The other day the two older Chaos Girls played quietly in the backyard for almost 45 minutes straight. I'm not stupid, so periodically I went back there to make sure that Birdie was not offering LaLa up as a burnt sacrifice to the Gods of the Little Tykes play set, or eating ants. I would quietly check by peeking 'round the corner... if they saw me who KNEW what might happen... demands for food and drink, sacrifice ME!? Instead of their usual high decibel and mess-bringing pursuits, they were playing quietly under the Grapevine. Had I gotten closer, I would have seen that they had dug up a couple of feet of flowerbed dirt and dumped it onto a patch of lawn, they were making a place to keep their "pet earthworms." Even if I had seen, I don't know that I would have stopped them... a girl needs just a few seconds peace to start dinner ya know!
This morning as I was getting the baby down for her nap, they went in the backyard and found that the automatic sprinklers had turned their "Worm Preserve" into a glorious mud puddle. Like any self-respecting two and four year old they stripped down nekkid and started rolling... flipping mud spatters and painting themselves. They also took a brand new canister of bendy straws to... make flowers? pretend fireworks? use as pea or rather, hard-green-grape shooters? enjoy the hot pink of the cheap plastic straws against the green of the grass?
Dunno.
They lost straw privileges for a week but DANG we had fun playing "Spray Down the Chaos Girls" with the backyard hose.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Mah name is MUDD
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
I Need a Drink
...another thrilling chapter in the "Pearl has an ear infection" saga. It's kinda like the old days, back when she was a newborn ... only now she's getting me up every hour and a half instead of her far more pleasant three to four hour cycles.
Piffle. Have a duck or two.
Piffle. Have a duck or two.
Monday, August 28, 2006
I Need an Asprin
Ahhh! I have so much to share about the past three to four days... It all started with the fulfillment of one of my worst nightmares.
Friday morning found LaLa and I at a bit of an impasse... her desire to wear panties and be a big girl balanced with her less than stellar skills at keeping them dry. My favorite part is when we go to the toilet and she cannot squeak out a drop, then eight minutes later she lets loose while standing on top of her play kitchen set. I remind myself here that this IS the beginning of the end for her and her reliance on doobahs.
We have about six pair that fit her, and she has approximately two to three oopsies a day. The math is not good and neither are my laundry skilz. Piffle. That morning she'd had an oopsie, and nothing clean upstairs to change into. LaLa flat refused the offer of a doobah so I headed downstairs to the dryer to grab the baggy pink diaper cover that I would try to foist off on the girl as a pair of panties. The basement is in the process of being wired up by Dadguy... think bare wooden stairs, concrete, power tools, exposed beams. LaLa opens the door and insist that she come down too. I insist that she close the door... I hear the door close. Do I hear it catch?
So there I am standing in front of the dryer insisting that the pair of "My Little Pony" panties that she fished off the top of a dirty pile of laundry is not good to wear. I think this because, typical mom that I am... I am sort of squeamish about my kid running around in panties stiff with dried up pee. LaLa was totally not buying that the baggy pink linen diaper cover in my hand was really underwear, and well, it isn't. I hear the creak of the basement door, and though I left the baby in the front room with a bottle and Birdie was up there as well... every hair on my body reached for the sky because I KNEW. It still is like a fist in the gut, remembering the sound of my Pearl's little nine month old body WHUMPing down those steps... ALL the horrifying way, down those steps.
I am running... I am fairly sure that I shrieked a swear. I am holding a howling Pearl in my arms and I fear that she is broken. Broken. I rush to the top of the stairs with her then to my bed, her limp body clutched to my chest, fearing all the while that I am damaging her further by clutching her so tight... unable to loosen my hold. Laid out on my bed she mostly looks and sound angry, I am looking for blood. Birdie and LaLa are baying and yipping like hound dogs trying to jump up on the bed trying to touch the baby. By this time I am truly freaked, I call my girlfriend from two houses down.
"Karen, I need you RIGHT NOW!" I say.
It must have been in my voice because thirty seconds later she is there with her daughter, she has called off the dogs and she helps me undress my baby. All that we find...
-a funny fork shaped mark in between her eyes.
-a bruise next to her right eye.
-a very pissed off baby.
After a long talk with the doctor's office I am pretty sure that all. That's it. No permanent damage. I begin to breathe again
Witness, the picture taken three hours after the fall, the marks already are fading. I have combed that stairway trying to figure out what gave hr the fork shaped mark. A mystery. Today you can only see the marks if you know where to look.
The next morning after getting the dishes washed LaLa and I head out for the local Shopco to buy more panties, leaving a napping Pearl and Birdie-the-Daddy's-girl with Dadguy. LaLa picks out a 3 pack of Tinkerbell panties and I grab a less pricey pack of 6. Then I am glancing through the girls zip up hoodies, looking for something for my fast growing Bird for fall, 'cause you know... 30% off. I look up and in the six seconds since I last looked up my two year old has made like Casper. AUUGHK! Three heart stopping minutes later, and five moms looking and shouting, she doodle bugs back and finds herself stuffed in the shopping cart before she could even tell me how "thcauwd" she was. Holy Crap! I HOPE she was scared! It's then that I take a good look at her. I am letting both my girls grow their hair long, but had not put her up yet that morning so she had the shaggy, in the eyes waif thing going. Set this off with the fact that she had insisted on dressing herself that morning. While the outfit wasn't that bad overall... it included her older sister's pink tights that she had scavenged from the trash, the ones with the entire left knee ripped out and they were sagging and flopping about on her. I hadn't showed or bothered with make-up, my shirt was dirty. Holy trailer trash, Batman. Sighing I head us over to the bathmats to replace the one from the girl's bathroom that I literally washed to pieces, 'cause... well 40% off.
