I just ate a handful of peanut butter pretzels because I am mad at my husband.
Yeah, that'll teach him.
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
9.19.2010
9.17.2010
Warrenty Expired
Yet another fun-filled doctor appointment, optometry-style.
On the down side, my contact prescription is so wacked out that they don't have anything even close to my prescription in stock. They sent me home in two ill-fitting contacts that make me squint worse than my outdated prescription did! The special order trail lenses have yet to arrive - a week after the appointment! Blah.
I also discovered that Wester is where every pair of boring glasses frames goes to die. When I finally found a pair that flipped my skirt up, they were CRAZY expensive and the shop didn't take my pidly insurance. More blah.
I guess I'll be experimenting with a little internet frame shopping. I just hope I can find something to accommodate my massive cranium. As most women's glasses make me look like I wandered into the kids' department, that will be yet another adventure. I am hoping to find some really funky cat-eye frames. Rhinestones a total plus!
What the heck happened? On the inside I'm still just a kid! Will someone send the memo to the rest of me? Thanks.
- I have yellowing of the lenses. Diagnosis: pre-cataracts.
- My macula (of macular degeneration fame) isn't all sparkly like macula are supposed to be. Diagnosis: pre-macular degeneration.
- There is a giant hole in my field of vision, a symptom of glaucoma, that caused me to flunk my peripheral vision screening. Luckily(?), it is probably caused by a small growth on my left optic nerve.
- I have some kind of health issue (blood pressure/cholesterol/diabetes/thyroid) causing me to have massively dry eyes, which leads to
- Calluses! On my eyeballs! On the up side, the calluses probably keep me from feeling how uncomfortable my contact lenses are. Um, yay?
- For the first time ever, having my eyes dilated rendered me close to helpless. I was safe to drive my car (distance vision wasn't affected) but couldn't see to sign my name to pay for my appointment. At my weekly lady's lunch afterward, there was much razzing about my blown pupils and did my policeman husband know about my recreational drug use?
On the down side, my contact prescription is so wacked out that they don't have anything even close to my prescription in stock. They sent me home in two ill-fitting contacts that make me squint worse than my outdated prescription did! The special order trail lenses have yet to arrive - a week after the appointment! Blah.
I also discovered that Wester is where every pair of boring glasses frames goes to die. When I finally found a pair that flipped my skirt up, they were CRAZY expensive and the shop didn't take my pidly insurance. More blah.
I guess I'll be experimenting with a little internet frame shopping. I just hope I can find something to accommodate my massive cranium. As most women's glasses make me look like I wandered into the kids' department, that will be yet another adventure. I am hoping to find some really funky cat-eye frames. Rhinestones a total plus!
What the heck happened? On the inside I'm still just a kid! Will someone send the memo to the rest of me? Thanks.
7.07.2010
Spitting Mad
Neighbor Kid is at it again! Today when he came to play in our back yard - because we have cool stuff to play on - he got Holly all wound up. Again. And went crying home when she got all jumpy. Again. This time, instead of threatening to sue us, he told Z that if Holly 'attacked' him again, she would be taken away from us.
I want to throttle this kid! So now, not only is he bossing my kids around in their own yard, he is threatening to have their dog taken away. Grrr!
I understand that there aren't a lot of kids out here in the sticks and my kids are the only game in town as far as playmates go, but if he is such a sissified scaredy-cat, he needs to quit coming over to the no-weenie-zone that is our back yard. Big dogs live here. Over-zealous dog-affection is the price of admission to the fun toys.
Neighbor Kid has now announced that his 'family rule' is that he is only allowed to play with Z and Q in the front yard. Z and Q are only allowed out front if T and/or I are out front, too. Maybe that will squelch Z's fascination with all things NK.
Because the other day at McDonald's? She asked me when she would be old enough to go out on a date with him. I told her that since he will always be three years older than she is, she will never be old enough to date him. Z totally didn't buy it. She said she would just wait until she was a grown-up and go on a date with him then. Just! Kill! Me!
I want to throttle this kid! So now, not only is he bossing my kids around in their own yard, he is threatening to have their dog taken away. Grrr!
I understand that there aren't a lot of kids out here in the sticks and my kids are the only game in town as far as playmates go, but if he is such a sissified scaredy-cat, he needs to quit coming over to the no-weenie-zone that is our back yard. Big dogs live here. Over-zealous dog-affection is the price of admission to the fun toys.
Neighbor Kid has now announced that his 'family rule' is that he is only allowed to play with Z and Q in the front yard. Z and Q are only allowed out front if T and/or I are out front, too. Maybe that will squelch Z's fascination with all things NK.
Because the other day at McDonald's? She asked me when she would be old enough to go out on a date with him. I told her that since he will always be three years older than she is, she will never be old enough to date him. Z totally didn't buy it. She said she would just wait until she was a grown-up and go on a date with him then. Just! Kill! Me!
1.25.2010
Disappointed
While we were away there were crews in and out of our every day. Our contractor was a sheriff's deputy for 27 years, so we had no fears for our worldly possessions. So can anyone explain what happened to the ten pound jar of change in T's office? We turned the house upside down looking for it. It would be kind of hard to miss a two quart glass jar filled with change, don't you think? We just couldn't bring ourselves to believe that one of the workers would steal from us - but the evidence indicates they did.
During the uncomfortable phone call to Eldon that followed our unfortunate discovery, he told T that this was the first time he had anything go missing in 30 years of construction. Dude! Isn't the addition expensive enough without having to fear for our spare change? Gah!
Oh, and, worker dude? Could you not go in my cabinets (!) and take my most delicate glassware outside? And leave it on the picnic table? During a wind storm? Or drink the last of our orange juice and leave your glass teetering on the edge of the sink? Thanks.
During the uncomfortable phone call to Eldon that followed our unfortunate discovery, he told T that this was the first time he had anything go missing in 30 years of construction. Dude! Isn't the addition expensive enough without having to fear for our spare change? Gah!
Oh, and, worker dude? Could you not go in my cabinets (!) and take my most delicate glassware outside? And leave it on the picnic table? During a wind storm? Or drink the last of our orange juice and leave your glass teetering on the edge of the sink? Thanks.
12.10.2009
Bah Humbug.
***WARNING***
The following post involves money and bickering and other assorted whining. It is a buzz kill. If you are feeling chipper, move on. I'll see you tomorrow.
Ah, the Christmas season! The tree! The lights! The annual fight about money! Good times. Seriously, I might just have an aneurysm if T whines about buying gifts for my family again. No, wait. He already did! Arrg!
