Apparently, Zipper (aka Brigit's bum, because who doesn't name their body parts and then create entire separate lives for them??) has been experiencing an uptick in visitors lately. We have Zipper conversations daily (which, by the way, you're welcome for not sharing the exact same story every single freakin' day) but this morning, there were some new parties. It seems that times are tough for Goblin, what with the needing to use a little ladder to get that muddy snowball in position, so Goblin has taken on help. In the form of a dog and a wolf. I'm not sure exactly what the dog and wolf do, they may help with the chicken eggs that become Zipper's babies (I couldn't make this shit up). Details to be added as soon as I figure out what in the hell is going on.
So, since I don't have details, and I hate to deprive my mom and dad of their "OMG, I'm glad that this is our granddaughter and not our daughter" stories, here is last night's gem. Which, honestly, pains me to share. Because I do not like scatological humor. But these are the facts, ma'am.
Brigit: Oooone.
[toot]
Brigit: Twoooo
[toot]
Brigit: Threeee
[toot]
Me: Brigit, you can count!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Teenage Poet Diaries - 1
Today my nerves are raw, my teeth are gnashing at the edge, and I feel certain that anything that comes out of these fingers, I will regret later. For they are not true, they are at best impostors to my feelings, colored by emotions.
And so, I unearthed a journal, an essay book given to me by my writing instructor, in the summer between junior and senior years of high school. I was 16 and a "poet." I was dark, and drama, and angst. I was a poem in the back pocket. Words in my head. Unrequited love, committed to lines. I was every bit as obnoxious and pretentious as that all sounds. (And apparently a little too in love with ee cummings and his lack of punctuation. God forbid I write anything clear.)
Serenity
Serenity
like a line
flows across the page of life
like a highway-
broken at times
distant
just over the next hill
but always there.
I search, seek,
am left anxious
wanting.
When desired most
peace recedes
not to be yearned for
but needed.
I crouch on the floor
marker in hand
tracing qualities.
Concerns vacation
unreturned calls
broken promises
forgotten.
Clear in mind and conscience.
serene ink runs onto the paper
and makes a person.
And so, I unearthed a journal, an essay book given to me by my writing instructor, in the summer between junior and senior years of high school. I was 16 and a "poet." I was dark, and drama, and angst. I was a poem in the back pocket. Words in my head. Unrequited love, committed to lines. I was every bit as obnoxious and pretentious as that all sounds. (And apparently a little too in love with ee cummings and his lack of punctuation. God forbid I write anything clear.)
Serenity
Serenity
like a line
flows across the page of life
like a highway-
broken at times
distant
just over the next hill
but always there.
I search, seek,
am left anxious
wanting.
When desired most
peace recedes
not to be yearned for
but needed.
I crouch on the floor
marker in hand
tracing qualities.
Concerns vacation
unreturned calls
broken promises
forgotten.
Clear in mind and conscience.
serene ink runs onto the paper
and makes a person.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Politics of office doors
I've been lucky, I guess, to have always had a door in my workplace. I've never been stuck in a cube farm, always had the security of 4 walls and a door, behind which I can make private phone calls to doctors about, say, this inconvenient need to pee all g'damn day long.
But as with all things in the office place, there need to be some rules. When you have a door, the status of the door provides a built-in code, an indicator of my willingness to talk to you. (Because that's the kind of bitch I am.)
So here is my Rosetta Stone of Office Doors.
At my former place of employment (lovingly referred to as Soul-Sucking Mega-Corporation), there was a door and four walls, leading to the following door positions and meanings:
At my new pretty place of employment (referred to as Pretty Pretty Place Where I Work for the Pretty Pretty People), there are four walls, a door, and a window, with a blind, leading to additional much more complicated door meaning algorithms.
But as with all things in the office place, there need to be some rules. When you have a door, the status of the door provides a built-in code, an indicator of my willingness to talk to you. (Because that's the kind of bitch I am.)
So here is my Rosetta Stone of Office Doors.
At my former place of employment (lovingly referred to as Soul-Sucking Mega-Corporation), there was a door and four walls, leading to the following door positions and meanings:
- Door open - Come on in! Distract me from these error codes!
- Door ajar - Knock first, please.
- Door ajar and I have a headset on - I'm on the phone - speak softly.
- Door closed - Knock but don't be surprised if I don't answer. I'm either out or sleeping under my desk.
- Door closed and whirring noise escaping from the cracks - For the love of God, leave me alone. I am pumping, and trust me, this conversation is every bit as uncomfortable for me as it is for you.
At my new pretty place of employment (referred to as Pretty Pretty Place Where I Work for the Pretty Pretty People), there are four walls, a door, and a window, with a blind, leading to additional much more complicated door meaning algorithms.
