Merry Christmas, Hon!
Posted by: Kim on: December 3, 2009
Along with Berger Cookies and sauerkraut with my Thanksgiving turkey, this makes me miss Bawlmer. Hon.
Out.
Posted by: Kim on: November 30, 2009
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I was literally seconds from trading my jeans for sweatpants this afternoon when the phone rang. DH calling. “Did you get the email about scouts tonight?”
Not Nice Words came out of my mouth.
It’s raining. Again. Cold and raining and disgusting. And it’s the time of year where every slot on the calendar has a name on it. Tonight was one of very few between now and Christmas that I could sink back into my couch in my sweats and be all cozy and dozy and warm. I’m feeling tired and overwhelmed by it all, and was really looking forward to a night of Nothing.
Scout meeting. Bring hammers for making birdhouses. And DH has a meeting tonight.
I cursed.
“You don’t have to take him,” said DH. “Stay home.”
*sigh*
If only. That’s a lovely idea, if I could shut up the mommy-guilt voice invading my skull when it comes to things that are Good For The Kids. Like scouts. I’m the mom, see? Not going isn’t an option, tempting as it may sound to you with your whackadoo chromosomes. You…you…you…man.
The sweatpants went back into their heap on the bed. The kids were shuttled through showers, since scouts ends at bedtime and it’ll be a mad rush to get home and brush teeth and get into pajamas and the dark and quiet. Which, by all rights, is where I should be much much earlier than will actually happen.
Stupid email. Stupid, stupid email. Stupid birdhouse. Stupid mother guilt and adult responsibility and crap. Stupid wet rain and cold and dark and winter.
Stupid. Plbththth.
One Of Those Parents
Posted by: Kim on: November 26, 2009
- In: Crap
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I became one of the parents I hate this morning.
DS has been struggling to learn to ride his bike. The struggle is mostly mental–he’s terrified and doesn’t want to do it. But he’ll be nine this summer and it’s just time. Ride your bike. Stop hitting the brake and screaming, and pedal faster and let it go. Zen. Wax on, wax off.
I’m a writer. DS is apparently an accountant. Things fit into very neat slots and it’s all black and white, except where it’s red. Bike riding is definitely very red.
Anyway, he’s been talking a lot lately about skateboarding–lots of his friends are starting to board and he thinks that’s cool. So this morning, against every bit of my better judgement, I made him a promise. Learn to ride your bike, I said, and I’ll take you that day to buy a skateboard. Your choice.
His eyes lit up, he nodded like a bobblehead doll, and raced out of the room to figure it all out. I muttered under my breath “and a pass to the E.R. down the street.”
I bribed my kid. With something I swore he’d never have as long as he lives in my house. When he breaks his wrist–and you know it’s coming–it’s my fault. And when he comes to me for a gift next time he learns something, that’s my fault to.
But dammit, he’s got to ride his bike. To save himself from lots of taunting and teasing and not fitting in (and I know a LOT about not fitting in), he’s got to get the hang of it.
Conflicted. Feh.
(PS–A special Thanksgiving shout-out to my super-special friends who are scattered around the country and Canada and who are a big part of my life thanks to the Internet and email and Facebook and such. Have a wonderful day, friends. I heart you!!)
A Reluctant Gift to Myself
Posted by: Kim on: November 23, 2009
Friday, I finally got the lecture.
I knew it was coming. My body doesn’t lie to me, and I’ve been feeling the clothes get tighter and tighter, and feeling my heart thumping in my chest when I go to bed at night, and seeing my cheeks flush up for no apparent reason.
“Your blood pressure is up again,” said the PA at the doctor’s office. “And you’ve gained some weight.”
Yeah. I know. I know, I know, I know. Too much sugar, too little exercise, and too much going on. Sound familiar? If you have kids at home, it likely does.
She smiled. Thank goodness for small favors. Ran some bloodwork, refilled my prescription, and recommended a low-carb diet and more exercise to see if we can bring things down.I have three weeks before she checks up on me. I have cabinets stocked with high-protein stuff. I have a rower in my basement. And as of today, I have the Wii EA Sports Active workout program, and its 30-day challenge. Which kicked my butt this morning. It comes with resistance bands and a thingy that holds the nunchuck on your leg, so it knows what I’m doing. It also talks to our Wii Fit, which rocks, and it lets me pick my own avatar; the thing I hate about the original Wii Fit program is that the avatar is as fat as you are, which is not at all motivating. This is much better. I can make her look like me, minus 20 pounds.
I’m about 40 minutes post-day one of the 30 days, and my upper arms ache typing this. My thighs hurt. My back is tight. All good things. Maybe I can finally turn myself around and beat this, at least for today. I’ll take on tomorrow when it gets here. One at a time.
Three weeks. I can do anything for three weeks. And then maybe–just maybe–it’ll all be habit and it’ll go on without my thinking about it so much.
Onward…
I think not
Posted by: Kim on: November 19, 2009
My mom had breast cancer when she was 42.