Like I'm just throwing money out the window! I have a budget for each person and I stick to it. I look for good deals. I use coupons. I. am. responsible. with. money. This year I even cut WAY back on purchases for the kids. Of course, it is easy for him to complain about my spending because he is completely excused from Christmas shopping for the masses. He is only responsible for me and any armaments/hunting gear that his dad might need.
He even came back and apologized after the initial freak out. I imagine it did look like a lot all at once. But even so, I had a full head of righteously indignant steam going for most of the afternoon. On the plus side, you can now get two cars into our garage. I worked off my mood viciously culling the flotsam that has accumulated in the garage since the move.
Also? I unpacked the liquor. I may need it.
12.06.2009
Below the Belt
Backstory: Our lab, Blackie, has separation anxiety so extreme that she is anxious even when we are home. She follows me from room to room everywhere I go. If she could insert herself under my skin, or bond with me at the molecular level, her anxieties might possibly be eased. As both of these options break the laws of physics, I guess I am stuck with my furry shadow. This wouldn't be a problem except that a.) our kitchen was designed by a sadist and becomes impassable if more than one person enters it and b.) Blackie tends to lie down about three inches behind my feet when I am working at the counter, so when I take a step back she gets stepped on and I take a header into the counters. Good times.
So today I had a brainstorm and placed a little rug in the kitchen, but out of the traffic pattern, for Blackie to lay down on. When she gets in my way, I tell her to go to her rug and pat/praise her copiously when she does. I am guardedly optimistic that this plan could keep us both out of casts.
Anyhoo, back to the below-the-belt-y-ness. When T got back from his weekend of hunting (no resentment here! Nuh uh! Bring on the single parenting!) I told him that I was trying a little experiment in the kitchen.
Completely deadpan, he looked me in the eye and said, "What? Cleaning?"
And then didn't understand why I didn't think that was as funny as he did. Of course, I am the first to admit that I am not a good housekeeper, but when he added insult to injury by tacking on "I've cleaned the kitchen more than you have this week!" it was all I could do not to pinch his head off (to borrow a phrase from my mother).
I guess he thinks magic elves come and put the dishes in the dishwasher and then unload it again. And that he has accomplished something amazing by putting his (many) dishes near (not in) the dishwasher. Does he think that dishes don't accumulate over the day and that maybe that plate sitting out is from lunch and not the night before? Aaaarg! That I have loaded the dishwasher today - possibly multiple times! - but those darn kids just insist on eating regularly? What really irks me is that I produce less than 20% of the dirty dishes but take care of well over 95%? Isn't there another adult in this house who could run the dishwasher?
I'm all bent out of shape, but I know that he didn't mean for me to take his seriously. He thought he was being hilarious and cracked himself up for ten minutes. Still. Humph.
So today I had a brainstorm and placed a little rug in the kitchen, but out of the traffic pattern, for Blackie to lay down on. When she gets in my way, I tell her to go to her rug and pat/praise her copiously when she does. I am guardedly optimistic that this plan could keep us both out of casts.
Anyhoo, back to the below-the-belt-y-ness. When T got back from his weekend of hunting (no resentment here! Nuh uh! Bring on the single parenting!) I told him that I was trying a little experiment in the kitchen.
Completely deadpan, he looked me in the eye and said, "What? Cleaning?"
And then didn't understand why I didn't think that was as funny as he did. Of course, I am the first to admit that I am not a good housekeeper, but when he added insult to injury by tacking on "I've cleaned the kitchen more than you have this week!" it was all I could do not to pinch his head off (to borrow a phrase from my mother).
I guess he thinks magic elves come and put the dishes in the dishwasher and then unload it again. And that he has accomplished something amazing by putting his (many) dishes near (not in) the dishwasher. Does he think that dishes don't accumulate over the day and that maybe that plate sitting out is from lunch and not the night before? Aaaarg! That I have loaded the dishwasher today - possibly multiple times! - but those darn kids just insist on eating regularly? What really irks me is that I produce less than 20% of the dirty dishes but take care of well over 95%? Isn't there another adult in this house who could run the dishwasher?
I'm all bent out of shape, but I know that he didn't mean for me to take his seriously. He thought he was being hilarious and cracked himself up for ten minutes. Still. Humph.
10.27.2009
Lucky They Survived
I am a single parent again. T went off for more training in Austin yesterday, though luckily just until Thursday this time. So I was by myself for dinnertime this evening. We were having a pleasant meal (chicken in garlic sauce with pasta) that met with everyone's approval. As we were finishing up the meal, nature called.
I hustled off to the bathroom secure in the knowledge that Q wastrapped, I mean strapped in his chair and could not do any harm to himself or others. Z has been so well behaved for the last several days that I was beginning to wonder where my daughter went.
Shows what I know. She's baaa-aack! Evil Z flew in on her broom with her sidekick Cruel Q close behind while I was on the pot. I heard them fussing at each other, but thought little of it. When I came around the corner to the kitchen, Z jumped back and couldn't start talking fast enough.
"Qstabbedthetablewithhisforkandthenhescratcheditup!!"
It took a second for my Evil-to-English translator to understand the meaning: Q stabbed the table with his fork and then scratched it up. Before the translation even had time to register, the proof was right there before my eyes.
When we moved to Wester, the kids started using regular utensils. (I figured it would improve their meat/veg stabbing abilities, which it did.) Unfortunately, the stabbing skill seems to also apply to antique Duncan Phyfe formal dining room tables that have been pressed into service as kitchen tables because we don't have a formal dining room in this house and the steel and glass breakfast table can go on the screen porch. (My brain was screaming, "See? See, T? This is why we needed a casual table for the dining area even though the formal one fits just fine. See?!?)
I scooped a very startled Q out of his seat, gave his rump a swat and deposited his crying self in his room with the instructions not to come out. Lather, rinse, repeat when I came back to the kitchen and further examined the damage. I saw that even though Z was quick to point the finger at her brother, there were stab wounds on parts of the table only she could reach. Off to her room with her.
At this point, I call T to simmer down and complain about the trials of parenting while flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for the local gypsies to come take mybeasties children away. Once I had calmed down, I decided that even though bed time was hours away and it was full light outside, the children needed to go to bed NOW.
I didn't even let them come out to brush their teeth. I brought their toothbrushes to their rooms with no-fluoride toothpaste so they didn't have to spit or rinse. Brush, book, bed in ten minutes flat. No singing or tickle fights. I did tell them that even when I was mad - and I was MAD - I still loved them.
