I heard the door open and shut as Sparring Partner entered the house. I then heard, “thththrrrrpppppthh!”
“What the hell? You couldn’t have done that out in the garage?”
“I didn’t know it was going to happen!”
What internal structural part of you is damaged that you don’t know you’re going to fart before you fart?
Honestly!
C’mon, men. Just admit that you though you could sneak it out, but failed.
Here’s a couple of dilemmas we are going through now. If you have some insight on one or the other (or both!), please, Obi-won, you’re my only hope!
Dilemma #1
A couple times in the past weeks, in order to simplify my life, I’ve put both Doodicus and Aitch in the bathtub together. Doodicus is now 8 and Aitch is 1 1/2. Doodicus has no problem with this plan and actually asks if they can more often. Aitch also enjoys the one-on-one play and having someone to splash that won’t complain (much).
However, when Doodicus asks Sparring Partner if he can take a bath when Aitch does, Sparring Partner tells him no. Sparring Partner tells me when I ask him what the big deal is that he just doesn’t like it.
Is the age difference too great and therefore they shouldn’t be bathing together? Am I gearing them up for future counseling or is Sparring Partner being uptight?
___________ OR ____________
Dilemma #2
We are finally moving Aitch to a new daycare, HH. It’s the same daycare that Doodicus goes to (she had to be 18 mos to attend). I suggested that Sparring Partner pick her up when he picks up Doodicus from school and then take them both to HH so that she only has to be there about two hours before we come get them after work, thus easing her slowly into new surroundings and staff.
Sparring Partner thinks we should quit the old daycare, KK, cold turkey and just start bringing her to HH right away in the morning.
Which way do you think would be easier? Keeping her at KK is not an option. I’m certain that I’m the one who’s going to take it the hardest because I know she won’t be happy either way.
This year is a big one at school for Doodicus. During the first half of second grade, they prepare for the First Reconciliation (first confession). The second half, they prepare for First Communion (taking of the bread).
My husband and I are not what one would call devout Catholics </air quotes>. This coming from someone who retweeted one of my friend’s updates that said (and I paraphrase), “Why do people say it’s the ‘Gospel Truth’ when the gospel was actually a work of fiction?” I lost a FB friend with that one. I know who it was so I sent her another friend request, just to see if she would get over herself, and well…she hasn’t. So I blocked her. Because I’m spiteful like that.
Sparring Partner and I were both raised Catholic, but I have to say that we are floundering a bit as we try to follow the suggestions of the school to impress upon Doodicus the importance of what he’s being taught in his religion classes. Quite frankly, we are more concerned about the skills necessary for him to get a job. No amount of praying is going to get his reading level up to snuff nor will it help him learn to “mind his own business”, per his recent report card.
First Reconciliation was what I would consider a fiasco. No one warned us ahead of time that we should plan on a good two hours as 100-plus second graders, a combined total from both Catholic and Public schools, divided themselves into five unequal lines to sit in front of five different priests; and then tell them that they are mean to their little sisters/brothers and that they don’t listen to mom and dad. Repent, SINNERSSSSSSS!
I’m now learning that First Communion is a HUUUGE deal. And while it’s not until April, I’ve already been asked, “Are you getting Doodicus a suit?” (yes, I am); “Are you going to rent out a place for a party or have one at home?” (party? This requires a party?); “What are you giving him for a gift?” (the gift of Jesus isn’t enough?!).
The other night there was a “Parents Only” (loosely translated into “Keep your rug-rhinos at home, for the love of all that’s holy!”) meeting at the school. Boys should wear dress slacks, dress shoes and a white shirt. They don’t have to wear white, but we prefer it as it symbolizes their baptism. There’s goes my idea of him wearing a black shirt with his black suit, looking all Mafioso and shit. Girls should wear white dresses. NO gloves and no purses as these items can be misplaced. Followed by: IF you insist that your girl wears gloves, she will need to remove them before Communion as the bread must be placed in the “flesh of the palm”.
Now, why in the in the world, would you give the parents an out like that? If you don’t want them to wear gloves, tell them no gloves and period.
By now, I’m chatting under my breath to one of my son’s friend’s mom. Party? Suit? Gift? And then I hear, “We’ll be serving both species…” What? They’re serving a meal with this? Both Species…is that steak and chicken or steak and fish? Probably fish, right? “…so they will be receiving both the bread and the wine.” Really? That’s what they mean by “both species”? Whoda thunk? Crazy Catholics.
