Thursday, May 10, 2007
A healthier diet. . .
I'm eating an apple instead of the Mesquite BBQ kettle chips that verbally solicited me in the break room. The bastards should be taken to the parking lot and smashed beneath my shoe. But having to lick them off the pavement when I give in and eat them an hour from now would just be embarrassing.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Easter in Oregon. . . .
All this for two lousy plastic eggs filled with. . . . . . CANDY, MOMMA, LOOK CANDY!
I know this is kind of late, but I just got the pictures downloaded from my camera.
Question. . . .
Is it mean that I've sent my child into a recently occupied bathroom like a canary into a coal mine?
Friday, April 27, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Raindrop was here
Do you ever have one of those days when you just have an absolute, undeniable, searing urge to vandalize something? Stress is a bitch.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Quote of the week. . .
Dude was crazy. Dude was, in the memorable phrasing of Nikki Giovanni, ''just mean.'' Essentially there's no story here, except for a paranoid a--hole who went DEFCON-1. He may have been inspired by Columbine, but only because he was too dim to think up such a scenario on his own.
- Stephen King on the Virginia Tech murders and subsequent reports that Cho Seung-Hui had raised alarms in the English department with his writing.
See entire article here.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A Priest, a Rabbi and an Imam walk into a bar. . .
Well not quite, but if they did we might see more world peace.
I've recently been reading a book titled, "The Faith Club: A Muslim, A Christian, A Jew-- Three Women Search for Understanding" which is the diary of three women who sat down to write a children's book about the commonalities of their three faiths and ended up with a friendship that endured not only the discovery of differing faiths, but the dissection of their own and in turn a revelation of what each holds to be their own personal truth. It is a wonderful read that demonstrates just how similarly rooted our religions are, and how connected we all are as human beings in our search for that connection and guidance from something greater than ourselves.
One great thing I took from this book was the permission to question religion, including a quote, by an Episcopalian priest, "The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. It's okay to have doubt, everyone does." If we could all find the courage to ask these questions of ourselves and each other and listen to the answers provided without judgement, our earth could be a much more peaceful place.
I've recently been reading a book titled, "The Faith Club: A Muslim, A Christian, A Jew-- Three Women Search for Understanding" which is the diary of three women who sat down to write a children's book about the commonalities of their three faiths and ended up with a friendship that endured not only the discovery of differing faiths, but the dissection of their own and in turn a revelation of what each holds to be their own personal truth. It is a wonderful read that demonstrates just how similarly rooted our religions are, and how connected we all are as human beings in our search for that connection and guidance from something greater than ourselves.
One great thing I took from this book was the permission to question religion, including a quote, by an Episcopalian priest, "The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. It's okay to have doubt, everyone does." If we could all find the courage to ask these questions of ourselves and each other and listen to the answers provided without judgement, our earth could be a much more peaceful place.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Carpooling with Rain Man
A recent car ride home with Adam. . . . .
The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Mommy, there’s God’s house! Remember when he had his Christmas lights on? The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Bugs can’t hurt us. If we didn’t have bees we wouldn’t have fruits and flowers. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Buzz Lightyear gets Zurg. He says, “Not today, Zurg!” Pew, pew, pew, pew. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. I only have fwee Care Bears. Four Care Bears. . . actually two. I need to get another Care Bear ‘cause I only have four Care Bears! The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Mommy, don’t sing. I don’t want to talk right now! The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. . . . . . .
The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Mommy, there’s God’s house! Remember when he had his Christmas lights on? The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Bugs can’t hurt us. If we didn’t have bees we wouldn’t have fruits and flowers. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Buzz Lightyear gets Zurg. He says, “Not today, Zurg!” Pew, pew, pew, pew. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. I only have fwee Care Bears. Four Care Bears. . . actually two. I need to get another Care Bear ‘cause I only have four Care Bears! The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. Mommy, don’t sing. I don’t want to talk right now! The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. The sun goes up, the moon goes down. The moon goes up, the sun goes down. . . . . . .
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Let her be healed. . . .
