"Between the wish and the thing life lies waiting.”--anonymous
I'm stuck between. We're stuck between. And I don't wait well.
"There was a time when Patience ceased to be a virtue. It was long ago." --Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Living with boys
I knew from marriage that the male sex was a stinky, noisy, strange group.
But I didn't expect my boys to join ranks quite so quickly, or, well, so rankly.
Bug has become a consummate belcher. On command, with no provocation, and with the proudest look on his face as he chuckles, "Excuse me," post emission.
Boo is jet propelled.
This morning, as I sat at my desk and he curled to my side for what I thought was a sweet snuggle, I patted his bottom.
And he farted.
on my hand.
And I could feel the ripples.
After sanitizing my hand to the sounds of gleeful giggles and a song about toots, I realized my babies are becoming little men.
I should have expected it. Laying in bed at night, The Man emits noises and aromas that keep my hair curly--even my nose hair has a jaunty wave thanks to him.
Although he can't belch, he does applaud our boys efforts to break the sound barrier and to belch the alphabet. Bug is up to G, I think.
I always knew my boys would become men one day, but I just never expected them to foray into the world of manly funk quite so early in life. They are precocious boogers, I know!
So I'm investing in air fresheners and dousing lit candles and holding my nose for the next . . . 50 years. "Cause even when they have moved on to make fragrant homes of their own, i will have the original left with me.
The Man.
In all his stinky glory.
But I didn't expect my boys to join ranks quite so quickly, or, well, so rankly.
Bug has become a consummate belcher. On command, with no provocation, and with the proudest look on his face as he chuckles, "Excuse me," post emission.
Boo is jet propelled.
This morning, as I sat at my desk and he curled to my side for what I thought was a sweet snuggle, I patted his bottom.
And he farted.
on my hand.
And I could feel the ripples.
After sanitizing my hand to the sounds of gleeful giggles and a song about toots, I realized my babies are becoming little men.
I should have expected it. Laying in bed at night, The Man emits noises and aromas that keep my hair curly--even my nose hair has a jaunty wave thanks to him.
Although he can't belch, he does applaud our boys efforts to break the sound barrier and to belch the alphabet. Bug is up to G, I think.
I always knew my boys would become men one day, but I just never expected them to foray into the world of manly funk quite so early in life. They are precocious boogers, I know!
So I'm investing in air fresheners and dousing lit candles and holding my nose for the next . . . 50 years. "Cause even when they have moved on to make fragrant homes of their own, i will have the original left with me.
The Man.
In all his stinky glory.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Out of the mouths of heathens
Bug: (sitting on the floor with stickers and Punk's Wonder Pet's toy)
The Man: Whatcha doing, Bug?
Bug: I'm pimpin' Sissie's flyboat!
The Man: Whatcha doing, Bug?
Bug: I'm pimpin' Sissie's flyboat!
Friday, July 10, 2009
Lovely
While I think my heathens are some pretty fine looking kiddo's, I don't dwell on their appearance.
Well . . .
I do occasionally measure their noses while asleep to make sure they aren't getting their Daddy's nose behind my back. The Man started out with a cute button nose, too.
But I don't' dwell on if my kids are better looking than other peoples. And overnight it went from cute to WOWZER!
Anyway, my kids.
I mean, they just are damned nice looking, so why dwell on it, right?
Seriously. I'm almost oblivious.
As a mother, I occasionally get glimpses of what lovely children I really have.
In the shape and color of my Boo boys blue eyes.
In the way Bug moves his hands or looks when he's thinking about something.
Or the smile on my baby girl's face.
We are raising our children to be minds first and bodies second, because we know that physical attributes are fleeting and unimportant.
But sometimes I see them how others must see them.
When they are clean and dressed and not crying or screaming, that is.
And I am proud that they are pretty children.
I'm just petty and shallow enough to admit that.
And then to hand them a book to read or start drilling them with flashcards.
A mom has her priorities, and pretty doesn't a doctor make!
Well . . .
I do occasionally measure their noses while asleep to make sure they aren't getting their Daddy's nose behind my back. The Man started out with a cute button nose, too.
But I don't' dwell on if my kids are better looking than other peoples. And overnight it went from cute to WOWZER!
Anyway, my kids.
I mean, they just are damned nice looking, so why dwell on it, right?
Seriously. I'm almost oblivious.
As a mother, I occasionally get glimpses of what lovely children I really have.
In the shape and color of my Boo boys blue eyes.
In the way Bug moves his hands or looks when he's thinking about something.
Or the smile on my baby girl's face.
We are raising our children to be minds first and bodies second, because we know that physical attributes are fleeting and unimportant.
But sometimes I see them how others must see them.
When they are clean and dressed and not crying or screaming, that is.
And I am proud that they are pretty children.
I'm just petty and shallow enough to admit that.
And then to hand them a book to read or start drilling them with flashcards.
A mom has her priorities, and pretty doesn't a doctor make!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Last week
Last week, The Man was released from the care of his surgeon.
There was the happy cloud.
That just dumped a freaking monsoon on us.
According to Dr C, the pain will most likely just get worse over the course of The Man's lifetime. He said there's nothign surgically he can do. So we're now thrown into the world of pain meds and maintenance, and I'm looking into alternative therapies.
If I have to sit on his ass to have some little Chinese man put tiny needles in him to ease the pain, just call me blubber butt.
No, on second thought--don't.
Dr C recommendations, combined with another doctors, has made us wonder what the future will hold for us.
The work The Man has done all his life? He's not to do any longer. So we look at retraining. But to do what? We don't know. Because everything he's wanted to be when he grows up involves having two fully functional hands.