Sometimes it is just a little more difficult.
I hustled off to the bathroom secure in the knowledge that Q was
Shows what I know. She's baaa-aack! Evil Z flew in on her broom with her sidekick Cruel Q close behind while I was on the pot. I heard them fussing at each other, but thought little of it. When I came around the corner to the kitchen, Z jumped back and couldn't start talking fast enough.
"Qstabbedthetablewithhisforkandthenhescratcheditup!!"
It took a second for my Evil-to-English translator to understand the meaning: Q stabbed the table with his fork and then scratched it up. Before the translation even had time to register, the proof was right there before my eyes.
When we moved to Wester, the kids started using regular utensils. (I figured it would improve their meat/veg stabbing abilities, which it did.) Unfortunately, the stabbing skill seems to also apply to antique Duncan Phyfe formal dining room tables that have been pressed into service as kitchen tables because we don't have a formal dining room in this house and the steel and glass breakfast table can go on the screen porch. (My brain was screaming, "See? See, T? This is why we needed a casual table for the dining area even though the formal one fits just fine. See?!?)
I scooped a very startled Q out of his seat, gave his rump a swat and deposited his crying self in his room with the instructions not to come out. Lather, rinse, repeat when I came back to the kitchen and further examined the damage. I saw that even though Z was quick to point the finger at her brother, there were stab wounds on parts of the table only she could reach. Off to her room with her.
At this point, I call T to simmer down and complain about the trials of parenting while flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for the local gypsies to come take my
I didn't even let them come out to brush their teeth. I brought their toothbrushes to their rooms with no-fluoride toothpaste so they didn't have to spit or rinse. Brush, book, bed in ten minutes flat. No singing or tickle fights. I did tell them that even when I was mad - and I was MAD - I still loved them.
Sometimes it is just a little more difficult.
6.03.2009
@#$%&!
Sorry for the less than lovely appearance of my blog today. Blank-ity blank Blogger is making me crazy! In a bone-headed mistake, I deleted my background. Now, when I try to reinstall it? No dice. I have been sitting here for the last two hours trying every type of code I could find to make my crazy circles reappear to no avail. I am sure I am making some silly error, so I will come back and try again tomorrow. Rats! I hate it when the bloggy isn't pretty!
5.01.2009
Super Bug!
Faster than a speeding hypodermic needle! Stronger than the smell of ammonia! It's a flu! It's a plague! It's SUPER BUG!
I went to see my nurse practitioner yesterday. I needed a blood draw to check my thyroid levels, but while I was there she did all of the other check-up-y things. She couldn't help but notice that I had this mean mamma-jamma of a cold. She asked a few pointed questions to rule out Swine Flu, then moved on to discuss my ongoing battle with the pharmacy. (My Ob/Gyn and my nurse practitioner have the same last name, though only distantly related. The Ob/Gyn wrote my original thyroid prescriptions. Once I transferred this aspect of my care to my NP, the pharmacy has NEVER, not even once, gotten my prescription right. Arg.)
Anyhoo, she was asking me if I wanted to continue using the Wal-Mart pharmacy (see? Using the real name as payback for bad service! Heh!) to pick up my antibiotic and my new thyroid scrip. What... huh? She just slipped that antibiotic into the conversation without any preamble.
I was all, "Antibiotic? For what?" Because even though I have had no medical training, I know that antibiotics don't do any good for a VIRUS.
She looked up from her clipboard, clearly surprised. "Well, you said you had some sinus pressure several days ago. It will help clear that up..." She trailed off at what must have been my obviously incredulous face. "Um, I could give you some samples?" I guess she thought I didn't want to pay for the prescription! Clearly most of her patients must pressure her for antibiotics. I was an anomaly.
I told her that I would prefer to avoid antibiotics unless there was a clear reason to take them (keeping to myself that she hadn't done any of the appropriate exam/bloodwork to see if an antibiotic was even warranted). She ended up sending me how with Singulair samples "to dry up that drainage." Isn't Singulair an allergy medicine? And I have a cold?
Am I the only one who is okay with walking out of a doctor's office without drugs? It's a cold! It requires chicken soup and orange juice and lots of sitting on the couch watching back-logged Tivo. Not antibiotics! Not allergy medicine!
No wonder we are breeding super bugs.
I went to see my nurse practitioner yesterday. I needed a blood draw to check my thyroid levels, but while I was there she did all of the other check-up-y things. She couldn't help but notice that I had this mean mamma-jamma of a cold. She asked a few pointed questions to rule out Swine Flu, then moved on to discuss my ongoing battle with the pharmacy. (My Ob/Gyn and my nurse practitioner have the same last name, though only distantly related. The Ob/Gyn wrote my original thyroid prescriptions. Once I transferred this aspect of my care to my NP, the pharmacy has NEVER, not even once, gotten my prescription right. Arg.)
Anyhoo, she was asking me if I wanted to continue using the Wal-Mart pharmacy (see? Using the real name as payback for bad service! Heh!) to pick up my antibiotic and my new thyroid scrip. What... huh? She just slipped that antibiotic into the conversation without any preamble.
I was all, "Antibiotic? For what?" Because even though I have had no medical training, I know that antibiotics don't do any good for a VIRUS.
She looked up from her clipboard, clearly surprised. "Well, you said you had some sinus pressure several days ago. It will help clear that up..." She trailed off at what must have been my obviously incredulous face. "Um, I could give you some samples?" I guess she thought I didn't want to pay for the prescription! Clearly most of her patients must pressure her for antibiotics. I was an anomaly.
I told her that I would prefer to avoid antibiotics unless there was a clear reason to take them (keeping to myself that she hadn't done any of the appropriate exam/bloodwork to see if an antibiotic was even warranted). She ended up sending me how with Singulair samples "to dry up that drainage." Isn't Singulair an allergy medicine? And I have a cold?
Am I the only one who is okay with walking out of a doctor's office without drugs? It's a cold! It requires chicken soup and orange juice and lots of sitting on the couch watching back-logged Tivo. Not antibiotics! Not allergy medicine!
No wonder we are breeding super bugs.
1.22.2009
For Sale: One Kid. Defiant. Mouthy. (written on 1.15)
I am glad to see the sun go down on this day. It was a LOOOONG drive to the ranch, made longer by Z’s near constant refrains of “I’m hungry” and “How much longer?” interspersed with seat kicking and “I want to get OOUUTTTT!”
