Last night, though the beds haven't been moved in yet, the kids and I spent our first the night in the new house. We camped out on the living room floor, and watched "Shrek" on Michelle's portable TV. Then when that was over, and it was 10 at night but we were too excited too sleep, we watched "Up," the only other movie we had available. It was oddly appropriate, at least it was for me, because I have mixed feelings about letting my old house go, and "Up" is a movie about an old man who eventually lets his old house go. Weird.
In fact, I'm having a hard time writing this post because of all of the mixed feelings. Writing about a move that involves so many mixed emotions is similar to writing about alcohol when I've had too many mixed drinks. It's disorienting.
And how are the kids? They're disoriented too. Even Lily is thrown off. I brought her over there with us the other night and she ran circles in the empty living room until she exhausted herself and curled up on Claire's lap. Then, well rested, she got up and did the same thing again. She only relaxed when she ate a piece of Swiss cheese that fell off of my sandwich. Dogs are strange people. For more information on dogs adjusting to moves, read this bit of genius:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/11/dogs-dont-understand-basic-concepts.html
Unfortunately for the rest of us, eating cheese off the floor doesn't solve everything. It's going to take time. At some point, one of the girls teared up, thinking about the old house, and Christopher mentioned a friend that he's afraid he'll never see again. I thought of the Planetarium. Luling might not have much, but it's got a great planetarium and I've been taking my kids there since they were toddlers. We've seen so many specials on the stars that are visible through different seasons, that we've memorized some of their names. The kids know how to find the star Arcturus by making an arc from the handle of the Big Dipper, and then "spiking to Spica." We'd find them in our backyard on clear nights.
Then I remembered that our new neighborhood had a sky too! So I proposed that we go outside and take a look at it. We stepped into our new driveway to check out how many stars we could see. There's less light pollution there, and it was a clear so we could see clusters of stars. Claire pointed to Venus, shining brighter than the moon.
"That's a planet," she told me.
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"It's not twinkling, and it's where Venus should be."
"Oh...maybe it's Venus then."
"Venus lives here too!" Emma exclaimed.
"Hooray!" I said. "All of the stars and planets from Luling also live here!"
"Hooway!" yelled Christopher, who still does not pronounce "r"s.
"They live everywhere, Mom." Claire said, flatly.
"Well, yes, but isn't it nice to know for sure?"
She supposed it was. And knowing so did make us feel better. Then we got too cold and went back inside to watch "Up."
There have been times that I've wanted to lift up my house in Luling and just move it closer to people I love. Or maybe drop it smack down in the middle of New Orleans so I could be close to the artistic hubbub of things, without having to change houses. That was before my divorce. Now selling the house is part of my divorce grieving cycle, if there is such a thing. I'm renting a new house that I haven't inherited or struggled to fix, a place that I'm not going to look around and see ghosts of people I've lost. Of course that doesn't mean that I won't suffer AT ALL at my new place. I'm sure the suffering will continue, and all of the cheese on all of the floors of the world won't make up for it. But it's different somehow, and I can't exactly explain why. I just know that it has to do with the divorce.
The house is going to a good family, a guy, his wife, and 2 year old daughter. They want to fix it up and everything, and I'm eager to see what he does with it. We'll be seeing it from time to time because I've vowed to take the kids to visit their friends on the street. My sister lives close, so we'll have a good excuse. Besides, we need to get to the planetarium occasionally. There are more stars to see in Mandeville, but we know their names because we learned about them in a dark room in a Luling library.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
A week to move + Christmas!
Creature Feature House is moving to a new house!...or a townhouse, or an apartment. I don't exactly know yet, I just started looking. But! There is a closing date for my present creature house for next week. The kids and I are filled with excitement and anxiety, which makes us wonderfully nauseated and none of us can wait until it's over :)
What else? I've been eating too much. Yes, I know, tis the season and all of that, but I'm not so much eating like a person who's letting herself go at Christmas but more like a person who's just letting herself go. I told my friends last night that after the move I'm going to start really paying attention to what I eat and exercise regularly again. Ok! Dieting, I'm talking about dieting! Dieting is such a trendy word. But! But! But! It's true. I'm too young to give up! (sob, gasp, whimper, munch on cookie) I can't give up the fight!
"I give up," one of my friends said to me last night. "I'm not even trying anymore."
"No!" I cried. "We can not accept defeat!"
"I'm not accepting defeat," he said, smiling. "I'm just not fighting, so I can't lose."
What's going on besides accepting my unacceptable weight and the defeatest attitude of my friends? The kids are out of school for Christmas break. Yesterday they gave their teachers gifts, and I was relieved that I'd managed to convince Christopher that he couldn't give his teacher an Angry Birds chew toy.
"But it's cute!" he protested, squeaking the red, scowling rubber bird.
"You don't even know if she likes Angry Birds," I said.
"Well...I know she downloaded it so her kids could play it."
"But that doesn't mean SHE likes it," I argued.
""She WILL like it!"
"It's a dog toy!"
"No, it's not!"
"Christopher, it says 'dog chew toy' on the tag!"
"...Oh. Well, let's get her Pokemon cards."
I kept telling him that the point of gift-giving is to give someone what THEY want and not necessarily what he wants. "Do you think a grown woman would want Pokeman cards?" I asked and he gave me this confused look as if to say, "What human being would NOT want that?" In the end, we settled on a tin of red hots because he remembered that she likes spicy things. Emma got her teacher a mug and Claire got hers a candle. I guess I could have turned things on them and said, "Why can't you be more original like your brother??" But they wouldn't have known I was joking. They would have cried and I would have ruined Christmas for all enternity. The story would be told year after year, over rounds of eggnog, "You remember that Christmas when Mom said we weren't good enough?"
The other daughter's face will blacken. "How can I forget. I thought about getting her something nice this year but then I remembered all that, and I just wrapped up a bunch of barbed wire."
"I made her nails-and-saw-dust preserves. How's THAT for originality Mom!"
Obviously, I have some worry about how my desicions and the things I say are going to affect the emotional development of my children. Will my ridiculous sense of humor warp them somehow? Will this move be a good thing for them? I think so. About the move, I mean, not my warped humor. I actually think the humor thing is good for them, though it does embarass Claire lately. I get the "Do you HAVE to act like that?" look a lot. And I say, "Yes. Yes, I do." I don't know how this move will affect them in the long run, but worrying hasn't done any good.
I will keep you all posted. For the next two days I'm just going to try to give us all a nice Christmas. Lots of snuggling up with blankets and playing games or watching movies. And no diet just yet.