And no pain.
The concept of a lifetime of pain, most days severe, is enough to dampen anyone spirits.
Knowing there is nothing more to do to stop it is even worse.
As long as there was a possibility of improvement, their was hope. but we've now basically got a slim thread to hold onto to, which is tough to do with a badly damaged hand.
And some things, such as wearing a wedding ring, have taken on new significance.
He's always worn a wedding ring. Me? I have metal allergies, so I only wear it at work.
But now, because of the injury and the pain, he doesn't wear it any longer. He's still married, but I like to stamp my property as . . .well, my property. A wedding ring that the Man is terrified to remove did that quite nicely.
Holding hands? Not that we do it that often, except with a heathen, but it now requires me to be careful of how I hold it for fear of worsening the pain.
The hand is what it is. I know we could be worse off. A moment earlier and this blog would be about missing my husband and the father of my babies. Got it. And while the loss of some fingers is minor in comparison, it will be with us for eternity.
It will be in every picture from this moment on. It will be a reminder of the accident and of the pain that he lives with.
Playing ball with the boys will require adjustments to minimize The Man's discomfort.
Tossing Punk in the air means being more careful to catch her due to loss of hand strength and control and to not hit the damaged hand.
One moment of carelessness by another man has changed my family's life forever.
And, thanks to him, we can never go back to what we were before.
There was the happy cloud.
That just dumped a freaking monsoon on us.
According to Dr C, the pain will most likely just get worse over the course of The Man's lifetime. He said there's nothign surgically he can do. So we're now thrown into the world of pain meds and maintenance, and I'm looking into alternative therapies.
If I have to sit on his ass to have some little Chinese man put tiny needles in him to ease the pain, just call me blubber butt.
No, on second thought--don't.
Dr C recommendations, combined with another doctors, has made us wonder what the future will hold for us.
The work The Man has done all his life? He's not to do any longer. So we look at retraining. But to do what? We don't know. Because everything he's wanted to be when he grows up involves having two fully functional hands.
And no pain.
The concept of a lifetime of pain, most days severe, is enough to dampen anyone spirits.
Knowing there is nothing more to do to stop it is even worse.
As long as there was a possibility of improvement, their was hope. but we've now basically got a slim thread to hold onto to, which is tough to do with a badly damaged hand.
And some things, such as wearing a wedding ring, have taken on new significance.
He's always worn a wedding ring. Me? I have metal allergies, so I only wear it at work.
But now, because of the injury and the pain, he doesn't wear it any longer. He's still married, but I like to stamp my property as . . .well, my property. A wedding ring that the Man is terrified to remove did that quite nicely.
Holding hands? Not that we do it that often, except with a heathen, but it now requires me to be careful of how I hold it for fear of worsening the pain.
The hand is what it is. I know we could be worse off. A moment earlier and this blog would be about missing my husband and the father of my babies. Got it. And while the loss of some fingers is minor in comparison, it will be with us for eternity.
It will be in every picture from this moment on. It will be a reminder of the accident and of the pain that he lives with.
Playing ball with the boys will require adjustments to minimize The Man's discomfort.
Tossing Punk in the air means being more careful to catch her due to loss of hand strength and control and to not hit the damaged hand.
One moment of carelessness by another man has changed my family's life forever.
And, thanks to him, we can never go back to what we were before.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Out of the mouths of heathens
Boo: "Mommy! I'm gonna go to school to get ed-u-kidded!"
Me: "Really? What are you gonna learn?"
B: "How to write my name and tie my shoes and kick some can!"
That's my boy!
Me: "Really? What are you gonna learn?"
B: "How to write my name and tie my shoes and kick some can!"
That's my boy!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Slacker
After an auspicious start, I've fallen off the potty training wagon.
No, not me personally. I am very well trained and still in control of my faculties thanks to religious Kegeling. (Come on, girls! Tighten those muscles! Flex it! Release it! your man will appreciate the effort! And think how hot you'll be when the other grannies are in diapers and your sporting your granny panties!)
Nope, I've slacked teaching Punk to pee pee in the potty.
The best time for her is the time when I'm dressed for work and don't feel like teaching her while clad in professional attire.
She gets distracted by my heels, especially open toed ones.
So I've let it slide, and now I'm thinking I need to hop back on the loo and get to work on it.
Especially when I'm in line buying diapers.
And I start to think how much money I've spent on things designed to catch pee and hold shit.
What a waste of money I could have used elsewhere.
So I am rededicating Punk's potty with a sippie of milk and renewed determination to have her potty trained before that aneurysm I've been threatening The Man with bursts and I drop dead, probably in the bathroom and in the most embarrassing position ever.
Ass up to the world.
No, not me personally. I am very well trained and still in control of my faculties thanks to religious Kegeling. (Come on, girls! Tighten those muscles! Flex it! Release it! your man will appreciate the effort! And think how hot you'll be when the other grannies are in diapers and your sporting your granny panties!)
Nope, I've slacked teaching Punk to pee pee in the potty.
The best time for her is the time when I'm dressed for work and don't feel like teaching her while clad in professional attire.
She gets distracted by my heels, especially open toed ones.
So I've let it slide, and now I'm thinking I need to hop back on the loo and get to work on it.
Especially when I'm in line buying diapers.
And I start to think how much money I've spent on things designed to catch pee and hold shit.
What a waste of money I could have used elsewhere.
So I am rededicating Punk's potty with a sippie of milk and renewed determination to have her potty trained before that aneurysm I've been threatening The Man with bursts and I drop dead, probably in the bathroom and in the most embarrassing position ever.
Ass up to the world.
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