I’m now 39. And I know that while most breast cancers have nothing to do with heredity, I also know my own personal risk is elevated because of my mom’s disease (she’s a 30-year survivor!).
I had a baseline mammogram two years ago, and plan to get one every two years for quite some time. And yes, that’s well before I turn 50. I also plan to fight like the devil for my insurance to continue covering those tests, as they could very well save my life (see above paragraph) and give my children the gift of a mom for years and years to come.
The government, pardon my french, can bite me.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
Ho Ho HOLY CRAP!
Posted by: Kim on: November 17, 2009
Dear Santa:
I know it’s coming into your busy season and all, but thought I’d give a shout before things get too nuts. My kids started their Christmas lists tonight and, well, you might want to encourage Mrs. Claus to start waiting tables at night or something.
DS, who’s eight, wants a Lego Death Star. I believe it’s around $500. Yes, for Legos. I know, right?
DD, who’s six, would like a DS, three American Girl dolls, and Belle. Not a Belle doll. The real princess.
I’ll try to get them to pare things down a smidge between now and Thanksgiving, but you might want to warn the elves. Things might get a wee bit hairy at my house.
Kids today.
XO
Kim
(who’d like a cranberry red Honda Pilot EX and a Kenmore Elite stainless bottom-freezer refrigerator this year, please. I’ve been good. Promise.)
Buttercup
Posted by: Kim on: November 14, 2009
DS is not having the best year at school. Academically he’s doing just fine. But his teacher has some passive/aggressive tendencies and has said some things to the kids–and my kid in particular–that I felt were inappropriate, and which have made a few of his friends and him very nervous about school. For the last two months, he’s had a different ailment every day that means he shouldn’t go. Tummyache. Sore foot. Tiiiiiiiiiired.
This is new. He’s always loved school. And he’s always done well and been liked by his teachers.
Friday, I had my first parent-teacher conference with this teacher. I was a nervous wreck all morning. I’ve never had to go to a teacher and tell her that we’re having issues before, and this particular teacher hasn’t been particularly warm or fuzzy to us (which is also a departure from previous years). Of course, the woman whose conference was before mine took up way too much time and went well into my assigned timeslot, which made me all the more nervous.
Finally, the door opened. I took a deep breath, donned my invisible mommy armor, and under my breath, used a phrase my daughter’s kindergarten teacher loved to repeat when there was something unpleasant that had to be done.
Suck it up, Buttercup.
I went in, sat down, smiled, and listened for a few minutes. He’s a good kid, she said. He’s immature for his age. And his handwriting stinks. But he’s smart–really smart. And he doesn’t cause trouble.
Another deep breath.
I went down my list. Explained what we know about his handwriting and told her that he’s truly doing his best and that I feared continuing to bring it up to him would only damage his self-esteem. I told her he *hates* being called out in front of his classmates and asked her to please stop doing that when his work isn’t done on time in class; talking to him privately works much better and isn’t as archaic. I explained that he’s very nervous about school this year–about getting in trouble–and worries a lot about whether his lunch is packed the right way or his bathroom habits in school or the food drive or other things that have nothing to do with his academic work. And I said we’re aware that he’s not as mature as some of his classmates, but that his grades are simply too good and he’s too bright to consider holding back for that. He’d be bored out of his mind and, I fear, that would be disastrous long-term.
Then I breathed.
She was surprised, but receptive, to my great relief. We talked about some changes that could happen in the classroom to help him be more comfortable, including encouraging the kids who want to to begin using cursive (his cursive is *gorgeous* and he’s much more comfortable writing that way) to do so. She agreed to encourage all of the kids to do that, and not call him out for it or make him special in that way. And she’s going to stop bringing up his printing, which is a huge win for us. We talked about strategies to combat his slow work habits that won’t embarrass him. And she told me over and over what a sweet, good kid he is; she’s going to privately explain to him that he’s not one of the kids she’s talking about when she says things about breaking rules, and that he has nothing to worry about in that department.
I left hugely relieved. Massively. Really glad I’d said all I wanted to say instead of shrinking back, and happy we were able to discuss things in a reasonable manner that helped everyone, and looking forward to making the kid both comfortable and successful in school. I don’t do conflict well, but this one worked out, thanks in part, at least, to the advice of the kindergarten teacher. Put your big girl knickers on and deal with it.
It’s the best advice.
Mulligan
Posted by: Kim on: November 6, 2009
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Today started when the puppy stole a piece of paper out of the recycling basket (to shred all over the kitchen), I started to grab for her, and I stepped on her stupid red rubber Mickey Mouse bone-shaped chew toy, my ankle turned, and my shoulder slammed into my stainless steel oven. Which hurt quite a lot.
Then I got my teeth cleaned, which inexplicably involves a medieval torture device in the shape of an electric-powered hook thing that shreds my gums. What this has to do with polishing my teeth or why not other dentist I’ve ever seen in my entire, very long life has felt the need to make me bleed simultaneously in so many places at once, I cannot explain.