What else? I've been eating too much. Yes, I know, tis the season and all of that, but I'm not so much eating like a person who's letting herself go at Christmas but more like a person who's just letting herself go. I told my friends last night that after the move I'm going to start really paying attention to what I eat and exercise regularly again. Ok! Dieting, I'm talking about dieting! Dieting is such a trendy word. But! But! But! It's true. I'm too young to give up! (sob, gasp, whimper, munch on cookie) I can't give up the fight!
"I give up," one of my friends said to me last night. "I'm not even trying anymore."
"No!" I cried. "We can not accept defeat!"
"I'm not accepting defeat," he said, smiling. "I'm just not fighting, so I can't lose."
What's going on besides accepting my unacceptable weight and the defeatest attitude of my friends? The kids are out of school for Christmas break. Yesterday they gave their teachers gifts, and I was relieved that I'd managed to convince Christopher that he couldn't give his teacher an Angry Birds chew toy.
"But it's cute!" he protested, squeaking the red, scowling rubber bird.
"You don't even know if she likes Angry Birds," I said.
"Well...I know she downloaded it so her kids could play it."
"But that doesn't mean SHE likes it," I argued.
""She WILL like it!"
"It's a dog toy!"
"No, it's not!"
"Christopher, it says 'dog chew toy' on the tag!"
"...Oh. Well, let's get her Pokemon cards."
I kept telling him that the point of gift-giving is to give someone what THEY want and not necessarily what he wants. "Do you think a grown woman would want Pokeman cards?" I asked and he gave me this confused look as if to say, "What human being would NOT want that?" In the end, we settled on a tin of red hots because he remembered that she likes spicy things. Emma got her teacher a mug and Claire got hers a candle. I guess I could have turned things on them and said, "Why can't you be more original like your brother??" But they wouldn't have known I was joking. They would have cried and I would have ruined Christmas for all enternity. The story would be told year after year, over rounds of eggnog, "You remember that Christmas when Mom said we weren't good enough?"
The other daughter's face will blacken. "How can I forget. I thought about getting her something nice this year but then I remembered all that, and I just wrapped up a bunch of barbed wire."
"I made her nails-and-saw-dust preserves. How's THAT for originality Mom!"
Obviously, I have some worry about how my desicions and the things I say are going to affect the emotional development of my children. Will my ridiculous sense of humor warp them somehow? Will this move be a good thing for them? I think so. About the move, I mean, not my warped humor. I actually think the humor thing is good for them, though it does embarass Claire lately. I get the "Do you HAVE to act like that?" look a lot. And I say, "Yes. Yes, I do." I don't know how this move will affect them in the long run, but worrying hasn't done any good.
I will keep you all posted. For the next two days I'm just going to try to give us all a nice Christmas. Lots of snuggling up with blankets and playing games or watching movies. And no diet just yet.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Honesty is the Best Chaosity
On Sunday Emma wanted to go to church so I let her. But it wasn't as simple as it sounds.
A couple of months ago, after years of on and off church-going, I finally came out to the kids.
"Guys," I said, as we were gathered around the kitchen table. The kitchen table is where we disclose most things to each other, even if we're not eating. In fact, for digestive purposes, and the speaker's safety, it's best. For instance, if I'd confided in them at dinner that night, they might have spit forkfuls of potatoes at me when I said, "I don't believe in organized religion."
But since they weren't eating, they just opened their eyes wide and looked confused.
"What do you mean?" Claire said. "Does that mean you don't believe in God?"
"No, that's not what that means."
"Does that mean you're not Chrsitian?" Emma asked.
"Well, I don't know. But I know for sure that I believe in loving God, and loving others as you love yourself."
"What does THAT mean?" Christopher asked.
"Well-"
"So we're not going to church?" Emma asked.
"Are we not having Christmas???" Claire hollered.
The others gasped.
"Of course we'll still have Christmas," I assured them.
"Because Christmas is about love," Emma told me. "And you said you believe in love, right Momma?"
"Of course I believe in love. I just don't believe that I need to be part of a church to love God."
"But that's where God is," Emma said.
"God's everywhere, honey. Look, I've just never been part of a religion where I totally agree with what they say. Some things, I don't agree with at all, and I don't want to be hipocritical. I love God, I love others, and I love myself. That's it. That's as honestly as I can live and I want to teach you guys that. I don't want to teach you a bunch of stuff that I don't believe just for the sake of being part of a religion."
"So, just to make sure, we're still having Christmas, right?" Claire asked.
The conversation went on like this. I was trying to talk to them from these basic principles that I've decided to maintain throughout my parenting: never underestimate a child's intelligence, teach them honesty by being honest about who I am, and always be honest without being cruel. These things, noble as they sound, don't make things easy. It wasn't easy for them to accept that I have a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend, even though they've known what homosexuality is since they were little. And it wasn't easy for them to hear what my past wishy-washy commitment to church had already led them to suspect - I don't believe in it.
But after we talked a while, Christopher and Claire seemed comfortable. They said they didn't like church anyway. I told them that that wasn't my point. It's not that I don't want to go because it's boring. I don't want to go because I don't believe in the Bible, which all Christian religions are based on and I feel like a hipocrit standing there in a pew.
We haven't been to church in a few months. But this past Sunday Emma woke me up, and told me she wanted to go back.
"Momma?" she said, settling on the side of my bed. "Momma, you awake?"
(Snort, grunt) "Huh?" I asked, peering at her through half shut eyes eyes.
She grinned in my face. "Mom! You're awake!"
"Mmm," I groaned, closing my eyes again.
"Here, I brought you some coffee," she went to my dresser and carefully lifted a full mug with both hands. She stepped gingerly across the room, and I sat up realizing what she was doing, and that coffee (coffee that I might drink) might spill. Coffee and the prospect of drinking it is what gets me up in the morning. The girl knows this.
"Momma," she said, passing over the cup. "I want to go with Dicey to church."
Dicey is what they called my youngest sister Stephanie, who is a devoted Christian. My oldest came up with the nickname when she was a toddler, which we've never understood because it sounds nothing like "Aunt Stephanie" but we went along with it anyway.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because," she moaned, and I thought that might be the end of it. But then she went on. "Because when I go there I feel all good inside. They're all happy to see me and they talk about love and it feels good. And I get to see families and daddies, and the daddies are so nice."
I try not to wince when she says stuff like that. I don't know if I did. It was so early that I was barely keeping up with the conversation. I sipped the coffee. She had made it just the way I like it - extra milk, no sugar.
"Please, Momma," she said.
