been there since January 2008.  This after having been frequent, frequent visitors in the many months of Henry's life preceding January due to chronic ear infections.

There is a point to this, sort of.  I mean, as much of a point as there ever is.  On the way to the doctor he was complaining and really trying to cry about having to go.  My mom called while we were en route and asked where we were going, and I said:  "I'm taking Henry to the doctor for his check-up."  Henry yells from the back seat:  "I do NOT have the hiccups, Mommy."  Like I was taking him to the doctor for that.

Once there, though, he fell right back into his routine of trying his best to impress the doctor and nurse.  He tinkled into the little cup.  He sat still.  He answered all their questions politely.  He laughed at the doctor's jokes.  He pointed at the otoscope and asked me "what dat ting called?" I told him I couldn't remember and said that I usually called it an "earlookerinner" and he laughed and said "you must be joking, Mommy."  When the doctor returned, Henry asked him what it was called, and the doctor, who is Greek, told him the proper name, the Greek origins of the word, how people tend to mispronounce it, etc.  Henry found it riveting.  Maybe he's going to be a doctor.  Or maybe he's just trying to impress the doctor because he thinks he's handsome.  The doctor is handsome. 

He was, of course, pronounced to be a fine specimen of a little boy.  The doctor seemed so delighted with Henry, his proportions, his health, his verbal skills, that I just barely had the heart to voice my "concerns."  What are they?  Flakes on his scalp.  Flat feet.  Meh.  It is nice when these are the things you are worried about.

You know what else is nice?  When you imagine doomsday scenarios like a collapsed U.S. economy, revolution, riots in the streets.  Then you inwardly grin when you think of how you and your little family would run to the hills of the Arkansas Ozarks and hole up with your extended family.  You think how you'd be forced into doing things that you're really only a generation or two removed from anyway.  You think that your dad is an excellent hunter and your husband is a natural marksman, your mom is an excellent gardner and that you'd enjoy managing a giant garden with her.  You think how you'd all be piled in together, and that your husband would grow a beard.  He looks really handsome with a beard.  You think it would be hard but it would be good to be close to one another like that, rather than separated by all this terrain.  Then you think you are deranged to be romanticizing what would genuinely be hardship. But then you think that being deranged like this could come in really handy and might even buoy those around you.  You think that you are lucky that you are able to imagine your life without all the engines that seem to drive it and still feel hopeful and happy.  You know that you aren't far gone enough to wish for something like this to happen, but you feel a sickeningly profound gratitude that you have this husband, these kids, these parents, these grandparents.

And then you think that someone might just calmly shoot you right between the eyes for saying all this out loud.  Look at me!  I'm lucky!  And even when I'm not lucky, I'm happy!  And I'm going to always be happy.  Because I have all this, this happiness.  

I think these two might be related

Not a bad idea

A girl after my own heart. 

 

I just can't help myself

I think that last entry was my worst ever.  It was a really sweet moment with Franny and I didn't come close to doing it justice.  It was clunky and unedited, and reading it made me laugh for all the wrong reasons.  Uh, I think maybe the theme of the piece was how the bird lady really didn't want us there and how desperate I am to convince myself that's OK.  Blogging is the window to the soul, let me tell you.  And my soul?  Well.

I am not, however, going to go back and fix it.  I've been told that's counter to the spirit of blogging, and I love doing what I'm told when it involves no effort.

Instead I'll just sit on a boat in the sunset and drink Coors Light.

On our friends' boat.  At sunset.  It was a beautiful night.  I have nothing clever to say about it.

It's a bird, it's a bird

So, we go on this walk in our little neighborhood.  The idea is usually to walk to the Happy House general store and back.  Sometimes we get a lemonade, sometimes a popsicle, sometimes some rubber frogs, and if Papi is involved, sometimes we get scratch-off lottery tickets.  It is a very wholesome activity.

We always pass this store, Parrots & Company, which is set a little way back from the sidewalk.  We had some time to kill the other day, so I proposed that we ask the proprietress if we could have a look at the birds.  She said she didn't mind, so long as we did not interfere with the staff and didn't overstay our welcome.  I took note that she obviously did not want us there!  But it was too late for Franny.  She could see and hear the birds.

