Sunday, November 22, 2009

Today will be three years

Since my dear daddy passed away.
It's hard to believe.
Most days I still expect to see him walk through the door.
Or see him pat my mom's butt when she walks by.
Or watch him watching my kids.
When we are together as family, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear him chuckling.
I can almost feel his hand on my hair.
Or see him touch my babies as they run by.
The hurt never stops. The missing never eases.
Every day, I wish he could just hold my kids. That my baby girl could have crawled into his lap and found the same comfort and safety there that I did.
That my boys could have run to him to tell them about their boyish adventures.
That I could hear the yell Peepaw and see his face light up with a bemused smile.
That I could say Daddy and have him call me Punk in that exasperated tone of voice one more time.
Tomorrow, I will hold my babies close and tell them about their PeePaw in the stars. The one who watches over them every day. The one who loved them so much.
Three years watching my children grow passes in a instant. Three years without my daddy is a lifetime.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Who is that strange man?

Some days, I look at The man and I just don't know.
I don't know who he is anymore.
I don't know what he's thinking.
I don't know what freaking planet he's from.
Those are the days I question the wisdom of marriage. Really. I know it was the idea of a woman, because no man would choose to be saddled with one woman and her growing saddlebags for life.
After his accident, there have been a lot of those days. The ones where I study the man like a strange zoo exhibit and ponder my own sanity. Most days, I find my mental faculties sadly lacking.
But there are also days when I look at him and catch a glimpse of the young man I married.
The man who is one of a handful of people that can make me laugh so hard I cry and pee at the same time--a rare skill indeed.
The one who chases our kids around the yard playing soccer until he hurts his knee and limps to me for the sympathy he knows he's not going to get. (When you are on your deathbed, then I will sympathize. If I do that every time you are sick, you'll just get sick/hurt/maimed more often for attention, you know!)
The man I couldn't imagine my life without almost fifteen years ago (and, yes, I know we've been married 14 years, but December will be 15 years since we met.)
Some days, I want to chunk it all, move to a small, poorly inhabited island, and never have to see him or the heathens again. Especially when his DNA is strongest in our children.
But most days, I realize I don't have much room to complain. (Not that I won't complain, I'll just have to be more creative in my endeavors.) We have little money, but a lot of love and laughter and three lovely children who eventually fall asleep and are blessedly silent.
I am married to a man who likes to do housework, so I don't have to. Who enjoys getting down and dirty with the kids, again so I don't have to. (I am the more cerebral parent.) Who does yard work, again, so I don't have to.
And even though he drives me berserk and makes me contemplate homicide, I realize that, if I did off him, I'd have to do all of those things I don't like to do.
And my mama didn't raise a fool.

Monday, November 16, 2009

My daughter, the mute

Punk has begun a new stage of non speaking.
That's not to say she doesn't communicate, but we have reverted to a strange early form of speech and action that leave me playing charades.
And i hate charades.
Ask her question that doesn't have a yes or no answer? She stares at you.
Ask her a yes or no question? Watch carefully for the small nod or shake of her head.
It's so minute, if you blink, you'll miss it.
And then she screams.
And heaven help you if you try to out guess her.
Then she really screams.
This morning, for example, I was having tea and toast. She was having milk and a breakfast bar. She finished her bar, so I gave her my toast. Which she looked at, grunted once, and waited until I turned my back to eat.
But when I asked her if it was good, I think I saw a small nod.
May have just been a trick of light.
Lest you think she has completely reverted to a nonverbal state, she does still say several word loudly and with great gusto.
Three to be exact.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Woe for the curly headed child