"All those things you said about feeling good inside and feeling loved - those are the things that people are supposed to feel at church."
"Yeah! I want to go!"
"I know. And you like seeing the daddies there?"
She lowered her eyes. "Yes."
She hasn't been getting along with her own dad lately.
I nodded. "Just promise me that you'll remember that you like church because you love God and you love people. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that. It can be simply about love."
She beamed. "I will."
Lucikily I saw the hug coming and I put the coffee down. She hugged me tight and told me she loved me.
This is something she wants and needs to experience. I've told Emma my truth. This is hers.
But she's 10, and she's impressionable, and I'm supposed to guide her until she's old enough to make her own decision about things. This is also a truth. And this is a church that supports banning things like Halloween and Harry Potter books. And according to them I'm going to burn in hell. And she's looking at me and saying, "Please, Momma, this makes me happy and feel loved."
So how do I feel about all of this? What do I think? What am I going to tell her, and am I going to be wishy washy AGAIN and say "On second thought, honey, I don't think that church is a good idea. Yes, I know it makes you happy but I know what's best for you and letting you go some place where you feel loved, but I also think you'll be brainwashed and that is not something I'm comfortable with?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuckity fuck. And that is also a truth.
A couple of months ago, after years of on and off church-going, I finally came out to the kids.
"Guys," I said, as we were gathered around the kitchen table. The kitchen table is where we disclose most things to each other, even if we're not eating. In fact, for digestive purposes, and the speaker's safety, it's best. For instance, if I'd confided in them at dinner that night, they might have spit forkfuls of potatoes at me when I said, "I don't believe in organized religion."
But since they weren't eating, they just opened their eyes wide and looked confused.
"What do you mean?" Claire said. "Does that mean you don't believe in God?"
"No, that's not what that means."
"Does that mean you're not Chrsitian?" Emma asked.
"Well, I don't know. But I know for sure that I believe in loving God, and loving others as you love yourself."
"What does THAT mean?" Christopher asked.
"Well-"
"So we're not going to church?" Emma asked.
"Are we not having Christmas???" Claire hollered.
The others gasped.
"Of course we'll still have Christmas," I assured them.
"Because Christmas is about love," Emma told me. "And you said you believe in love, right Momma?"
"Of course I believe in love. I just don't believe that I need to be part of a church to love God."
"But that's where God is," Emma said.
"God's everywhere, honey. Look, I've just never been part of a religion where I totally agree with what they say. Some things, I don't agree with at all, and I don't want to be hipocritical. I love God, I love others, and I love myself. That's it. That's as honestly as I can live and I want to teach you guys that. I don't want to teach you a bunch of stuff that I don't believe just for the sake of being part of a religion."
"So, just to make sure, we're still having Christmas, right?" Claire asked.
The conversation went on like this. I was trying to talk to them from these basic principles that I've decided to maintain throughout my parenting: never underestimate a child's intelligence, teach them honesty by being honest about who I am, and always be honest without being cruel. These things, noble as they sound, don't make things easy. It wasn't easy for them to accept that I have a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend, even though they've known what homosexuality is since they were little. And it wasn't easy for them to hear what my past wishy-washy commitment to church had already led them to suspect - I don't believe in it.
But after we talked a while, Christopher and Claire seemed comfortable. They said they didn't like church anyway. I told them that that wasn't my point. It's not that I don't want to go because it's boring. I don't want to go because I don't believe in the Bible, which all Christian religions are based on and I feel like a hipocrit standing there in a pew.
We haven't been to church in a few months. But this past Sunday Emma woke me up, and told me she wanted to go back.
"Momma?" she said, settling on the side of my bed. "Momma, you awake?"
(Snort, grunt) "Huh?" I asked, peering at her through half shut eyes eyes.
She grinned in my face. "Mom! You're awake!"
"Mmm," I groaned, closing my eyes again.
"Here, I brought you some coffee," she went to my dresser and carefully lifted a full mug with both hands. She stepped gingerly across the room, and I sat up realizing what she was doing, and that coffee (coffee that I might drink) might spill. Coffee and the prospect of drinking it is what gets me up in the morning. The girl knows this.
"Momma," she said, passing over the cup. "I want to go with Dicey to church."
Dicey is what they called my youngest sister Stephanie, who is a devoted Christian. My oldest came up with the nickname when she was a toddler, which we've never understood because it sounds nothing like "Aunt Stephanie" but we went along with it anyway.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because," she moaned, and I thought that might be the end of it. But then she went on. "Because when I go there I feel all good inside. They're all happy to see me and they talk about love and it feels good. And I get to see families and daddies, and the daddies are so nice."
I try not to wince when she says stuff like that. I don't know if I did. It was so early that I was barely keeping up with the conversation. I sipped the coffee. She had made it just the way I like it - extra milk, no sugar.
"Please, Momma," she said.
"All those things you said about feeling good inside and feeling loved - those are the things that people are supposed to feel at church."
"Yeah! I want to go!"
"I know. And you like seeing the daddies there?"
She lowered her eyes. "Yes."
She hasn't been getting along with her own dad lately.
I nodded. "Just promise me that you'll remember that you like church because you love God and you love people. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that. It can be simply about love."
She beamed. "I will."
Lucikily I saw the hug coming and I put the coffee down. She hugged me tight and told me she loved me.
This is something she wants and needs to experience. I've told Emma my truth. This is hers.
But she's 10, and she's impressionable, and I'm supposed to guide her until she's old enough to make her own decision about things. This is also a truth. And this is a church that supports banning things like Halloween and Harry Potter books. And according to them I'm going to burn in hell. And she's looking at me and saying, "Please, Momma, this makes me happy and feel loved."
So how do I feel about all of this? What do I think? What am I going to tell her, and am I going to be wishy washy AGAIN and say "On second thought, honey, I don't think that church is a good idea. Yes, I know it makes you happy but I know what's best for you and letting you go some place where you feel loved, but I also think you'll be brainwashed and that is not something I'm comfortable with?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuckity fuck. And that is also a truth.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Machinery Sucks - a love story
This morning as I pulled warm clothes out of the dryer, I fell in love again with the used machine that I was able to buy after I had given up trying to fix my old one.
