Tonight for dinner, the Toad said he'd be here. So, when dinner was ready, we called up to Ass Caverns for him.
We used snooty accents, rolling our r's and elongating our vowels. He was amused.
He entered the kitchen, looked at me, and said, "Could you BE more obnoxious? Really?"
I laughed. Still using the snooty accent, I tell him, "Why, yes, I could be."
Again, he said, "Really? COULD you?"
Still laughing, I tell him, "Why yes, actually I could." Then I asked him if he wanted to throw down that gauntlet with me.
The Howler adds her two cents worth with, "Trust me, dude, you don't want to throw down anything with this woman."
Showing posts with label spawnlings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spawnlings. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Monday, April 26, 2010
Calling In Dead
The Toad's little friend, Jerkwood, has left the building. Apparently, Jerkwood (the nasty little troll) managed to piss off every friend he had. They all decided to have nothing to do with him, and stuck to it. Good for them! The Toad finally admitted that we were right all along (ahhhh, I guess we're hitting the part where we got A LOT smarter over the past few years.)
The Toad and his friends have been celebrating--not in an excessive, obnoxious way, but it's celebrating just the same. A collect sigh of relief, if you will.
The Toad also, several months ago, agreed to join a vocal group his former voice teacher was part of. Every night they meet for practice, she unfailingly calls to find out if he's going to be there (he's managed to attend about 50/50.)
Tonight, he announced, in front of the magpie like Howler, "if she calls, tell her I'm dead." When pressed for answers, he said, "I made plans with my friends and then I remembered...so I'm not going. If she calls, tell her I'm dead."
As grown ups, we did not agree to say this. The Howler, as the Howler, said nothing for a change.
Shortly after supper, the phone rang, and neither My Sweetie nor I answered it immediately. Upon climbing the basement steps (smoke break, if you must know) we hear the Howler on the phone.
"He said that if you called, we're supposed to tell you he's dead."
"Well, that's what he said, anyway."
"He's doing stuff, with people, at places." (another Toadism)
My Sweetie and I are now almost in pain from not laughing out loud. No, it's not very mature of us, and it certainly encourages the Howler at her most annoying...and most funny.
"No, I don't think he's coming to practice."
"Okay. Bye then."
My Sweetie tells me that I should call her back and explain. I maintain that, at 21 years old, I am not responsible for his idiocy any longer, I did not sign him up for that gig, he knew she would call, and he knew where he should be tonight.
I did not call her back, but I did call the Toad. He, of course, didn't answer. But when he did call back, I informed him of the most amusing turn of events, and encouraged him to be more responsible, mature, and careful about what he said within earshot of his magpie Howler sister.
Mostly, I just laughed.
The Toad and his friends have been celebrating--not in an excessive, obnoxious way, but it's celebrating just the same. A collect sigh of relief, if you will.
The Toad also, several months ago, agreed to join a vocal group his former voice teacher was part of. Every night they meet for practice, she unfailingly calls to find out if he's going to be there (he's managed to attend about 50/50.)
Tonight, he announced, in front of the magpie like Howler, "if she calls, tell her I'm dead." When pressed for answers, he said, "I made plans with my friends and then I remembered...so I'm not going. If she calls, tell her I'm dead."
As grown ups, we did not agree to say this. The Howler, as the Howler, said nothing for a change.
Shortly after supper, the phone rang, and neither My Sweetie nor I answered it immediately. Upon climbing the basement steps (smoke break, if you must know) we hear the Howler on the phone.
"He said that if you called, we're supposed to tell you he's dead."
"Well, that's what he said, anyway."
"He's doing stuff, with people, at places." (another Toadism)
My Sweetie and I are now almost in pain from not laughing out loud. No, it's not very mature of us, and it certainly encourages the Howler at her most annoying...and most funny.
"No, I don't think he's coming to practice."
"Okay. Bye then."
My Sweetie tells me that I should call her back and explain. I maintain that, at 21 years old, I am not responsible for his idiocy any longer, I did not sign him up for that gig, he knew she would call, and he knew where he should be tonight.
I did not call her back, but I did call the Toad. He, of course, didn't answer. But when he did call back, I informed him of the most amusing turn of events, and encouraged him to be more responsible, mature, and careful about what he said within earshot of his magpie Howler sister.
Mostly, I just laughed.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Mumple Mitten
I worked today. 5:45am comes awful early, and even when the day goes quickly, it's still very tiring to deal with Black Friday shoppers, regardless of which side of the retail hell you're on.
But when I got home from work today (still mostly functional) I was still dressed as the Great Pumpkin--L&G opened at 7:30am. That's how deranged Black Friday is.
Anyway, the Toad was flopped on the couch. The Howler was all Christmas Conipption. My Sweetie had begun the Christmasifying of the Mumple Mansion.
Add in Missy, who said, "Can I come to your house and play?"
Then came Blondie, who rang the doorbell and said, "Can I come in and play?"
Urchin came in, and whispered, "Can I come in and play, too?"
Of course, we already have three cats--one black grumpy cat; one sleepy kitten; and one hell-bent-for-leather kitten leaping about the room. And the Great Pumpkin. And the Christmasfying Sweetie.
The doorbell rang, and My Sweetie and I had visions of someone tickling Toad's nose. He'd sneeze and all the little woodland creatures, er, ah, little girls and kittens would be flung out onto the neighborhood lawns, instead of being snuggly warm inside the Mumple Mitten.
But when I got home from work today (still mostly functional) I was still dressed as the Great Pumpkin--L&G opened at 7:30am. That's how deranged Black Friday is.
Anyway, the Toad was flopped on the couch. The Howler was all Christmas Conipption. My Sweetie had begun the Christmasifying of the Mumple Mansion.
Add in Missy, who said, "Can I come to your house and play?"
Then came Blondie, who rang the doorbell and said, "Can I come in and play?"
Urchin came in, and whispered, "Can I come in and play, too?"
Of course, we already have three cats--one black grumpy cat; one sleepy kitten; and one hell-bent-for-leather kitten leaping about the room. And the Great Pumpkin. And the Christmasfying Sweetie.
The doorbell rang, and My Sweetie and I had visions of someone tickling Toad's nose. He'd sneeze and all the little woodland creatures, er, ah, little girls and kittens would be flung out onto the neighborhood lawns, instead of being snuggly warm inside the Mumple Mitten.