Speaking of “crazy”, here’s the tie I designed on Zazzle for Doodicus’s First Communion. I sent a picture to my husband and one of my friends. My husband was not amused. My friend? She forwarded it to my son’s priest, who thought it was hysterical. Inappropriate, but still – hysterical.
I grew up on a farm. Among the menagerie of animals I saw and heard and smelled every day, there were cows, horses, sheep, goats, donkeys, cats, dogs and chickens. Of course there were also plenty of raccoons, deer, skunks, coyotes, jackrabbits, cottontails, bats, ground-squirrels, red squirrels, badges and foxes.
The stories I could tell you about each of them…ahhhh, yes. Enough to fill this blog easily until the end of the year.
But a question I recently had from CowGirl made the memories of our horses come crashing through and was enough to set me back in my chair in recollection. Do we have horses, she asked.
There was a time that we had at least 15 horses at the same time on our farm. Of every size, color and temperament. Queenie was the gentle mare with the black coat and white hocks. Slower than molasses due to her advanced age. She would plod along anywhere you wanted – except across the bridge on the lane.
Red was our fat pony we kids usually rode. The child’s mini-saddle looked ridiculous on his barrel-round body, but he was always up for a ride as long as you brought an apple or slice of watermelon or fresh sweet corn. No wonder he was so fat. Our less than horse-savvy friends could ride Red; sometimes 3 or 4 kids at a time would somehow be squeezed together atop him.
On the opposite side of the spectrum from Red was Chance. A stocky, buckskin, quarter horse gelding of endless energy and fire, typical of his breed. He didn’t walk, he pranced. His trot, unlike most horses, was not the kind that made you regret not putting on a sports bra. He had more cow sense in him than any other horse my dad ever owned, and it was all innate, not trained into him. If I was on Chance and I was cutting calves, the only thing I had to do was hang on with everything I had. Everything about him was geared for speed and agility.
Cheyenne. Another buckskin registered quarter horse that my parents paid big bucks to have broke professionally as she was high bred and high strung. The only horse I ever knew us to have that wasn’t broke by either my dad or one of the kids. I remember two of her foals: one was a sorrel filly that was born with the most perfect looking build I had seen on a quarter horse, but unfortunately had a piebald eye and an overbite, both undesirable traits to my dad. She also had an unsavory temperament, much like her dam’s. My dad sold her as a yearling (funny, but I don’t remember her name anymore). Cheyenne’s last foal was a colt. His name was Al.
Al was big. 16 hands by two years. That’s big for a quarter horse. He was lanky and had a huge head. He was also grulla in color. He was a gentle giant that I took under my wing. I loved him. It didn’t take long to get him saddle broke and I used him almost exclusively to go out after the dairy cows every morning and afternoon. He had an innate cow sense, like Chance. He just wasn’t as fast on his feet. His easy temperament was especially appreciated the time I found a newborn calf, abandoned by the cow. I could have gone back up to the barn and told my dad who would have got in the tractor or truck and went out to the pasture to load it up and bring to the shed. Instead I picked up the calf, still slippery from afterbirth, and somehow heaved its 60 some-odd-pounds (and he was tiny for a calf) up over the saddle. Al’s eyes opened wide with fear, and he side-stepped me once but let me finally get the calf settled before I lead him up to the barn by foot.
When I started college, I had to live in the dorms, so the only time I got to come home was on the weekends. I saw less and less of Al. My little sister rode him a few times, but she was just shy of two years out from going to college herself.
After my freshman year of college, I moved two hours away and was working full-time. I came home less frequently over the next couple of years. My love of horses dwindled as I enjoyed my adult freedom. When I was 24, I moved back home, and enrolled back into college. I still didn’t ride much as we no longer ran a dairy. I met Sparring Partner shortly after that, and moved in with him. And while Sparring Partner said he knew how to ride, we never took an afternoon to go to the farm and take a relaxing ride. Probably because the only adult-sized horse by then was Al. My dad no longer needed cattle horses and was trying to get some miniature pony team horses broke. The others had died or had been sold off or had been allowed to founder and were lame.
And then one day I was talking to my mom on the phone and I asked her how Al was enjoying being the big guy amongst all those little ponies. “Didn’t I tell you? Al died a few months ago. From colic.” My heart flip-flopped and broke. I was so mad at her for not telling me sooner even though that wouldn’t have changed anything. Al was only 10 years old.