I'm a tomboy and everything, but not the kind that is good with tools. Still, I'm smart so when my dryer stopped working I looked at it and thought, "I'm a quick learner. I can figure this how. How complicated can a dryer be?" I knew of people who had fixed their own dryers, and I was confident that with some internet research, phone calls to fix-it savy friends, and a few trips to repair shops I could have that dryer up and running in no time. And for less than it cost to buy a new one! I was going to be resourceful and thrifty! I was going to cook dinner AND fix my dryer at the same time! I was going to be...SUPER SINGLE MOM! (triumphant horn blast)
Several hours and two trips to the hardware store later I was lying on the garage floor taking out a screw from the back of the dryer with a tool that I can't remember the name of but was having trouble with. I don't even remember what the working theory was about what might have been wrong with the dryer, but whatever it was required me to remove the back of the thing, take out a part and put a new part in. So far, unscrewing the screws and keeping them all together was proving much more of a challenge than I thought it would be, but worse than that was while I was lying there on floor I noticed old cobwebs inches away from my mouth. I backed my head as far away as I could. I guess I could have stopped what I was doing and swept them away, but I was making progress, I had already had to stop a few times to stir the spaghetti sauce and check the pasta, and I wanted to get this whole dryer business over with. Plus, someone had left the garage door open long enough for a swarm of mosquitoes to get in and they kept biting me while I worked. I imagined that this must be what it's like for an evil repairman when a dryer breaks in Hell.
Then a terrifying thing happened. Christopher came in to ask me when dinner was going to be done and my sister walked in behind him to ask if she could help - no that's not the terrifying thing, that's just the build up leading to it. Jees! Lemme tell a story already! Anyway, I asked Steph if she could check on the pasta.
"Ok," she said, and then she slapped her arm. "Man, that mosquito was huge!" She slapped at her other arm. "Oh my God, they're everywhere!"
"I know," I said. I let go of whatever tool I was using to slap the right side of my head and frightened off the little jerk buzzing around my ear.
"How are you able to stay in here?" Steph asked, smacking her leg.
"I don't know," I admitted.
Christopher's eyes went wide. "I'll help!" he cried. "You need a fly swatter!"
A minute later he was back heroically weilding a potato masher. He swung it at a black speck flying by. "I'll save you, Mom!"
"Christopher!" Steph scolded. "That's a potato masher!"
Swish! went the masher. "I couldn't find the fly swatter," he said, and hacked through the air again.
So this is the terrifying thing. When I laugh really hard, I become paralyzed. And watching Christopher race around the dryer swinging a potato masher and yelling "I'll save you!" while almost hitting Stephanie over the head with the thing was too much. I lay there, my mouth frozen open in an insane smile, laughing with no sound, unable to even let go of the screwdriver thingy, or to kill the mosquito that landed on my face, or to move my open mouth away from the cobwebs. I knew if I breathed in I would inhale them. This also struck me as funny. I laughed harder. I laughed so hard I COULDN'T MOVE OR BREATHE. And in that moment I knew that if I kept laughing at us I would die.
"Christopher," I forced myself to say. "Stop!"
""I can't! I have to kill them all!" He scowled at one. "Come here, mosquito!"
"Steph," I whimepered and laughed at the same time. "Please... make him stop!...Going to kill me!"
Stephanie only laughed harder.
"Please...help...spiders...I...hate...dryers."
I rolled over on my back. Somehow. I stared at the ceiling and felt the exhaustion creep in. Christopher's footsteps stopped and he peeked down at me.
"Mom?" he said. "I'm done killing them. Is dinner done?"
"HfgewrwnIwernwer wjguy2y17," I said.
"What?" he asked.
"Derwqeopurwrw01231nnawy," I repeated.
"Mom, you're mumbling and I can't undertsand you. I'm hungry."
"I'm buying a dryer," I said.
And I did, after I tried working on the dryer for a few more days. By the time I officially gave up I had bought two parts that didn't fix anything and spent many hours almost breathing in spider webs. But I did manage to get the back of the dryer off. I considered that a small voctory.
My new dryer is used, it cost less than what I paid trying to fix it myself and it's almost as old as me. But it works like a champ. I love that thing. Because I know that when it eventually breaks I will not fool myself into thinking that I can fix it myself. I look at that machine and think, "I will never ever have to work on you! If a repairman can't fix you, you're out of here!"
And I'm confortable with this. I'm comfortable with the part of me that is not good with tools, and does not want to inhale spiderwebs. I need never learn what a rachet or a screwdriver is or raise my potato masher in violence again.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Dishes in the oven
I've been getting the house ready to sell, which is not so easy when it's full of critters. The top two things that are vital to selling a house are 1) get rid of clutter and 2) get rid of critters and/or all signs of critters. Right now the critter count is up to three (not counting the kids): the dog, the cat and the bunny. I'm supposed to get rid of all signs of them, which is near impossible because the little beasts practically put up flags. Every time Dog has pees on the carpet she announces to the world, "I own this house. If you have any questions, please come to me." The problem with this is that, though generous with urine, she doesn't pay the mortgage or fix anything around the house. So she and I sat down this morning after our walk and we talked this out.
"Look," I said to her, taking a seat at the table. She sat across from me, a her Chiuaua face looking solemn on her Boston Terrier body. My dog is a pretty black and white mix of everything yappy. "I know you like living here and I consider you...well, like family..."
Dog's head jerked into the direction of a fly buzzing to our right. I cleared my throat to get her attention.
"Be that as it may," I continued, "I would really appreciate it if you didn't pee on the carpet anymore. You are technically housebroken, you know. So I know that you know what you're doing."
In reply, she began to bite her butt.
"Exactly! See! That's the problem!" I cried, elated that I was getting my point across. "Now, just bite that butt completely off, and we don't have a problem anymore! Wait..." Dog hopped onto the floor. "Wait, we're not done here! You didn't bite it completely off! You better not pee on anything!" She trotted off in search of something to pee on. "I'm serious!" I yelled after her, and I swore I could hear she and my son laughing together somewhere in the house.
"She tried to housebreak me too!" he giggled, and the dog laughed so hard she wet herself.
So that's how I'm taking care of the no-sign-of-critter rule. Decluttering is coming along much better. I've given away things, I've sold other things, and whatever things that I have not sold or given away I have stuffed in places that no one will look. Like this morning when I put dirty dishes in the oven.
Now, before you judge me, understand that the dishes were overflowing in the sink, everyone was getting ready for school, I was still in my pajamas, and we had 15 minutes before we had to leave. It was either that or the trunk of my car, which honestly, I've done before. Not with dirty dishes, but with laundry and toys or other apparatus that I've found and said, "This goes to something...but what is it? Is it important? Should I throw it away?"
"That's the rabbit, Mom," my daughter tells me.
I hold the fluffy critter closer to my face, examinging it. "But do we use it for anything?"
