dishes

so here’s what happened

… I mean, it’s a blog for godssake — it’s not rocket surgery.

This is, roughly, the twelvteenth post that I’ve started to write since I got up on my little soap box and had my little verbal tantrum about the state of the public education system and my fears about what will happen to the Girl once the system gets her into its clutches next year. Apparently, after my small tirade, I sat down on my soap box, and have yet to stand back up from my little meditation. Why? Good fucking question. I’m not sure I have any concrete answers yet, but while I was writing and then NOT writing those other eleventeen witty little bits of … uh… blogginess, I did develop several theories regarding my soap box sit-in.

So here’s what happened… After I unintentionally abandoned my darling little blog due to the finally undeniable pull of the universe and the unfortunate incident with the sucking vortex that was the laundry monster, there were a couple of weeks were I actually had my shit together. I KNOW!!! Tell me about it! I was as surprised as anyone. Probably more so, considering I was the one who did all the work, and there was no bribery involved, no threats of … well, anything really. No reason other than an apparent need to defy the universe and exert my all-powerful mom-&-wifeness with a giant Fuck You, Natural Descent Into Entropy, I’m Cleaning My House. And then the last day of school came, and I decided to take the afternoon off, drink a beer (or two), and that’s how I ended up on my education soap box. I was not, however, expecting to actually get RESPONSES to the freakin’ thing. So, that sorta’ sat me on my ass right there.

Now, I said I had “several theories”, as in more than one. So theory 1: knocked on my ass by the fact that people are reading my blog, just by coincidence happen to be stuck on a soapbox at the time.

Included in those responses was one particularly affecting… erm… comment from someone both near and dear to me but is not, and this was the real surprise, my lunatic sister. (Who, btw, you should all know is NOT, in all reality an actual lunatic, clinically speaking anyway, just really really goofy at times.) So this near-and-dear, we’ll call her Professor, because she is (among other things), wrote me a really long, really heartfelt, really personal… response, really, that dredged up a lot of shit from my own frequently painful school years as well as making a lot of good points from a teachers perspective. Again, THUNK, on my ass, this time with my jaw sort of hanging open (but not drooling, thank-you-very-much) because 1.) the Professor reads my blog? Seriously?     !?!?!   and 2.) recalling various and sundry memories of the years between the ages of 10 and 17.

Now, the Professor comes from the Right side of my family. And by that I mean the side of my family that is always right. We have a tendency to not only speak our minds, but we are strongly opinionated and tend to speak in a manner which makes people think we know what we’re talking about even if we’ve no freakin’ clue. Can you say German heritage? So poor Professor, knowing that she had brought up a lot of that less than pleasant muck, was having clicker’s remorse about sending that particular message. (I know this because I ran into her and im’d about it that day.) But ‘cept I’m a growd up now, and have gained much perspective by having my own children. The decade plus of therapy may have helped too…

So as I continued to sit on my soapbox, I wrote back to the Professor, addressing her points, and making a few more of my own, because, as I said, although I was jaw-agape I was not drooling incoherently, just becoming slightly glassy-eyed and dizzy from the height of the soapbox. There was one more note from the Professor because 1.) she’s got the teacher’s perspective, 2.) she’s got a mother’s perspective, 3.) she’s seen 2 bright girls through the public school system and 4.) one of those girls did really well and one of those girls not so well. So she’s got a lot of wisdom to share, and I’m more than glad to be on the receiving end, even if it knocks me on my ass for more than one reason and renders me slack-jawed and just a little dumbstruck (okay, I admit there may have been a little drooling, but just a little!).

