I am going to indulge in some Seinfeldian observations for this post, the reason being that I find myself having an internal dialog that frequently starts with some variation of "What the hell...?" As I look around in the world, I notice there is quite a girthy population of individuals who have a different set of tools with which they are working. Some have sharp tools. Others, well, not so much. And these are the folks who fascinate me the most. Here are some of my recent observations involving the dullest of butter knives in the silverware drawer:
The Burrito Chucker: While driving behind a big monster-ish truck last week, I suddenly noticed a large projectile fly out of the driver-side window. It was partially wrapped in paper and bounced its way to a splattery death. It was a half-eaten burrito laying naked on the double yellow line. First of all, it should be a crime to treat a burrito with such disrespect. But beyond that, I am pretty sure tossing your garbage out the window while you are driving is actually a crime. What is the thought process of that individual throwing the poor burrito? The birds will eat it? The street sweeper will suck it up? No! It's trash and no one wants yours...find a trashcan, Loser.
The Tray Abandoner: This is the Burrito Chuckers snobby sister. She is the one who orders food at a counter restaurant (i.e. McDonalds, Chipotle, Subway). She eats her food, crumples her napkins, finishes her drink. And then she bails. And her tray of remnants sits there for everyone else to enjoy. Invariably, some lowly employee has to come out and clean up after her. Now if she were to leave a tip in exchange for someone else cleaning up after her, then I wouldn't have a problem with her. But you know she never leaves a tip. So my message to the tray abandoners of the world is unless it's your mama working behind the counter and she still likes to clean up after you...find a trashcan!
The Ignorer: My new neighborhood is fun and friendly. However, my last 2 neighborhoods were crawling with Ignorers. These are the people you pass when taking a walk who would rather stare at the ground, the sky or anything than have to make eye contact with you as you share the sidewalk for 1/2 of a second. And God forbid they actually have to acknowledge you when you say "Hello". I have never let this put a damper on my willingness to say hi to people as I pass them. But as I get older, I have found I really want them to reciprocate. Give me another 20 years and I may be cruising the 'hood with a bullhorn. Neighbors will know not to ignore me, lest they be followed by the crazy lady shouting "Hello? I know you hear me!" behind them.
The Jungle Gym Smoker: A few years back, while on a family vacation, I took my son to a park to play. We were in a part of the country where smoking is still prevalent. Still I was so dumbfounded when I climbed up the jungle gym with Luke only to find the grandmother/mother duo taking a smoke break next to the top of the slide their toddler was about to shoot down. I wanted to tell the little guy "Go! That is your escape hatch! Hit the ground and keep running!". But he just sat there taking in the trees, the sunshine and the toxic carcinogens from Gma and mama. I used to smoke. I'm not passing judgement. But let's be honest, there aren't too many health benefits to smoking that I am aware of...and on the flip side I have seen some pretty crappy side effects (i.e. lung cancer, coughing up lung butter, smelling like an ashtray). So, while it is one's choice to smoke (and God bless you if you haven't been able to stop), I'm pretty sure it is not what a child's growing body is craving. Keep the smoke outside, but maybe just stay off the jungle gym.
So these are just a few of my favorite genres of people. I have other groups I may touch on in a future post (i.e. Gunboat Grannies, Common Denominators: people who fail to recognize themselves as the only constant in all of the problems in their lives, and Booty Shorts: Knowing one's limits.) Stay tuned!! ;)
Friday, June 24, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Micah: "Damn it. I'm silly."
This was not a quote from Fay Dunaway or my flamboyant neighbor, Roger, in West Hollywood. No, this was a quote from my 3 year old son as he casually trotted out down the hall with an armful of stuffed animals. It should also be noted that he was pantless. And this is how he rolls: direct and with varying degrees of nudity. While I don't condone the mild curse words coming from his lisping, raspy little mouth, I do have to commend the good usage of the words. Because, damn it, he really is silly.
I spend most Tuesdays and Thursdays with Micah. He doesn't have preschool those days and so I take the opportunity to be a stay-at-home mommy on those two days. There is no down time, no dull time, no let's-lay-down-and-take-a-nap time with Micah. He hits the ground running at 6:00 am and shifts comfortably into 5th gear by 8:00 am. In fact this morning after dropping Luke off for his last day of kindergarten, Micah sighs in the back seat and says "Man...I'm tired." You and me both, kid. It was 9:00 am.
We have joked that Micah is our little Prefontaine because he doesn't walk anywhere. Throw a sweatband around his head and he's a dead ringer for 1970's icon with his wispy flowing hair, head cocked back and arms held tight to his solid little body as he strides around the yard, the beach, Target. He is a sturdy little specimen. But what makes him truly fun (and silly!) is the steady flow of awesome commentary on things that I have overlooked, either by accident or on purpose. (And now I devolve into some bathroom talk, so look away if this ain't your cup o' tea.) I am in the kitchen this afternoon and Micah proudly proclaims "I gotta poop!" Since he has only been potty trained for 2 months, I still give him the pumped up, go gettem' mommy cheer. He returns to the top of the stairs a minute later in a move that is a combination of sliding into second base and Tom Cruise from Risky Business. Again he is pantless. "No poop. Just peep." I assure him that is okay and then he looks at me and with a bit of a suggestive smirk says "Mom, maybe you have to go peep?" in the same tone a waiter uses when asking if you've saved room for dessert. "I'm good, Babe. Go get your pants." I appreciate his concern.
