Blog Angst

A couple of weeks ago I spent a lot of time writing out a post for you, and it was funny, man. I was so proud of it. I've had a rash of hilarity happen to me lately, and I thought that this particular post would start it all off just right. I had been working it up for about a week, and on Sunday it was all nice and shiny and ready to publish. Because it strongly featured me poking great fun at my husband, I left it up him to choose whether or not it was published. Upon getting his ok (he's a great sport), I hit save and publish. Only it didn't. Well, what actually published was the first paragraph only. Everything else magically disappeared. No save either. It was gone. 45 minutes of me frantically trying to find this work was for nothing. Several hours of my brilliant husband's brilliant computer expertise was also for nothing. I have since been too irritated over it to write up my other ideas. Sorry about that. When it stops chapping my hide I'll attempt a rewrite and y'all can resume laughing at my misfortunes. In the meantime, beware. The Cosmic Thumb strikes through blogger.

Who knew?

Ever get a tune stuck in your head? I recommend extreme violence.

Summer is almost over now, and soon to follow it is the ever-beloved ice cream man. As much as I hate being hot and sweaty (well, of course y'all know a Southern girl doesn't actually sweat... we glisten, but bear with me here I'm telling a story) there's just nothing like that tinny out of tune warble that only comes at this time of year to get your heart pumping and your mouth watering especially on those smothering wet blanket no breeze make you want to smack the devil dog days of summer.

I loathe the ice cream man. Blasted evil ice cream man; harbinger of summer, bearer of all that yummy cold creaminess, pied piper to all things child-like and fun. I would wring his neck with the cord to his crappy music box if he'd only stay still long enough. There I said it. When you can pick your jaw up off the floor, feel free to read ahead. I'll tell you why.

It started when we lived in Murfreesboro. It was the first time my children really conceived of what that weird truck they kept seeing was, when the correct synapses snapped together and the lights went on in their tiny heads. A man driving around in a brightly colored truck blasting kid music and giving out ice cream? Oh life is good when you're a kid. The only problem after that epiphany was keeping enough cash available for just in case said miracle man were to come driving by our home. Well, that and the waiting.....and waiting......and waiting..........

I'll never forget that last spring we lived out there. My kids heard the music coming often. We lived in a popular area and heard it daily, but we kept missing it. This one particular day the truck was so close but not quite up to our street. Seeing their chance, my little chickens ran inside to plead with me please mama please mama oh please he's almost here. I hurriedly grabbed the wallet and we ran out to wait. It was such a sweet time watching them debate over all the things they might find in that truck and what they might choose for themselves. They romped around in anticipatory bliss. I relished that enthusiasm and found myself starting to muse along with them.

Then there he was in all his glory, coming up at the corner, wailing canned joy out of the speakers on the rooftop while my ecstatic children whooped and cheered. The moment of truth had finally arrived. A month of waiting was about to pay off... that is until he turned the opposite direction driving away from my broken-hearted children and out of the neighborhood. Words can't describe the sorrow of that day.

This was the beginning.

For the next two years, my kids hoped for the elusive ice cream man. They ran out often.. sat in the grass watching day after day. After moving here where there are many more children I thought for sure this dream of theirs would finally be fulfilled. For a time he would just appear out of nowhere every few days...right in the middle of dinner. We'd be halfway through the mashed potatoes when that little tinkle would sound. I would have let them out regardless (I'm not totally heartless) but he always drove by so fast we had no prayer of ever getting out there in time. We know the back of that truck by heart now. Weeks of this ensued. I thought since no one else on our street ever let their kids out during dinner that the guy would get a clue and switch it up. He did finally. Yep. Changed it to lunch time instead. Then he just stopped coming altogether.

I'd thought my kids had mostly moved on from this unrequited desire until just recently. We were standing in the doorway when that old familiar tune that we hear even in our sleep(Frere Jacques) that we've heard so many times before showed up out of nowhere. (Seriously, Clara and I both hear that song even when it's not there, especially during dinner.) We all just knew it was meant to be. For once I had cash to give them. It was exactly our family's designated snack time. It was the last day of summer before school. The stars were aligned. My kids whooped with joy in the front yard listening as that music drew ever closer... and closer...and closer and passed our street by with nary a glance. Twice. If I could have conceivably caught up with him, I'd have gotten the baby up, thrown them all in the car, hunted him down with my Mama Bear SUV and run his sorry butt over. Instead I watched my faithful kids sit in the sweltering sun grasping their tattered bills for hours for hours hoping he'd come back before finally giving up and coming in for dinner. My son Sam said the blessing that night. I thought my heart would never recover when I heard him so sweetly pray for the ice cream man to safely come to our house. Then, and almost every prayer since.