Holy Hannah, I don’t know when I’ve seen so much blatant defiance radiating from one kid. She would say for the millionth time, “When can we eeeaattt?” and I would tell her that we would eat when we got to the next stopping place. Ten seconds later, “I want to eeeaatttt!” but if you offered her a sandwich, she would immediately backtrack and say she wasn’t hungry. She wanted a cookie.
She objected to every suggestion/request/order/command that was given to her by any adult in the car. The blatant disrespect she showed her grandmother – who allowed it! – made me see red.
In my former life as a teacher, I could handle anything but outright defiance. If a kid looked me in the eye and flouted my authority, I would see red and get. Really. Scary. Kids did not often defy me. Interestingly, I was not a yeller. I ran my classroom without raising my voice except on rare occasions.
Somehow in becoming a parent I have completely lost my how-to-deal-without-losing-my-shit gene. Outright defiance is a daily occurrence at our house. As is yelling and ever escalating consequences. My child has NO fear of any outcome of her behavior and would rather do what she wants and take the punishment than live within our family’s fairly easygoing boundaries. No amount of discussion/persuasion/consequence seems to make a dent in her hard little head.
I know that she is a precocious three-year-old and not an entirely rational being, but I just don’t understand her drive to have her way and damn the consequences. Why can’t she see how much more pleasant her life would be if she would just do what she’s asked/stop hitting her brother/stop breaking everything she touches? Why?
As I said, I am glad today is over. Maybe tomorrow she will be over what ever bee she had in her bonnet today. Man, I hope so.
Holy Hannah, I don’t know when I’ve seen so much blatant defiance radiating from one kid. She would say for the millionth time, “When can we eeeaattt?” and I would tell her that we would eat when we got to the next stopping place. Ten seconds later, “I want to eeeaatttt!” but if you offered her a sandwich, she would immediately backtrack and say she wasn’t hungry. She wanted a cookie.
She objected to every suggestion/request/order/command that was given to her by any adult in the car. The blatant disrespect she showed her grandmother – who allowed it! – made me see red.
In my former life as a teacher, I could handle anything but outright defiance. If a kid looked me in the eye and flouted my authority, I would see red and get. Really. Scary. Kids did not often defy me. Interestingly, I was not a yeller. I ran my classroom without raising my voice except on rare occasions.
Somehow in becoming a parent I have completely lost my how-to-deal-without-losing-my-shit gene. Outright defiance is a daily occurrence at our house. As is yelling and ever escalating consequences. My child has NO fear of any outcome of her behavior and would rather do what she wants and take the punishment than live within our family’s fairly easygoing boundaries. No amount of discussion/persuasion/consequence seems to make a dent in her hard little head.
I know that she is a precocious three-year-old and not an entirely rational being, but I just don’t understand her drive to have her way and damn the consequences. Why can’t she see how much more pleasant her life would be if she would just do what she’s asked/stop hitting her brother/stop breaking everything she touches? Why?
As I said, I am glad today is over. Maybe tomorrow she will be over what ever bee she had in her bonnet today. Man, I hope so.
12.18.2008
Rage Against the (Sewing) Machine
My husband is a good guy. A good husband even. But this evening I could cheerfully stab him with a fork.
He seems to be stuck in some freaky 1950's microcosm where he believes that his responsibilities are over when he walks through the door of the house. Not exactly the helpmate one might wish for. It all started off innocently enough. He was cheerful when he got home from work. He'd had a good day and doesn't have to work tomorrow. He suggested we order a pizza. Nice. I love any meal I don't have to cook!
Things started going downhill when he got back from picking up the pizzas. We were having family date night (a movie and pizza on the couch). He came in, fixed his plate and sat down on the couch. Then he got all miffed when I had the audacity to make him wait while I got the kids' dinners ready. Grrr! So sorry I want to feed my children a vegetable or cut their food into smaller pieces so they don't choke to death.
Dinner goes without (much) incident. Z had been hounding us to put "ornderments" on the tree, so we let her put on the non-breakable ones. When she was finished, she came over and flopped on the couch next to T. Not one to be left out, Q walked over and leaned against his legs. Sweet, right? Well, T gets up and huffs about going somewhere where people aren't crawling all over him. Uh, what? YOU ARE A PARENT. YOUR CHILDREN ARE GOING TO CRAWL ON YOU. Perhaps this is a newsflash to him.
At this point, it was bedtime anyway, so I asked him to watch Q (who had been bathed earlier after an exploding diaper incident) while I gave Z a bath. "Oh, all right. But hurry. I was thinking about going to bed." It was 8:00. Poor pitiful Pearl. He was too tired after his long day of making phone calls and writing reports to sit on the couch with a 22-month-old. Really?
Let's compare days, shall we? Up at 7:00, make breakfast for everyone, put in a load of laundry, all with two kids and two dogs under foot. Create gift tags for Z's gifts to her classmates, print, cut, attach said tags to a dozen ornaments. Box up Christmas Crunch for Z's teacher and wrap the rest of her gift. Pack up cookies for the class, Z's (late) homework project, classmate gifts and teacher gift.
Hustle kids upstairs and get both dressed, including doing Z's hair. No time for a shower! (When was the last time I showered?) Take a bird bath standing at the sink, throw on appropriately Christmas-y clothes, slap on some make-up. Herd children into the car. Speed to school because despite your best efforts, you are running late. Again. Remember half way there that your camera is not in your purse. No time to go get it.
Arrive at party as other kids are starting to sing their Christmas songs. Corral Q, who was stealing the show and/or distracting the class. Help distribute food. Put gifts and cookies into cubbies. Keep Q from running out into the hall. Help clean up. Drag reluctant offspring to car once party is finished.
Drive home. Put uncooperative children down for naps: reading, rocking, singing, shushing. Re-hang garland on tree. Address 90(!) Christmas cards and 11 packages. Surf a little. More laundry. Find Q standing in his crib with poop running down his legs (we've got that constipation problem beat!). Attempt to clean him up on the changing table. Give up and give him a full bath in the tub. Prepare snacks for grumpy post-nap babies. Scan photos from others' Christmas cars for digital photo album.
And T says he's tired?
After I got the kids down for the night, I came down to start on the housework I had been putting off all day. T shuffled off to take a shower. (Sure, I can't remember the last time I showered and he bathes at least twice a day.) He redeems himself a little later. He came down and gave me a hug as I was doing dishes and apologized for being tired and cranky. He then asked if I was coming up to bed. I told him that I wasn't because my kingdom was a disaster and I needed to clean. Then he blew it by saying, "I just walk around the house with my eyes closed, these days. There is just no way you can keep it clean," and he walked back upstairs.
