Books Unread, Jokes Untold-the pursuit of life

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Breathe April 17, 2012

Filed under: Schmooper — booksunread @ 2:08 pm

Life is very packed and overwhelming lately. My work has gotten very busy and stressful, as has Miguel’s. I’m often picking Weenut up later at daycare so that I can squeeze in an extra ½ hour or so at work. Which is easy to justify when I get there at 3:00 and am greeted by “But I wanted to stay for snnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaack.” WOE. “I wanted to play outttttttttttttside with my friends.” Which, thanks a lot.

I fought Friday airport traffic after a 3 day trip, rushed to pick him up and ended up having to drag him out of there screaming. I know he is only three, but it is hard not feel kicked in the gut when you’ve missed him so much and discover you’re less exciting than a pile of blocks he can play with every day.

Miguel is getting home later and we’re basically passing each other as we hand off Weenut duties-you get in a run, then I’ll trade you while I go out for a bike ride. Weenut’s bedtime routine, shower, get something to eat while Miguel checks his emails, then I get on the computer to work until after he’s gone to bed.

I hurt my foot running and biking is pretty much the only thing I can do until it heals. So my way to get my exercise done earlier in the afternoon with Weenut in tow is out the window. I’m in the worst shape I’ve been since losing all the Weenut baby weight. The number on the scale is not significantly higher, but everything is just soft and flabby. Guess it’s true what they say about muscle weighing more than fat.

Yesterday, as I was driving home thinking despairingly of all the things I had to do, how unhappy I was with how I look, how helpless I feel to change it while my body is all ganked up, and DOOM SPIRAL. I actually thought objectively, I am overdue for a giant life sucks ugly cry, which I haven’t indulged in for years.

I picked Weenut up on time, and we headed outside to play in the backyard in the gorgeous weather. As I was waiting for him to retrieve a ball, I saw last year’s dead container tomatoes, shoved into a corner of the yard. I don’t really have the time or inclination to get anything planted this year. I had wanted to build a raised bed in the back corner of the yard. My containers have struggled the last couple years because they’re not getting enough sun up by the house. “Next year,” I told myself. And then I immediately thought, “Will it really be any different next year? I will probably be just as stretched and stressed out…” and my chest started to tighten as the doom spiral started funneling down.

And then I caught sight of Weenut’s smiling face and I thought “What are you doing? What is the point of worrying about next year? You are here now. In the sunshine. Playing with this gorgeous, bright little boy who is getting so big so quick. Stop worrying about next year, next week, next hour. Enjoy this now.” Why is this so hard to remember to do?

Later, we were picking up the google-gillion pieces of his marble track and counting as we put them in the bag. He made it up to 29 by himself no problem but then he wanted to call the next piece 29-10. I corrected him and we counted 30, 31, 32 together until he grasped the pattern and continued by himself up to 39-10. So we started again at 40, 41…and then 50, 51…, etc. The look on his face when he was counting on his own, when he’d look to me uncertainly for confirmation as he said the next number and light up as he was figuring it out…just hard to find words to describe how amazing it is when you watch your child learn something, the comprehension and wonder and pride all galloping across his face in a split second. It’s one of those moments you wish you could freeze in time and never forget. (Also, there are 62 mother fucking pieces to that thing. I want to punch the person who gave it to him.)

Outside of that wonderment and awesomeness is the daily grind-the ugly parts of three with the incessant questions that blot out all coherent thought, the bouts of temper and defiance, the worry that we’re not doing enough, that we’re spoiling him. And on and on. That is a whole ‘nother post.

 

Just a small sampling April 5, 2012

Filed under: Schmooper — booksunread @ 2:52 pm

Of the actual conversations going on at my house. Nonstop. All day. Every day. Pass the wine.