"Yes," she assures me. "Don't put it in the trunk."
So the rabbit is not in my car, but I've stuffed other things in there in a rush before someone comes to look at the house - paper work, old clothes, old skates. Things that I looked at and thought, "I'll go through all of this later. Right now I just need it out of the way." And so I drive around with it. This is not entirely due to tiredess. Some of it is just plain I-don't-want-to-do-it-ness. When I come home from work I want to change into pajamas, spend time with the kids, catch up with someone on the phone, write, or read. This THIS is why there are dishes in my oven! Darn it, I'm just not the decluttering type by nature.
Or I could just blame it on the dog. It's all her fault.
"Look," I said to her, taking a seat at the table. She sat across from me, a her Chiuaua face looking solemn on her Boston Terrier body. My dog is a pretty black and white mix of everything yappy. "I know you like living here and I consider you...well, like family..."
Dog's head jerked into the direction of a fly buzzing to our right. I cleared my throat to get her attention.
"Be that as it may," I continued, "I would really appreciate it if you didn't pee on the carpet anymore. You are technically housebroken, you know. So I know that you know what you're doing."
In reply, she began to bite her butt.
"Exactly! See! That's the problem!" I cried, elated that I was getting my point across. "Now, just bite that butt completely off, and we don't have a problem anymore! Wait..." Dog hopped onto the floor. "Wait, we're not done here! You didn't bite it completely off! You better not pee on anything!" She trotted off in search of something to pee on. "I'm serious!" I yelled after her, and I swore I could hear she and my son laughing together somewhere in the house.
"She tried to housebreak me too!" he giggled, and the dog laughed so hard she wet herself.
So that's how I'm taking care of the no-sign-of-critter rule. Decluttering is coming along much better. I've given away things, I've sold other things, and whatever things that I have not sold or given away I have stuffed in places that no one will look. Like this morning when I put dirty dishes in the oven.
Now, before you judge me, understand that the dishes were overflowing in the sink, everyone was getting ready for school, I was still in my pajamas, and we had 15 minutes before we had to leave. It was either that or the trunk of my car, which honestly, I've done before. Not with dirty dishes, but with laundry and toys or other apparatus that I've found and said, "This goes to something...but what is it? Is it important? Should I throw it away?"
"That's the rabbit, Mom," my daughter tells me.
I hold the fluffy critter closer to my face, examinging it. "But do we use it for anything?"
"Yes," she assures me. "Don't put it in the trunk."
So the rabbit is not in my car, but I've stuffed other things in there in a rush before someone comes to look at the house - paper work, old clothes, old skates. Things that I looked at and thought, "I'll go through all of this later. Right now I just need it out of the way." And so I drive around with it. This is not entirely due to tiredess. Some of it is just plain I-don't-want-to-do-it-ness. When I come home from work I want to change into pajamas, spend time with the kids, catch up with someone on the phone, write, or read. This THIS is why there are dishes in my oven! Darn it, I'm just not the decluttering type by nature.
Or I could just blame it on the dog. It's all her fault.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
What's For Dinner?
When I get home from work, dragging my tired, limping body through the door looking bleary eyed and beaten down by the world, the first thing the kids want to know is what's for dinner. I am convinced that this is not because they are hungry. It is because they want to be miserable about it.
"Mom, what's for dinner?" Christopher will ask running up to me.
"Chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn," I'll tell him.
His mouth will drop open. His face is confused and terrified. It's like suddenly he's in a nightmare that he can't wake up from.
"Chicken?!" he'll cry. "I HATE chicken!"
"No you don't," I'll remind him.
"Yes, I do!"
"What's wrong?" Emma will ask rushing to his side.
"We're having gross stuff for dinner!" he'll tell her.
She looks at me. "Again?!"
I'll close my eyes, and take a deep breath. "Yes. Again. I know it's not what you wanted. I'm sorry things had to turn out this way."
"Nooooooooooooo!!!!," she, Christopher and Claire (who has overheard the conversation) will cry and fall to the ground in convulsions, screaming something about how if we were a decent family we would have Subway.
In fact, Claire asked for Subway one night and when I told her that it wasn't in the budget for that week, the look of hope on her face shriveled and she said, "Does that mean we're poor?"
Interesting how fast food not being in the budget is a sign of poverty, isn't it?
So what do I want for dinner, you ask? I want Subway too. And inside I am kicking and screaming because it's not in the budget. I would rather not have a chicken that's been in the crockpot all day. I don't know if anyone else has this problem but I can't seem to cook chicken in the crockpot without it falling to pieces. And it's not a juicy, falling off the bone, tender kind of falling-to-pieces. The chicken just melts. My crockpot is not so much a covenient bit of crockery that cooks for me all day, as much as it is just a disintegrator.
This is what happens: I walk in the door to the good smell of chicken, and the horrified screams of the children who have just noticed that I am not carrying bags of fastfood. I ignore those people and walk into the kitchen. I lift the lid of the crockpot and there is a fully cooked golden chicken bubbling in the broth. Bits of rosemary, onion, and garlic crest the top of it. I poke it with a fork and all of the meat falls off of it at once, sinks to the bottom of the pot, and all that's left on my fork is bone. I don't know how or why this happens but it does. And then there is more screaming, and so I make them go sit at the table and we eat individual bags of chips.
But where's the fiber in that? The Vitamin C? All of those things that parenting magazines beat me over the head with? Where's the flax, damn it?? Well...it's at the bottom of the crockpot along with all of my patience and my sanity. And my budget.
So we gather at the table. We eat the chips, or the pancakes I've made, or the peanut butter crackers with dry ramon noodles on the side. And we talk about our day. And then eventually there's more screaming. But we're full.
"Mom, what's for dinner?" Christopher will ask running up to me.
"Chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn," I'll tell him.
His mouth will drop open. His face is confused and terrified. It's like suddenly he's in a nightmare that he can't wake up from.
"Chicken?!" he'll cry. "I HATE chicken!"
"No you don't," I'll remind him.
"Yes, I do!"
"What's wrong?" Emma will ask rushing to his side.
"We're having gross stuff for dinner!" he'll tell her.
She looks at me. "Again?!"
I'll close my eyes, and take a deep breath. "Yes. Again. I know it's not what you wanted. I'm sorry things had to turn out this way."
"Nooooooooooooo!!!!," she, Christopher and Claire (who has overheard the conversation) will cry and fall to the ground in convulsions, screaming something about how if we were a decent family we would have Subway.