What? No way to keep it clean? Really? Maybe you could put a dish in the dishwasher once in a while. Or pick up a toy. Or, god forbid, change a diaper. Aaarg! I was seeing red. So he went off to bed and I stayed up and cleaned the kitchen. And living room. And did laundry.
And blogged. Thanks for sticking with me through this rant.
Since I am feeling all rant-y, it makes me wonder if my meds need tweaking. (My depression manifests as anger.) It is a stressful time of year. That's the sucky part about The Crazy. It makes you second guess yourself. Was T really so unreasonable? or was it just the depression rearing its ugly head? I'm pretty sure it's the former. But I'll pay closer attention.
He seems to be stuck in some freaky 1950's microcosm where he believes that his responsibilities are over when he walks through the door of the house. Not exactly the helpmate one might wish for. It all started off innocently enough. He was cheerful when he got home from work. He'd had a good day and doesn't have to work tomorrow. He suggested we order a pizza. Nice. I love any meal I don't have to cook!
Things started going downhill when he got back from picking up the pizzas. We were having family date night (a movie and pizza on the couch). He came in, fixed his plate and sat down on the couch. Then he got all miffed when I had the audacity to make him wait while I got the kids' dinners ready. Grrr! So sorry I want to feed my children a vegetable or cut their food into smaller pieces so they don't choke to death.
Dinner goes without (much) incident. Z had been hounding us to put "ornderments" on the tree, so we let her put on the non-breakable ones. When she was finished, she came over and flopped on the couch next to T. Not one to be left out, Q walked over and leaned against his legs. Sweet, right? Well, T gets up and huffs about going somewhere where people aren't crawling all over him. Uh, what? YOU ARE A PARENT. YOUR CHILDREN ARE GOING TO CRAWL ON YOU. Perhaps this is a newsflash to him.
At this point, it was bedtime anyway, so I asked him to watch Q (who had been bathed earlier after an exploding diaper incident) while I gave Z a bath. "Oh, all right. But hurry. I was thinking about going to bed." It was 8:00. Poor pitiful Pearl. He was too tired after his long day of making phone calls and writing reports to sit on the couch with a 22-month-old. Really?
Let's compare days, shall we? Up at 7:00, make breakfast for everyone, put in a load of laundry, all with two kids and two dogs under foot. Create gift tags for Z's gifts to her classmates, print, cut, attach said tags to a dozen ornaments. Box up Christmas Crunch for Z's teacher and wrap the rest of her gift. Pack up cookies for the class, Z's (late) homework project, classmate gifts and teacher gift.
Hustle kids upstairs and get both dressed, including doing Z's hair. No time for a shower! (When was the last time I showered?) Take a bird bath standing at the sink, throw on appropriately Christmas-y clothes, slap on some make-up. Herd children into the car. Speed to school because despite your best efforts, you are running late. Again. Remember half way there that your camera is not in your purse. No time to go get it.
Arrive at party as other kids are starting to sing their Christmas songs. Corral Q, who was stealing the show and/or distracting the class. Help distribute food. Put gifts and cookies into cubbies. Keep Q from running out into the hall. Help clean up. Drag reluctant offspring to car once party is finished.
Drive home. Put uncooperative children down for naps: reading, rocking, singing, shushing. Re-hang garland on tree. Address 90(!) Christmas cards and 11 packages. Surf a little. More laundry. Find Q standing in his crib with poop running down his legs (we've got that constipation problem beat!). Attempt to clean him up on the changing table. Give up and give him a full bath in the tub. Prepare snacks for grumpy post-nap babies. Scan photos from others' Christmas cars for digital photo album.
And T says he's tired?
After I got the kids down for the night, I came down to start on the housework I had been putting off all day. T shuffled off to take a shower. (Sure, I can't remember the last time I showered and he bathes at least twice a day.) He redeems himself a little later. He came down and gave me a hug as I was doing dishes and apologized for being tired and cranky. He then asked if I was coming up to bed. I told him that I wasn't because my kingdom was a disaster and I needed to clean. Then he blew it by saying, "I just walk around the house with my eyes closed, these days. There is just no way you can keep it clean," and he walked back upstairs.
What? No way to keep it clean? Really? Maybe you could put a dish in the dishwasher once in a while. Or pick up a toy. Or, god forbid, change a diaper. Aaarg! I was seeing red. So he went off to bed and I stayed up and cleaned the kitchen. And living room. And did laundry.
And blogged. Thanks for sticking with me through this rant.
Since I am feeling all rant-y, it makes me wonder if my meds need tweaking. (My depression manifests as anger.) It is a stressful time of year. That's the sucky part about The Crazy. It makes you second guess yourself. Was T really so unreasonable? or was it just the depression rearing its ugly head? I'm pretty sure it's the former. But I'll pay closer attention.
12.11.2008
Square Marbles
Around our house, when we talk about bad days, we say that our marbles just won't roll. We have abbrieviated that to square marble days. Today was the quintessential square marble day for me.
It started out well enough. The kids let me sleep until 7:00 or so and ate their breakfasts without much complaint. I got on the (SLOW) internet at my in-law's and found the directions to the warehouse where I get to pick up T's big Christmas gift. When the printer was out of ink, I should have known what I was in for.
I hurriedly scribbled down the directions and herded the kids into my car. I had done some rudimentary measurements and decided that a recliner could fit into the back of my Ford Freestyle. I figured that as a worst case scenario I could scoot a carseat over and fold 1/3 of the backseat down. No problem.
The day was clear and traffic was light. We made it to the warehouse without incident. Well except that Q fell asleep. No nap for him! We went in and the gals at the counter were very nice. Even when the afore mentioned napless toddler had a tantrum on the floor then went to the water cooler and made a giant mess. Soon they had me sign a paper and we were off to the loading dock to get the chair. Wow, that was easy!
Um, except the box they wheeled out was the size of my first car. The guy was very helpful, and even took it out of the box to see if we could shoe-horn it in that way, but no dice. It was simply too big to fit into the back of a small-ish SUV.
So we had to drive all the way back home to get another larger vehicle to go retrieve the chair. And unlike Small Town, all the way home was 22 miles or so. And there was a wreck. The formerly clear highway was at a standstill. It took us over an hour to get home. Ack! With Z asking about every 30 seconds if it is time to eat yet. Imagine that episode of the Simpsons where Bart and Lisa are asking to go to the amusement park. I never felt so much empathy for Homer!
When we get back to Casa de In-law, I have to install carseats into the grandparental car, which took an age. I am not used to their baby seats, but I didn't want to take ours out of my car. When I get that done, I change Q's diaper and load the munchkins up (again).