Jamie got tubes in her ears last week. If you’re not familiar with this procedure you can get details here, but basically they put a tiny passageway in her ear drum so fluid will drain rather than build up and cause infections – which has happened almost as many times as she is old. We were referred to a doctor at Doernbecher’s Children’s hospital which is wonderful in the sense that it is the best, most advanced hospital in the state but bad in the way that I have always said a little prayer every time one of those telethon things were on that I would never need to step foot through those doors.But step we did, out of the cold, gray, dawning sky, through the swoosh of the automatic doors and into that uneasy, heavy silence of the hospital lobby. As we waited our turn to check-in, I scanned the room filled with grade school artwork and whimsical statues. A twenty-foot mobile of colorful handcrafted birds soared above us, all of it a fanciful façade for the life and death scenarios playing out within the building. . . . the tests, the prayers, the results, the hopes, the relief, the goodbyes. Every door holding the potential for each, like a game of Russian roulette played between fate and the lives of our children. My throat tightened at the thought.
They called our name at the front desk and then proceeded to batter me with routine questions. . . . Child’s DOB?. . . . SSN#?. . . . Insurance policy number?. . . . . religious preference? Religious preference? My mind reeled as to why they cared about our religious preference and then it hit me. Like a 2x4 to the back of the head. My mouth opened, but it was a second before the words fell out . . . . no preference. I thought about saying Christian, or Jewish, but the only thing swirling in my mind at the moment was, if Jamie was in the position of actually needing prayers, would it really matter which one? Just pray, dammit.
We were sent up to the eighth floor, where all surgeries take place. We stepped out of the elevator and followed the signs to our destination – a place I was guiltily grateful was in the opposite direction of the pediatric ICU. We were led back to a curtained area with chairs, a TV and a small bed surrounded on three sides by white metal bars. The “crib” seemed like something from a 50’s era pediatric psych ward and Jamie helped complete the image by jumping on the bed while holding the onto the bars and babbling. Which was almost as charming as when she decided to throw toys in the direction of passing nurses like some kind of zoo monkey.
Over the next half hour they took her vitals and gave her a sedative that I strongly believe should be prescribed to all children between the ages of two and four. At 8:00am I carried her back to the OR doors and kissed her good-bye. After all the emotions and macabre thoughts that had run through my head in the lobby, I was actually quite calm as I handed her over to the nurse. . . and thankful that I now had a moment to stuff my face with the other granola bar I had brought along for Damonn. Which is exactly what I was doing when the doctor came out a mere twenty minutes later to tell us all was well. After another hour of screaming from our tired, groggy and starving child we were given the ok to go home much to the relief of the weary, worried, tired parents in close proximity, I’m sure.
Back in the lobby, clutching my red-faced wailing bundle of blonde curls waiting for Damonn to bring the car around, I couldn’t help but guess at the illnesses the patients coming and going around us might be facing. My stomach churned at the thought of dealing with more than our mere three-hour procedure. How would I deal? What would I do? I guess, in the simplest terms, I would do exactly what I did today. Hand over my child with faith in the best medicine available and pray to any God available that the doctors hand her back healthier than she came in.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Heaven on a Sunday Afternoon
Grins and screeches, elbows in my ribs
Climbing, clawing, make room for three
Peanut butter breath, shining eyes
Love and laughter piled on the couch
Is there anything better than this?
Climbing, clawing, make room for three
Peanut butter breath, shining eyes
Love and laughter piled on the couch
Is there anything better than this?
Friday, March 30, 2007
Happy Birthday - I don't think so.
There's no sing in my mouth right now.
- Adam's response when asked to join in the singing of Happy Birthday at my party last week.
- Adam's response when asked to join in the singing of Happy Birthday at my party last week.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Best and Worst Thing I've seen this week. . .
And they're both freakin' hilarious. . . .
Best:
Kevine Federline's Superbowl commercial.
Worst:
Bank of America corporate meeting.
Best:
Kevine Federline's Superbowl commercial.
Worst:
Bank of America corporate meeting.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Life Lessons. . . Drove like a stake into your little kid heart
My grandma tells a story of when she was in elementary school and this apparently bratty little girl offered her a candy bar and when she reached out to accept it the girl pulled it back. My grandma readily admits that to this day, nearly seventy years later, this small episode of rejection still haunts her. It is also the reason she gives when I ask why she must try and force-feed anyone that enters her house. I’m not sure how she makes the connection between being tricked by a school-yard brat and badgering guests until they relent and have at least a snack-size Twix, but my point is the smallest of things, things that others may not even have a recollection of, can drop a seed of discontent into our forming minds that grow into life-long struggles.