Every day thereafter as my kids have sat on that porch just waiting; I have searched the Internet, the phone books, and every resource I can find on where to find a phone number or store front or some way of getting one to drive out here at a designated time to no avail. I have also spent more time on my knees by myself praying for the ice cream man to come and then just begging for a little boy's prayer to be answered.

Today it was. Sam never doubted. And let me tell you all is right with the world.

It’s a bird... it’s a plane...

Those of you who know my family well know what a struggle I've had with my now 5-year-old son, Sam. I mean this kid really puts me through the ringer. I could dedicate a whole site just to him and his exploits and document the daily struggle I face to refrain from throwing him out the window teach him to be a productive member of society. This summer has been particularly difficult. I have found myself really having to focus on remembering what a real treasure he really and truly is. (I had to look especially hard today.)

Thus we come to today's post.

This was one I wrote on my prior blog a couple of years ago. Sam was 3 at the time. Those of you who've read it will live through it again I'm sure. For those of you who haven't, here you go...another reason why I love my ridiculously difficult son.

It's a bird... it's a plane...
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007

So my little boy Sam (a.k.a Destructo Boy, the Human Cyclone, Terror-of-the-Southern-Lands-and-all-things-Poultry) has turned over a new leaf. Seemingly. I'm not sure I truly believe it yet. Those of you familiar with the Era-of-the-Eggs can understand my reservations, I'm sure.

We've survived the Egg Era, Pirate Hell, and the "Call me Pablo, Tyrone" phase. Oompa loompas have stopped screeching parenting insults my way, and Lightning McQueen has stopped racing across my pretty leather furniture. No more noodle towers, Cheerio explosions, blackberry tracks, bleach stains, flour showers, and surprisingly, 12-packs of toilet paper last more than an hour.

This has all been replaced, we think. And with what? Cue the trumpet fanfare...now the drum roll...cap it with a cymbal clash... it's SUPERSAM TO THE RESCUE!!! Can it be? Is it true? Has my little deviant finally decided to renounce his terroristic tendencies in favor of....gulp.....the GOOD OF MANKIND?

Yes, ladies and gents. I wake every morning to find he's already up and dressed in his super suit. He zooms around the house righting wrongs, protecting the innocent. His muscles flex as he lifts heavy fallen objects. He leaps tall pillows in a single bound, all the while his theme music is playing over and over on the DVD player.

What, ladies and gentleman, would I do without this little man of steel? Why just today I was moping around after a long restless night nursing bruised feelings, when in flies Super Sam. He takes a long look at me, rips off his secret identity (it's his favorite firetruck shirt and some glasses with the lenses poked out. He won't let me wash it right now...) and while kissing me on the cheek whispers " but I love you, Mom."

What can I say... my hero.

Lesson of the day

Now class pay attention. This may be on the final. Now repeat after me.

Gorilla glue is not the same as crazy glue.

Gorilla glue will bond anything to anything else.

Permanently.

As in forever.

Should you not heed this lesson, be forewarned.

Ice will not freeze it off. Peanut butter will only make a mess. Even exacto knives will do nothing but cause you pain.

No, boys and girls, gorilla glue is forever.

Your only hope is that a kind loving husband will stifle his laughter long enough to tear apart the bottle rather than ripping the flesh from the bone. If not, you could always follow your son's suggestion to burn it off or just hack off the whole finger with a sword.

Pay absolutely no attention to the full inch of missing skin.

Class dismissed.

Need a good laugh?

Yesterday I learned a very valuable lesson. Here it is.




Heavy narcotic pain killers and trips to the salon DO NOT MIX.

Now check this out.


Notice the resemblance?


Next time I shall listen to my husband and just cancel the appointment.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

Today I met the future me. Or at least where I fear I might be headed.