Friday, January 30, 2009
What's Up With That?
Today was Steeler Day at the Howler's school. (Yes, we're in Steeler Country, but we're not Pittsburghers.)
Last Friday was also Steeler Day, so Thursday night after the dreaded (and talked-to-death) PTA meeting, we ran to WalMart to buy a Steeler something-to-wear.
She told me it was Steeler Day every day this week, including yesterday. Do you think that, when deciding what to wear last night, she reminded me then? No. It's like she's trying to set me up so she can tell me off.
I remember this AM, after I got to work. Thankfully, it was early enough that I could call home and tell My Sweetie where the thing was so she could wear it today.
He didn't answer right away, so I left 1/2 a message before he picked up. I did tell him, and she did get to participate in Steeler Day. No telling-off for me today (at least, not for that reason.)
Now for the "What's Up With That?" part:
A little while later, a get a phone call at work. It's the Toad, calling to be sure My Sweetie got the message. Toad got the message, and called me to be sure whatever-it-was got taken care of.
I was rather dumbfounded at first and had to actually think about what he was asking me.
So, What Is Up With That?
Last Friday was also Steeler Day, so Thursday night after the dreaded (and talked-to-death) PTA meeting, we ran to WalMart to buy a Steeler something-to-wear.
She told me it was Steeler Day every day this week, including yesterday. Do you think that, when deciding what to wear last night, she reminded me then? No. It's like she's trying to set me up so she can tell me off.
I remember this AM, after I got to work. Thankfully, it was early enough that I could call home and tell My Sweetie where the thing was so she could wear it today.
He didn't answer right away, so I left 1/2 a message before he picked up. I did tell him, and she did get to participate in Steeler Day. No telling-off for me today (at least, not for that reason.)
Now for the "What's Up With That?" part:
A little while later, a get a phone call at work. It's the Toad, calling to be sure My Sweetie got the message. Toad got the message, and called me to be sure whatever-it-was got taken care of.
I was rather dumbfounded at first and had to actually think about what he was asking me.
So, What Is Up With That?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Happy New Year!
From the Toad:
From the Howler: 
From Little Girls with Sparklers at Midnight:
From the Stupid Cat (the One Who Got Caught):
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
On Being Mom
I have the two spawnlings, of course.
I am also going to 41 years old in less than 5 months.
I am now, officially, old enough to be mom to 1/2 the people I work with. This year's crop of newbies is either old enough to be my mom, or young enough to be my spawn.
I'm writing about that here, because of what I find happening to me.
Up until about 18 months ago, I was just "Older than them," and now, I find myself wanting to offer advice about life, protect them from some of the mistakes young adults make, and/or bring some of them home with me.
I feel old. And I fear, I'm turning into my mother.
It doesn't help that the Howler finished Kindergarten, and is now "officially" a first grader. And I've found that unlike when the Toad was this age (when I was either one-of-the-younger Moms, or fully a contemporary of the other Moms) I'm now one of the Older Moms.
The entire experience changed. From how long the school day was to what they actually taught, to how it was taught...to what was expected, behavior-wise. It was enough to make me want to join AARP ASAP. (Although one mom became a 1st time grandmother this past year--and she's only a year older than I am!--I still feel really old.) This means that technically, I am old enough to be a grandmother. Yee.
Think about it. When the Howler turns 16, and is legally allowed to learn to drive, I will be going-on-51. I can, as of now, measure memories in DECADES (that's entire 10-year chunks of time, in case the concept isn't depressing enough for ya.)
The Howler's contemporaries have parents who, for the most part, are still deciding whether or not to have more children, and who, for all intents and purposes, are not seriously aware how little time they have until retirement.
The Howler, of course, doesn't see it that way. We're just her mommy and daddy, and the details of it all don't matter to her. So, on the days that I spend time with her and opk like her, I don't feel so old. But when I go to work and see that most of the young people I work with are just that--YOUNG--and they don't have the cultural references I do (it was 80's day on L-land radio), so a good portion of what I laugh at is un-intelligible to them.
*sigh*
I am also going to 41 years old in less than 5 months.
I am now, officially, old enough to be mom to 1/2 the people I work with. This year's crop of newbies is either old enough to be my mom, or young enough to be my spawn.
I'm writing about that here, because of what I find happening to me.
Up until about 18 months ago, I was just "Older than them," and now, I find myself wanting to offer advice about life, protect them from some of the mistakes young adults make, and/or bring some of them home with me.
I feel old. And I fear, I'm turning into my mother.
It doesn't help that the Howler finished Kindergarten, and is now "officially" a first grader. And I've found that unlike when the Toad was this age (when I was either one-of-the-younger Moms, or fully a contemporary of the other Moms) I'm now one of the Older Moms.
The entire experience changed. From how long the school day was to what they actually taught, to how it was taught...to what was expected, behavior-wise. It was enough to make me want to join AARP ASAP. (Although one mom became a 1st time grandmother this past year--and she's only a year older than I am!--I still feel really old.) This means that technically, I am old enough to be a grandmother. Yee.
Think about it. When the Howler turns 16, and is legally allowed to learn to drive, I will be going-on-51. I can, as of now, measure memories in DECADES (that's entire 10-year chunks of time, in case the concept isn't depressing enough for ya.)
The Howler's contemporaries have parents who, for the most part, are still deciding whether or not to have more children, and who, for all intents and purposes, are not seriously aware how little time they have until retirement.
The Howler, of course, doesn't see it that way. We're just her mommy and daddy, and the details of it all don't matter to her. So, on the days that I spend time with her and opk like her, I don't feel so old. But when I go to work and see that most of the young people I work with are just that--YOUNG--and they don't have the cultural references I do (it was 80's day on L-land radio), so a good portion of what I laugh at is un-intelligible to them.
*sigh*
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Absolute Joys of Spawn
Oh, that they each would have been twins. Then I'd have a case for justifiably beating them both.
First, the Toad is a miserable lump. So, he's determined to make the rest of us unhappy. He torments the Howler. He snaps out at My Sweetie and me. He sits and sucks air, doing little else besides eating.
And he leaves his dishes lying around for others to pick up after him. He tells us he'll be dining with us, then, when dinner is ready, he refuses to eat, saying, "I'm not really that hungry." WTF did he say he'd be eating supper with us, if he had no intention of doing it?