For a lot of people, riding horses is a novelty that they may only experience once or twice in their lives, and on what I call a “push-button horse” – if they are lucky. I grew up on and around them and saw dozens come and go. I’d been thrown; been clotheslined by one (a neighbor’s horse); was dragged by another because I foolishly thought I could control an 800 pound animal with my 100 and have a scar on my hip to remind me; been bitten and had my feet stomped on more times than I care to remember. But I never realized how lucky I really was until just now to have had any of those experiences.
When CowGirl asked if we had any horses, I realized that even though my brother and his wife are avid horsemen, Doodicus has never done more than sit on a horse. I think this summer I should take the weekends that are too cool to go to the pool, and take them up to the farm instead and establish the basics of horsemanship. I also think it would be a great time for me to be reintroduced to something that I enjoyed when I was young. Maybe it will help ME feel young again.
Aitch loves taking her bath. Loves. Loveslovesloves it. We have to spell out the word when we talk about it because once she hears the word, the speed alone that she takes off to the bathroom creates a wind-shear that virtually strips her of her clothes.
In fact, she enjoys her time in the tub so much, once it starts draining, she takes the washcloth, smoothes it flat on the tub floor and then lies (lays?) down on it while saying, “nigh-nigh”. Yes, my daughter might actually sleep in the tub if I let her.
That being said, I thought she would enjoy swim lessons so I signed both her and Doodicus up for lessons at the Y. We had our first last night.
She saw the swimsuit I got her and asked, “dwess? dwess?” and I was all, “yes, we are going to get you dressed” and we got all bundled up and headed out.
Once the classes started, I lost all track of anything Doodicus was doing (his class was at the same time) (Sparring Partner went to see his dad, so it was just the three of us), I found myself sitting on the side of the pool with a baby barnacle dressed in a pink, polka-dotted swimsuit attached to my ribs/chest/arm. I’m fairly certain that if she could have held onto me by sheer willpower, so freaked out by the pool and the screaming and the splashing going on.
Not only that, but the first thing the instructor did was come up and splashed a little water onto her and then took her out of my arms. Granted, she was doing one of those, “water the tree so it grows big and tall and then cut it down” (environmentally sound?) type of games, but still! My baby barnacle morphed into a baby octopus and suddenly she had twice as many limbs as I remember giving birth to. Undiscovered super powers?
After 15 minutes of torture, it was 15 minutes of play. By then, she was loosening up a bit and throwing a ball and then we’d “swim” after it. However, if the ball landed tooooo close to the instructor, the ball became as unappealing as a bloated squirrel that had fallen into a horse tank and couldn’t get out again and drown. Trust me. Not pretty. And a pitchfork can do waaay more harm than help if you’re not careful.
But once I’d fish the ball away and hand it back to Aitch, she was happy. Finally class was over and while I was toweling her off, I heard a lot of hollering from another instructor with a group of older kids. Then Doodicus was walking up to me, and I asked him what he was doing since his class wasn’t scheduled to be over for another 15 minutes. “Some kid threw up in the pool.”
Seriously?! What the hell is the Y doing to these kids that they are always puking in the pool?
Class number two is Thursday. If they’ve got the pool cleaned up by then.
Why is it in preparation for change, we imagine the worse and yet when all is said and done, whatever the change was has come and gone much like a gentle breeze, barely enough to cause a ruffle?
That’s what happened with Aitch’s bottle habit. A couple weeks ago, we decided to cut the morning one. After two or three days, she stopped asking for it. And then without even really trying, the night-time one suddenly was gone, too. Yes, it makes me quite sad but I don’t want to dwell on it.
To expedite her final transformation into toddlerhood, we turned her carseat to forward facing. Yes, I know. The other way’s safer and all that, but the poor girl who is tall for her age, is tap dancing on my van’s leather seat backs. Not really noticeable unless she’s wearing her squeakers. Squeaking is cute at home, but I’m not what one would consider a “defensive driver” but rather an “aggressive driver” and really don’t need the added aggravation on my commute. Plus, at home, I can escape if I start to feel a bit “tenso”. At least she’s still in her crib (*fingers crossed*).
Anyway.
Sparring Partner and I went through a dozen styles of sippy cups for Doodicus without really finding one that didn’t leak or didn’t require an annoying valve or a horrible and expensive combination of the two.