Maybe not. Currently, I'm a girl. But if the future me could be a slightly crazy vacuum cleaner repairman then I definitely met the future me. It was so weird, y'all. Like looking in a mirror. A really really crotchety old crazy mirror.

It started with my sis-in-law's cleaning routine. We're hosting a Family Reunion between us in July, and after hearing the lengths she's going to prepare her home for our company I was shamed into doing a bit more than I might have. (Not by her, y'all she's a peach. I impose this on myself.) Now I am a pretty decent housekeeper for the most part, but this chick is insane amazing. Seriously, I don't know how she does it. I would have to sandblast my walls......

hmm....I may have to consider...

Anyhow, this led me to finally get at steaming the kid remnants out of my carpets. Been meaning to for a while (this baby is quite the spitter) but I kept finding more important interesting things to do instead. As I was dragging that thing across yet another bitty-boy yuck stain, I heard this really unhealthy sound issuing from the steamer. I have learned (finally) not to ignore weird sounds in my house (i.e. crunching in the disposal, gurgling in the wash, the splatting of raw eggs from the 2nd floor...) so I turned it off and quite handily unscrewed every screw I could find. Amidst all the vacuum guts I found the culprit... one teeny partially ripped belt thingy. I figured I could handle that one little problem without resorting to calling the Man to come fix it. So I packed up the punks, and off we went in search of parts.

Apparently my steamer is a popular variety, because I found it in every single place I looked today. However, not a one of those places carried this particular belt. They carried all the belts for every other stupid machine on the planet but not mine oh no not mine of course they wouldn't have mine because I chose mine and Cosmic Thumb forbid I get one that will live for at least one whole stinkin year before it breaks just one whole stinkin year before I have to bust it apart, do major surgery and then search high and low for hours on end in the hopes of getting that freakin carpet looking more like carpet and less like the Manson family came to dinner but I digress.

(Bring Mommy her happy pills, please dear. No the little pink ones...thank you.)

Ahem.

As I was saying, it was proving a more difficult challenge than I at first believed, so I did the only other thing I could think of. I called my mommy. We can thank her now for finding my future male self, the man of my heart to which I will aspire NOT to emulate from this day forward.

He was in this little smelly vacuum repair shop. (Smelly yes, but with surprisingly clean carpet I must say.) I drug my exhausted, hot, starving, obnoxious little kids in the door and explained my dilemma to him. He knew exactly which model I had, what I had broken, and how I should fix it. He had the part in hand moments later with advice on making it work better, and I gratefully pulled out my debit card to pay him and start the long drive back home.

Here's where it starts to get weird. He got this look on his face and denied my card. Wouldn't even look at it. Mumbled something under his breath about what kind of people use a card for less than $10, but about jumped across the counter at me when he saw my checkbook. I thought he was gonna hit me at first, but instead he practically begged me to write him one. I took another step back and proceeded to do so. He just stared at it for a minute. When I asked if he needed my license he said (and I quote) "No thanks, I just bought mine. They say it's good for 5 whole years". Startled, I replied "well it's probably a better picture than this one is anyway." I'm sure it is, he says.

This should have been a clue about how the next 45 minutes of my life were about to proceed. Add to it the constant whining sound issuing from the mouth of my particular 5-yr-old brat and you can see how I might start to resemble this guy way sooner than I like to consider.

After taking my check, he gets close to my face and says "I'm in a 5-year lawsuit with a woman who wrote me a bad check for $497.53. I assured him I could swing $8.95 plus tax, but he wasn't satisfied until I'd heard all about the case and what all he'd like to do to the judge in the meantime. Sounds normal, right? Cautious, right? That's because you didn't have to hear what he wanted to do to that judge.

This was only the beginning of my time with him. I soon found myself regaled with tales of women who couldn't work their vacuums. Women who tried to vacuum stupid things... one who repeatedly returned her vacuum, sure it was always broken because the bags were soooo small, and she wanted her money back. They were filling up way too fast. (I thought to reassure him by mentioning it must have been an excellent-working machine. His reply to her was "you must have a really filthy house".)

Long story short.