Z requested McD's for lunch, but we had eaten there two days previously and I just wasn't up for it again. I decided to head to the food court and the play area at the mall. We were cruising the parking garage when we started smelling a terrible smell. I was thinking to myself, "Wow, there must be a sewer leak. I'll have to be sure to park far away from it."
I park and pull out the stroller and open the door to unload Q. OMFG! My beautiful little boy has turned into a pretty little poop machine*. Danger! Danger! He has dug both hands into his diaper (damn his big boy Levi's!) and has rubbed it all over his belly, up his arms, on his seat, and all over his clothes. Of course, since I had just changed him, I had forgetten to throw in the diaper bag, and there wouldn't have been a change of clothes in it in any case.
The stroller goes back into the car and we head back to home base. Upon further inspection, there was nothing for it but that Q had to be bathed. Oh, the humanity! His skin was absolutely stained with poop. Even after a very thorough washing, I kept getting whiffs of merde. Lovely. And we get to drive home today. Yay!
Back to the mall. Eat lunch. It takes some doing, but both kids eventually eat a decent meal. Or at least as decent as is available at the mall food court. Z flat out refused to go see Santa, which was a pity because there was NO line to speak of, and we headed over to the (germ infested) play area.
In a departure from the rest of the day, the play area was great. Not too crowded, but with a number of kids just the right age for Z and Q to play with. Q did manage to escape a time or two when I was talking to Z, but he didn't get far. Turns out I can run if the situation demands it! I'm sure my knees/boobs will tell me about it tommorow.
The fun ended when it was time to go, both for the children and for me. Z decided to engage in some flat out defiance and refused to come get her shoes on. Q kept jumping out of the stroller and trying to run back into the play area. I finally browbeat the two of them into the family restroom - which was awesome! Grown-up and tiny potties! - and discover that I had, erm, intestinal distress from eating too many apricots. Great.
By the time we are bound for furniture pick-up it is 4:00. Ginormousville rush-hour traffic is starting to ramp up. In spite of this, we make decent time going accross town, but let us just say I was in a hurry to get there. I was afraid to fart. The ladies at the warehouse are surprised to see me back, but I assure them I don't want to pay $80+ for delivery.
The loading dude wheels out the gigantic box and takes one look at the Expedition and shakes his head. I was all, "But I called and the guy said it would fit! Can we take it out of the box?" We did. And it fit. Barely. Whew. My kids would have learned some new words if it hadn't.
We crawl back home in stop-and-go traffic. I feel crippled because I can't see out of the rearview mirror and the giant SUV has blind spots that elephants could walk through. Yes, I was the one in the giant copper-colored car putting on my blinker a mile before my lane changes and hoping for the best as I eased over. Good times.
When we at last return to Grandma's house, I discover that Q has had another blowout. And then another. And another. His baboon butt is back and he howls with each wipe. It became clear that we were marooned in Ginormousville for one more night.
I am totally bummed. T was finally going to be home and I was looking forward to a great big hug. As it is, Z will miss school tomorrow and T will be at work when we get home. The world was just agin' me today.
The good news? Tomorrow has to be better.
*How hip am I? Slipping in a little NIN reference.
It started out well enough. The kids let me sleep until 7:00 or so and ate their breakfasts without much complaint. I got on the (SLOW) internet at my in-law's and found the directions to the warehouse where I get to pick up T's big Christmas gift. When the printer was out of ink, I should have known what I was in for.
I hurriedly scribbled down the directions and herded the kids into my car. I had done some rudimentary measurements and decided that a recliner could fit into the back of my Ford Freestyle. I figured that as a worst case scenario I could scoot a carseat over and fold 1/3 of the backseat down. No problem.
The day was clear and traffic was light. We made it to the warehouse without incident. Well except that Q fell asleep. No nap for him! We went in and the gals at the counter were very nice. Even when the afore mentioned napless toddler had a tantrum on the floor then went to the water cooler and made a giant mess. Soon they had me sign a paper and we were off to the loading dock to get the chair. Wow, that was easy!
Um, except the box they wheeled out was the size of my first car. The guy was very helpful, and even took it out of the box to see if we could shoe-horn it in that way, but no dice. It was simply too big to fit into the back of a small-ish SUV.
So we had to drive all the way back home to get another larger vehicle to go retrieve the chair. And unlike Small Town, all the way home was 22 miles or so. And there was a wreck. The formerly clear highway was at a standstill. It took us over an hour to get home. Ack! With Z asking about every 30 seconds if it is time to eat yet. Imagine that episode of the Simpsons where Bart and Lisa are asking to go to the amusement park. I never felt so much empathy for Homer!
When we get back to Casa de In-law, I have to install carseats into the grandparental car, which took an age. I am not used to their baby seats, but I didn't want to take ours out of my car. When I get that done, I change Q's diaper and load the munchkins up (again).
Z requested McD's for lunch, but we had eaten there two days previously and I just wasn't up for it again. I decided to head to the food court and the play area at the mall. We were cruising the parking garage when we started smelling a terrible smell. I was thinking to myself, "Wow, there must be a sewer leak. I'll have to be sure to park far away from it."
I park and pull out the stroller and open the door to unload Q. OMFG! My beautiful little boy has turned into a pretty little poop machine*. Danger! Danger! He has dug both hands into his diaper (damn his big boy Levi's!) and has rubbed it all over his belly, up his arms, on his seat, and all over his clothes. Of course, since I had just changed him, I had forgetten to throw in the diaper bag, and there wouldn't have been a change of clothes in it in any case.
The stroller goes back into the car and we head back to home base. Upon further inspection, there was nothing for it but that Q had to be bathed. Oh, the humanity! His skin was absolutely stained with poop. Even after a very thorough washing, I kept getting whiffs of merde. Lovely. And we get to drive home today. Yay!
Back to the mall. Eat lunch. It takes some doing, but both kids eventually eat a decent meal. Or at least as decent as is available at the mall food court. Z flat out refused to go see Santa, which was a pity because there was NO line to speak of, and we headed over to the (germ infested) play area.
In a departure from the rest of the day, the play area was great. Not too crowded, but with a number of kids just the right age for Z and Q to play with. Q did manage to escape a time or two when I was talking to Z, but he didn't get far. Turns out I can run if the situation demands it! I'm sure my knees/boobs will tell me about it tommorow.