They have many types of parrots and they are all out on perches during the day with no cages!  They are the friendliest, healthiest, most beautiful birds I've ever seen.  They all beg to be held and engaged.  The proprietress, Lori, permitted Franny to hold a Senegal parrot, which Franny would imply was the highlight of her life thus far.  She has since taken in a perfectly ripe peach and then a collection of parrots she meticulously colored and then cut out for Lori.  Lori is not really interested in Franny.  She seems only to be interested in birds, which is handy, because she seems to have hundreds in there and she claims to feed them all by hand.  She also keeps that place immaculately clean, let me tell you.  So, I try not to project onto Franny my disappointment about Lori's reaction to Franny.  Franny is so sincere in her love of the birds and her respect and awe of Lori that part of me wants to thump Lori on the forehead and say "wake up lady, can't you see that you can exploit this little girl and get her to clean up bird poop all day long?!"  But I remind myself that I would have been the same way before kids.  More pertinent, perhaps, is that Franny herself would probably be the same way!

Even though I'd told Lori (in Franny's presence!) that we had a little brother, two dogs and a frog, and that we had all we could say grace over and weren't in the market for a bird at this point, Lori pointed out that a cockatiel would be an ideal bird for Franny.  She weans them early and hand raises them, and they are extremely cuddly.  I have to say that I had no idea that birds could be this cuddly and affectionate.  And if she's telling the truth about all the hand-raising she does, well, I can understand why she doesn't want us around pestering her.  She's got shit to do!

We visited the birds at Parrots & Company three days in a row, so, honestly, I can see why Lori wasn't always so happy to see us.  We are annoying!  (Really, though, we do try to stay out of the way.  If there is another customer in the place, we literally retreat over to the wall.)  Anyway, on our third trip, one of the cockatoos jumped down off his perch and toddled over to Franny.  Franny knelt down and the bird inspected the holes in her crocs, her temporary tattoo, the whale on her t-shirt.  Once he'd determined that she didn't have any snacks, he snuggled his little head under her chin while she stroked his back.  After a few minutes, one of the workers came over and said that he had to return the bird to his perch, because he was enjoying his visit with Franny too much and they didn't want to reward him for jumping down.

We continued walking around and admiring the birds as the played and, um, vocalized.  A few minutes later I noticed that Franny was a little misty-eyed.  I braced myself for her to begin crying because I've told her that she cannot get a bird until she is seven years old.  I sat down on the floor beside her and asked her what was wrong.  She said:  "The birds are just so beautiful that it makes me feel like crying, but you don't have to do anything.  I'll be OK."  I put my arm around her and she cried silently into my shirtsleeve for a minute or so.

We bought a book about Cockatiel ownership.

Ah, the Godparents

Great friends came over for the day today, and it was delightful.  They let all three kids torment them while Adam and I watched.  Bryan went down the waterslide fully clothed and wearing jeans! 

I don't know what they are doing to the poor fellow here, but I think he likes it.

Little boys in love.

I love these people.

Thanks to Anna for taking the beautiful photos. 

Meme like it, meme like it a lot

My newish but quite dear friend at Infinity More Monkeys has tagged me to do a meme.  I'm always grateful for being tagged, because sometimes I sit down at the computer and feel like everything I have to say is just so annoying or trite or otherwise morally repulsive -- look at me!  I'm soooo cool, even thought I pretend to act like I think I'm not, it is all just a ruse to make you think I don't care, when, really, I could hardly care more or else I wouldn't have a blog, right?  Tell me you love me!  Now tell everyone you love me and bcc me on it!

OK, so, the meme is to list seven hopes and/or wishes, and tag seven others to do the same:

1 - I hope that my parents (and Adam's!) stay healthy and mobile for as long as possible.  I love the love that they and my kids have for each other.  Their names are on my kids lips so much more often than I would have imagined considering that we live halfway across the country.  I don't know why I'm surprised, because they are all four so damned cool.

2 - I try only to hope that my kids are decent, happy, healthy people, but I find myself also hoping that they learn to actually do something or make something and feel connected to their own world in a way that many people do not seem to be now.  Many people like me.

3 - I wish I lived next door to my sister, because it would be creepy to wish that we lived in the same house, right?

4 - I hope Adam will outlive me.  By one day.  No, I hope we die simultaneously.  Joking.  I hope Adam will outlive me.  I vaguely remember the world before I met him and I do not wish to return.

5 - I wish I were more patient.