It got a whole lot worse. So much so, that I can't begin to put it into words, but crazy was leaking out all over the place. I began to inch myself backwards to the door grabbing my kids by the arms when he mentioned that I had 3 kids and that it was enough, because he already had 4.

There just comes a point that even I can recognize some people just ain't right. Be warned, fair readers (at least those of you who actually comment once in a while instead of just.../gulp.. lurk).

Mirrors never lie.

I've heard that you miss me.

How sweet is that?

I know I haven't been writing. Believe me I've wanted to, but the purpose of this blog was to give me a certain type of outlet--a place to write out my experiences to hopefully find the humor in some of the more painful ones. Lately my life has contained more pain than humor, and I've struggled to poke fun at any of it.

They say that what doesn't kill you is supposed to make you stronger. I'm starting to think that whatever doesn't kill you just makes you wish you were dead. We've had such a rash of stuff gone wrong lately: work problems, large unexpected expenses, serious illness and death in the family. Speaking of family, our extended family on both sides has really gone through the ringer as well. We feel their pain like it was our own and struggle with our utter impotence at helping them through it. It's been quite an emotional roller coaster, and I'm getting a little queasy here. Someone seriously needs to let me off this crazy ride before I need one of those special little bags.

Through it all I have been trying to find some perspective, to learn whatever lesson it is that just won't sink into my rock hard skull so I can move on to happier times. It ain't been easy, but I'm chuggin' along. While joy is somewhat blunted and humor is scarce, I have managed to scrape up a few smiles here and there.

Here's my latest...

I had run to my computer for a few minutes leaving the baby with Clara and Sam in the family room. While I was paying a few bills, I kept hearing this really weird sound coming from the living room. Sam is notorious for making the most obnoxious noises ever, so I just brushed it off as 5-yr-old nonsense and finished up. When I returned to fetch the baby, this is what I found.



Of course as soon as I put the camera on him he decides he's done, but what 8 month old teaches himself to play the kazoo?

Mine.

Touche

Partial Argument Between Me and "the Boy"

ME: (getting pretty irritated)...I mean it. You stop it right now!

BOY: (in my face)....I don't HAVE TO.

ME: (majorly gritting teeth)...for the last time, yes you do. Do NOT make me tell you again.

BOY: (snarkily if snarkily was a word)...Why nooooooot?

ME: (tired of explaining common sense and good manners)...Because I said so. That's why.

BOY: (risking life and limb)...Well, you aren't the boss of me.

ME: (totally sinking to the level of a 5-year-old)... I AM TOO the boss of you because I'm the mom and that's what moms are for. To be the boss of little boys, so you better mind.

and the prize goes to ....

BOY: (at the top of his lungs)... Well JESUS IS THE BOSS OF YOU!!!

ME:.........

10 minutes later

............

Potty Talk

I have a thing about restrooms.

It stems from the tiny bladder I was born with that was then badly abused by childbirth and a terrible surgeon or two. Things have been a bit better since my last surgery, but I'm still always hyper aware of the nearest john jane, and I position myself in a room accordingly.

Suffice it to say I've been to more than a few over the course of my life. In fact, my husband thinks I should write a travel book documenting the best rest stops from here to the West, seeing as I've been in each and every one of them more times than I can remember.

I can tell you which ones are fairly clean, which aren't. Which stock the cheap TP and which spring for the good stuff. Which ones have soda, snacks, and ice cream machines, which have picnic tables and dog trails, which is the last one for 180 miles so you better go there or make sure you have a bottle handy.

Some places even have really cool touristy stuff to see that will entertain your children or plaques documenting local history. Basically, it would be a guide on what to be sure you hit and which ones could leave you cowering in the fetal position crying for your mommy to make it all go away. E coli, man. Fear it.

As a few of you know, my family took a much needed and highly anticipated road trip to the beach in Destin, FL last week (in which the Cosmic Thumb ran rampant. More on this in a future post). Between me and all three of my children this meant many a rest stop would be in order, and we were prepared to make many stops.

On the way down, we did pretty well for the most part. We stopped for food and gas, forced each kid to go right then and there regardless of need, and that was it. I was gratified that things were going so smoothly in this particular department.