In fact, Claire asked for Subway one night and when I told her that it wasn't in the budget for that week, the look of hope on her face shriveled and she said, "Does that mean we're poor?"
Interesting how fast food not being in the budget is a sign of poverty, isn't it?
So what do I want for dinner, you ask? I want Subway too. And inside I am kicking and screaming because it's not in the budget. I would rather not have a chicken that's been in the crockpot all day. I don't know if anyone else has this problem but I can't seem to cook chicken in the crockpot without it falling to pieces. And it's not a juicy, falling off the bone, tender kind of falling-to-pieces. The chicken just melts. My crockpot is not so much a covenient bit of crockery that cooks for me all day, as much as it is just a disintegrator.
This is what happens: I walk in the door to the good smell of chicken, and the horrified screams of the children who have just noticed that I am not carrying bags of fastfood. I ignore those people and walk into the kitchen. I lift the lid of the crockpot and there is a fully cooked golden chicken bubbling in the broth. Bits of rosemary, onion, and garlic crest the top of it. I poke it with a fork and all of the meat falls off of it at once, sinks to the bottom of the pot, and all that's left on my fork is bone. I don't know how or why this happens but it does. And then there is more screaming, and so I make them go sit at the table and we eat individual bags of chips.
But where's the fiber in that? The Vitamin C? All of those things that parenting magazines beat me over the head with? Where's the flax, damn it?? Well...it's at the bottom of the crockpot along with all of my patience and my sanity. And my budget.
So we gather at the table. We eat the chips, or the pancakes I've made, or the peanut butter crackers with dry ramon noodles on the side. And we talk about our day. And then eventually there's more screaming. But we're full.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sign Here, Initial There
Yesterday was the kids' first day of school, which meant that I had a lot of homework to do. There were welcome letters from teachers, permission slips to sign, signifying that I allow the kids to use the schools' computers and for their pictures to be published in the paper, if such a opportunity comes along. Sure. Put them in the paper. Particularly in a "St. Charles Parish Straight A Genius"-type page, or maybe a "Fourth Grade Girl Creates The Next Thing That Trumphs Google (Allows 35 year old Mother to Retire)" type article. Which she will not be able to accomplish without the school's computers, so I'm glad I signed Emma's Technology permission slip.
Emma and Christopher brought home the typical things that I have to sign every year. I found Claire's papers a bit excessive though. She just started 7th grade at a new school and I had to sign an acknowledgement slip for every class she has. Every class has a letter from the teacher, stating his or her intentions for the children this year, and then ends with a blank and a statement along the lines of, "I have read and thereby acknowledge everything in this letter and I understand that by signing this document that if my child fails Social Studies I am a negligent parent and do not care about her future." There's also a blank for Claire to sign, to make sure she understands that she is going to have to study for this class and do homework. I watched her sign it. I am now her legal witness, and if she fails to uphold the agreement I can have her arrested or fined. How will I prove that she's going back on the deal? Pop quizzes!
"Claire," I will say one morning as I'm handing her a plate of eggs and toast. "Name Quebec's top three exports."
"Um..." she'll say, "Cocaine?"
"Wrong!" I'll cry. "And that's only one thing, not three! You haven't been practicing math either, have you? You're under arrest for violating The Written Agreement of 2nd Period Social Studies and possibly 5th Period Math! Now sit down and eat your breakfast."
I would love to be a teacher in a scenario where a kid has failed a test that he has sworn to study for. I would leap dramatically out of my desk and wave the test results in his face.
"Timothy! We had a deal!"
But anyway, it took me close to an hour to read and sign everything. All three kids are in different schools this year, which means three different sets of paper work, and three different school calenders and dismissal times to keep up with.
Maybe I'll come up with my own set of papers for the kids to sign. An agreement that reads something like this, "I, the undersigned, swear that after high school I will keep track of my own schedule and paperwork, only relying on my single mother for whatever money she might have and her couch to sleep on when I flunk of of college because I don't know how to study without a legal document binding me to it."
Oy. Come on, Emma! Create the next Google!
Emma and Christopher brought home the typical things that I have to sign every year. I found Claire's papers a bit excessive though. She just started 7th grade at a new school and I had to sign an acknowledgement slip for every class she has. Every class has a letter from the teacher, stating his or her intentions for the children this year, and then ends with a blank and a statement along the lines of, "I have read and thereby acknowledge everything in this letter and I understand that by signing this document that if my child fails Social Studies I am a negligent parent and do not care about her future." There's also a blank for Claire to sign, to make sure she understands that she is going to have to study for this class and do homework. I watched her sign it. I am now her legal witness, and if she fails to uphold the agreement I can have her arrested or fined. How will I prove that she's going back on the deal? Pop quizzes!
"Claire," I will say one morning as I'm handing her a plate of eggs and toast. "Name Quebec's top three exports."
"Um..." she'll say, "Cocaine?"
"Wrong!" I'll cry. "And that's only one thing, not three! You haven't been practicing math either, have you? You're under arrest for violating The Written Agreement of 2nd Period Social Studies and possibly 5th Period Math! Now sit down and eat your breakfast."
I would love to be a teacher in a scenario where a kid has failed a test that he has sworn to study for. I would leap dramatically out of my desk and wave the test results in his face.
"Timothy! We had a deal!"
But anyway, it took me close to an hour to read and sign everything. All three kids are in different schools this year, which means three different sets of paper work, and three different school calenders and dismissal times to keep up with.
Maybe I'll come up with my own set of papers for the kids to sign. An agreement that reads something like this, "I, the undersigned, swear that after high school I will keep track of my own schedule and paperwork, only relying on my single mother for whatever money she might have and her couch to sleep on when I flunk of of college because I don't know how to study without a legal document binding me to it."
Oy. Come on, Emma! Create the next Google!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Dr. Popper
My bills are late this month, but that's not because I don't make enough money, or because I still haven't caught up on bills that I fell behind on when I got separated, oh goodness no. It's because of the Dr. Pepper explosion.
I was at my desk staring at two things. One was a stack of bills by my left hand, and the other was a calender by my right. At first I was gazing at them hopelessly, knowing that no matter how I manipulated my budget, I wasn't going to make dollar numbers match up to the specific dates that they were due on. Then I became dismayed at how tired I am of being behind on everything. And then, I realized that I'd been looking at the stack of bills and the calender for quite some time without moving. And then I wondered if it were possible for me to merge those two things with the power of my mind if I stared hard at them enough.
This is what I was doing when Claire walked into my bedroom and said, "Mom, look at my Dr. Pepper!"
I blinked, and the spell was broken. Damn! And I think I'd managed to move the calender slightly!