An editor sent me a not-very-nice email telling me never to do X with a story again, when doing X wasn’t my decision but the call of one of his Very Important Sources. I love being thrown under the bus on a Friday. It just makes the whole week that much more special.
Picked up the kids at lunch and took them with me to a photo shoot at a client’s office (I told the client of this ahead of time, fear not). The kids were super good and earned a Starbucks cookie for their golden behavior. I cannot say the same for the Bethesda-ish egotist in the parking garage, however, who thought it was funny to block me out of a lane (seriously–he sat there and laughed in his silver German luxury coupe instead of driving six inches to his right) and forced me to teach my daughter the word “douchebag,” which is now her favorite word in the whole world.
I put a hex on him. Oh yes, I did.
I’ve had approximately six cubic tons of Halloween candy today, plus a peppermint mocha frappucino, and I’m getting ready to take both kids to a Cub Scout meeting that’ll involve a fire and S’mores at an hour well past their normal bedtime. In the time it takes them to come down from those treats and actually settle into bed, NASA will have planned and executed six or seven missions. They’ll also be up the crack of dawn tomorrow and become complete and utter messes by noon. You watch.
So.
A pox on Friday. This one at least. I want my bed and a beer and my favorite sweats, and I want a do-over. Definitely a do-over. This one just isn’t right.
Tidbits
Posted by: Kim on: November 3, 2009
How was everybody’s Halloween? Ours was loads of fun despite crappy rain. He was Boba Fett and she was Belle and we have tons and tons of candy laying around (oh joy), and the after-dark school party rocked our worlds as always and we enjoyed a neighborhood party, and now it’s to Christmas and poor overlooked Thanksgiving.
She woke up with a fever this morning. Slightly stuffy nose and a wee cough, but mostly a fever. As I write this 20 minutes from bedtime, it’s still 101. Weird, eh? Since she doesn’t feel bad, having a sick day was tough on both of us. Looks like another tomorrow. Redbox, save me!
I called a local principal for a quote today (story’s a very nice one about her) and asked her age. She said “Old enough to know better.” I almost said, “Yeah, so’s my 8 year old. How old are you, lady?” First, stupid answer. Second, I don’t get the big deal about women and their ages. You’re born, you get older, you’re old, and that’s it. If you’re lucky. You are what you are, it’s not personal or anything to be ashamed of, and your experience, in this case, helps distinguish you from the other professionals in your field. And when I’m writing a very nice article about you, being a smartass does nothing for it, see? I’m 39. Feel better? Good grief.
I’m having angst, speaking of the 8 year old, over Christmas. Anybody have any great ideas for a gift for him that’ll rock his world? What are the other boys getting this year?
One more rant: What the hell is up with Daylight Savings Time? WWII is long over, kids. We don’t need to conserve energy or duck from bombers anymore. Kids are fine, but the dog doesn’t get it. Barking at 4 a.m. gives me heart palpitations, see? And my body is rebelling in a large, ugly way against this time change. There must be something somebody can do about this. Time to move on and outlaw this arcane practice. Really. It is.
My Friend
Posted by: Kim on: October 31, 2009
The puppy started following me around this week. Bits and pieces here or there at first, but now she’s attached to me by an invisible leash. Where I go, she wants to go. Right now, she’s laying on the carpet behind my office chair, snoring away. She’d been snoring away in the kitchen, but leapt up when I started down the stairs and settled right behind me.
Mocha couldn’t walk well the last year or so of her life, and I really missed the way she followed me like that. It just warms my soul to have this creature padding around behind me, not because she thinks she’ll get a treat or a game or anything else out of it, but just because she wants to be with me. She perks up when I talk to her, wags her tail and nudges my hand when I lean over to scratch her head, and jumps to her feet if I make a move towards the door. Dogs rock that way.
I have this thing with human friends; I’ve had it my whole life. I meet people and get along pretty well with them for awhile, and then I lose them somehow. They move away (I can almost guarantee that if you and I become really close over a period of two or three years, a long-distance move is in your future. Even DH sort of jokes about it.) or they drift on to new pastures, or they just drop off the planet with no explanation whatsoever.
I’m not asking for pity, here. It happens. Fact of life. It’s just something I accept. I’m positive most of it is my fault. I try to be nice and I try to be helpful when I can and supportive and kind and all of things you’re supposed to be when you’re a friend, but I’m flubbing it somewhere. I’m horribly awkward in groups of people, and not so good at the one-on-one either. Maybe someday I’ll figure it out. The good news is that being a freelance writer is kind of conducive to solitude anyway. Perhaps a best-seller is in my future. 
And I have a wonderful pack of long-distance friends who email with me regularly. I love those ladies, and I’m so grateful to have met them over the years.
But real-life friendships are few and far between. Which makes me so happy that this puppy is following me around. She needed somewhere to go, and we needed someone to fill our house, and I seem to have a new friend who’s happy just that I’m here.
Keep following me, pup. We have years of great days ahead. I can’t wait.