Weenut: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Changing your sheets.”
Weenut: “Why?”
Me: “Because they are dirty.”
Weenut: “But why are they dirty?”
Me: “Because they just get dirty. You’ve been sick and they have germs on them.”
Weenut: “Oh… How do they get germs on them?”
Me (in my head): “For the love of god. Make it stop.”
Weenut: “How do they get germs on them?”
Me: fantasizing about a cone of silence surrounding me
Weenut: “Mom!How do they get germs on them?”
Me: “Because they just stick to them.”
Weenut: “But why do they just stick to them?”
Me: “They just do!”

In the car
Weenut: “What’s that pig doing?” Pointing to one of the “flying pig” charity art pieces outside his window.
Me: “Flying”
Weenut: “But why is he flying?”
Me: “Because that’s just what that pig does.”
Weenut: “Oh…What is that place where the pig is?”
Me: “An office building.”
Weenut: “What’s an office building?”
Me: “It’s somebody’s work.”
Weenut: “Who works there?”
Me: “I don’t know, just people.”
Weenut: “Oh…Why do they got to go to work?”
Me: “Because that’s just what grownups do!”
And on and on down the road.

I know, I know, he is just bright and curious and trying to learn and synthesize all this information about the world around him. But Mother of God, it’s hard to hear yourself think when you’re under a constant barrage of questions. Forget waterboarding. Let’s put terrorists in a room full of inquisitive preschoolers and see how long it takes before they break.

 

Discovered Last Night December 7, 2011

Filed under: Daily Grind — booksunread @ 6:22 pm

I own a shameful number of shoes. I finally got around to putting the last of my winter-inappropriate shoes away and neatly arranging the 35+ pairs of shoes and boots wearable in cold weather. I was too scared to count the flip flops, sandals, slides and peep toes that went into the summer shoe box(es). Neither of which includes the dozen or so “fancy” shoes stacked across the shelves of my closet.

I have an equally disturbing number of totes, satchels, everyday purses and clutches. In which I’m hoarding enough tampons, pens and pennies to last through the apocalypse. Two I bought at least 4 purses ago and have yet to use. I convinced myself to part with only three of them.

An intervention may be needed.

 

Afro Chickens November 17, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — booksunread @ 1:02 pm

Hey, Remember that totally awesome cookie idea I had?

{Cue Sad Trombone}
Whap whaaaaappp

I sent them to daycare anyway. They’re three, if I tell them they’re turkeys, they might believe me.

 

Weekend November 14, 2011

Filed under: Daily Grind,Getting my Martha On,Schmooper — booksunread @ 6:27 pm

How is it that I spent an hour plus in the grocery store, with a list, filled an entire cart to the brim and still managed to forget a number of key items? One of which was eggs. So yeah, no baking this weekend. I did manage to get the bulk of the shopping done, make and freeze sweet potatoes, dressing, an appetizer, a stash of sautéed onions for various recipes and some turkey sausage for lasagne next weekend.

And I ran one day and worked out the next. But I also went to breakfast at Cracker Barrel and to a Mexican place for dinner so I think that cancels it out. (The Weenut’s* reaction to CB’s giant roaring fire place? “FIRE! AHHHH!” So fire safety week at day care was apparently effective.)

Then the dryer broke. And the sump pump. WTF? Both are new since we bought the house five years ago.

Oh, and then we had arts and crafts homework for DAYCARE. They sent home two pieces of construction paper taped together with instructions to make a “Family Banner” by writing our name at the top and tracing and decorating each of our hands. And you know I couldn’t just scribble some shit on there with a crayon and call it a day, right? I must say I’m quite proud of my handprint turned flower pot. Weenut’s artistic vision needs some fine tuning as he just covered his with scribbles and Cars stickers. But he stayed in the lines, so win!