And why is the dishwasher full of clean dishes, and the sink full of his dirty dishes when he's the only one whose been home all day?
I also absolutely adore his biting my head off when I give him his phone messages--phones messages that he's already received ONCE today because he, yes, he himself, answered the phone the first time these people called him. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! If you told them you'd call them back and you don't even have to look up their phone numbers because they're on Caller ID, why didn't you call them back? Especially when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this person will be calling back within 3 hours to talk to you about it because being the big waffle that you are, you didn't give 'em a definite answer the first time.
Then, wonder of wonders, he gets confused and MORE sullen when I get mad at him, but it certainly does NOT inspire him to adjust himself, his attitude, or his actions (or really, the lack of action).
Second, the Howler cusses me out (not literally cussing, though) every day--regardless of what I do, it's wrong. Take any action or word, and today, it must the exact opposite. If I say "yes" to something, I get told off because she didn't really want to. If I say "no" then I'm mean and she hates me.
Now, I don't mind the being mean (or the hating me parts) because, I'm pretty sure I am mean and that, on occasion, she's not the first in line for the "I hate my mother" parade.
What bothers me is the sheer relentlessness with which she informs me of this. For example: Not helping her out of the vehicle (a vehicle with an automatic door that I'm not allowed to touch because our Little Red Hen can do it herself) but the fact that there is no consistancy in which we apply the *rules by which you peacably live with a Howler* to my life, and the 30 full minutes of whine, yap, and complaint.
She'll even take short rest breaks in the constant telling me off--only to revisit the incident if she sees me trying to do anything except stick sharp sticks in my ears to deaden my hearing.
I should apologize. There is one blaring consistancy in the Howler: It's always opposite day. Whatever we're having for supper is something she hates, unless her father is cooking it. Whatever she's wearing is not "beautiful beautiful" enough. I'm too loud.
She does miss me terribly, but I think this is more because other children will not take her full-on whinge attacks, and she certainly cannot subject others to this "Teaching a pig to whistle" life philosophy--which, btw, SHE is the pig (she's pissed off) and I'm the one trying to teach her (I'm frustrated beyond words.)
I love them both, but I desperately want to take the big one and use him to beat the little one.
On a happier note:
Last night, My Sweetie, the Howler and I were outside on the patio (I should mention here that she is obsessed with the outside spigot--if she's home and you're not immediately threatening her, she turns on the water. Everything out there is constantly in a state of wet UGH.) I was reading (and ignoring the Howler's incessant whinging bitching at me and My Sweetie was trying to fit a new gasket in the sprayer for the hose. The Howler, sweet as sugar, asks, "Daddy, whatcha doin' with the sprayer?" and he says, "Trying to put a gasket in this [sprayer] so that it stops leaking."
Her response? "Okay. You have fun with that." (Oh, how much is she like me sometimes!)
First, the Toad is a miserable lump. So, he's determined to make the rest of us unhappy. He torments the Howler. He snaps out at My Sweetie and me. He sits and sucks air, doing little else besides eating.
And he leaves his dishes lying around for others to pick up after him. He tells us he'll be dining with us, then, when dinner is ready, he refuses to eat, saying, "I'm not really that hungry." WTF did he say he'd be eating supper with us, if he had no intention of doing it?
And why is the dishwasher full of clean dishes, and the sink full of his dirty dishes when he's the only one whose been home all day?
I also absolutely adore his biting my head off when I give him his phone messages--phones messages that he's already received ONCE today because he, yes, he himself, answered the phone the first time these people called him. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! If you told them you'd call them back and you don't even have to look up their phone numbers because they're on Caller ID, why didn't you call them back? Especially when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this person will be calling back within 3 hours to talk to you about it because being the big waffle that you are, you didn't give 'em a definite answer the first time.
Then, wonder of wonders, he gets confused and MORE sullen when I get mad at him, but it certainly does NOT inspire him to adjust himself, his attitude, or his actions (or really, the lack of action).
Second, the Howler cusses me out (not literally cussing, though) every day--regardless of what I do, it's wrong. Take any action or word, and today, it must the exact opposite. If I say "yes" to something, I get told off because she didn't really want to. If I say "no" then I'm mean and she hates me.
Now, I don't mind the being mean (or the hating me parts) because, I'm pretty sure I am mean and that, on occasion, she's not the first in line for the "I hate my mother" parade.
What bothers me is the sheer relentlessness with which she informs me of this. For example: Not helping her out of the vehicle (a vehicle with an automatic door that I'm not allowed to touch because our Little Red Hen can do it herself) but the fact that there is no consistancy in which we apply the *rules by which you peacably live with a Howler* to my life, and the 30 full minutes of whine, yap, and complaint.
She'll even take short rest breaks in the constant telling me off--only to revisit the incident if she sees me trying to do anything except stick sharp sticks in my ears to deaden my hearing.
I should apologize. There is one blaring consistancy in the Howler: It's always opposite day. Whatever we're having for supper is something she hates, unless her father is cooking it. Whatever she's wearing is not "beautiful beautiful" enough. I'm too loud.
She does miss me terribly, but I think this is more because other children will not take her full-on whinge attacks, and she certainly cannot subject others to this "Teaching a pig to whistle" life philosophy--which, btw, SHE is the pig (she's pissed off) and I'm the one trying to teach her (I'm frustrated beyond words.)
I love them both, but I desperately want to take the big one and use him to beat the little one.
On a happier note:
Last night, My Sweetie, the Howler and I were outside on the patio (I should mention here that she is obsessed with the outside spigot--if she's home and you're not immediately threatening her, she turns on the water. Everything out there is constantly in a state of wet UGH.) I was reading (and ignoring the Howler's incessant whinging bitching at me and My Sweetie was trying to fit a new gasket in the sprayer for the hose. The Howler, sweet as sugar, asks, "Daddy, whatcha doin' with the sprayer?" and he says, "Trying to put a gasket in this [sprayer] so that it stops leaking."
Her response? "Okay. You have fun with that." (Oh, how much is she like me sometimes!)
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Life of Ings
These are the Spawnling's Life of Ings.
The Toad is working. And hating it. Except for the paying. He's complaining about the scheduling. And the working. And the dealing with people. And the lack of sleeping.
The Howler, on the other hand, is whinging. And playing. And will be roller skating. She is also singing. And swinging. And running.