- Door closed + blinds up or open - Knock and wave. I'll either gesture you in or ignore you pointedly.
- Door closed + blinds closed - I'm busy plotting ways in which to remove you from this pretty place of business. Don't panic, panicking will not help.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Nothing but Canadians and trouble
Scene: Family room, looking at The Little Duckling.
Ty: Yum, I'd eat a duck.
Ror: Really?
Ty: And a goose too.
Ror: Why?
Ty: People eat ducks and geese.
Ror: Even Canadians?
--------------------------------------
Scene: Driving Brigit to preschool
Brigit: Mommy, I'm kicking your bag!
Me: Why?
Brigit: To get in trouble.
Me: Um, why?
Brigit: Because I'm a girl.
Ty: Yum, I'd eat a duck.
Ror: Really?
Ty: And a goose too.
Ror: Why?
Ty: People eat ducks and geese.
Ror: Even Canadians?
--------------------------------------
Scene: Driving Brigit to preschool
Brigit: Mommy, I'm kicking your bag!
Me: Why?
Brigit: To get in trouble.
Me: Um, why?
Brigit: Because I'm a girl.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The finger ... of shame
I got scoped out at the grocery store this afternoon. Well, I think? I did. I'm usually obtuse about this sort of thing. Really, really obtuse.
But this afternoon, I saw it. I mean, I SAW it.
I was walking down the soda/beer aisle with Brigit, because she enjoys a good brew from time to time. I'm trying to introduce her to the good local brews, but she has a strange fascination with the Belgian ales. Personally, I think they taste skunky, but what are you going to do? She has a mind of her own. Almost-three year olds these days, I tell you.
So I'm loading up the cart with soda (diet, oh thank you, bastard diabetes) when Brig starts playing a shy game of peek-a-boo with a man down the aisle. He had just gotten his six pack and was going back to his cart. He started talking to Brigit. She instantly fell in love and started telling him all about her stuffed dog, Buddy. I was observing, mostly because Brig makes me laugh when she plays shy. Because it is so counter to her normal kick-ass attitude.
And then it happened.
He looked at my hand. LOOKED looked. Checked me out.
Now, given that I am wearing an old bleach-stained Minor Threat concert t-shirt (real old school, not Old Navy old school) and a pair of jeans, about which the most flattering review was "do not look like mom jeans," and my hair was tied in a knot (literally, a knot), I'm pretty sure I know why he was looking.
I do not wear a wedding band.
For those of you playing along at home (hi, Mom!), I have been married for 11 years. My children, while entirely capable of being monstrous, were not born of out wedlock.
I do not wear a wedding ring because, well, I can't fit my old, blessed ring over my finger. Within 6 weeks of being pregnant with Brig, my joints had swollen beyond that pretty white gold's capacity. And either my lower finger joint really retains pregnancy weight or my fingers are just permanently fat, whichever it is, I still cannot wear it.
Over the years, I've gotten some looks. Some when I was heavily pregnant with Brig and accompanied by Ror. Some when I had both kids in tow. It happens at grocery stores and at schools.
And it's ridiculous. Whether or not I am married has no bearing on my ability to parent my children. Whether or not my children are "illegitmate" does not change the people that they are, who they will grow into. Whether or not I am a single mother is a not matter to be judged by a guy in the grocery store.
What he could have judged was whether my daughter was clean. (Yes) Dressed. (Yes, in a dress, even) Harmed. (No - except that she'd not 5 minutes earlier twirled into the cart and got a divot in her forehead) Being berated or beaten (No)
I admit to judging parents. Based on their treatment of their children. How they interact with them. How they handle (or mishandle) them.
But as for the rest of it, have we not grown past this? The 50's era assumption game?
But this afternoon, I saw it. I mean, I SAW it.
I was walking down the soda/beer aisle with Brigit, because she enjoys a good brew from time to time. I'm trying to introduce her to the good local brews, but she has a strange fascination with the Belgian ales. Personally, I think they taste skunky, but what are you going to do? She has a mind of her own. Almost-three year olds these days, I tell you.
So I'm loading up the cart with soda (diet, oh thank you, bastard diabetes) when Brig starts playing a shy game of peek-a-boo with a man down the aisle. He had just gotten his six pack and was going back to his cart. He started talking to Brigit. She instantly fell in love and started telling him all about her stuffed dog, Buddy. I was observing, mostly because Brig makes me laugh when she plays shy. Because it is so counter to her normal kick-ass attitude.
And then it happened.
He looked at my hand. LOOKED looked. Checked me out.