And that is the thought the crossed my mind as I saw Adam’s face fall in the fish aisle last Sunday at Costco. We came around the corner and were face to face with a bin of bright red crabs, their jagged claws propped against the glass. Adam was thrilled and we both laughed as we waved our "claws" in the air saying, "Hey, hey, hey", in a silly interpretation of the crabs in Finding Nemo. Next was a big bin of striped tiger prawns, whom Adam mistakenly called worms. The lady beside us started laughing at his comment and I chuckled back in a funny-what-kids-will-think-of kind of way until I looked down and saw Adam’s face bow to the side in shame. He peered up and timidly asked, "Well, what are they called then, momma?" I instantly tried to save his little ego saying, "Well, they’re called prawns, but they sure do look like worms piled up there, don’t they?" while flashing the lady my best angry momma bear look, which I must admit came partly from the guilt of my own light-hearted chuckle. I had never seen that look on Adam’s face before, he’s usually such an adventurous, take-it-and give-it-right-back-to-ya type of kid, and it broke my heart to think the embarrassment from such a tiny mistake may cause hesitation the next time he goes to offer an answer or an opinion. Or that maybe he'd be afaid to order any kind of crustacean from the menu for the rest of his life. I’m sure this is probably a moment that will stick more in my psyche than his, but it is a gentle reminder for me nonetheless that as we strive to make them healthy and safe and smart, that it can be their hearts that can be so easily – and permanently – bruised. Kinda like the left eye of the next person that laughs at my kid.
And that is the thought the crossed my mind as I saw Adam’s face fall in the fish aisle last Sunday at Costco. We came around the corner and were face to face with a bin of bright red crabs, their jagged claws propped against the glass. Adam was thrilled and we both laughed as we waved our "claws" in the air saying, "Hey, hey, hey", in a silly interpretation of the crabs in Finding Nemo. Next was a big bin of striped tiger prawns, whom Adam mistakenly called worms. The lady beside us started laughing at his comment and I chuckled back in a funny-what-kids-will-think-of kind of way until I looked down and saw Adam’s face bow to the side in shame. He peered up and timidly asked, "Well, what are they called then, momma?" I instantly tried to save his little ego saying, "Well, they’re called prawns, but they sure do look like worms piled up there, don’t they?" while flashing the lady my best angry momma bear look, which I must admit came partly from the guilt of my own light-hearted chuckle. I had never seen that look on Adam’s face before, he’s usually such an adventurous, take-it-and give-it-right-back-to-ya type of kid, and it broke my heart to think the embarrassment from such a tiny mistake may cause hesitation the next time he goes to offer an answer or an opinion. Or that maybe he'd be afaid to order any kind of crustacean from the menu for the rest of his life. I’m sure this is probably a moment that will stick more in my psyche than his, but it is a gentle reminder for me nonetheless that as we strive to make them healthy and safe and smart, that it can be their hearts that can be so easily – and permanently – bruised. Kinda like the left eye of the next person that laughs at my kid.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Got Kids?
Remember when. . . . .
Friday nights meant trying a new restaurant with friends?
Sleeping in referred to a time of day with two digits?
Movie night included something without a G in the rating?
You thought people who got plastic surgery were vain?
Going #2 was a private affair?
Me neither.
Friday nights meant trying a new restaurant with friends?
Sleeping in referred to a time of day with two digits?
Movie night included something without a G in the rating?
You thought people who got plastic surgery were vain?
Going #2 was a private affair?
Me neither.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
If there ever was a book to burn. . .
Mr. Simpson,
In response to your new book, "If I Did It, Here's How It Happened", I gather either you miss the spot light shining on your quickly balding head or you feel the need to purge your evil, maniacal, acidic, bowel-devouring, guilty conscience onto paper for us all to see, but there's really no need Mr. Simpson. We already know your story; we watched it on TV ten years ago and we're not interested in your self-serving re-run. If you really feel the need to put the pen to paper, why don't you write something we'd enjoy reading; like your own obituary.
Wholeheartedly,
Tiffany
P.S. Just wondering. . . . how do your kids feel about you writing how you would have killed their mother. . . you know, if you had done it.