And now that we have that out of the way, I can go back to regular language, and not worry about meeting some arbitrary standard (which, as we all know, is my standard. LOL)
The Toad is working. He hated working all nights, so now, they schedule him days during the week, and nights on the weekends. Pretty funny, in a cruel and ironic sort of way. He was better off with Vince, working the all nights.
He's still a jerk (Toad AND Vince). He spends his time alternating between hiding from me, but annoying Kevin, and picking fights with the Howler. (and maybe I'm not done with the theme.)
The Howler, darling thing, has an ever growing penchant for irritating me--if not by sheer volume, then by repetitive mouthiness. If I hear one more time that ANYONE's parents are nicer than I am, I just may have to fix it so that she discovers how much nicer EVERYONE on the planet is than I am.
She's very demanding. And unrelenting. She started again this month about never wanting to have a baby. God, that's worse than the hot flashes and night sweats I suffer. I'd rather pull my own teeth than have THAT conversation again. It's (and I'm not comparing her to a pig, really) like teaching a pig to whistle: it frustrates you and pisses off the pig. Hey. I think I'm the pig in this scenario, actually.
She also must be working for the government (or the National Enquirer) too. She must know who is on the phone, and if there's any chance at all she knows the person, she wants the opportunity to talk to them. Not that she'd talk to them if they were in front of her, but I think it's just the idea that one of us is unavailable to sit and stare at her magnificence.
Last night, she went, dripping and buck naked from her bath over to her father, who happened to be on the phone with his mother. The Howler demanded she speak to Grandma, and when she was told "no", she stomped (and I do, indeed, mean stomped) to her room, and began banging drawers open and shut.
When I told her that she could talk to Grandma "tomorrow night, after the birthday party" she said, "Yeah, right"--sounding for all the world like her father. So I said, "Wednesday night, then, while I'm at the PTA meeting" to which she responded with, "Oh, yeah. Like I don't already have plans for Wednesday night."
It took everything I had to not bust out laughing. I know that plans SHE has, and they involve making the Clairol company a LOT more money--it's like she's a major stock holder. Sheesh.
So, the Spawnlings are both very unhappy--and for the same reason.
Neither is getting his or her own way. And I am, yet again, losing brain cells and natural hair pigment in the process.
The Toad is working. And hating it. Except for the paying. He's complaining about the scheduling. And the working. And the dealing with people. And the lack of sleeping.
The Howler, on the other hand, is whinging. And playing. And will be roller skating. She is also singing. And swinging. And running.
And now that we have that out of the way, I can go back to regular language, and not worry about meeting some arbitrary standard (which, as we all know, is my standard. LOL)
The Toad is working. He hated working all nights, so now, they schedule him days during the week, and nights on the weekends. Pretty funny, in a cruel and ironic sort of way. He was better off with Vince, working the all nights.
He's still a jerk (Toad AND Vince). He spends his time alternating between hiding from me, but annoying Kevin, and picking fights with the Howler. (and maybe I'm not done with the theme.)
The Howler, darling thing, has an ever growing penchant for irritating me--if not by sheer volume, then by repetitive mouthiness. If I hear one more time that ANYONE's parents are nicer than I am, I just may have to fix it so that she discovers how much nicer EVERYONE on the planet is than I am.
She's very demanding. And unrelenting. She started again this month about never wanting to have a baby. God, that's worse than the hot flashes and night sweats I suffer. I'd rather pull my own teeth than have THAT conversation again. It's (and I'm not comparing her to a pig, really) like teaching a pig to whistle: it frustrates you and pisses off the pig. Hey. I think I'm the pig in this scenario, actually.
She also must be working for the government (or the National Enquirer) too. She must know who is on the phone, and if there's any chance at all she knows the person, she wants the opportunity to talk to them. Not that she'd talk to them if they were in front of her, but I think it's just the idea that one of us is unavailable to sit and stare at her magnificence.
Last night, she went, dripping and buck naked from her bath over to her father, who happened to be on the phone with his mother. The Howler demanded she speak to Grandma, and when she was told "no", she stomped (and I do, indeed, mean stomped) to her room, and began banging drawers open and shut.
When I told her that she could talk to Grandma "tomorrow night, after the birthday party" she said, "Yeah, right"--sounding for all the world like her father. So I said, "Wednesday night, then, while I'm at the PTA meeting" to which she responded with, "Oh, yeah. Like I don't already have plans for Wednesday night."
It took everything I had to not bust out laughing. I know that plans SHE has, and they involve making the Clairol company a LOT more money--it's like she's a major stock holder. Sheesh.
So, the Spawnlings are both very unhappy--and for the same reason.
Neither is getting his or her own way. And I am, yet again, losing brain cells and natural hair pigment in the process.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Who Are We Kidding?
aka "Me Time" for Mamablogga's January Group Writing Project.
I've spent some serious time thinking on this topic, and quite honestly, I find it to be an oxymoron if you're a parent. Most parents "me time" is either scattered and unreliable, or is spent with at least some part of them feeling guilty about not being with the kids.
In my case, even with the Spawnlings, I find myself wishing I had more time with them, even when I'm at work--work which is technically "me time" because being a SAHM makes me weird, more than a little nutty, and mean.
Anyway, "Me Time" for the Mumples is mostly about snatching what minutes you can, when you can, and using them to breathe deeply and not let your head explode ala Scanners.
What I've thought about mostly is that, even computer time (even under the guise of church stuff) is fraught with distractions, questions, and the hungry-for-my-turn-on-the-computer stares of the depraved, er ah deprived, Spawnlings. And, even getting up from the chair to answer the call for "More juicy pleeeeeeze" will result in a move-yer-feet-lost-yer-seat scuffle. I honestly think the Spawnlings are in cahoots: the Howler will shout out for something, and the Toad will make his move. Payments are made later, under the table, and out of parental eye- and earshot.
I think of all the ways I've tried, since the Toad was small, to cram a few "Me Time" minutes into my week (Note: I did not say, "day." Day. HAH!)
Hide in the bathroom?
Not gonna happen. Even if you have a lock and it works, the Spawnlings will pound upon the door; break something that crashes effectively; scream or cry; or, worst case scenario, all of the above and THEN the phone will ring, and it will be my mother, with her "So, whacha doin'?" *sigh*
Read a book? Do a crossword puzzle?