It was then that my daughter who I had sat in the cart in the proper... sitting place, sitting properly to keep her FREAKING SAFE! Starts to scream with her index finger somehow caught under the plastic thingy that covers the handle of the cart. It is just loose enough to fit a two-year-old finger. Smash it and slice it and BLOOD.. screaming, and me holding her splurting finger as I run for the front counter. Paper work, waiting, hospital, waiting, x-rays, waiting and ten thousand rounds of "This Little Piggy." In the end? We are given the equivalent of a big band aid and sent home.
I feel compelled to share with you a few of the thoughts that were going through my head while driving LaLa to the hospital. What am I doing wrong? What kind of crappy mom am I? They must all think that I am some loser-mom showing up with unbrushed teeth, scraggly kid and just OOOOH! The SHAME! It's all my fault, I'm doing something wrong, why me? Me? Me? Deep breath. I cannot do this. This is beyond my strength.
I hear in my head a gentle voice..."let go, and let God." I pray, and suddenly it is no longer about me. It is about my funny little LaLa strapped into her seat in the back of the van. That little girl whose dandelion puff hair is now sticking together in chunks and stuck in gooey strands to her cheeks from the careless brandishing of a sucker the Shopco employees gave her for being brave. Everything gets do-able and I'm her Mama, but I'm not "in charge," I am just along for the ride.
Mind you... it's gonna be a SHORT ride if those kids keep writing on my favorite chair with ball point freaking PENS!
Friday morning found LaLa and I at a bit of an impasse... her desire to wear panties and be a big girl balanced with her less than stellar skills at keeping them dry. My favorite part is when we go to the toilet and she cannot squeak out a drop, then eight minutes later she lets loose while standing on top of her play kitchen set. I remind myself here that this IS the beginning of the end for her and her reliance on doobahs.
We have about six pair that fit her, and she has approximately two to three oopsies a day. The math is not good and neither are my laundry skilz. Piffle. That morning she'd had an oopsie, and nothing clean upstairs to change into. LaLa flat refused the offer of a doobah so I headed downstairs to the dryer to grab the baggy pink diaper cover that I would try to foist off on the girl as a pair of panties. The basement is in the process of being wired up by Dadguy... think bare wooden stairs, concrete, power tools, exposed beams. LaLa opens the door and insist that she come down too. I insist that she close the door... I hear the door close. Do I hear it catch?
So there I am standing in front of the dryer insisting that the pair of "My Little Pony" panties that she fished off the top of a dirty pile of laundry is not good to wear. I think this because, typical mom that I am... I am sort of squeamish about my kid running around in panties stiff with dried up pee. LaLa was totally not buying that the baggy pink linen diaper cover in my hand was really underwear, and well, it isn't. I hear the creak of the basement door, and though I left the baby in the front room with a bottle and Birdie was up there as well... every hair on my body reached for the sky because I KNEW. It still is like a fist in the gut, remembering the sound of my Pearl's little nine month old body WHUMPing down those steps... ALL the horrifying way, down those steps.
I am running... I am fairly sure that I shrieked a swear. I am holding a howling Pearl in my arms and I fear that she is broken. Broken. I rush to the top of the stairs with her then to my bed, her limp body clutched to my chest, fearing all the while that I am damaging her further by clutching her so tight... unable to loosen my hold. Laid out on my bed she mostly looks and sound angry, I am looking for blood. Birdie and LaLa are baying and yipping like hound dogs trying to jump up on the bed trying to touch the baby. By this time I am truly freaked, I call my girlfriend from two houses down.
"Karen, I need you RIGHT NOW!" I say.
It must have been in my voice because thirty seconds later she is there with her daughter, she has called off the dogs and she helps me undress my baby. All that we find...
-a funny fork shaped mark in between her eyes.
-a bruise next to her right eye.
-a very pissed off baby.
After a long talk with the doctor's office I am pretty sure that all. That's it. No permanent damage. I begin to breathe again
Witness, the picture taken three hours after the fall, the marks already are fading. I have combed that stairway trying to figure out what gave hr the fork shaped mark. A mystery. Today you can only see the marks if you know where to look.