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to do housework from atop a soapbox, but it’s damn near impossible. I did some directing, but for the most part, I adopted an Om pose and let entropy have its way with me.  Which brings me to the final theory regarding my continued residence atop said soapbo, sitting upon said ass. It’s been less than a week since I took up my Om pose (a grand total of 5 days — 6 if you count that first day off) and while nothing is out of control, there are no sucking vortexes of laundry, no battles between dirty laundry and dirty dishes for domain over the hallway  or kitchen, and the only thing that is really in desperate shape is the Things’ room (that actually may be close to sucking vortex status, but I refuse to get close enough to confirm), my Om has become disgruntled. I am well aware that as a Toddler Life Coach and professional Military Wife, albeit the worst one ever, the cooking-cleaning-laundry schtick is supposed to be my bit. Yeah, I know. But dammit, I am NOT the only person with arms in this house! Other people ARE capable of working the broom! And the vacuum! Picking up toys! And doing it BEFORE it reaches a full entropic state, thank-you-very-much.

So the final theory? I’m a disgruntled housewife who doesn’t WANT to come down yet. There’s no laundry up here, the floors are clean, and nobody just throws shit on the floor rather than putting it away. I like my soapbox dammit. Now if only I could figure out how to get my bed up here…

we all screw our kids up in our own special way

… that toothfairy is one stingy bitch. 

NB22

So, having the army be one of the higher powers that rules your life tends to fuck up a lot of holidays. We can generally count on at least half of our family’s celebrations being crashed by Uncle Sam every year. It’s usually at least 3 out of 4 birthdays, almost always the wedding anniversary (5 out of 6 years so far), occasionally Christmas & New Years, and very often valentines day. Easter and Thanksgiving are about the only holidays that we haven’t missed having together most every year. (I’ll think about the significance of that later… or not…) The point being, the actual DAY of the holiday has pretty much ceased to be important. It’s the event — the celebration — that is the important part.

Take birthdays for example. I can’t remember the last time anybody in our house actually celebrated their birth on the actual DAY of their birth. My birthday was last month, and the actual DAY was just another Tuesday; kids fighting, mom yelling, dad yelling louder, somebody made dinner, everybody ignored the dishes and tried not to get sucked into the vortex of the laundry monster in the hallway. Just another Tuesday. Later that week, however, I went out for an actual date with my husband. And just like that, Birth celebrated. It’s not the DAY that’s special, it’s the fact the YOU were BORN that’s special. My kids are sure that you can’t have a birthday without balloons, so they’re still not sure that I’m a year older, which is pretty much okay with me, as I’d like to stay this side of 35 as long as possible.

These last couple of weeks have been pretty monumental for our little household. Not only did I fall into and eventually conquer the sucking vortex of laundry monster (I can see my hallway again!!!!!), but the cupboards are full of clean dishes (we won’t mention the gnarly allergic reaction to the dishsoap — I told you, husband, NOW will you wash them?), but The Girl has become a Toothless Wonder.

I was beginning the think that she was dentally challenged. Her cousin, a mere 5 months older, has lost like, 7 teeth already, and here’s my kid hanging on to her baby teeth like nobody’s business. So one night as I was helping her floss (yes, we do actually floss their teeth. I can hardly believe it either) and I noticed that 1.) she had a loose bottom tooth and 2.) this was a good goddamn thing since there was nearly 3 mm of new tooth peeking out directly behind it. My poor child is mutating into a sharkgirl! But no, the dentist reassured me that this was perfectly normal. Which was a great relief when I noticed that there was yet another adult tooth vying for space right next to that one, and still not a baby tooth had exited.

Thinking that we might expedite things and avoid having teeth pulled,  we told The Girl that the toothfairy paid way less for teeth when the dentist had to pull them. This was, apparently, a mistake for two reasons. One, she had not yet heard about the whole money-for-teeth black market exchange. Oops. But really, how long could we have kept that one from her? The first day she shows up at school with a tooth missing, some “friend” asks her how much she got for it, and the jig is up. It’s not like we can tell her the toothfairy didn’t come because mom pissed her off — that’s why the Easter Bunny didn’t come this year. (Apparently I offended him with all of my bunny blaspheming on the way home from grandma’s house, and then again when I thought the damn things had invaded the yard. Mom blames the bunnies, Easter Bunny’s feelings get hurt, no chocolate treats in cute little baskets for the kidlettes. I’ll take the heat, I’m a big girl. But I digress… sort of…)