In response to your new book, "If I Did It, Here's How It Happened", I gather either you miss the spot light shining on your quickly balding head or you feel the need to purge your evil, maniacal, acidic, bowel-devouring, guilty conscience onto paper for us all to see, but there's really no need Mr. Simpson. We already know your story; we watched it on TV ten years ago and we're not interested in your self-serving re-run. If you really feel the need to put the pen to paper, why don't you write something we'd enjoy reading; like your own obituary.
Wholeheartedly,
Tiffany
P.S. Just wondering. . . . how do your kids feel about you writing how you would have killed their mother. . . you know, if you had done it.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Godfather - The New Generation
So apparently last week at school Adam came across a dollar in his pocket that had taken a ride throught the washer after a trip to The Dollar Store. After several times of asking him to keep his money in his pocket, his teacher told him that next time he took it out she was going to take it from him. His response. . . . .
"If you did, my dad wouldn't be very happy about that."
There's something kinda creepy about veiled threats from a three-year old.
"If you did, my dad wouldn't be very happy about that."
There's something kinda creepy about veiled threats from a three-year old.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I don't have no dealings with those snakes!
Religous-right nut jobs playing with snakes. Funny how someone trying to prove the power of a "true believer" instead ends up proving Darwin's theory correct - the fitest will prevail and the stupid shall perish. This story just makes my day.
LONDON, Ky. -- A southeastern Kentucky law enforcement officer said a woman was bitten by a snake during church and died. She was 48-year-old Linda Long. The Laurel County Sheriff's Office reported that she died Sunday at the University of Kentucky Medical Center.
Detective Brad Mitchell said Long died about four hours after the bite was reported.
Officials said Long attended East London Holiness Church. Neighbors of the church told the newspaper the church practices serpent handling.
Lt. Ed Sizemore of the Laurel County Sheriff's Office said friends went with Long to a local hospital Sunday afternoon. "She said she was bitten by a snake at her church," Sizemore said.
Sizemore said he thinks the woman was bitten by a timber rattlesnake.
Handling reptiles as part of religious services is illegal in Kentucky. Snake handling is a misdemeanor and punishable by a fine of $50 to $100. Police said they had not received reports about snake handling at the church.
Snake handling is based on a passage in the Bible, in the Gospel of Mark, that said a sign of a true believer is the power to "take up serpents" without being harmed.
A woman who lives near the church told the Lexington-Herald leader that she's witnessed snake handling at the church. "I don't have no dealings with those snakes," Opal Wagers said. "But they seem to handle them pretty good." >She told the paper that people handle snakes at the church at least one Sunday each month. Wagers said the snakes are taken to the church by members from Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia.
Church officials could not be reached for comment.
Link to story: http://www.kptv.com/news/10264521/detail.html
LONDON, Ky. -- A southeastern Kentucky law enforcement officer said a woman was bitten by a snake during church and died. She was 48-year-old Linda Long. The Laurel County Sheriff's Office reported that she died Sunday at the University of Kentucky Medical Center.
Detective Brad Mitchell said Long died about four hours after the bite was reported.
Officials said Long attended East London Holiness Church. Neighbors of the church told the newspaper the church practices serpent handling.
Lt. Ed Sizemore of the Laurel County Sheriff's Office said friends went with Long to a local hospital Sunday afternoon. "She said she was bitten by a snake at her church," Sizemore said.
Sizemore said he thinks the woman was bitten by a timber rattlesnake.
Handling reptiles as part of religious services is illegal in Kentucky. Snake handling is a misdemeanor and punishable by a fine of $50 to $100. Police said they had not received reports about snake handling at the church.
Snake handling is based on a passage in the Bible, in the Gospel of Mark, that said a sign of a true believer is the power to "take up serpents" without being harmed.
A woman who lives near the church told the Lexington-Herald leader that she's witnessed snake handling at the church. "I don't have no dealings with those snakes," Opal Wagers said. "But they seem to handle them pretty good." >She told the paper that people handle snakes at the church at least one Sunday each month. Wagers said the snakes are taken to the church by members from Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia.
Church officials could not be reached for comment.
Link to story: http://www.kptv.com/news/10264521/detail.html
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
All drains lead to the ocean. . .