The next morning after getting the dishes washed LaLa and I head out for the local Shopco to buy more panties, leaving a napping Pearl and Birdie-the-Daddy's-girl with Dadguy. LaLa picks out a 3 pack of Tinkerbell panties and I grab a less pricey pack of 6. Then I am glancing through the girls zip up hoodies, looking for something for my fast growing Bird for fall, 'cause you know... 30% off. I look up and in the six seconds since I last looked up my two year old has made like Casper. AUUGHK! Three heart stopping minutes later, and five moms looking and shouting, she doodle bugs back and finds herself stuffed in the shopping cart before she could even tell me how "thcauwd" she was. Holy Crap! I HOPE she was scared! It's then that I take a good look at her. I am letting both my girls grow their hair long, but had not put her up yet that morning so she had the shaggy, in the eyes waif thing going. Set this off with the fact that she had insisted on dressing herself that morning. While the outfit wasn't that bad overall... it included her older sister's pink tights that she had scavenged from the trash, the ones with the entire left knee ripped out and they were sagging and flopping about on her. I hadn't showed or bothered with make-up, my shirt was dirty. Holy trailer trash, Batman. Sighing I head us over to the bathmats to replace the one from the girl's bathroom that I literally washed to pieces, 'cause... well 40% off.
It was then that my daughter who I had sat in the cart in the proper... sitting place, sitting properly to keep her FREAKING SAFE! Starts to scream with her index finger somehow caught under the plastic thingy that covers the handle of the cart. It is just loose enough to fit a two-year-old finger. Smash it and slice it and BLOOD.. screaming, and me holding her splurting finger as I run for the front counter. Paper work, waiting, hospital, waiting, x-rays, waiting and ten thousand rounds of "This Little Piggy." In the end? We are given the equivalent of a big band aid and sent home.
I feel compelled to share with you a few of the thoughts that were going through my head while driving LaLa to the hospital. What am I doing wrong? What kind of crappy mom am I? They must all think that I am some loser-mom showing up with unbrushed teeth, scraggly kid and just OOOOH! The SHAME! It's all my fault, I'm doing something wrong, why me? Me? Me? Deep breath. I cannot do this. This is beyond my strength.
I hear in my head a gentle voice..."let go, and let God." I pray, and suddenly it is no longer about me. It is about my funny little LaLa strapped into her seat in the back of the van. That little girl whose dandelion puff hair is now sticking together in chunks and stuck in gooey strands to her cheeks from the careless brandishing of a sucker the Shopco employees gave her for being brave. Everything gets do-able and I'm her Mama, but I'm not "in charge," I am just along for the ride.
Mind you... it's gonna be a SHORT ride if those kids keep writing on my favorite chair with ball point freaking PENS!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Happy Birthday!
It's the big three-oh for the beautiful and talented Mama D... it has been wonderful to have such a friend as her . I love to go to Mama D's world and see the way that Baby A is growing and changing.I love her house and her couch, the Experiment and I can't wait to see what the next year brings! The thirties are all about coming in to your OWN... I know that she will do it with the same bavery, grace, and panache that she has shown to date.
Go over today and give her some love!
...and Mama D...
I got you a little sumpin'-sumpin' but it's not there yet... I left it up to Peter's discretion to tell ya what's coming.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
SWEEEET!
Last weekend I picked up a book full of cake mix based recipes for kids. Birdie especially is a party hound, and cake is to party what... well. Cake is good. This is our first project. Tastes as good as they look!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Some days are just hard to do...
There was nothing wrong with yesterday... nothing wrong with me, nothing bad happening, not that time of the month, no sick kids. I won't bore you with a blow by blow of the not-tragedies that consumed my heart and wore my soul down to a bloody nub, but I will share what I have been thinking about the dichotomy of motherhood... the way that the job is a perfect balance of the divine and transcendent to the menial and debasing.
These girls of mine... they are NOT mine. While their bodies are some funky blend of genetic soup that has brewed and stewed between Dadguy and I, not even my half of that soup is all mine. I have generation upon generation of ancestors to thank, and I'd like to think that LaLa's recent penchant for shrieking at full bore is somebody else's fault. I think I'll thank... umm, tsk! My Granny Grape. She's dead and cannot defend herself.
By the plan divine, we all progress and time marches on. The baby Pearl that was still living it up in my body when this blog began? She is officially been inducted into the mysterious Sisterhood of Chaos by virtue of her climbing the open door of the dishwasher and making her first grab for the filthy silverware. Fanfare.... huzzah, hippy-freakin'-kai-yay.
The menial and debasing side of motherhood? The constant sweeping, mopping, washing, vacuuming, blah blah blahhhhh, whatever. We all do it, some of us do it in a timely fashion and some of us wallow through the slime as we try to finish writing that To Do list while the two year old is ripping the plastic ribbons of movie out of the VHS cassettes so that she can carry them around by the ribbon like a cute little pre-DVD pocketbook... the baby howls, because that is what she now does, and the four year old who Will. Not. Stop. Whining. About the scrape she got on her elbow from falling in the parking lot.
After forty five minutes and two failed in-the-park applications of band aids Birdie was still at it. If she worked at it very hard she could maybe work another drop or two out of the now scabbing wound.
"Mama, it huurts still! The blooood is still squoozing OUT! I need a baaandaid! OwwwwoWowOWOWOWwwwwahhhhh!"
frustraaaation!
For the first time in her wee little life (to my credit, I feel), I tell her, "Oh Birdie! Just SUCK IT UP!"
A pause and then her baffled reply. "But mama, I don't EAT blood."