These are the styles we’ve tried:
First Year’s Take & Toss – we used these a lot with Doodicus. Loved the ease of clean up, but they were most likely to leak (especially when someone shakes them upside down). Even more of a pain in the ass, is that if these get dropped, the lids would pop off and you can pretty much count on cleaning up apple juice residue for the next month from your floors. Perfect for bringing along to a restaurant and serving your kids water.
Playtex’s Twist–n-Click – it has a silicone valve, which means extra cleaning and potential for lost valves. However, haven’t noticed any leaking and they’re insulated. This was the kind we sent along to the daycare.
Playtex Insulator Sport Cup – this was the only sippy cup that survived intact between when Doodicus stopped using them to when Aitch started. The problem is cleaning up is extremely difficult considering all the pieces, one of them being a straw. A straw!! And forget about finding replacement parts. We actually had two cups and two lids, but only one straw. Couldn’t get a replacement for the silicone sleeve or straws without spending what it would cost just to buy a whole new one. This one also necessitates an adjustment in drinking since Aitch is in the habit of tipping her cup in order to drink. Doing that with this cup means she draws in nothing but air.
Nuby Two Handle with Silicone Spout – I got these early in the introduction to sippy cup business because of the soft spout. While others complained of how the baby chewed up the spout, Aitch didn’t do that until just a couple months ago. My problem with them is that you have to have the spout and lid lined up JUST. RIGHT. or they’ll leak. Or she pushes the silicone down and breaks the seal. More leaking. We use them now only when the others are dirty.
Nuby Two Handle with Soft Spout – Another version, but same issues. An additional problem with sippy cups that have handles is that they don’t fit into cup holders. DOH!
Nuby Sports Sipper – Great if you’re little shark-pup is teething. Also it leaks. A lot. My very least favorite of them all. I’d say Nuby, while great in looks, has really failed us in reliability, function and design.
Of course you have to know what’s coming now, don’cha?
Tell me, which sippy cups do you and your child(ren) love? or hate? And why?
It’s a shit day and I don’t feel like jazzing this up with anything funny or thoughtful or whatever the fuck normally comes from life’s ass-raping lessons.
I received an email today (I was cc’d) that an employee where I have been “temping” for a year come this lovely Friday, has decided to downgrade her hours and accept the position that I was temping for. What does that mean exactly?
It means, once they fill the position she is vacating – one I’m not qualified for – I will be once again without a paycheck. Fuck. Seriously. And you convinced me not to be a whore and take down my ex-stalker. Thanks. Thanks a lot. FML.
This on top of the fact that I couldn’t get to sleep last night after receiving a rather disturbing Flickr contact request from a person I had never heard of. His line was, “I use to follow your blog before it expired. Now I spend time on Flickr.” I went to check out his photos, which he had none. He had just had favorited other Flickr photographers’ photos. His selections seemed odd.
I googled his email. It came up to a Facebook account with what might be his “real” name. No picture. No updates. No friends listed. No location. Nothing. I googled his Flickr account name. Found some comments on Flickr, but it also lead me to several threads on babycenter.com. The link is a list of his comments and posts he created. Innocuous? Maybe so, but after seeing some of the pictures he linked to via Flickr and some of his posts, I got a sick feeling in my stomach.
Especially this post regarding belly buttons. Especially since I see this as a recurring theme in his comments and posts. Especially since he’s using pictures of kids who aren’t his (and as far as I can tell – he doesn’t have) as an example. Especially when he asks to see photos of other kids’ belly buttons.
Infer what you will, but I immediately blocked him. I didn’t report him as many of my Facebook friends urged me to do because if the ICAC is going to be able to check him out, having his accounts suddenly deleted isn’t going to help out the next innocent person.
Maybe he’s just a normal guy who loves amateur photography, especially family orientated, but you know what? I don’t care. He’s a stranger to me and my family. Just to see what would happen, I responded to his request by asking, “Which blog are you referring to, Real Name?” (his name from Facebook since he didn’t use it anywhere else) and surprisingly, I’ve had no response.
So yeah. Not a good day.
Ironically, I just hung up with someone who’s been trying to get some information from several different departments where I work with no success, and she said, “You’ve been the most pleasant person I’ve talked to so far today. Thank you.”
It helped. A little. But now I’m going to go to the ladies room and have a good cry over how I hate my former employer(s). After this, if I’m ever offered a position where my supervisor is bald, I am SO declining. Billiard-ball-sporting fuckers.