6 - I hope Franny and Henry will always love me as much as they seem to right now, even when they are surly teenagers.  But I also hope that they will become more discerning. 

7 - I hope that someone will give me a beautiful locket containing a cyanide capsule as a present on the day I enter the nursing home. My big toenails do not grow in a straight line, and I know that when I'm in that nursing home, the rotating group of carnies (carneys?) they will have clipping my toenails will always cut them straight across, repeatedly wounding me, and I will die of some sort of horrible, painful foot infection, and that's not how I want to go out. 

Now I'm supposed to tag seven people.  Hmmmm.

My sister

Michelle

Jessalogic

Bird Nest

and some of my new local blogging friends:

Fancy Pancakes

Manager Mom

Always Home and Uncool

If my thought-dreams could be seen, they'd probably put my head in a guillotine*

It makes me wince to read that last post. 

I'm all for having loads of down time for small children.**  My children do really well with it, for the most part.  Like right now they are off doing something together, and I can hear Franny's authoritative tone and Henry's eager one, going through the rules of some game that they'll never get around to playing.  But sometimes they are just whining and bickering and we all arrive at this great impasse, and I know it is my job to break it, cheerfully or not-so-cheerfully.  I mean, really.  That is my actual job.  And sometimes, like any job, I guess, it just feels too big, too complex to figure out.  But it isn't, really.  It is just two preschoolers arguing and climbing all over me.  And sometimes I'm just too tired, or too sick, or too something to be nimble enough to manage.  And, that's life.

*Bob Dylan, "It's Alright, Ma"  (thanks, Frank)

**Down time is also free, and pottery for preschoolers is not.

Oh, not really, no, I don't think so

What I think at 5.30 in the morning:

You cannot talk to me like that, you little shits.  I am semi-educated.  I am a lawyer.  What am I doing here anyway?  Staying home so that I can somehow turn you beautiful and healthy children into little monsters who wake me up and bark orders at me like I am someone with no place to go?  I could wash my hair, put on a suit, walk out that door and make money.

What I say at 5.30 in the morning:

Henry?  Calm down, use your manners, and only stab your sister gently with that sword.  Franny?  You know better than to speak to me like that.  I am your mommy.  I will not make anybody any type of breakfast until someone asks me nicely.

This is what passes for news, people

I told myself I had to update my little photo in the left sidebar, because the other was two years old.  Really, I just updated it with a newer one in which I, miraculously, appear younger.  This is an illusion, of course, as I continue to age rapidly.  Every day.  In fact, I think I will always remember age 34 as the age at which everything suddenly went to pot, to wit:

Large creases in the forehead.  Turkey neck.  Disappearing boobies.  Stubborn belly flab.  Crepey-looking skin on arms.  Weird veins on legs.  Previously bone straight hair growing in fuzzy and grey.  Is anyone turned on yet?

Blind hog finds acorn

I lucked into front and center tickets for Emmylou Harris at Town Hall last night.  It was such an amazing show that my mouth is still hanging open. 

My friend, Devon, came up with the tickets and I just don't know how to thank her for thinking of me.

There were three big surprises for me.  First was that she performed "Tulsa Queen" which has always been one of my favorites and I just didn't expect to hear it.  Second was when she brought out Tift Merritt, one of Adam's high school classmates, to sing with her on one song.  Finally, she dedicated "Bright Morning Stars" to Tim Russert, and she did it in her humble, earnest, sheepish, beautiful way.

If I wrote everything I want to about this, it would make everyone just throw up simultaneously, so I'll leave you with a song from her new album.

Yes, people, I run. I don't blame you for your incredulity.

When I first moved to New England in 1994, we had something like 114 inches of snow my first winter.  It set some sort of record, as I recall.  Even the sidewalks became impassable.  One evening, my friend and I were standing on the porch watching the snow come down, and there was this guy running like hell down the middle of our street.  I gasped and turned to my friend and asked if we should call the police.  He laughed and told me that the guy was exercising.  I just barely believed him at the time, as I was sure that he was being chased.  Or that he had robbed someone.

Now, of course, having lived here for years, I know better.  New Englanders are the exercisingest bunch of fools I've ever seen.  They are always out taking walks and runs and god knows what else.  Growing up, I hardly knew anyone who exercised.  Certainly no one in my family.  It was something people did on television.