The blood, the poop, the barf-snot-pee rock bottom basics of human life, THAT is motherhood, and on a happy note... LaLa spent almost the whole day in the same pair of panties. Could it really be the end of Doobahs for her? Please. For the love of MIKE, let this be the beginning of the end. There is something that happens to my sanity after I wipe the sixth poopy bum of the day, five days in a row.
And then...
...tonite, in the midst of Chaos Family bedtime procedure, Birdie gave up the coveted lower bunk to her heartbroken sister...
Just
To
Be
Kind.
... and while I know that the primary part of her goodness came with the Birdie package from that place whence Chaos Girls come, I am redeemed. I transcend.
O, divine.
These girls of mine... they are NOT mine. While their bodies are some funky blend of genetic soup that has brewed and stewed between Dadguy and I, not even my half of that soup is all mine. I have generation upon generation of ancestors to thank, and I'd like to think that LaLa's recent penchant for shrieking at full bore is somebody else's fault. I think I'll thank... umm, tsk! My Granny Grape. She's dead and cannot defend herself.
By the plan divine, we all progress and time marches on. The baby Pearl that was still living it up in my body when this blog began? She is officially been inducted into the mysterious Sisterhood of Chaos by virtue of her climbing the open door of the dishwasher and making her first grab for the filthy silverware. Fanfare.... huzzah, hippy-freakin'-kai-yay.
The menial and debasing side of motherhood? The constant sweeping, mopping, washing, vacuuming, blah blah blahhhhh, whatever. We all do it, some of us do it in a timely fashion and some of us wallow through the slime as we try to finish writing that To Do list while the two year old is ripping the plastic ribbons of movie out of the VHS cassettes so that she can carry them around by the ribbon like a cute little pre-DVD pocketbook... the baby howls, because that is what she now does, and the four year old who Will. Not. Stop. Whining. About the scrape she got on her elbow from falling in the parking lot.
After forty five minutes and two failed in-the-park applications of band aids Birdie was still at it. If she worked at it very hard she could maybe work another drop or two out of the now scabbing wound.
"Mama, it huurts still! The blooood is still squoozing OUT! I need a baaandaid! OwwwwoWowOWOWOWwwwwahhhhh!"
frustraaaation!
For the first time in her wee little life (to my credit, I feel), I tell her, "Oh Birdie! Just SUCK IT UP!"
A pause and then her baffled reply. "But mama, I don't EAT blood."
The blood, the poop, the barf-snot-pee rock bottom basics of human life, THAT is motherhood, and on a happy note... LaLa spent almost the whole day in the same pair of panties. Could it really be the end of Doobahs for her? Please. For the love of MIKE, let this be the beginning of the end. There is something that happens to my sanity after I wipe the sixth poopy bum of the day, five days in a row.
And then...
...tonite, in the midst of Chaos Family bedtime procedure, Birdie gave up the coveted lower bunk to her heartbroken sister...
Just
To
Be
Kind.
... and while I know that the primary part of her goodness came with the Birdie package from that place whence Chaos Girls come, I am redeemed. I transcend.
O, divine.
Monday, August 21, 2006
No Dolly for YOU!
I have decided that any boot purchase will have to wait till real and actual cold weather hits... unless of course, I find the perfect pair at the perfect price. Upon looking at everything offered... and there are some very loverly options... I have just now realized that I have been admiring the same pair of DM Wellingtons and HD Engineer Boots in black, for lo these past forever years.
I figured this out when I thought to myself... "well they are just work-boots! I could probably find a knockoff version at Wallmart or something for half the price." Then I was hit with a deluge of flashbacks of me scouring every shoe purveyor I could think of... looking for said knockoff. No dice.
The price? Ain't gonna go down... although I did find a place online that sold the Wellingtons for $10.00 cheaper. Woo. I can wait a while longer.
Mama D asked in the comments of last post, what was the key to taking decent pictures of yourself. Ahhh! I have a few tips!
1) Find a mirror.
2) Clean the mirror off with glass cleaner, especially if the Chaos have had access to it.
3) Turn off the flash or it will look... odd.
4) If you would like your face visible, use the screen rather than the view finder to line up picture.
5) Look at the camera in mirror rather than the actual camera, unless you WANT to have a picture with you looking off sideways.
voila!
I figured this out when I thought to myself... "well they are just work-boots! I could probably find a knockoff version at Wallmart or something for half the price." Then I was hit with a deluge of flashbacks of me scouring every shoe purveyor I could think of... looking for said knockoff. No dice.
The price? Ain't gonna go down... although I did find a place online that sold the Wellingtons for $10.00 cheaper. Woo. I can wait a while longer.
Mama D asked in the comments of last post, what was the key to taking decent pictures of yourself. Ahhh! I have a few tips!
1) Find a mirror.
2) Clean the mirror off with glass cleaner, especially if the Chaos have had access to it.
3) Turn off the flash or it will look... odd.
4) If you would like your face visible, use the screen rather than the view finder to line up picture.
5) Look at the camera in mirror rather than the actual camera, unless you WANT to have a picture with you looking off sideways.
voila!
Friday, August 18, 2006
Boot to the Head!, Whup- Pshhh!
