Thursday, November 4, 2010


Did you know that a 4 year old who doesn't want to go to sleep is really hard to convince otherwise? At least when that 4 year old is, apparently, related to and raised by me.

In the infamous words of Calvin's father, "I wanted to get dachsunds."

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Day 3, Random post 2 - the numbers are not looking good

Thoughts for another night, when I'm not working on China time:

- True confessions of a middle-class woman and her ridiculous access to resources. Oh the guilt.
- "Sonofabitch"
- Unnatural love of ginger ale. (The barrel, the bottom is scraped.)

Wednesdays suck. Wednesdays will continue to suck for the foreseeable future. Note to self, next time you decide to reinvigorate your blog, choose to do so in a month with no Wednesdays.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

What was this blog thing again?

Yesterday, I spent a good deal of time digging through old blog posts looking for something my father was quite certain that I'd written (a story about Brigit pretending to need to pee, only to yell "April Fool's!" - I'm sure she did it, because it is totally something that she'd do, but I never found it), and I was both saddened by the complete and utter dearth of writing in the previous weeks/months/shit, year, and surprised by some of the things that I have written over the past 2+ years.

It seems, from second reading, that this used to be easier. But perhaps that's because I was not rusty then, and oh am I rusty now.

And I don't want to be rusty. It is that time of year again, National Blog Posting Month, my old friend NaBloPoMo, and I have committed to (try to) post every day in November. So far, I'm batting 1000.

(Apologies for gratuitous post to post post. I choose to blame it on the midterms. Tune in tomorrow for more mindless drivel - I'll leave the light on for you.)

Monday, November 1, 2010

Rory, Age 7

"Here, Mom," Rory said, handing me a piece of red yarn. "I snuck this out of music class last year. I thought it would come in handy."
"What's it for?"
"So you can remember me when I'm grown up."

And here is the memory that will be forever contained in this piece of red string:

Me: Don't forget to put your tooth under your pillow.
Rory: I'm pretty sure there are three possibilities for the tooth fairy.
Me: [crap, crap, crap, childhood ending in 3-2-1.]
Me: Really?
Rory: Yes. One - she's real. Two - someone is sneaking into the house in the middle of the night and taking my tooth and leaving money.
Me: But not the tooth fairy?
Rory: [duh]
Me: What's the third option?
Rory: Three - magic.
Me: Isn't the tooth fairy magic?
Rory: [duh] She HAS magic, Mom.
Me: [whew]

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Lessons Learned, 7/4/2010

If you don't want to eat your bbq chicken and yet you still want to have the bribe dessert of ice cream, you would be better served feeding said chicken to the dog instead of dumping it in the garbage can. Because your mother is suspicious and will check. And it's not like she can check inside the dog, now is it?

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Quotes from tonight

"Brigit, don't lick the cheese!"

"Brigit, don't lick that door!"

"Brigit, don't lick the doorknob!"

I sense a theme.

Sunday, June 6, 2010


12 years and 4 days ago, Tyler and I bought a new car. It was a much needed purchase as we were about one week from moving to Texas, also known as the hottest place this side of the sun, and neither of our cars had air conditioning.

12 years and 4 days ago, Tyler and I went to the insurance office to update his policy to cover the new car. Turns out that we would save a bundle if only we were married.

12 years and 4 days ago, Tyler and I decided to get married. Right there in the insurance office in Tremonton, UT.

12 years and 1 day ago, we met our hastily informed and gathered family in the county courthouse.

We were married by a woman wearing a purple Utah Jazz t-shirt and a purple vest covered in pins. We were married by a woman who told me to be sure to sign my new married name on the marriage certficate. When I told her I was keeping my last name, thank you very much, she told me I couldn't. That it was, in fact, state law that I take my husband's name.

We were married by a woman who believed this so deeply that she took the marriage certificate to the county attorney and left our assembled group waiting for 10 minutes, while she checked.

We were married by a woman who, upon learning that while Utah is in fact often a backward place to live, it is in fact legal to not take your husband's last name, asked me, "If you weren't going to change your name, why did you even bother getting married?"

We were married by a woman who would have been deeply shocked had I answered as I wanted to, "You'd prefer we continue living in sin?" Alternate answer, "For the car insurance."

We were married.

11 years and 1 day ago, we did it all over, without the new car, the backward Jazz fan county clerk, and the moving to Texas. To celebrate our marriage the way we originally intended. With the church wedding, the big dress, the bagpipers. The friends and family, the beer and pizza reception (it was really good beer and pizza). The altitude sickness, the Williams & Sonoma glass bowls.

1 day ago, at 12:05:01 AM, I remembered it was our anniversary. 12:05:03 AM, Tyler remembered it was our anniversary. We kissed each other and went to bed. Later, I mowed the lawn.

12 years in, the need to celebrate has faded. But not the marriage.

Happy 12 years and 1 day.

Thursday, May 27, 2010


It began with a TV show, which led to a search, which led to a picture, which led to a memory, which led me here.

This is my grandfather's Marine Corps Dress Uniform from 1958. At the time, he was a Lieutenant Colonel in the 4th Battalion, 12th Marines.

I found this picture in a military collectibles forum where the uniform was being offered for sale. It appears to have been recycled to a Marine Corps Captain.

I do not know my grandfather, Big Lew, as a Marine. I know that he was a Marine in the abstract way that you know your parents went to college. For me, he is Grandpa Poge, who, on the way to Easter vigil when I was 10, taught me how to pronounce the name of his favorite Chinese restaurant, Ho Wah Ta Na Siam.

He is 93 now and is raising hell in a retirement home in Carlsbad, CA. When his doctor told him that he had to cut down to just one glass of wine a night, he asked how big the glass could be.