You know that if they see you doing that, they will not, as the experts say, imitate you. They will do everything they can to distract you at all times. Failing that, they will become unnervingly quiet and force you to realize that something is about to upset the natural order. They're cunning, those little sanity-stealers! There's been many-a good book that was ruined in it's reading because I wasn't allowed to read more than one sentence an hour (or, the same sentence once an hour, depending.)
Watch TV.
The Toad was pretty good about allowing me to watch and hear TV programs. The Howler set a policy as an infant that I was not to be able to do both. My Sweetie is in cahoots with her on that one--unless it's a program that interests him. I have not, in recent years, been allowed to both see and hear anything on TV outside of lame-o commercials. I haven't seen both the beginning and the ending of a movie or a TV show since I don't remember when. I gave up. I haven't missed much.
Hide. Simply Hide.
I've already made the case against this, but, in off-hand chance when one of the parental units is exhibiting more than the standard amount of patience (also known as the "you're cute when you're optimistic like this" phase) or, God help us all, your other half has "a plan." Be afraid. But don't let them smell the fear--they can smell fear. If there is another physical adult (I make no judgements on my Sweetie's maturity, sanity, or emotional levels at this point!) in the house, and you do get the chance to sneak away and hide, remember that Hide-n-Seek is the 5 year old's FAVORITE game. Especially if she thinks that you're doing something fun--and fun is anything and everything that doesn't involve her.
Sleep.
Ahhhh. "To sleep, perchance to dream." It isn't gonna happen. If the Spawnlings don't find me, my Sweetie will. He'll either be angry that I abandoned him in the middle of some plot of the Howler's (or some stench from the Toad) or he'll be jealous, because I beat him to it, and therefore, ruined what would have otherwise been a delicious napping coup. If that isn't the case (the Spawnlings are all asleep in their beds, with visions of schemes against me in their heads), then there's a good chance my Sweetie will be bugging me with rubs and pats and ideas about things we could do while there's a chance. I love him desperately, but sometimes, I just need to sleep--and he needs to keep all his body parts on his side of the bed.
In all seriousness, my "Me Time" is a mixture of things--reading, hiding, crossword puzzles, and yes, sometimes, working elsewhere. Now that the Toad is 19, and pretty much has his own schedule and things to do, and the Howler is in school 5 days a week for 6 hours a day, my "Me Time" is a glory to behold--me, in my jammies until after 1pm, reading, on the computer, or doing crossword puzzles, watching TV for hours. Blissful hours of quiet and solitude. Sometimes, I nap. Sometimes, I do housework. Most of the time, I miss my little ones--that precious, fleeting, and almost all gone time when hanging out with Mommy was the Bomb.
Of course, I exaggerated the reactions of my family to my attempts to remain a functional, rational adult. Most of the things I have given up, whether it's TV watching or hours of uninterrupted reading, I don't miss, and even when given the opportunity to return to them, I find it difficult to sit still.
And I miss 'em terribly when I'm not with them, "Me Time" is still "Us Time," somehow. I can't say that I mind that much.
I've spent some serious time thinking on this topic, and quite honestly, I find it to be an oxymoron if you're a parent. Most parents "me time" is either scattered and unreliable, or is spent with at least some part of them feeling guilty about not being with the kids.
In my case, even with the Spawnlings, I find myself wishing I had more time with them, even when I'm at work--work which is technically "me time" because being a SAHM makes me weird, more than a little nutty, and mean.
Anyway, "Me Time" for the Mumples is mostly about snatching what minutes you can, when you can, and using them to breathe deeply and not let your head explode ala Scanners.
What I've thought about mostly is that, even computer time (even under the guise of church stuff) is fraught with distractions, questions, and the hungry-for-my-turn-on-the-computer stares of the depraved, er ah deprived, Spawnlings. And, even getting up from the chair to answer the call for "More juicy pleeeeeeze" will result in a move-yer-feet-lost-yer-seat scuffle. I honestly think the Spawnlings are in cahoots: the Howler will shout out for something, and the Toad will make his move. Payments are made later, under the table, and out of parental eye- and earshot.
I think of all the ways I've tried, since the Toad was small, to cram a few "Me Time" minutes into my week (Note: I did not say, "day." Day. HAH!)
Hide in the bathroom?
Not gonna happen. Even if you have a lock and it works, the Spawnlings will pound upon the door; break something that crashes effectively; scream or cry; or, worst case scenario, all of the above and THEN the phone will ring, and it will be my mother, with her "So, whacha doin'?" *sigh*
Read a book? Do a crossword puzzle?
You know that if they see you doing that, they will not, as the experts say, imitate you. They will do everything they can to distract you at all times. Failing that, they will become unnervingly quiet and force you to realize that something is about to upset the natural order. They're cunning, those little sanity-stealers! There's been many-a good book that was ruined in it's reading because I wasn't allowed to read more than one sentence an hour (or, the same sentence once an hour, depending.)
Watch TV.
The Toad was pretty good about allowing me to watch and hear TV programs. The Howler set a policy as an infant that I was not to be able to do both. My Sweetie is in cahoots with her on that one--unless it's a program that interests him. I have not, in recent years, been allowed to both see and hear anything on TV outside of lame-o commercials. I haven't seen both the beginning and the ending of a movie or a TV show since I don't remember when. I gave up. I haven't missed much.
Hide. Simply Hide.
I've already made the case against this, but, in off-hand chance when one of the parental units is exhibiting more than the standard amount of patience (also known as the "you're cute when you're optimistic like this" phase) or, God help us all, your other half has "a plan." Be afraid. But don't let them smell the fear--they can smell fear. If there is another physical adult (I make no judgements on my Sweetie's maturity, sanity, or emotional levels at this point!) in the house, and you do get the chance to sneak away and hide, remember that Hide-n-Seek is the 5 year old's FAVORITE game. Especially if she thinks that you're doing something fun--and fun is anything and everything that doesn't involve her.
Sleep.
Ahhhh. "To sleep, perchance to dream." It isn't gonna happen. If the Spawnlings don't find me, my Sweetie will. He'll either be angry that I abandoned him in the middle of some plot of the Howler's (or some stench from the Toad) or he'll be jealous, because I beat him to it, and therefore, ruined what would have otherwise been a delicious napping coup. If that isn't the case (the Spawnlings are all asleep in their beds, with visions of schemes against me in their heads), then there's a good chance my Sweetie will be bugging me with rubs and pats and ideas about things we could do while there's a chance. I love him desperately, but sometimes, I just need to sleep--and he needs to keep all his body parts on his side of the bed.