The weather has been unseasonably cool these past few days and I have been craving the autumn. This craving has been further enhanced by a special find at my favorite clothing store... and since I am already exposed upon my own blog- witness, the sweater. It is everything that I love in a sweater...
feminine without being girly, casual but with soft detail, a hood, good texture, great color, lightweight and 40% off. I forced myself to purchase the brown version instead of the black... change is good.
I have been having dreams of boots. I used to live in boots, Doc Marten boots back when they were made in England by the original company. Black, ten eyelet DM's. White ten eyelet DM's. Brown, eight eyelet greasies and a pair of forest green oxford style were worn by yours truly over the years. I rocked the DM's old school since back in the late 80's when a Skinhead who owed me money gave me a pair in lieu of cash.
Currently I have a pair of black Maryjane double straps that I found at the local DI (Goodwill style thrift store). Those and a pair of Ralph Lauren tennies that I picked up at Costco for ten bucks are all that I will have to shoe m'self come cooler weather. I do not consider the Kmart special, snow boots as an option for anything other than shoveling the driveway, or snowman building thank you very MUCH!
Nice boots cost money, so I want to get it right the first time... even if it is only in my dreams. I will NOT wear heels of any significant height... and ankle-high boots just kinda piss me off. I am not afraid of ugly... but I doubt that there is an "Ugg" that I would consider. Nice enough to wear with a skirt is a bonus... but not absolutely necessary. I am fashion-stupid right now... not to give the impression that I have ever been a sharp dresser, but I have enough personality to pull off some unusual styles and I am NOT USING IT! Give me your opinion... hopefully with URL's for visuals. If I can manage to convince myself and Dadguy that I MUST have the pair that you recommend, and actually BUY them? I'll send you an original, handmade "Bon Mama Paper Doll" complete with a wardrobe of the frumpy non-style clothing that I have been perpetrating on my self since motherhood hit five years ago. HEEEEEELP!
kinda leaning this direction currently.... sort of.
feminine without being girly, casual but with soft detail, a hood, good texture, great color, lightweight and 40% off. I forced myself to purchase the brown version instead of the black... change is good.I have been having dreams of boots. I used to live in boots, Doc Marten boots back when they were made in England by the original company. Black, ten eyelet DM's. White ten eyelet DM's. Brown, eight eyelet greasies and a pair of forest green oxford style were worn by yours truly over the years. I rocked the DM's old school since back in the late 80's when a Skinhead who owed me money gave me a pair in lieu of cash.
Currently I have a pair of black Maryjane double straps that I found at the local DI (Goodwill style thrift store). Those and a pair of Ralph Lauren tennies that I picked up at Costco for ten bucks are all that I will have to shoe m'self come cooler weather. I do not consider the Kmart special, snow boots as an option for anything other than shoveling the driveway, or snowman building thank you very MUCH!
Nice boots cost money, so I want to get it right the first time... even if it is only in my dreams. I will NOT wear heels of any significant height... and ankle-high boots just kinda piss me off. I am not afraid of ugly... but I doubt that there is an "Ugg" that I would consider. Nice enough to wear with a skirt is a bonus... but not absolutely necessary. I am fashion-stupid right now... not to give the impression that I have ever been a sharp dresser, but I have enough personality to pull off some unusual styles and I am NOT USING IT! Give me your opinion... hopefully with URL's for visuals. If I can manage to convince myself and Dadguy that I MUST have the pair that you recommend, and actually BUY them? I'll send you an original, handmade "Bon Mama Paper Doll" complete with a wardrobe of the frumpy non-style clothing that I have been perpetrating on my self since motherhood hit five years ago. HEEEEEELP!
kinda leaning this direction currently.... sort of.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Hustle and Flow
Dang, y'all are too kind! *blushes furiously* I am just glad to be back. Mostly.
See, I have this post all writ up in my head about "To Blog or Not to Blog...That is the Question." But it has so been done before, and by better bloggers than I. Who know how to make the topic interesting, funny, ummm.... and their points cogent, their sentences making use of actual grammar. But no matter how many times the topic has been covered, it really comes down to will you or won't you and the happy-crappy reasons why. Or why not.
Obviously I have decided to give it another whirl and I am hoping that an increased honesty in my bloggin' will fix part of what has been ailing me. Mind ya... total honesty is just not possible for me in the bon mama persona... as in my family (hiya folks) know all about this blog, and some of them actually read it regularly. Therefore, you will not be privy to my family rants. To be fair, I check my stats and as far as I can tell? The people I would be kvetching about do NOT keep up with this site.... but they DO know about it, and the day I throw a familial diatribe on the old bloggity, is the day they are SURE to think to themselves... "I wonder what ol' Bon is up to?" This is really too bad 'cause I am related to some real characters. Again if you are reading this? Chances are I am not talking about YOU... probably.
That said, I would like to proceed to assure myself a place in a cut-rate nursing home, by sharing with you that Birdie does not wipe when she tinkles. Because of this, we try to make sure she gets a bath every night with some supervised "bum scrubbie" action. She is also not particularly stellar at the wiping of... the other. Not due to lack of PAPER usage, oh NO! All the paper that she conserves in her more frequent visits, she cashes in on when it comes to #2... plus interest. Lots of interest. I think she's in training to be a toilet paper loan shark, she uses THAT much. We could decorate a Maypole. Two days ago I'm pretty sure I heard her muttering something about Breaking LaLa's kneecaps for using the cardboard center of a roll as a pretend trumpet.