Now, given that I am wearing an old bleach-stained Minor Threat concert t-shirt (real old school, not Old Navy old school) and a pair of jeans, about which the most flattering review was "do not look like mom jeans," and my hair was tied in a knot (literally, a knot), I'm pretty sure I know why he was looking.
I do not wear a wedding band.
For those of you playing along at home (hi, Mom!), I have been married for 11 years. My children, while entirely capable of being monstrous, were not born of out wedlock.
I do not wear a wedding ring because, well, I can't fit my old, blessed ring over my finger. Within 6 weeks of being pregnant with Brig, my joints had swollen beyond that pretty white gold's capacity. And either my lower finger joint really retains pregnancy weight or my fingers are just permanently fat, whichever it is, I still cannot wear it.
Over the years, I've gotten some looks. Some when I was heavily pregnant with Brig and accompanied by Ror. Some when I had both kids in tow. It happens at grocery stores and at schools.
And it's ridiculous. Whether or not I am married has no bearing on my ability to parent my children. Whether or not my children are "illegitmate" does not change the people that they are, who they will grow into. Whether or not I am a single mother is a not matter to be judged by a guy in the grocery store.
What he could have judged was whether my daughter was clean. (Yes) Dressed. (Yes, in a dress, even) Harmed. (No - except that she'd not 5 minutes earlier twirled into the cart and got a divot in her forehead) Being berated or beaten (No)
I admit to judging parents. Based on their treatment of their children. How they interact with them. How they handle (or mishandle) them.
But as for the rest of it, have we not grown past this? The 50's era assumption game?
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Rory's reading
Rory is reading a dinosaur book. To himself. Which is awesome. But which also leads to conversations like this:
Rory: Mom, what's this word?
Me: Which?
Rory: The f-word.
Me: Um, furry?
Tyler: There's a post in that.
Rory: Mom, what's this word?
Me: Which?
Rory: The f-word.
Me: Um, furry?
Tyler: There's a post in that.
The Weight of Memory
When I was a child, my mother threw a brush in the family camp shower and broke it.
When I was a child, I got lost in the mall. My mother spanked me when she found me. And then cried and hugged me.
When I was a teenager, deep in the throes of a bitch fight with my older sister, my mother called us both bitches.
When I was a child, my mother put my hair in a pony tail every day. She twisted the tail before securing it with a band. I believed this made it more secure.
When I was a child, we made pies for every holiday. I would sit in the kitchen and watch as my mother rolled out the crust, pressing it into the pie plate, trimming the edges. She always gave me the extra dough.
When I was a child, we had a nightly ritual of cuddling, one-on-one with my mother. She never turned down a cuddle request. And it was the first thing she did when we were cranky.
When I was a teenager, trapped in my own angst, my mother decided that what I needed was not medicine or hospitalization, but hugs. And chocolate. She renamed Hershey’s Kisses to Hershey’s Hugs, so I could have hugs while she was away.
What are the memories that my children will hold when they have grown and gone on?
Will Rory remember that I yelled at him when he wouldn’t try his first karate class? Will Brigit remember the times our wills clashed and we were both crying? Will they remember every time that I have been too stressed to parent them beyond food and shelter?
Or will they remember the hugs, the stories, the silly faces. Swinging on the tire swing at the castle park? Dancing to Mambo Italiano in the kitchen?
What we remember, and what we forgot, are our stories – each has its own weight.
When I was a child, I got lost in the mall. My mother spanked me when she found me. And then cried and hugged me.
When I was a teenager, deep in the throes of a bitch fight with my older sister, my mother called us both bitches.
When I was a child, my mother put my hair in a pony tail every day. She twisted the tail before securing it with a band. I believed this made it more secure.
When I was a child, we made pies for every holiday. I would sit in the kitchen and watch as my mother rolled out the crust, pressing it into the pie plate, trimming the edges. She always gave me the extra dough.
When I was a child, we had a nightly ritual of cuddling, one-on-one with my mother. She never turned down a cuddle request. And it was the first thing she did when we were cranky.
When I was a teenager, trapped in my own angst, my mother decided that what I needed was not medicine or hospitalization, but hugs. And chocolate. She renamed Hershey’s Kisses to Hershey’s Hugs, so I could have hugs while she was away.
What are the memories that my children will hold when they have grown and gone on?
Will Rory remember that I yelled at him when he wouldn’t try his first karate class? Will Brigit remember the times our wills clashed and we were both crying? Will they remember every time that I have been too stressed to parent them beyond food and shelter?
Or will they remember the hugs, the stories, the silly faces. Swinging on the tire swing at the castle park? Dancing to Mambo Italiano in the kitchen?
What we remember, and what we forgot, are our stories – each has its own weight.
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