In all seriousness, my "Me Time" is a mixture of things--reading, hiding, crossword puzzles, and yes, sometimes, working elsewhere. Now that the Toad is 19, and pretty much has his own schedule and things to do, and the Howler is in school 5 days a week for 6 hours a day, my "Me Time" is a glory to behold--me, in my jammies until after 1pm, reading, on the computer, or doing crossword puzzles, watching TV for hours. Blissful hours of quiet and solitude. Sometimes, I nap. Sometimes, I do housework. Most of the time, I miss my little ones--that precious, fleeting, and almost all gone time when hanging out with Mommy was the Bomb.
Of course, I exaggerated the reactions of my family to my attempts to remain a functional, rational adult. Most of the things I have given up, whether it's TV watching or hours of uninterrupted reading, I don't miss, and even when given the opportunity to return to them, I find it difficult to sit still.
And I miss 'em terribly when I'm not with them, "Me Time" is still "Us Time," somehow. I can't say that I mind that much.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Unanswerable Questions
Why are there fingerprints all over my computer screen?
And why do some of those smudges look like face prints?
*sigh*
I'm glad I don't own a copier.
And why do some of those smudges look like face prints?
*sigh*
I'm glad I don't own a copier.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
What WAS I Thinking?
In an effort to extend my small kingdom full of Howler and Toad fans, I stumbled upon Mamablogga's Group Writing Project. And, of course, I'm winging it--as usual.
So, here goes:
I am grateful for my children because, with a 13 year age difference, it's a whole new experience all over again.
I am grateful that I have had all the teenage and toddler attitude I can handle all day, every day.
I am grateful I will never live in the same house with two teenagers (or toddlers, or preschoolers, for that matter) at the same time.
I am grateful that with each, I have a special and totally different relationship. They have, other than the attitude thing, very little in common--whether it's interests, or ideas, or issues. I will never have to run between two soccer games, sit through an entire elementary school music program in order to see both my children, I will never consider dressing them in the same or similar clothes.
I will never have to daily deal with two booster seats in the car, and, because there will only ever be these two--and one is definitely not going into a booster seat again! I will never feel outnumbered (outsmarted, absolutely! but never outnumbered).
Most of all, I am grateful for the way my children have changed me--I am not the same kind of person I was when I had either. I am softer, more compassionate, and more aware of the impact I have on the world around me. I am less selfish, less rested, and less likely to just say any old thing that comes into my mind.
So, here goes:
I am grateful for my children because, with a 13 year age difference, it's a whole new experience all over again.
I am grateful that I have had all the teenage and toddler attitude I can handle all day, every day.
I am grateful I will never live in the same house with two teenagers (or toddlers, or preschoolers, for that matter) at the same time.
I am grateful that with each, I have a special and totally different relationship. They have, other than the attitude thing, very little in common--whether it's interests, or ideas, or issues. I will never have to run between two soccer games, sit through an entire elementary school music program in order to see both my children, I will never consider dressing them in the same or similar clothes.
I will never have to daily deal with two booster seats in the car, and, because there will only ever be these two--and one is definitely not going into a booster seat again! I will never feel outnumbered (outsmarted, absolutely! but never outnumbered).
Most of all, I am grateful for the way my children have changed me--I am not the same kind of person I was when I had either. I am softer, more compassionate, and more aware of the impact I have on the world around me. I am less selfish, less rested, and less likely to just say any old thing that comes into my mind.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Not Really Funny
But we couldn't help but laugh. We're horrid parents. We're probably really horrid people.
The Howler has been told, repeatedly, to not go into the Toad's room. She takes his stuff, and usually either loses it (role playing game dice, Magic, The Gathering cards) or she breaks it (sleeping bag zipper, RC airplane). She's been warned.
The Howler and her friend, Blondie, were upstairs playing today. They ventured into Ass Caverns.
Toad had caught them, and they, of course, scampered to the Howler's room. We were on the patio, and can hear them telling him to "stay out!" and "get out!" and "you're not allowed in here!"... and the Toad telling them calmly (yes, calmly) that he'll be gone in a minute.
He proceeds to tell them off, quietly and rather more politely than usual for him, about going in his room. When he's done, he leaves.
As he leaves, the Howler tells him, "Yeah, get lost, Loser."
We laughed.
We did, I hope, redeem ourselves when we told him that he was right, and that how he spoke to them was okay (he usually gets really worked up--and then they actually fight. Someone always gets hurt then, and it's not always the Howler.)
The Howler has been told, repeatedly, to not go into the Toad's room. She takes his stuff, and usually either loses it (role playing game dice, Magic, The Gathering cards) or she breaks it (sleeping bag zipper, RC airplane). She's been warned.
The Howler and her friend, Blondie, were upstairs playing today. They ventured into Ass Caverns.
Toad had caught them, and they, of course, scampered to the Howler's room. We were on the patio, and can hear them telling him to "stay out!" and "get out!" and "you're not allowed in here!"... and the Toad telling them calmly (yes, calmly) that he'll be gone in a minute.
He proceeds to tell them off, quietly and rather more politely than usual for him, about going in his room. When he's done, he leaves.
As he leaves, the Howler tells him, "Yeah, get lost, Loser."
We laughed.
We did, I hope, redeem ourselves when we told him that he was right, and that how he spoke to them was okay (he usually gets really worked up--and then they actually fight. Someone always gets hurt then, and it's not always the Howler.)
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Vacation Is Over
Tomorrow, Kevin goes back to work. I don't go back until Wednesday (1st day of school is Tuesday).
But, summer, and this vacation are over.
It's been a good one, and I realized during this one how beautiful my daughter is--inside and out. She's busy, she's bossy, and she's beautiful. She also likes chickens, but that's another blog.
For the Toad, I think reality is finally truly settling on him. And it's not attractive. It's finally occured to him that on Tuesday, he may be off work, but his annoying little friends will be in school. Also, he's discovered that even if they pay you, work is still a PITA sometimes--and he doesn't like working overnights.
Ahhhh, I love it when a plan comes together. *stick cigar in mouth and mug at the camera like George Peppard.*
But, summer, and this vacation are over.