It was bad enough when we used the standard TP, but last time I was at Costco they had the Charmin Ultra on sale, and I'm a chick.... I like a clean, soft sensation when I wipe my booty so I bought some. The thing is... with the Ultra Charmin, you are
supposed to use less because it is so very thickity-soft. I'm gonna patent that phrase "thickity-soft" and sell it to the Charmin folks, 'cause that's what it is "thickity-soft." It is also sudden death on our sad little cheapest-the-builders-could-install toilets. Try explaining this to a four year old. Because of her paper habits, there is often at least one clogged toilet in the house at any given moment during the day, and the plunger has seen much business of late.
Yesterday it was the toilet in the master bath. Yup Dadguy, I knew it was clogged, and periodically I would go and try to flush it to see if the paper that was stopping up the works was disintegrated enough to move... everything... on through. Ahem, which it never did. I can do this because my Mom taught all of her kids a little trick that saves you from EVER having to clean up after an overflowing or over... flowed (?) flown (?) toilet. The trick involves lifting the top off of the tank portion and pushing the little stopper down over the little hole, and that stops any more water from going into the bowl. In our house growing up, if you were the one to overflow a toilet? You got to clean it up whether you were the initial culprit of cloggitude or not. I have developed an almost OCD need to watch when I flush to make sure that all of my hustle is flowing properly, if you know what I mean.
Me... OCD about toilet action.
Dadguy... not so much.
Yeah.... from here on out we're gonna be adopting my Mom's house rules about "he or she who overflows." Bah!
See, I have this post all writ up in my head about "To Blog or Not to Blog...That is the Question." But it has so been done before, and by better bloggers than I. Who know how to make the topic interesting, funny, ummm.... and their points cogent, their sentences making use of actual grammar. But no matter how many times the topic has been covered, it really comes down to will you or won't you and the happy-crappy reasons why. Or why not.
Obviously I have decided to give it another whirl and I am hoping that an increased honesty in my bloggin' will fix part of what has been ailing me. Mind ya... total honesty is just not possible for me in the bon mama persona... as in my family (hiya folks) know all about this blog, and some of them actually read it regularly. Therefore, you will not be privy to my family rants. To be fair, I check my stats and as far as I can tell? The people I would be kvetching about do NOT keep up with this site.... but they DO know about it, and the day I throw a familial diatribe on the old bloggity, is the day they are SURE to think to themselves... "I wonder what ol' Bon is up to?" This is really too bad 'cause I am related to some real characters. Again if you are reading this? Chances are I am not talking about YOU... probably.
That said, I would like to proceed to assure myself a place in a cut-rate nursing home, by sharing with you that Birdie does not wipe when she tinkles. Because of this, we try to make sure she gets a bath every night with some supervised "bum scrubbie" action. She is also not particularly stellar at the wiping of... the other. Not due to lack of PAPER usage, oh NO! All the paper that she conserves in her more frequent visits, she cashes in on when it comes to #2... plus interest. Lots of interest. I think she's in training to be a toilet paper loan shark, she uses THAT much. We could decorate a Maypole. Two days ago I'm pretty sure I heard her muttering something about Breaking LaLa's kneecaps for using the cardboard center of a roll as a pretend trumpet.
It was bad enough when we used the standard TP, but last time I was at Costco they had the Charmin Ultra on sale, and I'm a chick.... I like a clean, soft sensation when I wipe my booty so I bought some. The thing is... with the Ultra Charmin, you are
supposed to use less because it is so very thickity-soft. I'm gonna patent that phrase "thickity-soft" and sell it to the Charmin folks, 'cause that's what it is "thickity-soft." It is also sudden death on our sad little cheapest-the-builders-could-install toilets. Try explaining this to a four year old. Because of her paper habits, there is often at least one clogged toilet in the house at any given moment during the day, and the plunger has seen much business of late.Yesterday it was the toilet in the master bath. Yup Dadguy, I knew it was clogged, and periodically I would go and try to flush it to see if the paper that was stopping up the works was disintegrated enough to move... everything... on through. Ahem, which it never did. I can do this because my Mom taught all of her kids a little trick that saves you from EVER having to clean up after an overflowing or over... flowed (?) flown (?) toilet. The trick involves lifting the top off of the tank portion and pushing the little stopper down over the little hole, and that stops any more water from going into the bowl. In our house growing up, if you were the one to overflow a toilet? You got to clean it up whether you were the initial culprit of cloggitude or not. I have developed an almost OCD need to watch when I flush to make sure that all of my hustle is flowing properly, if you know what I mean.
Me... OCD about toilet action.
Dadguy... not so much.
Yeah.... from here on out we're gonna be adopting my Mom's house rules about "he or she who overflows." Bah!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
This and That
Yesterday the Chaos and I drove Dadguy to work. This entailed dropping the Corolla off at the local "Big O" and then on to his work. Since neither Dadguy nor myself do "mornings" very well, the girls were still in their jammies and had sippies of milk clutched in their paws. I had just discovered that the Corolla has now hit the age where we have to get the emissions checked every year prior to registration as opposed to every other year. (side rant: at what point does it make sense to suck MORE funds out of the pockets of the very folks who cannot afford better cars?!) We may all have been a little crusty. Birdie was strapped in back kvetching about this, that and the other. She has hit an all new, and I must say FUN age, where everything that I request is answered with "NO!" and every suggestion I offer has the stench of pure giraffe offal.