All three of my children have curly hair.
With Bug, it's only in the back, giving him a mini mullet.
With Boo, who has coarse hair like his daddy, it's all over and, when allowed to grow, resembles a white boy's Afro.
Those two are easy. We keep their hair length at 1 inch, tops.
But Punk, poor, poor Punk.
My baby's got curl.
All over, in increasingly tight ringlets.
It's beautiful.
It's wonderful.
It's a pain in my butt to deal with.
To look at her hair, it doesn't appear to be that long. The longest ringlet falls just below shoulder level.
Until you get her hair wet and realize its past the middle of her back.
Her curls are so blasted aggressive that they don't seem to get any longer, just more abundant.
And knotted.
And harder to brush.
and by the end of the day, she resembles a pissed off poodle.
I use conditioners and detanglers. They roll over, show their soft, white underbellies, and plead for mercy.
And I have flashbacks of my own childhood and my mom manhandling her way through brushing my curly hair.
I still hate having my hair messed with to this day.
And I hate the thought that Punk cries every time she sees a hair brush no matter how much I try to make it painless.
I'm considering a Sinead o'Conner look for her, just to end the pain.
And I'm waiting for The Man to turn away just long enough.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Hail to our veterans!

The Man is a Veteran. Twice over.
And while I make fun of one of his wars being about oil and greed, I do appreciate that he felt compelled to serve his country.
I couldn't drive my car without him.
And he was a big boat.
(I just love to hear him scream)
I have a special soft spot for veterans. My grandpa and Daddy were both veterans. The Man, who has a soft spot in general, is, of course, a veteran. Of the Gulf War and Operation freedom.
While I don't agree with the Military (Capital letter--government) I do support the military (small letter--the people). They are simply doing what they believe is right, serving their conscious and their country.
That I can get behind any day.
So when you see a veteran handing out flowers for donations, pony up. They've earned it and more.

Monday, November 9, 2009

When even a margarita won't help

Yes, I had one of those weekends.
Saturday, due to a brief financial windfall, found The Man and I dropping the heathens off at Grandma's so we could go Yule shopping.
Whereas both boys through fits worthy of note, although Boo did recover much fast than Bug.
Bug hid in Grandma's garage, ate breakfast in Grandma's garage, and in general, was a pint sized twirp.
But the Man and I prevailed, saving a whopping $115 dollars on Yule presents ( we got $350 for $235!) It was his first couponing shopping adventure with me (a virgin! Oh my!) and he had a glazed looked in his eyes the rest of the day.
Then off to the grocery store to restock our pantries. The Man has vowed never again.
So my plan succeeded, because I loathe taking him to the store with me.
He messes with my rhythm.
Sunday was just me and the heathens.
And it was not a pretty picture.
The boys were wild and succeeded in interrupting Punk's nap, so I had a screaming, fussing 22 month old all day.
Seriously! I looked at her, she cried. I tried to pick her up, she cried. Tried to leave her alone, she cried. Tried to stay with her, she cried.
It was lose/lose proposition.
Until she finally passed out, in the recliner, at 5:30pm and slept 13 hours straight.
And this morning? She's still giving me the stink eye.
But she's Daddy's problem until 5 o'clock tonight.
I'll take pissy customers any day.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

For the love of a Woobie
My oldest boy, from the time he was three months old, had his Woobie, a beloved Noukie Doudou named Paco that was chewed upon, carried every where, and slept with.
Paco the first was lost on the side of the turnpike in a freak wind related accident.
Paco the Second was throwing away by a two year old.
Paco the third--we just don't know where he went. He ran away from the craziness.
Paco the fourth was lost last year, and after $40 a pop, i deigned not to replace him.
Bug cried. He asked for it. And we diverted like the cowards we are.
After more than a year of looking and admitting defeat, Woobie showed up again this last weekend.
There was a joyous reunion with flowers and protestations of undying love.
A boy and his Woobie--happy days.

Monday, November 2, 2009


We survived Halloween.
We had a zombie soccer player, Frankenstein (mispronounced each day as either dragonfly or Frankestyle) and a pissed off pink poodle.
We called in reinforcements in the form of our willing nephew and set out.
I took pissy poodle, figuring she would wear out more quickly, and The Man and Guy took the boys.
We girls out lasted the boys, but isn't that normally the case?
Punk didn't want to stop. Even when her little legs were so tired she was stumbling. Even when the houses became fewer and further between. Even when her bucket over floweth with teeth rotting goodness.
My girl persevered.
While the boys when back to Grandmas and handed out candy.
Let the girls show you how its done!