I could remember being forced in 8th grade gym class to run once, and after I got over the initial gasping and agony, there was something almost pleasant about it.  Still, I didn't have any desire to actually repeat this willingly and without a pot-bellied gym teacher in polyester shorts yelling at me.

And this remained my position for quite some time.  Then I had children.  And these children caused me to grow old and young all at once.  Doctors being inquiring about my exercise program and I began inquiring about better, stronger sleeping pills.  All kinds of folks would suggest exercising and endorphins.  And then there were/are the mothers.  Every single morning at nursery school drop-off, all these perky bitches in their complicated-looking workout clothes, dropping off their children and rushing off to the gym.  I, in my not-quite-but-almost pajamas, going either straight home to eat in bed or off to the coffee shop to have breakfast with Annie and roll our eyes at all the tennis-skirted suckers.

I knew I would never be the sort of girl who would go to the gym.  It just isn't my thing.  The running nagged at me.  I imagined I could run if someone really were chasing me, but that is somewhat difficult to arrange.  Walking takes too long, and that is time that could be spent reading or snacking or watching really excellent television programs.  I wanted something quick and dirty.  Ahem.

So, I happened upon Doctor Mama.  A doctor and a mother who just happened to be writing about running.  She claimed that it was not, in fact, dangerous or weird, and that anyone who could walk could also run.  She had quite a bit to say about this, and she is no sucker. 

When I started, I could not run from my house to the end of the street without stopping to walk.  And this, my dears, was months ago.  I inched along like this, taking long breaks and rolling my eyes at myself, and then suddenly, about one month ago, I had this breakthrough and ran a whopping 1.5 miles without stopping.  I was hooked, and no one is more surprised than I am.  Now I am up to 2 miles.

For the record, I run in ratty t-shirts and old shoes. I run so slowly that, honestly, I could probably walk faster.  I do not look cool.  (My father once observed me running across the street in the rain.  When I returned, his shoulders were shaking with laughter and I couldn't wait to hear what was so funny.  He regained his composure and squeaked out:  "Is that how you really run?"  He thought maybe I was joke running, just to make him laugh.  I was not.)

Yes, I feel better.  Yes, I'm sleeping better.  I do not hate it.  Everyone was right and I was wrong.  So there. 

Dogicide

Today I got myself this delicious, delicious quesadilla at Rosie in New Canaan, and if you've never been there, do NOT go, because it will make you broke and fat, and/or it will make you kill your dog.  I saved half my quesadilla for dinner and bought myself this beautiful and giant piece of cake which I intended to eat just after my run tonight.  And, could it possibly be more obvious where this is going?  Riley dragged the entire bag off the counter, opened both containers and ate every single bite.  Even the stems off the lovely strawberries that were smooshed into the lemon icing which had been poured onto the beautiful blueberry pound cake. 

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

R.I.P.

Henry is 3 today, and I've already yelled at him

Here he is when we showed him the waterslide from Marshie and Papi.  (We'd managed to hide the construction thereof all morning.)

And here they are standing beside the damn thing.

Franny, en route.

The scene.  Adam as statue.

Mom, running from Franny's water shooter.

Dad, on the attack.

The boy.  Oh, the boy.

Whatever happened to the idea of the sanitarium?

I mean, I guess that is now what some people would call "rehab" for "exhaustion" only not really, because when you go to a rehab center for exhaustion, I bet they don't give you lots of drugs, and I think sanitaria (not to be confused with the sanitoria for tuberculosis, which don't really sound that fun) were sort of all about the drugs and the food and the luxurious accomodations.  I think of it as sort of like the Four Seasons with a nice doctor and some sedatives and some room service.  Can anyone weigh in on this? 

Henry's 3rd birthday party was today.  Here.  At our house.  And it was literally 95 degrees here in Fairfield County.  Thanks to Papi and Marshie, we had this, which was absolutely wild, and was, without a doubt, the highlight of the party.  Henry loved the water cannons and Franny and Pearce went down the slides countless times.  Franny was on some part of this apparatus from noon until after 5 p.m.  At 7 p.m. she came down from bed, bleary-eyed and asked me if she could play on it a little bit more.

So, anyway, back to the sanitarium.  After my first birthday party, my mom drove herself to the local hospital and checked in.  Just checked herself right in.  Like a hotel.  Or a sanitarium.  I kind of almost a little bit know how she felt, which is really sad, because I had so few guests and so much help with this party.