At some point I hollered back "Birdie! You are a PILL!"
"No.... I'm not!" She hollers back in the same tone, "I am a OGRE!"
There are a number of factors that pushed me over the blogging edge last week ... not the least of which is the hour to an hour and a half long sobbing and crabbing struggle to avoid sleep, that my sweet Pearl has engaged in with me. Three. Times. A. Freaking. Day. See.. she can sit herself up in bed and crawl around now, and because she can? She must. MUST! I am winning this battle and slowly, tectonically slowly, the Pearl is realizing it. This party atmoshere is taking a stiff toll on my emotional reserves however, and those reserves are not much punkin at this point in my life. It could be said that I have no reserve. Everything I've got is on the table and those kids are eating my lunch.
By the way? Because I was oot and aboot, the blogosphere has completely missed the Dadguys Birthday last week. It has come and gone without a single Happity-Bloggity-Beakity-Doo! Here is my official sigh of relief that he is now got an age with a "3" in the front! It's hard being well into your thirties with a 20 something spouse, and as we all know IT'S ALL ABOUT ME! At least on my own crappin' blog.
My parents were in town last week... Pop had some workstuff to take care of and Mamacita came along for the ride. She came and helped me with my... erm, laundry quandary. I can manage to wash it, but fold it and put it away? mmm.
Because of my Mom's hard work, and little-girl-dress-hanging skills, I have been reminded this week why it is that I usually do NOT hang their dresses up. The dresses stay in a pile on top of the sock basket. When in a hung state in the closet, the dresses? They are Chaos available. Every dress in the house has been tried on and discarded in the past day and a half... yay. I am back to square one.
I have been thinking about my hiding. I never show full, or clear pictures of myself on this blog. I tell myself it is for safety reasons... heh. It's because of shame. I am ashamed of how I look. There has been a shifting in my world and self-view lately. Much of it is due to the Shape of a Mother website and the love of a good man. I thought that I'd post a picture of myself here... and realized that there are virtually NO recent shots of me. This is not OK, no matter what kind of self image struggles I may be having. What if something were to happen to me tomorrow? What would the girls have to remember me by?
I am who I am, and I look how I look right now. Most of my life my 5' 9" have worn size 16 and size 18... right now I wear... sizes bigger than that, and with three young kids and very little free time, I will continue to wear those sizes. There will be no pictures of my tummy... BUT of the self portraits that I snapped the other day... this is the picture my girls agree looks like their mama. As more pictures are taken, I will share them. I am bon the Mama.... I am a bon mama.
At some point I hollered back "Birdie! You are a PILL!"
"No.... I'm not!" She hollers back in the same tone, "I am a OGRE!"
There are a number of factors that pushed me over the blogging edge last week ... not the least of which is the hour to an hour and a half long sobbing and crabbing struggle to avoid sleep, that my sweet Pearl has engaged in with me. Three. Times. A. Freaking. Day. See.. she can sit herself up in bed and crawl around now, and because she can? She must. MUST! I am winning this battle and slowly, tectonically slowly, the Pearl is realizing it. This party atmoshere is taking a stiff toll on my emotional reserves however, and those reserves are not much punkin at this point in my life. It could be said that I have no reserve. Everything I've got is on the table and those kids are eating my lunch.
By the way? Because I was oot and aboot, the blogosphere has completely missed the Dadguys Birthday last week. It has come and gone without a single Happity-Bloggity-Beakity-Doo! Here is my official sigh of relief that he is now got an age with a "3" in the front! It's hard being well into your thirties with a 20 something spouse, and as we all know IT'S ALL ABOUT ME! At least on my own crappin' blog.
My parents were in town last week... Pop had some workstuff to take care of and Mamacita came along for the ride. She came and helped me with my... erm, laundry quandary. I can manage to wash it, but fold it and put it away? mmm.
Because of my Mom's hard work, and little-girl-dress-hanging skills, I have been reminded this week why it is that I usually do NOT hang their dresses up. The dresses stay in a pile on top of the sock basket. When in a hung state in the closet, the dresses? They are Chaos available. Every dress in the house has been tried on and discarded in the past day and a half... yay. I am back to square one.
I have been thinking about my hiding. I never show full, or clear pictures of myself on this blog. I tell myself it is for safety reasons... heh. It's because of shame. I am ashamed of how I look. There has been a shifting in my world and self-view lately. Much of it is due to the Shape of a Mother website and the love of a good man. I thought that I'd post a picture of myself here... and realized that there are virtually NO recent shots of me. This is not OK, no matter what kind of self image struggles I may be having. What if something were to happen to me tomorrow? What would the girls have to remember me by?