He scurries away again and it's a little bit too quiet upstairs. A few more minutes go by and then I hear a large exclamation of intrigue and shock. I rush upstairs assuming he has rubbed the Bengay on his face again. But, no, this time he has done the deed. And as he admires his work he says "Look at that! How did that come out of my body?" I think the same thing when I look at him and his brother. "That's not even a fire bomb poop. That's like a daddy poop!" A fire bomb poop? What is it with guys (of ALL ages) and their fascination with this inescapable part of existence? Anyone with a household with more than one male knows what I am talking about. More than two males and it becomes a new dialect of poop-related science that can apply to all non-poop related subjects. (At least our hamster, Sunshine, is a girl.) Nonetheless, the little guy made me laugh.
Tonight, as I snuggled Micah on the couch, I nuzzled his little soft cheek and told him I loved him. I do this, in part, selfishly because I love his typical response. "I love you all the time." He crashed but a few minutes later before the sun even fell out of the sky. He lives life in a very vibrant way...fast, sweaty, happy. And even when he gets mad at me, usually for denying him yet another treat, he will say "Fine. I'm not your mom anymore." I just nod and agree with him, don't bother to try to explain that technically he has never been my mom. Because even when he's angry, he is adorable. Ultimately, he is a little fun bun. My little short stack. And he is silly, indeed.
I spend most Tuesdays and Thursdays with Micah. He doesn't have preschool those days and so I take the opportunity to be a stay-at-home mommy on those two days. There is no down time, no dull time, no let's-lay-down-and-take-a-nap time with Micah. He hits the ground running at 6:00 am and shifts comfortably into 5th gear by 8:00 am. In fact this morning after dropping Luke off for his last day of kindergarten, Micah sighs in the back seat and says "Man...I'm tired." You and me both, kid. It was 9:00 am.
We have joked that Micah is our little Prefontaine because he doesn't walk anywhere. Throw a sweatband around his head and he's a dead ringer for 1970's icon with his wispy flowing hair, head cocked back and arms held tight to his solid little body as he strides around the yard, the beach, Target. He is a sturdy little specimen. But what makes him truly fun (and silly!) is the steady flow of awesome commentary on things that I have overlooked, either by accident or on purpose. (And now I devolve into some bathroom talk, so look away if this ain't your cup o' tea.) I am in the kitchen this afternoon and Micah proudly proclaims "I gotta poop!" Since he has only been potty trained for 2 months, I still give him the pumped up, go gettem' mommy cheer. He returns to the top of the stairs a minute later in a move that is a combination of sliding into second base and Tom Cruise from Risky Business. Again he is pantless. "No poop. Just peep." I assure him that is okay and then he looks at me and with a bit of a suggestive smirk says "Mom, maybe you have to go peep?" in the same tone a waiter uses when asking if you've saved room for dessert. "I'm good, Babe. Go get your pants." I appreciate his concern.
He scurries away again and it's a little bit too quiet upstairs. A few more minutes go by and then I hear a large exclamation of intrigue and shock. I rush upstairs assuming he has rubbed the Bengay on his face again. But, no, this time he has done the deed. And as he admires his work he says "Look at that! How did that come out of my body?" I think the same thing when I look at him and his brother. "That's not even a fire bomb poop. That's like a daddy poop!" A fire bomb poop? What is it with guys (of ALL ages) and their fascination with this inescapable part of existence? Anyone with a household with more than one male knows what I am talking about. More than two males and it becomes a new dialect of poop-related science that can apply to all non-poop related subjects. (At least our hamster, Sunshine, is a girl.) Nonetheless, the little guy made me laugh.
Tonight, as I snuggled Micah on the couch, I nuzzled his little soft cheek and told him I loved him. I do this, in part, selfishly because I love his typical response. "I love you all the time." He crashed but a few minutes later before the sun even fell out of the sky. He lives life in a very vibrant way...fast, sweaty, happy. And even when he gets mad at me, usually for denying him yet another treat, he will say "Fine. I'm not your mom anymore." I just nod and agree with him, don't bother to try to explain that technically he has never been my mom. Because even when he's angry, he is adorable. Ultimately, he is a little fun bun. My little short stack. And he is silly, indeed.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Mother Craft
While in college at the University of Arizona, I lived in an apartment complex my sophomore year that was one step away from being a dormitory and one step above being condemned. But it was freedom. I lived with three other girls and a rabbit named Merlin. It was during this year of college that life began to ramp up - dating, partying, troubles. Fun was on-call like an ER doctor. Our apartment sat perched above the complex pool and we would spend hours sitting on our balcony watching our ever-expanding world play out before our eyes. And at least once a day, we would watch overhead as the "Mother Craft" hovered slow and low over our apartment, looking much like the Mighty Eagle from Angry Birds. This was a huge military transport plane flying training exercises over the Tucson desert en route to its nest at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. We would laugh hysterically, usually aided by some form of intoxication, saying that the Mother Craft was coming to take us home. Those were some incredibly awesome days.