It's been a good one, and I realized during this one how beautiful my daughter is--inside and out. She's busy, she's bossy, and she's beautiful. She also likes chickens, but that's another blog.
For the Toad, I think reality is finally truly settling on him. And it's not attractive. It's finally occured to him that on Tuesday, he may be off work, but his annoying little friends will be in school. Also, he's discovered that even if they pay you, work is still a PITA sometimes--and he doesn't like working overnights.
Ahhhh, I love it when a plan comes together. *stick cigar in mouth and mug at the camera like George Peppard.*
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Fairies
There are two kinds of fairies that have visited our house recently.
The Tooth Fairy, which I'm sure most people are familar with. The Howler finally did lose that tooth--she was unhappy when it came out (she and Daddy were playing in the pool and she got bumped by a water balloon) and she screamed and cried as if she were in danger of bleeding to death, but in the end, she was quite happy with the results.
The Dairy Fairy, however, seems to be concentrating on my house--and she's dropped the ball at least once.
The Dairy Fairy brings milk and places it in the 'fridge even when the person who finished the milk said nothing to anyone else about having used it all.
It's bizarre when the 18 year old believes as ardently in the Dairy Fairy as the 5 year old believes in the tooth fairy.
Now, if I could just get the bologna and cheese fairy to throw out the empty packages instead of putting them back...
The Tooth Fairy, which I'm sure most people are familar with. The Howler finally did lose that tooth--she was unhappy when it came out (she and Daddy were playing in the pool and she got bumped by a water balloon) and she screamed and cried as if she were in danger of bleeding to death, but in the end, she was quite happy with the results.
The Dairy Fairy, however, seems to be concentrating on my house--and she's dropped the ball at least once.
The Dairy Fairy brings milk and places it in the 'fridge even when the person who finished the milk said nothing to anyone else about having used it all.
It's bizarre when the 18 year old believes as ardently in the Dairy Fairy as the 5 year old believes in the tooth fairy.
Now, if I could just get the bologna and cheese fairy to throw out the empty packages instead of putting them back...
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Skin of My Teeth
The boy is going to receive his diploma.
It's been a not-so-fun past 2 weeks, wondering and guessing and talking to the guidance counsellor at the school to find out, whether or not he'd be receiving the Booby Prize Empty Envelope, or a diploma.
I am so filled with pride.
The eldest of my Spawnlings will be receiving a diploma. It's a soul-stirring moment for me: He has managed to pass his classes (even the one he's repeating from last year) with a solid 70% average.
Keeping in mind that this is the lowest possible average to still be considered passing, I am beside myself with joy. He has managed, through sheer stubborn willpower, to maintain the position that *mediocre isn't all it's cracked up to be*.
While I secretly applaud his determination to not live by society's rules, I am not so delusional as to think that being a hair above a miserable failure is a grand and glorious thing.
I feel robbed. I should be enjoying this moment with bittersweet tears. Instead, he has forced to me eat antacids and lose sleep in the stress of not knowing. I suppose that part of the joy that is the Spawnlings is in keeping Mom-of-the-Borderline-Control-Freakness in limbo, and I want nothing more than the joy and happiness of the Spawnlings--if sacrificing my sanity is what it takes, so be it. I am nothing if I am not a good mother.
For myself, I am able to extract some joy from this situation (much as I hate the limbo-ness of it all): I am able to declare his future plans as being "Clown College" and a "Reality Checking Account".
It's been a not-so-fun past 2 weeks, wondering and guessing and talking to the guidance counsellor at the school to find out, whether or not he'd be receiving the Booby Prize Empty Envelope, or a diploma.
I am so filled with pride.
The eldest of my Spawnlings will be receiving a diploma. It's a soul-stirring moment for me: He has managed to pass his classes (even the one he's repeating from last year) with a solid 70% average.
Keeping in mind that this is the lowest possible average to still be considered passing, I am beside myself with joy. He has managed, through sheer stubborn willpower, to maintain the position that *mediocre isn't all it's cracked up to be*.
While I secretly applaud his determination to not live by society's rules, I am not so delusional as to think that being a hair above a miserable failure is a grand and glorious thing.
I feel robbed. I should be enjoying this moment with bittersweet tears. Instead, he has forced to me eat antacids and lose sleep in the stress of not knowing. I suppose that part of the joy that is the Spawnlings is in keeping Mom-of-the-Borderline-Control-Freakness in limbo, and I want nothing more than the joy and happiness of the Spawnlings--if sacrificing my sanity is what it takes, so be it. I am nothing if I am not a good mother.
For myself, I am able to extract some joy from this situation (much as I hate the limbo-ness of it all): I am able to declare his future plans as being "Clown College" and a "Reality Checking Account".
Sunday, April 15, 2007
To Be Complete
I have to add stories from last year to this blog about The Adventures of Howler & Toad. It's only fair--some of these stories are the funniest events of their lives.
If you click on the 2006 or 2007 at the bottom of one of these posts, it will take you to that year's pre-adventure blog adventures. Clicking on Howler or Toad will take you to their individual adventures, including the pre-adventures blog adventures.
(and if you already knew that, forgive my moment of control freak weakness!)
I also ask that you forgive my forays into commentary on life as a parent also. Sometimes, what I have to say is that important.
If you click on the 2006 or 2007 at the bottom of one of these posts, it will take you to that year's pre-adventure blog adventures. Clicking on Howler or Toad will take you to their individual adventures, including the pre-adventures blog adventures.
(and if you already knew that, forgive my moment of control freak weakness!)
I also ask that you forgive my forays into commentary on life as a parent also. Sometimes, what I have to say is that important.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Rumple Mumple
My house, June 27, 2006.
Tonight, after we ran to the store to grab the few things Kevin forgot to pick up over the weekend, the Howler was getting her bath.
From the time Kevin gets home, all she says is "Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy." (At least, it seems like it.)
She's in the tub, and she starts, "daddy daddy daddy daddy" so Kevin says, "Howler, I'm changing my name from Daddy to Rumplestiltskin." Within 5 minutes, she's yelling, "Rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple."
All I can do is laugh. I'm still laughing, when Kevin says to me, "So, you think that's funny, do you?" I remind him, that as the Mumples that makes him "Rumple Mumple." I laugh harder. It's starting to hurt, I'm laughing so hard.