I spun around in my chair and looked at her can of Dr. Pepper. With money still on the brain the first thing I thought was, "Why did I give in and buy that? I could have bought milk. Or a gallon of gas. Or paid 1.635 of my electricity bill."
Then I noticed something funny about the can.
"Why is it bulging at the top like that?" I asked her.
"It's frozen!" she said, running her finger along the icy side. "I left it in there last night. Looks cool, huh?"
I smiled wearily. "Yeah, it does."
She sat on the bed, tucking one leg underneath her and swinging the other back and forth over the edge.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Ugh," I said. "Bills."
"Oh."
I turned back around, and before I had time to refocus there was a loud POP! When I turned around again, Claire was staring at her empty hand with her mouth hanging open. She had popped the top, and the can had shot right out of her hand across the bed. There were frozen Dr. Pepper flakes on her face, my back, the ceiling, all four walls, the bed, and...the bills and calender.
"Claire!" I hollered.
"Oh my God," she said. "It exploded."
"I KNOW it exploded!" I said. "Are you alright?"
She unfroze and blinked. "Yeah."
"Then clean it up!" I said.
She washed her face and hands, and began to clean my walls and ceiling with the help of a step ladder. We continued to find spots of the stuff on my walls and books for the next few days, though, and Claire ended up having to take a shower because there were drops in hair hair that turned into syrupy glue.
And I stopped looking at the bills. But I did make a significant financial decision. Soda is off the grocery list.
I was at my desk staring at two things. One was a stack of bills by my left hand, and the other was a calender by my right. At first I was gazing at them hopelessly, knowing that no matter how I manipulated my budget, I wasn't going to make dollar numbers match up to the specific dates that they were due on. Then I became dismayed at how tired I am of being behind on everything. And then, I realized that I'd been looking at the stack of bills and the calender for quite some time without moving. And then I wondered if it were possible for me to merge those two things with the power of my mind if I stared hard at them enough.
This is what I was doing when Claire walked into my bedroom and said, "Mom, look at my Dr. Pepper!"
I blinked, and the spell was broken. Damn! And I think I'd managed to move the calender slightly!
I spun around in my chair and looked at her can of Dr. Pepper. With money still on the brain the first thing I thought was, "Why did I give in and buy that? I could have bought milk. Or a gallon of gas. Or paid 1.635 of my electricity bill."
Then I noticed something funny about the can.
"Why is it bulging at the top like that?" I asked her.
"It's frozen!" she said, running her finger along the icy side. "I left it in there last night. Looks cool, huh?"
I smiled wearily. "Yeah, it does."
She sat on the bed, tucking one leg underneath her and swinging the other back and forth over the edge.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Ugh," I said. "Bills."
"Oh."
I turned back around, and before I had time to refocus there was a loud POP! When I turned around again, Claire was staring at her empty hand with her mouth hanging open. She had popped the top, and the can had shot right out of her hand across the bed. There were frozen Dr. Pepper flakes on her face, my back, the ceiling, all four walls, the bed, and...the bills and calender.
"Claire!" I hollered.
"Oh my God," she said. "It exploded."
"I KNOW it exploded!" I said. "Are you alright?"
She unfroze and blinked. "Yeah."
"Then clean it up!" I said.
She washed her face and hands, and began to clean my walls and ceiling with the help of a step ladder. We continued to find spots of the stuff on my walls and books for the next few days, though, and Claire ended up having to take a shower because there were drops in hair hair that turned into syrupy glue.
And I stopped looking at the bills. But I did make a significant financial decision. Soda is off the grocery list.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
House of Louse
Hmm, it's been two years. Where to begin? Well, I think I'll start out by saying that since the family dynamics have changed, this blog will change a little. Chris and I have gotten divorced, my sister Stephanie lives with us, we've adopted pets and other pets have died. But since we're still a family and since there are still two and four legged creatures in the house, Creature Feature House is picking up where it left off.
Here's the creature count as of today:
3 kids: check
Two adult sisters: check
1 rabbit: check
1 dog: check
1 cat: check
wasps that fly in and out of the house to terrify us: check
lice: AHHHHHHH!!!
Oh dear heavens. The lice. They decided to invade just as my dryer broke. First, they were defeated and the dryer was fixed. And then they returned, and both the dryer and the washer broke. When that happened I was tempted to shave all of the hair off of everything in the house. I didn't do anything that drastic, but I did cut our hair.
I remember it vividly. I had come home from work that day, and was sitting in between Emma and Christopher at the kitchen table. Sitting in between them enables me to help them with their homework simutaneously, and doing that helps me go insane. Which apparently I like. But on this day in particular, sitting so close to them, helping them with 2nd and 3rd grade math problems that I no longer understand, not only did I go insane, but I nearly shaved my head. Because what happened was, I gave Christopher some instruction with his math, and then turned to Emma while she was bent down at her page, obediently scribbling down answers to horrific division problems, and I saw it. I saw a small, light gray bug walking across her hair.
I knew what it was. I had seen it's like before when Claire had had lice two years ago, and suddenly I remembered all of it all at once - the stinky shampooing, the hours of singling out hairs and pulling nits from them while a miserable child tugged and begged for release. And all the laundry....the dryer. Oh crap. Our dryer was broken. "Maybe it's not lice," I told myself. "Maybe it's just some bug that got in her hair." There was only one way to tell. I had to catch it.
All of these thoughts happened within seconds of seeing the bug. That's what happens after your first bout with lice. The second you see what you think might be a louse, or your kid scratching her head, you switch into Lice Survival Mode. You must seek and destroy.
"Emma," I said, heavily. "Don't move."
So of course, she moved. She twisted to me, and saw the severe, determined look on my face. She also probably noticed that I wasn't looking at her. Just the top of her head."What? What's wrong?" she asked.
"Don't move your head!" I snapped. "I saw a bug."
Most girls, or anybody really, would jump out of their seat at this kind of news, and go into a wild dance hoping to shake off the bug. But Emma just looked up.
"On my head?"
In response I seized her head and began sorting through hairs until I found it. And of course it was a louse. I searched the other two and found the same thing. Then I had Stephie check me, even though I knew odds were I hadn't escaped. And I was right. Luckily, Stephanie was spared. She credited this to the daily use of hair products, regular color treatment, and blow drying every day. Us no-chemical-air-drying fools didn't stand a chance.
Our house immediately went into lock down mode. No one was allowed in or out. All of the sheets were stripped from the beds and stacked by the washer. I drove to the store and bought sixty dollars worth of lice treatment shampoo, spray for the upholstery, extra laundry detergent, and hair scissors.