This post is dedicated to the brief, but dedicated friendship of Pickles the goldfish who last Friday took the watery ride toward the pearly gates. May he float in peace.
Pickles was purchased via bribery payments paid to Adam, by us, for going poop on the toilet. After months of trying everything from candy to stickers to public humiliation (kidding) we finally found that quarters were the trick to getting Adam to poop on the toilet rather than hunched quietly in the corner demanding "privacy". I had previously resigned myself to the fact that I would be writing a letter to Huggies, pleading that they produce a size 18 Pull-Up Diaper for my son as he entered 8th grade, but something about those shiny coins caught his eye and we were on a roll. He had already saved enough quarters for two trips to The Dollar Store, so to keep things exciting I challenged him to save ten quarters and in turn promised a trip to the pet store to pick out a goldfish. Now when I said goldfish, I was really thinking betta. You know, one of those fish that live in a very small container with really no effort on my part? Adam had in his head, Nemo. He really had his heart set on an orange fish and how can you say no to those pleading three-year old eyes, his tiny fist gripping ten shiny quarters, each earned by intense, laborous poops? You can't. And since orange bettas are not found in nature, or at least not in our local PetSmart, we spent fifteen dollars on supplies for a $0.12 (yes, 12 CENT) goldfish that poops twice as much as he eats, cloulding his bowl and smelling up the house in a matter of days. Now, perhaps it was that I added the water conditioner while Pickles was in the water, or maybe that I didn't let him adjust to the temperature of his new home before dumping him in, or it may even be the ill thoughts I wished upon him while cleaning his bowl a mere three days after his arrival, but I tell myself and will tell Adam in the future, that Pickles was merely a feeder goldfish and simply because of that, his life expectancy was short.
And short it was. . . . . Five days after welcoming Pickles into our family his tiny flapping gils gave out. Because we weren't sure how to approach it and more so because we are chicken shit parents, we set Adam up to find Pickles in his new condition. (yes, I could have easily replaced Pickles with another $0.12 goldfish, but I had my hopes on a different kind of goldfish) When it was time to feed Pickles, Adam climbed up the chair and peered in the bowl. It went down something like this:
Adam: Momma? (calling from the dining room) I don't think Pickles wants to eat right now.
Me: (from the kitchen) Really? Why not (yes I'm a horrible, horrible person)
Adam: Momma? I don't think Pickles wants to swim right now.
Me: (now looking in the bowl as well) Oh, honey, Pickles died.
Adam: (confused looked)
Me: Pickles isn't going to swim anymore, he's broken. Maybe we can get a different kind of goldfish that won't break as easily. (The devil horns are coming in quite nicely, thank you)
Adam: Yes, a better goldfish. Pickles isn't swimming anymore.
Me: How about we bury Pickles in the backyard.
Adam: (a look that says I am the craziest MF-er he's ever encountered for wanting to put a fish in dirt)
Me: I have a better idea. . . . how about we flush Pickles down the toilet and he can go live with Nemo!
Adam: Oh yes, yes!
Note: For those of you that have not been subjected to the viewing of Disney's Nemo 128 times, it is proposed in the film that "all drains lead to the ocean" and in an attempt to get back to his dad, Nemo first tries a toilet and then eventually throws himself down a sink drain to successfully return to the ocean.
Adam scrambled down the chair and into the bathroom demanding that he be both the dumper and the flusher of the tiny aquatic carcass. I of course agreed, surprised at his eagerness to send Pickles on his way, but relieved that he was as happy as I was that this fish was leaving our home. We all huddled around the toilet and before a single word of remembrance could be spoken Adam had dumped and flushed and was shouting, "Bye-bye, Pickles!" as our friend slipped down his watery grave in symbolic fashion of the fates that had brought him to us in the first place.
Pickles' fish bowl still stands empty, partly because a free Saturday hasn't rolled around to find a replacement, but mostly because Adam hasn't even mentioned it. Although he has mentioned on many occasions that Pickles is swimming happily in the ocean with Nemo and his dad. I guess we all have our own version of Heaven.