The fun ended when it was time to go, both for the children and for me. Z decided to engage in some flat out defiance and refused to come get her shoes on. Q kept jumping out of the stroller and trying to run back into the play area. I finally browbeat the two of them into the family restroom - which was awesome! Grown-up and tiny potties! - and discover that I had, erm, intestinal distress from eating too many apricots. Great.
By the time we are bound for furniture pick-up it is 4:00. Ginormousville rush-hour traffic is starting to ramp up. In spite of this, we make decent time going accross town, but let us just say I was in a hurry to get there. I was afraid to fart. The ladies at the warehouse are surprised to see me back, but I assure them I don't want to pay $80+ for delivery.
The loading dude wheels out the gigantic box and takes one look at the Expedition and shakes his head. I was all, "But I called and the guy said it would fit! Can we take it out of the box?" We did. And it fit. Barely. Whew. My kids would have learned some new words if it hadn't.
We crawl back home in stop-and-go traffic. I feel crippled because I can't see out of the rearview mirror and the giant SUV has blind spots that elephants could walk through. Yes, I was the one in the giant copper-colored car putting on my blinker a mile before my lane changes and hoping for the best as I eased over. Good times.
When we at last return to Grandma's house, I discover that Q has had another blowout. And then another. And another. His baboon butt is back and he howls with each wipe. It became clear that we were marooned in Ginormousville for one more night.
I am totally bummed. T was finally going to be home and I was looking forward to a great big hug. As it is, Z will miss school tomorrow and T will be at work when we get home. The world was just agin' me today.
The good news? Tomorrow has to be better.
*How hip am I? Slipping in a little NIN reference.
12.05.2008
Good Thing She's Cute
Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But the carpet's so delightful.
Since I know that you love me so,
On the rug, on the rug I will go.
Now that winter has officially begun here in Small Town, the indoor peeing season is upon us. Izzy, the smallest/fattest dog in our herd, is what we like to euphemistically call unreliably house-trained. Her little Pomeranian self is very low to the ground and she really prefers not to have anything brushing her underbelly. God forbid she should get cold or wet!
I guess she is smarter than we are, because every summer we think, "Wow, she's doing really well. I haven't seen a puddle in the house in weeks!" We pat ourselves (and Izzy) on the back and hand out lots of treats as she trots out to the short, dry grass to do her thing. Then, at the first cold snap, Izzy says, "Um, I think I'll just stay in here and pee on the nice wool rug, thanks."
We are SO trashing that rug when we move.
You would think, what with us being at the top of the food chain and all, that we would be able to outsmart (or at least out wait) one tiny little fur ball. You would be wrong. She is wily. At all of eight inches tall, she disappears behind a bush, the retaining wall or a particularly lush (read: unmowed) clump of grass. We go out with her and hang around until all the other dogs have done their thing - or until our lips turn blue and our feet freeze to the deck - and (stupidly) assume that Izzy has, too.
We'd just leave her out there and come back into the house, but out here in the country there is the very real possibility that something could EAT her. (I know for a fact that we have a pair of large owls in the woods behind our house and coyotes are regular visitors to our area. I'd way rather bust out the Nature's Miracle that spring for (another) dog casket. (We lost Izzy's sister when I was seven months pregnant with Z. Horrible. But that's a post for another day.)
So I am resigned to cleaning up puddles until it gets good and warm again. At least she confines herself to one rug in one room. Blah. It is a good thing Izzy is so cute. Otherwise she would make a fine slipper.
Winkflash;) Must Die
I was so proud of myself. I created the entire graphic for our Christmas card this year and placed the order on December 1. Winkflash ;) had the best price out there, and I have to say that the quality of the card I received was great. But this is what came in the mail today:
Seriously? Like I approved this design and paid almost a buck per card for it? Really? There were a bunch of glitches on the site when I was designing the card, but I put it down to quirkiness on the part of my machine. Silly me.
As soon as I opened the (beat to crap) package, I flew to my computer to send a carefully worded e-mail that essentially said, "WTF?!?" in the politest possible terms. Customer service opens tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., and I am fully prepared to throw a white trash scene to get my card put to rights, but I thought I would at least start with an opening volley of civility.
But mostly? I'm so mad I want to spit and/or use words that would make your ears bleed and your hair ignite. Or possibly cry a little. I am only managing to refrain because my dad (Hi, Daddy!) reads my blog.
I am sure it will be all right in the end. I hope. I'll keep you posted.
Seriously? Like I approved this design and paid almost a buck per card for it? Really? There were a bunch of glitches on the site when I was designing the card, but I put it down to quirkiness on the part of my machine. Silly me.
As soon as I opened the (beat to crap) package, I flew to my computer to send a carefully worded e-mail that essentially said, "WTF?!?" in the politest possible terms. Customer service opens tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., and I am fully prepared to throw a white trash scene to get my card put to rights, but I thought I would at least start with an opening volley of civility.
But mostly? I'm so mad I want to spit and/or use words that would make your ears bleed and your hair ignite. Or possibly cry a little. I am only managing to refrain because my dad (Hi, Daddy!) reads my blog.
I am sure it will be all right in the end. I hope. I'll keep you posted.
11.21.2008
Thanksgiving Heartburn
Z had her school's Thanksgiving feast today. I dropped off Z and the cupcakes in the morning, and was to return to help out at 10:45. In the meantime, I needed to get packed up for a week-long trip to visit my dad, straighten up the house so it wouldn't be a mess when we return home, and wash off several days accumulated stink. (Again, my standards of personal cleanliness? Low. Shameful.)
Now, I would like to blame it on T, who called needing paperwork that some brain trust in the department had misplaced, but it was not his fault. I simply couldn't get everything done in the allotted time frame. So I was late. And not just a little late either. Not only did I not arrive early to help set up, but I arrived late enough that the songs had already been sung and the kids were sitting down to eat.
I was just sick. When Z's teacher told me that they had already done the singing, I almost popped a tear. It is my whole job to be there for all of Z's stuff and I had missed it. Z didn't seem phased or disappointed at all, so at least there is that. A couple of the other parents took photos, but no one took a video. So for this party, I get a great big parenting fail. Boo.
I did redeem myself slightly by staying until the bitter end and helping to clean up after a horde of sugar crazed three-year-olds. I would have done that in any case, but still. Sigh.
In different but related news, I met Z's best school friend at the feast. What can I say? Oh, noes! I totally understand why Z is friends with this little girl. She is as precocious and verbal as Z is, leaps and bounds ahead of the other kids in the class. Where the other kids are still speaking practically in grunts, Z and her friend are on a polysyllabic spree.