I have photographic proof of all this, which I'm dying see for myself and share here, but that particular wire is in the library upstairs, which is where Henry is now sleeping and I'm not about to go in there!  Why is Henry in the library, you ask?  Well, because our A/C upstairs froze into a solid block of ice due to a low freon charge.  Isn't that fascinating and convenient?  Did I mention the heat wave?  And the exhaustion?

Henry is 3.  It hardly seems possible.  More to follow.

Best break-up ballad for passive-aggressives the world over

Complete with fucking beautiful picking, I might add.

Holy shit, get a load of my adorable niece!

NYC OMG

I took the kids to the AMNH yesterday to see the last day of their butterfly conservatory.  We had been before, when Franny was about Henry's age.  She had never forgotten it, so I thought Henry should see it, too.  That didn't really turn out to be the case.  Henry did not wish to walk into the butterfly room.  He thought it was too scary.  Franny convinced him that it was good to do, but when we got in there and he saw all the butterflies flying up by the lights, he shielded his head with both forearms, yelling:  "BEES!  BEES!"

Here they are after he got over himself:

And here's where a butterfly decided to inspect Franny's stuffed bat.

Franny outside Grand Central.

Finally, Henry's dark blue eyes.

We arrived at the museum around 3 p.m.  The kids needed more of a snack than I'd brought, they were already sort of tired from the train trip and the walking.  I was tired from my weeks of insomnia.  It was not a good combination.  Just seconds after we saw the butterflies, Franny started inquiring about the gift shop.  Let me just say how much I hate this!  And how it is completely my fault.  At some point I noticed that we had begun capping off nearly every such outing with a trip to the omnipresent and overpriced gift shop, and that the trip to the gift shop had become the highlight for Franny.  I don't want her to view these otherwise lovely museum visits as just another excuse to acquire more crap.

Don't get me wrong, God knows I'm all for the occasional souvenir.   I love buying crap!  I just didn't care for the sense of entitlement that was wafting off the girl that day.  She was pretty cheeky about it. 

Anyway, Franny and I can usually work things out without anyone falling apart, but, for whatever reason we really squared off against each other on this issue.  When I said that we wouldn't be going to the shop that day, she cried.  And cried.  And that sucked for all of us, really.  Henry didn't really know what the issue was, but her bad mood became contagious, so we left the museum quite a bit earlier than I expected.

And this poorly-written and mediocre tale about half-assed parenting is finally at an end.   

 

Party faces

So.  Today I was the mystery reader in Franny's class.  I baked her favorite cookies and brought her favorite book to read aloud.  I honestly don't think I've ever done anything that has made her happier.  

After, I took her out to lunch at our favorite soup joint, because it is still frigid here.  And raining.  And, yes, we're still having to eat hot soup to stop the (my) constant weeping over the weather. 

When we got home decided to make party invitations out of National Geographic coloring pages.  She has a list of five kids she'd like to invite.  She asked me to photograph her making five different "party faces" so that she can include them with the invitations. 

Here's an example of a party face, in case you'd like to try this at home.

And here is the wording of the invitation as dictated by Franny:

IF YOU HAVE TIME TO COME OVER ON ANY DAY, THAT WOULD BE GOOD 

FOR MY ANIMAL PARTY.  THERE WILL BE 5 KIDS OVER AND YOU HAVE  

GOT TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM, BECAUSE THEY ARE MY FRIENDS.  IF YOU 

CAN’T MAKE FRIENDS WITH MY FRIENDS THEN WE WILL HAVE TO HAVE 

 IT ON ANOTHER DAY AND THEN WE WILL SEE IF YOU CAN BEHAVE  

BETTER.  SO, YOU’VE GOT TO PROMISE TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH MY FRIENDS.

  I’M SERIOUS ABOUT THE ANIMAL PARTY.  WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO CANCEL THE  ANIMAL PARTY IF YOU CAN’T MAKE FRIENDS WITH MY OTHER FRIENDS.  

OK. 

LOVE,

FRANNY

 

I will go ahead and point out that it is not at all surprising that a daughter of mine would find a way to nag and threaten her friends in a party invitation.  Sounds like fun, no?  Make friends or else, dammit!