Pickles was purchased via bribery payments paid to Adam, by us, for going poop on the toilet. After months of trying everything from candy to stickers to public humiliation (kidding) we finally found that quarters were the trick to getting Adam to poop on the toilet rather than hunched quietly in the corner demanding "privacy". I had previously resigned myself to the fact that I would be writing a letter to Huggies, pleading that they produce a size 18 Pull-Up Diaper for my son as he entered 8th grade, but something about those shiny coins caught his eye and we were on a roll. He had already saved enough quarters for two trips to The Dollar Store, so to keep things exciting I challenged him to save ten quarters and in turn promised a trip to the pet store to pick out a goldfish. Now when I said goldfish, I was really thinking betta. You know, one of those fish that live in a very small container with really no effort on my part? Adam had in his head, Nemo. He really had his heart set on an orange fish and how can you say no to those pleading three-year old eyes, his tiny fist gripping ten shiny quarters, each earned by intense, laborous poops? You can't. And since orange bettas are not found in nature, or at least not in our local PetSmart, we spent fifteen dollars on supplies for a $0.12 (yes, 12 CENT) goldfish that poops twice as much as he eats, cloulding his bowl and smelling up the house in a matter of days. Now, perhaps it was that I added the water conditioner while Pickles was in the water, or maybe that I didn't let him adjust to the temperature of his new home before dumping him in, or it may even be the ill thoughts I wished upon him while cleaning his bowl a mere three days after his arrival, but I tell myself and will tell Adam in the future, that Pickles was merely a feeder goldfish and simply because of that, his life expectancy was short.
And short it was. . . . . Five days after welcoming Pickles into our family his tiny flapping gils gave out. Because we weren't sure how to approach it and more so because we are chicken shit parents, we set Adam up to find Pickles in his new condition. (yes, I could have easily replaced Pickles with another $0.12 goldfish, but I had my hopes on a different kind of goldfish) When it was time to feed Pickles, Adam climbed up the chair and peered in the bowl. It went down something like this:
Adam: Momma? (calling from the dining room) I don't think Pickles wants to eat right now.
Me: (from the kitchen) Really? Why not (yes I'm a horrible, horrible person)
Adam: Momma? I don't think Pickles wants to swim right now.
Me: (now looking in the bowl as well) Oh, honey, Pickles died.
Adam: (confused looked)
Me: Pickles isn't going to swim anymore, he's broken. Maybe we can get a different kind of goldfish that won't break as easily. (The devil horns are coming in quite nicely, thank you)
Adam: Yes, a better goldfish. Pickles isn't swimming anymore.
Me: How about we bury Pickles in the backyard.
Adam: (a look that says I am the craziest MF-er he's ever encountered for wanting to put a fish in dirt)
Me: I have a better idea. . . . how about we flush Pickles down the toilet and he can go live with Nemo!
Adam: Oh yes, yes!
Note: For those of you that have not been subjected to the viewing of Disney's Nemo 128 times, it is proposed in the film that "all drains lead to the ocean" and in an attempt to get back to his dad, Nemo first tries a toilet and then eventually throws himself down a sink drain to successfully return to the ocean.
Adam scrambled down the chair and into the bathroom demanding that he be both the dumper and the flusher of the tiny aquatic carcass. I of course agreed, surprised at his eagerness to send Pickles on his way, but relieved that he was as happy as I was that this fish was leaving our home. We all huddled around the toilet and before a single word of remembrance could be spoken Adam had dumped and flushed and was shouting, "Bye-bye, Pickles!" as our friend slipped down his watery grave in symbolic fashion of the fates that had brought him to us in the first place.
Pickles' fish bowl still stands empty, partly because a free Saturday hasn't rolled around to find a replacement, but mostly because Adam hasn't even mentioned it. Although he has mentioned on many occasions that Pickles is swimming happily in the ocean with Nemo and his dad. I guess we all have our own version of Heaven.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
That's my life. . . .
Just a small glimpse into our evening last night. . . .
Adam: (coming out of his play closet) Mommy this movie is all wet.
Me: (turning from still eating my dinner and taking the wet DVD from him) That's weird, why is it all wet?
Adam: Because I pee'd on it.
Me: (Speechless as I note his wet pantleg and realize I am touching pee while eating dinner)
Adam: (coming out of his play closet) Mommy this movie is all wet.
Me: (turning from still eating my dinner and taking the wet DVD from him) That's weird, why is it all wet?
Adam: Because I pee'd on it.