Where Z's chatter is bossy, but innocent, somehow her little friend seems far too worldly for pre-school. Like she came to their class via pre-school juvie. Like maybe she was grabbing a quick ciggy in the girls' room. For example, as I was helping to clean up the feast, I watched this little girl drag a little boy over to a corner and make him kiss her. OMG! She's three! Now Z has been known to give kisses, but she doesn't demand that the other kids kiss her. There was just something about this little girl that shot up my antennae.
But what do you do about it? It is not like I can tell Z not to play with this girl - that would just make her more irresistible to my hard-headed offspring. Plus she is the only kid in the room with whom Z could hold an actual conversation. She doesn't seem like she'd have a mom who would call me up for a playdate, so Z is only seeing her three mornings per week. I guess I just want Z to stay little for as long as humanly possible.
Now, I would like to blame it on T, who called needing paperwork that some brain trust in the department had misplaced, but it was not his fault. I simply couldn't get everything done in the allotted time frame. So I was late. And not just a little late either. Not only did I not arrive early to help set up, but I arrived late enough that the songs had already been sung and the kids were sitting down to eat.
I was just sick. When Z's teacher told me that they had already done the singing, I almost popped a tear. It is my whole job to be there for all of Z's stuff and I had missed it. Z didn't seem phased or disappointed at all, so at least there is that. A couple of the other parents took photos, but no one took a video. So for this party, I get a great big parenting fail. Boo.
I did redeem myself slightly by staying until the bitter end and helping to clean up after a horde of sugar crazed three-year-olds. I would have done that in any case, but still. Sigh.
* ** *** ** *
In different but related news, I met Z's best school friend at the feast. What can I say? Oh, noes! I totally understand why Z is friends with this little girl. She is as precocious and verbal as Z is, leaps and bounds ahead of the other kids in the class. Where the other kids are still speaking practically in grunts, Z and her friend are on a polysyllabic spree.
Where Z's chatter is bossy, but innocent, somehow her little friend seems far too worldly for pre-school. Like she came to their class via pre-school juvie. Like maybe she was grabbing a quick ciggy in the girls' room. For example, as I was helping to clean up the feast, I watched this little girl drag a little boy over to a corner and make him kiss her. OMG! She's three! Now Z has been known to give kisses, but she doesn't demand that the other kids kiss her. There was just something about this little girl that shot up my antennae.
But what do you do about it? It is not like I can tell Z not to play with this girl - that would just make her more irresistible to my hard-headed offspring. Plus she is the only kid in the room with whom Z could hold an actual conversation. She doesn't seem like she'd have a mom who would call me up for a playdate, so Z is only seeing her three mornings per week. I guess I just want Z to stay little for as long as humanly possible.
11.13.2008
Rant... Sort of
Let me preface this post by saying that I love my husband. He is a good man, a good husband and the love of my life. However, there are days where I am not sure I would pee on him if he was on fire. Today was one of those days.
It all started when he got up this morning. Now I take a lot of ribbing about my status as "not a morning person," but he was really taking the cake. He was stomping around growling at everyone and complaining about how tired he was. This after he went to bed before me and got up after me.
He stomped upstairs and ate his breakfast in our bedroom so that he wouldn't have to deal with the children. If he'd worked yesterday, I might cut him a little slack. He does put his life on the line for a living. But yesterday? He was gone ALL DAY shopping for hunting gear and accessories for his new Jeep. The whole freaking day. Somehow it has never occurred to him that his days off are also potentially my days off. You know, if I weren't a single parent and all. Aaarrg!
He abandoned ship again today after his solitary breakfast, returning home (almost) in time for lunch. He then acted all put out with me because I hadn't planned a hot meal for him. Seriously. Has he met me? Lunch is every man for himself around here. I make meals for the kids, but T? Is grown.
Then there was the classic trash issue. This is the one household chore he is responsible for (because I am even worse at it than he is). I asked him to take out the (overflowing) trash from the kitchen. For the third time. Then he was all, "Oh. You mean now?" I know that it is self defeating of me, but I just can't bring myself to do it for him. I know that if I cave - even once - it will suddenly be my job forever.
After lunch he returned to his usual sweet self. He even apologized for being grumpy all morning. Will the wonders ever cease? Then he redeemed himself fully (despite the fact that he walked away from the dinner table without clearing anything but his single plate) by bringing me a surprise Blizzard. Banana Cream Pie! Yum! Apparently the way to my heart is the drive-through at Dairy Queen.
By the time he was ready for bed, he was back in my good graces. As he was shuffling off, I said, "How can I be all rant-y on my blog when you are being so sweet now?" To which he replied, "You be quiet, woman! And don't you make any noise when you come to bed. And don't ruffle the covers, either. There. Is that better?"
I just love him.
It all started when he got up this morning. Now I take a lot of ribbing about my status as "not a morning person," but he was really taking the cake. He was stomping around growling at everyone and complaining about how tired he was. This after he went to bed before me and got up after me.
He stomped upstairs and ate his breakfast in our bedroom so that he wouldn't have to deal with the children. If he'd worked yesterday, I might cut him a little slack. He does put his life on the line for a living. But yesterday? He was gone ALL DAY shopping for hunting gear and accessories for his new Jeep. The whole freaking day. Somehow it has never occurred to him that his days off are also potentially my days off. You know, if I weren't a single parent and all. Aaarrg!
He abandoned ship again today after his solitary breakfast, returning home (almost) in time for lunch. He then acted all put out with me because I hadn't planned a hot meal for him. Seriously. Has he met me? Lunch is every man for himself around here. I make meals for the kids, but T? Is grown.
Then there was the classic trash issue. This is the one household chore he is responsible for (because I am even worse at it than he is). I asked him to take out the (overflowing) trash from the kitchen. For the third time. Then he was all, "Oh. You mean now?" I know that it is self defeating of me, but I just can't bring myself to do it for him. I know that if I cave - even once - it will suddenly be my job forever.
After lunch he returned to his usual sweet self. He even apologized for being grumpy all morning. Will the wonders ever cease? Then he redeemed himself fully (despite the fact that he walked away from the dinner table without clearing anything but his single plate) by bringing me a surprise Blizzard. Banana Cream Pie! Yum! Apparently the way to my heart is the drive-through at Dairy Queen.
By the time he was ready for bed, he was back in my good graces. As he was shuffling off, I said, "How can I be all rant-y on my blog when you are being so sweet now?" To which he replied, "You be quiet, woman! And don't you make any noise when you come to bed. And don't ruffle the covers, either. There. Is that better?"
I just love him.
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