Then the trip back home. Can I just say, Alabama, what in the world are you thinking? You know your mama raised you better! We hit the most disgusting places I have ever seen in my life all in the same day. Filthy, abused, smoked-filled, doors that wouldn't close, out-of-order...but the worst by far was when we stopped for lunch. Dave took the kids in while I stayed with the baby. He came back out and quickly drove away saying the lines were too long, and I should go somewhere else.

Now I am convinced that Alabama doesn't believe in rest stops, cuz we only saw maybe three of them that day, and they were always situated a couple a miles beyond whatever nasty gas station we'd eventually resigned ourselves to using. There sure was not one anywhere nearby at this point in our trip. Thirty or so miles away from the restaurant as my eyes were turning yellow, we finally found a town and stopped at a KFC. I ran into this joint as fast as I could, bulldozing my way through a line of hungry people to get to Shangri-La the rest room.

Be warned. What ensued is not for the faint of heart (or weak of stomach).

I ran in and took the first of two stalls, ripped my pants down, and was about to feel a whole lot better when I noticed the TP holder. It was empty, of course. (Rookie mistake, man. I so know better than to strip before checking.) A few colorful thoughts later and I was jerking my britches up, slamming through the restroom and hurling myself at the other stall door. Which was occupied. With a girl with quite the upset stomach.

My stomach wasn't feeling very great either as I took a look around me. It was bad. Really really bad. I'd been in such a hurry I hadn't noticed the pitiful state of affairs this joint was currently in. And then there was the smell. (I could describe it but this post is forever long already and you, faithful reader, might still want to eat something later.) I settled myself to wait a while.

After a few minutes, another family came in and tried to jump the line, but after seeing the look on my face they retreated back behind me. Sick girl finally came out, and I ran in. As I was about to lock the door, this woman waiting behind me pushed her way in with me. I'm now crossing my legs in an adult version of the pee pee dance while she instructs me to start pulling TP out for her and each of her children to take to the other toilet. I figured she was crazy enough to follow me, a complete stranger, into my toilet so there was no telling what else she was capable of. I tried to do as she asked. Only problem was, sick girl had used all of the roll. The other roll was shoved way on up in there, and the dispenser was broken.

I was almost in tears when I finally got enough for her to finally get out of my really nasty and really small stall. I finally got to sit myself down, but as did the whole toilet listed to one side, and I came very close to falling on the scum-encrusted floor. I had to balance the thing to keep it attached to the floor as I went.

Expecting Dave to be getting worried, I hurriedly took care of business and tried to leave the stall. Only I couldn't. The lock I had thrown so quickly (to ensure the woman didn't try to barge back in) was thoroughly jammed. I was sure I would have to crawl under the door, but I managed to open it. I washed my hands (without soap, they were out) and high-tailed it out of there.

Usually at this point in my post I sum up my experience and reflect on the lesson. This time though, I'm not sure what moral or lesson I should have learned from this experience, but it sure has inspired me to purchase one of these.

Dear Sam,

I had this really hysterical post all thought out about all the things you have done recently (in collusion with the Cosmic Thumb, I was sure.) Really, it's been a difficult week with you. I was going to poke some serious fun at you for eating a whole bag of chocolate Easter eggs before dinner. You know, you looked so silly with your finger stuck in that Bob the Builder work bench toy all covered in oil and ice, (which took Daddy a half an hour to cut apart from around you). I was gonna tease you for lighting a tissue on that candle and burning the carpet in three places (which again took Daddy a half hour to shave down), for standing on my laundry basket and snapping it completely in half, drinking half a bottle of cold medicine, and various sundry other things which would take all day to write out, but you know which ones I mean.

Instead, little punky boy of mine, now all I can think about is how purple that little finger got, and how afraid I was that you would lose it.

All I can think about is you crying with utter embarrassment when you realized that you'd broken a safety rule playing with fire and how close we came to losing our home, not to mention the 2nd degree burn on your thumb.

All I can think about is the egg-sized lump on your head from when you fell off that laundry basket. How I had to keep waking you up, to make sure you really would.

All I can think about is how miserable you've been with this never-ending cold that has tormented you for so long.

Maybe a day will come when we laugh together about this week, but for now, all I can think about is what if things don't work out so well in the end next time.


And that, sweet little curious boy of mine, isn't funny at all.