"Scissors?" Claire asked, taking them out of the Walmart bag. "Why'd you get these?"
"Because I'm cutting our hair."
They screamed louder than when I told them that they had lice.
"It's so long and thick," I said, looking from one light brown-haired child to another. "There's more of a chance that I'll get more of them out if we cut it."
And so I did. Claire's hair is trimmed to her ears, and Emma's is to her shoulders. She couldn't bear to lose more than that. Christopher...oh that poor boy. I thought, "Hey! He's a boy! I can give him a buzz cut!" No one should ever allow me around clippers. His hair is not only shockingly short, but it's patchy. Looking at that kid's head is like looking at a wheat field with poorly drawn crop circles on it. Who would have thought that trimming a boy's hair would be so difficult?
Trimming my own hair was easier. It felt good actually. After a year or two of all of these crazy emotions and fears - going through the divorce, frantically trying to find a job for months on end, answering REALLY tough questions from the kids, etc, etc. Holding it together has been tough. Maintaing composure is stressful.
"I'm gonna cut my hair," I said, gazing into the bathroom mirror with a mischevous grin that I hadn't seen on myself in a while. Usually I look into the mirror in the morning and say something like, "Everything is going to be ok." But now I was giving myself a sideways smile, the one I would get as a teenager when I painted my toenails black, saying, "And I'm going to cut it as short as I fucking want to."
It felt ceremonious, or tribal somehow. War paint felt appropriate, a sign of my determination and ferocity in my War on Bugs.
But apparently the bugs were slathering their war paint on too. See, I started this blog post two months ago. Every time I think I've gotten rid of those things they pop back up. I think I've finally licked 'em in this last bout, only because now I'm washing, spraying and wiping things down every day.
At least my washer and dryer are working now. Or I would definitely shave our heads. And all of us would go naked from now on. We'd be the hairless, nudist family on the block. But bug-free!
Here's the creature count as of today:
3 kids: check
Two adult sisters: check
1 rabbit: check
1 dog: check
1 cat: check
wasps that fly in and out of the house to terrify us: check
lice: AHHHHHHH!!!
Oh dear heavens. The lice. They decided to invade just as my dryer broke. First, they were defeated and the dryer was fixed. And then they returned, and both the dryer and the washer broke. When that happened I was tempted to shave all of the hair off of everything in the house. I didn't do anything that drastic, but I did cut our hair.
I remember it vividly. I had come home from work that day, and was sitting in between Emma and Christopher at the kitchen table. Sitting in between them enables me to help them with their homework simutaneously, and doing that helps me go insane. Which apparently I like. But on this day in particular, sitting so close to them, helping them with 2nd and 3rd grade math problems that I no longer understand, not only did I go insane, but I nearly shaved my head. Because what happened was, I gave Christopher some instruction with his math, and then turned to Emma while she was bent down at her page, obediently scribbling down answers to horrific division problems, and I saw it. I saw a small, light gray bug walking across her hair.
I knew what it was. I had seen it's like before when Claire had had lice two years ago, and suddenly I remembered all of it all at once - the stinky shampooing, the hours of singling out hairs and pulling nits from them while a miserable child tugged and begged for release. And all the laundry....the dryer. Oh crap. Our dryer was broken. "Maybe it's not lice," I told myself. "Maybe it's just some bug that got in her hair." There was only one way to tell. I had to catch it.
All of these thoughts happened within seconds of seeing the bug. That's what happens after your first bout with lice. The second you see what you think might be a louse, or your kid scratching her head, you switch into Lice Survival Mode. You must seek and destroy.
"Emma," I said, heavily. "Don't move."
So of course, she moved. She twisted to me, and saw the severe, determined look on my face. She also probably noticed that I wasn't looking at her. Just the top of her head."What? What's wrong?" she asked.
"Don't move your head!" I snapped. "I saw a bug."
Most girls, or anybody really, would jump out of their seat at this kind of news, and go into a wild dance hoping to shake off the bug. But Emma just looked up.
"On my head?"
In response I seized her head and began sorting through hairs until I found it. And of course it was a louse. I searched the other two and found the same thing. Then I had Stephie check me, even though I knew odds were I hadn't escaped. And I was right. Luckily, Stephanie was spared. She credited this to the daily use of hair products, regular color treatment, and blow drying every day. Us no-chemical-air-drying fools didn't stand a chance.
Our house immediately went into lock down mode. No one was allowed in or out. All of the sheets were stripped from the beds and stacked by the washer. I drove to the store and bought sixty dollars worth of lice treatment shampoo, spray for the upholstery, extra laundry detergent, and hair scissors.
"Scissors?" Claire asked, taking them out of the Walmart bag. "Why'd you get these?"
"Because I'm cutting our hair."
They screamed louder than when I told them that they had lice.
"It's so long and thick," I said, looking from one light brown-haired child to another. "There's more of a chance that I'll get more of them out if we cut it."
And so I did. Claire's hair is trimmed to her ears, and Emma's is to her shoulders. She couldn't bear to lose more than that. Christopher...oh that poor boy. I thought, "Hey! He's a boy! I can give him a buzz cut!" No one should ever allow me around clippers. His hair is not only shockingly short, but it's patchy. Looking at that kid's head is like looking at a wheat field with poorly drawn crop circles on it. Who would have thought that trimming a boy's hair would be so difficult?
Trimming my own hair was easier. It felt good actually. After a year or two of all of these crazy emotions and fears - going through the divorce, frantically trying to find a job for months on end, answering REALLY tough questions from the kids, etc, etc. Holding it together has been tough. Maintaing composure is stressful.
"I'm gonna cut my hair," I said, gazing into the bathroom mirror with a mischevous grin that I hadn't seen on myself in a while. Usually I look into the mirror in the morning and say something like, "Everything is going to be ok." But now I was giving myself a sideways smile, the one I would get as a teenager when I painted my toenails black, saying, "And I'm going to cut it as short as I fucking want to."
It felt ceremonious, or tribal somehow. War paint felt appropriate, a sign of my determination and ferocity in my War on Bugs.
But apparently the bugs were slathering their war paint on too. See, I started this blog post two months ago. Every time I think I've gotten rid of those things they pop back up. I think I've finally licked 'em in this last bout, only because now I'm washing, spraying and wiping things down every day.
At least my washer and dryer are working now. Or I would definitely shave our heads. And all of us would go naked from now on. We'd be the hairless, nudist family on the block. But bug-free!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)