Nowadays, the term mother craft has a different meaning to me. Many parts of being a mom come naturally to me. Squeezing my kids, feeling their pains, not wanting them to fall off the ledge their little feet walk across. They are little satellites of my heart, floating around in the world. But there are aspects to motherhood that leave me searching for answers and wondering if I really do know best. When to yell and when to simply laugh? When to worry and when to dismiss? When to take action and when to let the path unfold? There is a constant monologue in my head, when I work, when I drive, when I lay down to sleep as to how I can do better by my kids.
As a mom of two sons, who will some day grow into husbands and fathers, my goals have become more clear as six years have flown by. I want them to do well in school, but not because I necessarily care about their grades. I want them to have friends, but not because I want them to be popular. I want them to be strong, but not because they need to be the starting quarterback. This mother wants all of those things for her children because she want them to truly know happiness. Self confidence. Camaraderie. Empowerment. When I take my last breath, I will not hope they have found the material and monetary spoils that earthly life offers. My parting wish will be that they have found joy in their lives and run wild with it in their hearts.
The craft of being a mother is intricate, complex and filled with emotion. A close friend recently lost her first baby. Another dear friend just gave birth to her second. A best friend just came home from the hospital after her second child began having seizures just like his older brother. A family friend just learned her daughter will attend Stanford on a full-ride. With waves like these, how do we perfect this craft?
I think the blurry word I see off in the distance is telling me this: Instinct.
Nowadays, the term mother craft has a different meaning to me. Many parts of being a mom come naturally to me. Squeezing my kids, feeling their pains, not wanting them to fall off the ledge their little feet walk across. They are little satellites of my heart, floating around in the world. But there are aspects to motherhood that leave me searching for answers and wondering if I really do know best. When to yell and when to simply laugh? When to worry and when to dismiss? When to take action and when to let the path unfold? There is a constant monologue in my head, when I work, when I drive, when I lay down to sleep as to how I can do better by my kids.
As a mom of two sons, who will some day grow into husbands and fathers, my goals have become more clear as six years have flown by. I want them to do well in school, but not because I necessarily care about their grades. I want them to have friends, but not because I want them to be popular. I want them to be strong, but not because they need to be the starting quarterback. This mother wants all of those things for her children because she want them to truly know happiness. Self confidence. Camaraderie. Empowerment. When I take my last breath, I will not hope they have found the material and monetary spoils that earthly life offers. My parting wish will be that they have found joy in their lives and run wild with it in their hearts.
The craft of being a mother is intricate, complex and filled with emotion. A close friend recently lost her first baby. Another dear friend just gave birth to her second. A best friend just came home from the hospital after her second child began having seizures just like his older brother. A family friend just learned her daughter will attend Stanford on a full-ride. With waves like these, how do we perfect this craft?
I think the blurry word I see off in the distance is telling me this: Instinct.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
On My Nightstand.
Sitting next to me, on my nightstand, is a repulsive concoction. A half-full glass of lemonade, a half-empty glass of cheap red wine and a half-eaten bag of jellybeans I discovered hidden in the recesses of my bedroom closet. These were found in a bag with the package of plastic Easter eggs I never got around to filling (or obviously hiding...except from myself). At first they seemed like a little treasure, but after shoveling 50% of the bag in my mouth I am now left feeling a bit ill. And disgusted. And all my lazy ass can do is look at the lemonade or wine and try to figure out which would be less putrid in the washing down of the gelatinous blob in my gut. God forbid I have to make the trek to the kitchen to retrieve some water, which might actually improve the situation. Ugh. Not good.
I am thinking this is probably how the guy who rents the office down the hall from mine feels on a daily basis. He consumes large quantities of frozen hamburgers and then washes them down with Coke or tequila. It can make for some entertaining moments, but for the most part we all feel kind of nauseous just being party to that kind of habitual consumption. In a humorous twist he actually accused us gals of "stealing" some of those tasty burgers. And if I wasn't a vegetarian for the past 20 years, I just might have hamburgled those puppies.
Given my healthy gorging tonight, I actually appear to be in company with my work neighbor. There is always something special about packing in a few hundred calories of no-nutritional-value food just before going to sleep. Sweet dreams!
I am thinking this is probably how the guy who rents the office down the hall from mine feels on a daily basis. He consumes large quantities of frozen hamburgers and then washes them down with Coke or tequila. It can make for some entertaining moments, but for the most part we all feel kind of nauseous just being party to that kind of habitual consumption. In a humorous twist he actually accused us gals of "stealing" some of those tasty burgers. And if I wasn't a vegetarian for the past 20 years, I just might have hamburgled those puppies.
Given my healthy gorging tonight, I actually appear to be in company with my work neighbor. There is always something special about packing in a few hundred calories of no-nutritional-value food just before going to sleep. Sweet dreams!
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