Me: (Speechless as I note his wet pantleg and realize I am touching pee while eating dinner)
Friday, September 29, 2006
Good-bye, friend!
I hate good-byes. Hate them. Not the good-byes at the end of an evening with friends, or even the good-byes at the end of a visit when you know you won't be seeing the person for several months. It's the forever good-byes that leave me feeling something akin to a dull ice pick has gouged clear through my heart. Even when its not me that's really doing the good-bying.
Today is Adam's best friend's last day at school before he moves to Illinois. They have been friends since Nick started at 6mos old. Can a 6mos old really have a "friend"? I can honestly say, yes. Adam and Nick have intentionally played together since they could crawl to each other. They would chase each other around the highchairs on their chubby little knees and as they got older give each other hugs, unprovoked, several times a day. They have spent five days a week for three years together playing, painting and napping and have learned everything from walking to talking to pooping on the potty within each other's sight. In essence, they are brothers.
So last night Adam and I made Nick a personalized Lightning McQueen keychain out of foam craft beads as a going away gift. While I watched Adam clumsily thread the plastic string through each letter of Nick's name I thought whether or not to try and explain about Nick moving away. Should I try and tell him in three-year old terms what was coming or just wait and see if he asks about him. I went with the proactive approach since experience has taught me Adam usually takes things pretty well if he has time to roll them around in his head a few times. "So, tomorrow is Nick's last day at school." He continued to thread the beads. "Nick and his mommy and daddy are moving to a new town". More beads. "After tomorrow, Nick won't be in your class anymore". His little hands stopped, and he looked up at me with this bewildered, sad face and said matter of factly, "But I will miss him" as if making this statement would clear these crazy thoughts of moving from everyone's head. "I know you will sweetie, so will I". But the saddest part for me isn't that he'll miss him, it's that after a week or two, he won't. A three-year old lives with very little past and even less future. They are completely in the moment. So even though Nick has been his pal, his playmate, his co-consipirator for three years, little more than a flicker of memory and a scrapbook page documenting their brotherhood will remain. I know Adam will make other friends, even Adam knows this. . . within minutes of finishing the beaded keychain he was talking repeatedly of Sean, another boy in his class, but still that wickedly dull ice pick haunts my heart when I think of the budding friendship that will be lost. . . . and the possiblility that for even a moment my little boy's heart might feel the same way.
Today is Adam's best friend's last day at school before he moves to Illinois. They have been friends since Nick started at 6mos old. Can a 6mos old really have a "friend"? I can honestly say, yes. Adam and Nick have intentionally played together since they could crawl to each other. They would chase each other around the highchairs on their chubby little knees and as they got older give each other hugs, unprovoked, several times a day. They have spent five days a week for three years together playing, painting and napping and have learned everything from walking to talking to pooping on the potty within each other's sight. In essence, they are brothers.
So last night Adam and I made Nick a personalized Lightning McQueen keychain out of foam craft beads as a going away gift. While I watched Adam clumsily thread the plastic string through each letter of Nick's name I thought whether or not to try and explain about Nick moving away. Should I try and tell him in three-year old terms what was coming or just wait and see if he asks about him. I went with the proactive approach since experience has taught me Adam usually takes things pretty well if he has time to roll them around in his head a few times. "So, tomorrow is Nick's last day at school." He continued to thread the beads. "Nick and his mommy and daddy are moving to a new town". More beads. "After tomorrow, Nick won't be in your class anymore". His little hands stopped, and he looked up at me with this bewildered, sad face and said matter of factly, "But I will miss him" as if making this statement would clear these crazy thoughts of moving from everyone's head. "I know you will sweetie, so will I". But the saddest part for me isn't that he'll miss him, it's that after a week or two, he won't. A three-year old lives with very little past and even less future. They are completely in the moment. So even though Nick has been his pal, his playmate, his co-consipirator for three years, little more than a flicker of memory and a scrapbook page documenting their brotherhood will remain. I know Adam will make other friends, even Adam knows this. . . within minutes of finishing the beaded keychain he was talking repeatedly of Sean, another boy in his class, but still that wickedly dull ice pick haunts my heart when I think of the budding friendship that will be lost. . . . and the possiblility that for even a moment my little boy's heart might feel the same way.
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