My grandfather fought in the Pacific during World War II. I knew this. I learned about the battles in AP History in high school, and I thought, "My grandfather made this history."

Several weeks ago, Grandpa was in the hospital, fighting pneumonia. He was given steroids to fight the inflammation in his lungs. The steroids caused hallucinations.

He called my father to tell him how to deploy his artillery for the invasion of Iwo Jima.

I have a thing for war movies, particularly WWII movies. Particularly those set in Europe. I have not watched any movies set in the Pacific theater. I have not watched "The Pacific," despite watching every episode of "Band of Brothers." Because I have not wanted to see what my grandfather lived. What he has not ever talked about, not to me.

And yet.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Well, obviously

Scene: Speech therapy assessment. Rory sits at a table talking about what he sees in a drawing.

Rory: That's crazy! There's a ballerina with hot dogs!
Speech Therapist: Why is that crazy?
Rory: Because usually ballerinas have cupcakes.

Monday, April 5, 2010

I guess you could call it a box, Lord knows it's been called worse

Teeny tiny fact you need to know for this story to make sense: Brigit was born on my 30th birthday. There, that's all.

Brigit: Mom, when did I come?
Me: On your birthday.
Brigit: I didn't come on my birthday, I came on your birthday!
Me: That's right - you were my birthday present!
Brigit: Did I come in a present box?

Sunday, April 4, 2010

I hesitate to use the word "threat," Easter Bunny, so let's just call this a "suggestion"

This is not funny:

Every year, Easter Bunny, every fucking year this happens and I tell you, no more grass. And every year, you're all, "yeah, yeah, the kids, with the thinking they're zombies and strewing the shit all over the house. Yeah, yeah, I'll remember."

But it's not your head they're licking when they moan for brains, now is it?

Maybe this will help you remember next year to skip the grass, Easter Bunny. Mothers and children and defenseless pirate mice are not the only victims of the Evil Grass.

Even though, I grant that from this angle it looks more lamb than rabbit, I assure you, this is one of your kind (cue INXS song stuck in my head).
So, let's talk about next year. I'm not going to threaten you or anything. I mean, it's not like I saved all that grass to use in some sort of Easter bunny booby trap or anything. I'm just going to say it might be "for the best" if you skip the grass next year.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Continuing the cursing education

Rory: Mom, you know how much my head hurts?
Me: How much, hon? Super-much?

Rory: It hurts like a B-I-C-H.


Rory: I know I'm not supposed to say it, but that's how much it hurts.

Once again, the appropriate application of the curse word makes a mom's heart proud.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Methinks someone has been watching a little too much Dinosaur Train

Brigit: Mom, you know what's inside our bodies?
Me: What? (pensively expecting an answer like, "Poo," this having been the general direction of our conversations these days)
Brigit: Bones!
Me: Yes, that's right.
Brigit: Like the dinosaurs. And when you die, you know what happens?
Me: What?
Brigit: You get buried in the ground.
Me: [ah yes, has grasped fossilization, girl is genius, proof of excellent parenting]
Brigit: And then you get eaten by a T-REX!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Road Rage

To the man behind me in the right-hand turn lane at the red light who repeatedly honked his horn, encouraging me to either turn onto a street that was already filled with cars or cut off an approaching car to turn when that same street that was slightly less filled with cars and while I was also right next to a police car - thank you for giving me the opportunity to explain to my children what a jerk is. It is always helpful to have concrete examples when you're trying to explain such an abstract concept.

And thank you also for pulling up next to me once we had both safely and legally turned onto that street and screaming at me from behind your closed window. I thoroughly enjoyed the 30 minute conversation I had to have with my 3 year old, trying to convince her that The Jerk wasn't going to come and hurt her, while alternately agreeing with her that you should go to jail.

Thanks a lot, asshole.

Friday, February 5, 2010

The thing

Here's the thing They don't tell you about parenting. Certainly not in any of the books you read. Of course, if They did tell you, you wouldn't believe them.

Here's the thing They don't tell you about parenting: it will rip your fucking heart out.

A few days ago, Rory told me that he wanted to invent a machine that would let you stay one age for your whole life. The age he chose was 5, when he was in kindergarten only half-day, when he got to stay with us the rest of the time.

School is not going well. My quirky boy is not fitting in so well. School does not play to his strengths - the ability to entertain oneself for hours while imagining the science you'll do when you grow up is not really conducive to the learning. Instead, his inability to catch or hit a ball, his extreme dislike for the sound of children singing, his slow and methodical approach to tasks, an approach that must not be upset, are making it hard for him to learn, hard for him to be like the other children. He is having a hard time.

And to write it all out, to put those quirks into words, or even to say them aloud like I did today to an occupational therapist, it seems obvious, doesn't it? Something is wrong. He needs help. And he is getting help.

But here's the part that rips my heart out - and I know it shouldn't but it does - I didn't realize any of this last month, last year, 3 years ago when he developed an irrational fear of heights, 4 years ago when my once fearless boy stopped hurtling himself through life and became more sedate. He was talking, I thought, and hugging, and loving, and learning, and and and. And I missed it. And how hard has school been for him because I didn't see it?

If I could choose a time for him to be forever, for us to be together forever, I would have chosen when he was 3. Before. Before the things that started happening that I didn't see. Before when my heart lived in him and was safe.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Proof of Life

It's possible that someone drank a little too much sparkling apple juice on New Year's Eve. Maybe.

What, I was totally cleaning my room.

This, right here, is why she doesn't get to wear dresses very often.

* Apologies for absence. We have obviously been alive, but I am feeling haunted since the trial ended.