The second reason this was bad? She started working on that tooth and had it yanked out, blood running down her chin, in less than a week, and she ripped the second one out three days after that! On the other hand, her motivation could have had something to do with her dad telling her he could “get that tooth out”, as he holds up his fist. “No thanks dad, I don’t want a knuckle sandwich.” Totally serious, totally straight-faced this girl. And yes, she does understand the sarcasm of it all, so don’t get all DCFS-y or anything. But here’s the real kicker — after she lost her first tooth, she REALLY lost it. As I was looking for an appropriate under-the-pillow fairy-vessel, apparently the tooth went, and I quote, “tink tink tink  down the stairs.” I looked for that fucking tooth for an hour plus. No tooth.

I tried to explain the significance of the first tooth to The Girl, how the toothfairy was going to give her a gold dollar coin, but only for the first tooth, and how she would only lose her first tooth once. She was still more interested in playing with her bear than looking for her tooth. And The Boy? He kept picking up cracker crumbs and saying “I foundda tooths!” After about the 28th time, I found myself answering him back with a not-so-nice “no, no you didn’t sweetie”. I finally gave up and put them both to bed, explaining that no, we couldn’t just leave a note because think of the scams kids would run on the poor toothfairy. Yeah, I know, that was pretty harsh for a 5 year old, but I was tired, my head hurt, and she was the stubborn one who didn’t think my original little pouch was good enough, insisted I find something “better” for the tooth, wouldn’t let me keep the tooth whilst looking for said better something, and lost the fucking thing. Besides — I was pretty sure I could find it in the morning.

As it turned out, The Husband found it later that night in roughly 10 minutes.

I was so flippin’ excited, we tried to wake her up, but she was UNconscious. Once that kid is asleep, it’s like trying to wake the dead. Or a seriously napping cat. But she was incredibly excited in the morning, and the next night the toothfairy came, traded money for tooth, shook her head about the whole damn thing, and put that freakin’ tooth in a very, very safe place.

Now, as for the gold dollar? Yeah, she lost that the next day at school.

That’s my girl…

 

 

 

dear condron.us,  

i know i’ve been conspicuously absent for some time now, and i do apologize for the abrupt and unexplained departure, but it’s hard to reach the computer when you’ve been swallowed by the sucking vortex of the laundry monster in the hallway. it was a long, hard-won battle; tears were shed, blood was spilt, fingernails were broken, detergent and stain remover were used in copious amounts, and socks were lost in the melee of it all. but the clothing has agreed to never again conspire to attempt consciousness and I have vowed to never again allow the laundry pile to grow taller than my knees, or my children’s heads, whichever comes second.

Sincerely,

the help.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lemmings unite

I blame my sister for this. Not that she’s a bad person, I love her in fact. But she’s the one who started all of this with her shit about how I should sign up for facebook and be mainstream and bite the bullet because everyone’s doing it and why am I so reluctant anyway. So instead of doing the laundry, which is still threatening to invade the kitchen after it fully conquers the hallway (I give it another two days, maybe less — I wonder how it will cross the mighty mountain range of dishes and cutlery to reach the borders of the livingroom…), I turned on my laptop and started wandering around the blogosphere like some drunk kitten.

It was like… oh good god it was so tasty. Finding all of these intelligent, witty (WITTY!!!) posts that not only made me want to write again, I mean actually write for godssake, but pointed out repeatedly that I have been blogging ALL OF MY LIFE. Just not as such. I’ve got boxes and boxes and notebooks and folders and scattered pages of the same kinds of stuff that I’ve been reading. Maybe other people will read it, maybe not. Maybe I will invite family and friends, maybe not. Maybe I’ll be less than anonymous, maybe not. But I’ve already walked to the end of the plank, why not just-

Kersploosh.