Another precious memory to record: My MIL bought him a totally age inappropriate but beautiful ABC popup book for his first Christmas. Each letter reveals an amazingly detailed die cut tableau of an animal that starts with that letter. I’ve just finally started reading it with Weenut, at bedtime, when I can stop him from ripping the heads off the Okapi and Quetzal. Anywho, as we went through it Friday night, he started asking me if they have each animal at the zoo. (Although he skipped it on dinosaur, was just waiting to have to explain that one. Unconscious genius, I tell you.) When we got to panda and I was struggling to remember if our zoo had any, and started to answer, yes, he cut me off and said “No, they’re ‘in danger.’” I guess I’m getting my money’s worth out of the day care or my cable bill, because I certainly didn’t teach him that.

*Like I said, squidgy doesn’t really work now, so Weenut it is, because he’s still my little peanut weenut even if he’s not a squidgy baby any more. What? Shut up?

 

Turkey Time! November 11, 2011

Filed under: Getting my Martha On — booksunread @ 2:30 pm

Whee! It’s that time of year when I get my Martha on and start feverishly planning my assault on Thanksgiving. After a break last year, we are hosting Spam and Slobetta again this year, now with an extra spamlet.

While it wasn’t Spam and Slobetta last year, we did have company and by the time all the food was on the table, I didn’t even care about eating. All I wanted to do was go out and buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke them all with a jug of wine chaser. So I’m racking my brains with ways to keep it simple this year, which is causing my inner Martha quite a bit of cognitive dissonance.

Since our guests this year are far from gourmands, I thought about just making potatoes and stuffing from boxes. And then someone on Facebook pointed out the chemical ingredients in these things and I feel kind of grossed out now. I may just go ahead with the stuffing and just not eat it myself, because I guarantee I’ll be the only one at the table that ever gives a thought to processed foods.

I’m going to try to make some stuff ahead and freeze it this weekend. My Memere’s traditional dressing freezes well and I always make that ahead. I’m going to roast and mash my sweet potatoes. Was thinking about making the cake part of some pumpkin whoopee pies. Chocolate chip cookies hold up pretty well. Oh, and my over-ripe banana stash in the freezer is starting to get full so I thought I’d do some banana zucchini bread muffins.

I’m starting this weekend rather than next because my inlaws have FINALLY decided that maybe they’d like to come spend some time with their grandson. (For the first time since his first Christmas. Even then, that trip was probably 75% motivated by the fact that the favorite grandchild was going to be there.) Anywho, in deference to suiting the schedule of said favored grandchild, they have chosen the weekened immediately before Thanksgiving to come visit. Convenient. So I have to plan meals and entertainment for everyone that weekend too.

I’m sure in a week I’ll be all stressy exclamation points up in here, but right now, I’m kinda of excited and all festive-y. I can’t wait to bust out my mini cookie cutters and start stamping out leaf, acorn and pumpkin shaped butter pats. (OH YEAH, I DO!) I also have a rather insane cookie idea that would be so. fucking. awesome…if I pull it off, but is more likely to end in tears. Stay tuned!

 

Chick Chick November 10, 2011

Filed under: Schmooper — booksunread @ 2:16 pm

“Chick Chick is my baby. My teeny, tiny little baby,” he declares as he cradles the stuffed toy in his arms. “Awwww. She’s sooo cute!” he continues.

Three is pretty cool. The random flashes of wisdom beyond his years. The memory like an elephant, especially for the things you’d wish he’d forget. His exclamations of “Oh CRASH!” as a train topples off the track that we at first heard as “Oh CRAP!” The role play and pretending. Last night we were playing cars and he said to me “You’re my sister. C’mon sister, let’s drive over here and have a race!”

On the flip side, three is pretty annoying. The stubbornness that doesn’t respond to any threats of punishment. He’ll tell you “I don’t want to watch Chuggington ANYWAY! AT ALL!” as he pouts. The big fat crocodile tears that he calls up when he doesn’t get his way. The continuing shitty eating, now with the maddening “I only like school rice/pizza/pasta.”

But, oh. Even when he’s kind of being an asshole, he’s still “sooo cute.” It’s all slipping by so fast (and yet the next 15ish years of raising him seem like a really long time) and I miss using this space to record it all. So for the fifty frillionth time, committing to writing again.