Kevin then discovers that his nose hair trimmers (ewww) are in the clothes basket at the top of the stairs. He asks me what they're doing there. I don't know. He asks Toadly about it and Toadly says, "I put them back."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I guess. Pretty sure."
"Where did you put them 'back'?"
"Well, if you're asking, they're in the clothes basket."
"What were you doing with them?"
"I was trying to fix my toe." (Ewww. Don't ask! He goes to the doc's Thursday to get the dang thing looked at. Ewww!) Kevin is appalled that his nose hair trimmers were used on Toadly's feet. (Even Toadly acknowledges that his feet are disgusting. Even without whatever is going on with his toe. Ewww)
Kevin wants to know if he looks that stupid. I can't stop laughing.
When putting the Howler to bed, I notice there's a tear in her comforter. She tells me she "must have teared it somewhere." Kevin looks at it. He says, "No. What did you do?"
She tells us, "I founded the scissors and I cutted it."
Okay. We're not happy, but, it's really Toadly's fault, so Kevin goes over to Toadly's room to make it clear that he can't leave things like that lying around.
We ask her if she "cutted" anything else. "Oh sure. I cutted the hair on my teddy bear." She shows me her Care Bear--who now has a crew cut and male pattern baldness. Then, we ask her if she used the scissors on anything else. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"No." I notice her CPK baby on her vanity. I pick it up. It doesn't have much hair to begin with...and now, it has less hair in front and less hair in back. Chop Chop.
We're trying not to laugh. The Howler is sincere when she says, "they are beautiful now, aren't they?" And she goes on to explain that the CPbaby was complaining about her hair being "clumpy" and needing a hair cut.
Kevin asks her WHERE the hair is. She (still very sincere) says, "Oh. I setted them in my chair and cutted their hair. See." She runs over and shows us how they sat like good girls in the high chair to get their hair fixed.
We're trying very hard not to laugh, and Kevin is failing. My sides hurt from laughing (and not laughing).
Tonight, after we ran to the store to grab the few things Kevin forgot to pick up over the weekend, the Howler was getting her bath.
From the time Kevin gets home, all she says is "Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy." (At least, it seems like it.)
She's in the tub, and she starts, "daddy daddy daddy daddy" so Kevin says, "Howler, I'm changing my name from Daddy to Rumplestiltskin." Within 5 minutes, she's yelling, "Rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple."
All I can do is laugh. I'm still laughing, when Kevin says to me, "So, you think that's funny, do you?" I remind him, that as the Mumples that makes him "Rumple Mumple." I laugh harder. It's starting to hurt, I'm laughing so hard.
Kevin then discovers that his nose hair trimmers (ewww) are in the clothes basket at the top of the stairs. He asks me what they're doing there. I don't know. He asks Toadly about it and Toadly says, "I put them back."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I guess. Pretty sure."
"Where did you put them 'back'?"
"Well, if you're asking, they're in the clothes basket."
"What were you doing with them?"
"I was trying to fix my toe." (Ewww. Don't ask! He goes to the doc's Thursday to get the dang thing looked at. Ewww!) Kevin is appalled that his nose hair trimmers were used on Toadly's feet. (Even Toadly acknowledges that his feet are disgusting. Even without whatever is going on with his toe. Ewww)
Kevin wants to know if he looks that stupid. I can't stop laughing.
When putting the Howler to bed, I notice there's a tear in her comforter. She tells me she "must have teared it somewhere." Kevin looks at it. He says, "No. What did you do?"
She tells us, "I founded the scissors and I cutted it."
Okay. We're not happy, but, it's really Toadly's fault, so Kevin goes over to Toadly's room to make it clear that he can't leave things like that lying around.
We ask her if she "cutted" anything else. "Oh sure. I cutted the hair on my teddy bear." She shows me her Care Bear--who now has a crew cut and male pattern baldness. Then, we ask her if she used the scissors on anything else. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"No." I notice her CPK baby on her vanity. I pick it up. It doesn't have much hair to begin with...and now, it has less hair in front and less hair in back. Chop Chop.
We're trying not to laugh. The Howler is sincere when she says, "they are beautiful now, aren't they?" And she goes on to explain that the CPbaby was complaining about her hair being "clumpy" and needing a hair cut.
Kevin asks her WHERE the hair is. She (still very sincere) says, "Oh. I setted them in my chair and cutted their hair. See." She runs over and shows us how they sat like good girls in the high chair to get their hair fixed.
We're trying very hard not to laugh, and Kevin is failing. My sides hurt from laughing (and not laughing).
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Purpose
In case you're wondering, I've decided to share how entertaining my children are, on a blog that contains nothing but them.
I'm hoping that it will balance the frustration I often feel--if the good and bad are both on display, I can stay out of the booby hatch.
I also think they're pretty hilarious most of the time, and, if truth be told (and here, it will be), I think you will too.
I'm hoping that it will balance the frustration I often feel--if the good and bad are both on display, I can stay out of the booby hatch.
I also think they're pretty hilarious most of the time, and, if truth be told (and here, it will be), I think you will too.
The Spawnlings
Too many people won't like that term. Get over it. I spawned them; I live with them--I can call them what I like.
Why, yes, I do love them, but Thank God I don't define myself only by them. And anyone who cannot see their children for who they are--good and bad, amusing and frustrating--needs a reality check that won't bounce. (My theory and hope is that they will get one soon enough).
I am the kind of parent who can love them with that primal-what-on-earth-would-I-do-without-them-all-encompassing love, but there are days when I would be willing to consider selling them to the gypsies...and since I'm really really blessed, I have a day or two, now-and-then, during which I'd consider paying the gypsies to come and take them. At least for a few hours.
I find them alternately amusing and frustrating. Usually at the same time--and sometimes, for the same reasons.
Why, yes, I do love them, but Thank God I don't define myself only by them. And anyone who cannot see their children for who they are--good and bad, amusing and frustrating--needs a reality check that won't bounce. (My theory and hope is that they will get one soon enough).
I am the kind of parent who can love them with that primal-what-on-earth-would-I-do-without-them-all-encompassing love, but there are days when I would be willing to consider selling them to the gypsies...and since I'm really really blessed, I have a day or two, now-and-then, during which I'd consider paying the gypsies to come and take them. At least for a few hours.
I find them alternately amusing and frustrating. Usually at the same time--and sometimes, for the same reasons.
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