I am who I am, and I look how I look right now. Most of my life my 5' 9" have worn size 16 and size 18... right now I wear... sizes bigger than that, and with three young kids and very little free time, I will continue to wear those sizes. There will be no pictures of my tummy... BUT of the self portraits that I snapped the other day... this is the picture my girls agree looks like their mama. As more pictures are taken, I will share them. I am bon the Mama.... I am a bon mama.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Dear Internets,
I just read a great post that has put words on why I haven't written much lately, my wee blogger's block. Nope... nothing to do with a fancypants boarding school. It is simply that there is something that I am not posting about, that I don't want to share with you, my darling internets.
That something is...
...I am tired. I am overwhelmed. My house is filthy and I just realized that the van registration is overdue by seven days. Since I am not convinced that writing about my overwhelmedness will help more than actually putting my back into digging out, I am gonna take a blogging hiatus. Not sure if this will include keeping up with y'alls blogs or not, but I hope to be back in a week.
toodles
-bon
That something is...
...I am tired. I am overwhelmed. My house is filthy and I just realized that the van registration is overdue by seven days. Since I am not convinced that writing about my overwhelmedness will help more than actually putting my back into digging out, I am gonna take a blogging hiatus. Not sure if this will include keeping up with y'alls blogs or not, but I hope to be back in a week.
toodles
-bon
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
A New TV
We got a new TV a few weeks back. It's a pretty nice TV, and we like to watch movies on it.
We get lousy reception here in our little burg in Happy Valley, so we get the most basic package the city cable offers. As in, it costs eight bucks a month and has about 20 channels, including the channel that tells you what's on... and I have only ever watched what comes on the first twelve channels. The other, unappreciated channels are several of the forty thrillion ESPN's, the local access and some Spanish channels.
The channel that tells you what's on, is number 22... and it does not distinguish if you are a loser with the loser-basic or the bigger packages that include the Disney Channel and TNT... so it makes you wait while it cycles through and shows you what is on every single frippin' channel under the sun. Dadguy has a talent, and you ought to know that it is documented that every time he turns the channel to number 22 to verify that yes indeed, there is nothing on... the cycle has just passed the channels that we actually have. Every. Single. Time.
The choice then is threefold.
1. Wait and look at all the stuff that you wouldn't watch, on channels that you don't have until the cycle is complete and starts over again. At which time you can verify that there is nothing on TV and turn it off.
2. Channel surf, verifying first hand that there is nothing on and try to time it back to channel 22 to get the absolute confirmation that, YES there really is nothing on. Miss the cycle and try again and again, get frustrated and turn off the TV.
3. Turn off the TV, for the love of Mike there is NOTHING ON!
Needless to say.... Tivo? Huh?
Two nights ago Dadguy and I had gotten the Chaos in bed and were prepping Pearl for her nigh-night routine. I had just gotten her a clean doobah on her bum and Dadguy turned the TV on with the working remote.... w00t! He turned it to 22 and we both watched agog, as it was a mere five seconds from beginning the cycle. Wow! I reached over and slapped his leg in congratulation. It was two seconds later that Dadguy said "hey, bon look!" I looked and there was Pearl moving her legs in a crawly-type fashion and her little self was motating forward. I watched breathlessly at first and then started cheering and clapping, whereupon she rolled back on one pudgy thigh and grinned. We were all pretty giddy. Needless to say we missed the cycle but that was OK, I'm pretty sure there was nothing on.
We get lousy reception here in our little burg in Happy Valley, so we get the most basic package the city cable offers. As in, it costs eight bucks a month and has about 20 channels, including the channel that tells you what's on... and I have only ever watched what comes on the first twelve channels. The other, unappreciated channels are several of the forty thrillion ESPN's, the local access and some Spanish channels.
The channel that tells you what's on, is number 22... and it does not distinguish if you are a loser with the loser-basic or the bigger packages that include the Disney Channel and TNT... so it makes you wait while it cycles through and shows you what is on every single frippin' channel under the sun. Dadguy has a talent, and you ought to know that it is documented that every time he turns the channel to number 22 to verify that yes indeed, there is nothing on... the cycle has just passed the channels that we actually have. Every. Single. Time.
The choice then is threefold.
1. Wait and look at all the stuff that you wouldn't watch, on channels that you don't have until the cycle is complete and starts over again. At which time you can verify that there is nothing on TV and turn it off.
2. Channel surf, verifying first hand that there is nothing on and try to time it back to channel 22 to get the absolute confirmation that, YES there really is nothing on. Miss the cycle and try again and again, get frustrated and turn off the TV.
3. Turn off the TV, for the love of Mike there is NOTHING ON!
Needless to say.... Tivo? Huh?
Two nights ago Dadguy and I had gotten the Chaos in bed and were prepping Pearl for her nigh-night routine. I had just gotten her a clean doobah on her bum and Dadguy turned the TV on with the working remote.... w00t! He turned it to 22 and we both watched agog, as it was a mere five seconds from beginning the cycle. Wow! I reached over and slapped his leg in congratulation. It was two seconds later that Dadguy said "hey, bon look!" I looked and there was Pearl moving her legs in a crawly-type fashion and her little self was motating forward. I watched breathlessly at first and then started cheering and clapping, whereupon she rolled back on one pudgy thigh and grinned. We were all pretty giddy. Needless to say we missed the cycle but that was OK, I'm pretty sure there was nothing on.
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