marmite breath slept here

 1) Insane blubbering at The Family Stone last night after kids went to bed. I was alone, so I cried all over the pillows   and didn't have to try and be brave so that Aaron wouldn't laugh at me. (Oh, and believe me, he does like to laugh at me. Here is his impression of my posture when I put on a swimsuit. True, I do tend to try and disappear when faced with showing my legs in public, but still.)

2) Comfort food. In large quantities. Nuff' said.

3) Barely concealed anger towards woman at library, who, when I spell Had's name out, says, "Oh, so that's Hayd-lee then?" Have we really chosen such a bizarre name for our child? Is it so damn hard to figure out that Had + Leigh = Hadleigh. Not Haydlee. Not Had-lay. It rhymes with Madly. Badly. Sadly. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGHHHH!!

4) My husband just said that I look like Bruce Vilanch. Okay, so my pajama bottoms were pulled up over my bloat. So what?? I was going for the Urkel look.

5) Thought of kids leaving for a week sends me into alternating moods of Joy and Loneliness. I ain't gonna lie though, it's mostly joy.

6) Five pounds of water retention (or maybe five pound weight gain due to Comfort Food, Baking Frenzy, and eating too much of this with a spoon.)

7) Desire to watch Oprah and to "Live My Best Life". This MUST be hormones!

8) Sending My Love out to get me onion rings and a Sonic Blast at 11:30p.m

I've promised myself that this will be the month that I do not give women a bad name by being a complete harridan for an entire week, but really, is this even possible?

"All around them was evidence of what she knew in her own heart: that life was nothing but a matter of innumerable comings and goings, separations and separateness, of departures from which there might be no certain return."

The Evening Star by Larry McMurtry

We live like gypsies, me and my little family.  We move around every few years, never sure where we'll be from one place to the next, and we always feel a little bit heartbroken about it, even amongst the excitement of seeing a new city for the first time.

I hate goodbyes.  They're the worst part about this romany lifestyle.  I should be used to it though.  I've been saying goodbye for as long as I can remember.  And because I'm enjoying a gorgeous evening on the patio, and also because I'm completely incapable of savouring happiness without letting it be tinged with just a hint of sadness, I thought I'd compile my memories and just sort of wallow in them for a minute.  Not so much wallow as just let myself be briefly burned by them. 

I am thirteen years old.  My dad is leaving England to go and get settled in America.  We'll join him in six months.  It's so early in the morning that it's still dark, and he'll need to be picked up soon.  I don't know what we'll do without him and I worry about my Mum.  I know she's capable of stepping up and doing what needs to be done, but in my heart, I'm scared.  Six months seems like such a long time.  After I say goodbye to him, I wonder how a person can be expected to go to school and function like normal.  I discover that I am stronger than I thought.  I realize that I am being relied upon.  I am aware that this must be how it feels to be a grown up and have real worries. 

I am fourteen years old and standing at a bus stop on Aikman Avenue.  My best friends are with me, all of us with tear-streaked faces.  There's been a lot of melodrama leading up to this moment.  Declarations of forever friendship and promises to write every day-they were the activities that preceded this day.  Some of those declarations were true, some of those girls are still in my life, some of them moved on.  I am crying so hard that I feel like my head might fall off.  I hug these girls and prepare to get on the bus.  I hate my parents for doing this to me.  I hate myself for not being more open to adventure.  I get on the bus.

I'm fourteen. I am on a plane on the tarmac at Gatwick Airport and I am about to leave England.  I am bereft.  I am excited.  I am a million emotions in a pubescent body, (and God, in hindsight, I feel sorry for the poor man who sat next to me while I processed all those feelings on the flight.)  I have just said goodbye to aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents and I wonder how it's all going to play out.  Are they crying too?  Are they in the terminal wondering what will become of us?  More importantly, will there be peanuts to go with the tomato juice?  

I am twenty three.  I am going to be living far away from my parents and sisters for the first time.  Rhonda lives directly across the street and I won't have her that close anymore.  Dad won't be coming to my house on his lunch break every day.  Mum won't be able to come over in the evenings and push Hadleigh on her little tree-swing.   I have just watched Aaron load up the moving van and we're going to drive 1,064 miles to our new house, and I'm going to try not to cry the entire way there.  Aaron makes the mistake of asking me, "What's WRONG with you?" while I'm sobbing into my seatbelt.  He is rewarded with a look that says, "Are you bleeping KIDDING ME??"  I am thinking to myself, "I want my Mum, I want my Mum."

I am twenty-four.  Aaron's off for six months with the ship.  I'm getting my first taste of what it means to be a military wife.  I drive him to the base and say goodbye.  I feel like I'm going to throw up.  How am I going to manage?  I'll have Carly staying with me for a little while, but when she leaves, I'll be alone.  Alone!  I can't be alone!  I've only just moved away from Mum and Dad for the first time.  I hardly know anybody here in Florida!  Hadleigh and I go to the beach and watch as the ship goes by.  We wave madly, even though Aaron is below deck and has no idea that we're there.  I've got to be strong for Hadleigh.  I look forward to the homecoming.  I vow to lose ten pounds in six months.

I am twenty-five and leaving San Francisco.  I've been visiting Carly and Jonivan, and I'm going back to Arkansas.  I know that I probably won't see my sister again for a few years.  We're about to move to Italy for a three year stint and this time the distance is too far to drive.  I say goodbye and sit on the plane with Hadleigh and again, I cry.  I dread the separation already.  I'm not just crying because I couldn't fit all my IKEA purchases in my suitcase.........I'm going to miss my sister.

I'm twenty-eight and I am leaving Italy.  I am all twisted up on the inside.  Naples has made me reckless and unafraid.  I've driven in Naples traffic and lived to tell the tale.  I've been up Mount Vesuvius and felt this amazing rush of adrenaline.  I've seen and done things that I've always dreamed about, and yet I've spent time here feeling so frustrated and claustrophobic.  I've cursed the traffic and cursed the volcano and now I'm leaving it.  No more driving down the Tangenziale watching the sun set over the Bay.  No more eating bread and olive oil with Elena while we watch movies.  NO MORE GELATO!   Yes, I'll be closer to my parents again, but I won't be able to pop to Rome whenever I want to, or go to Positano, Capri, or Sorrento whenever we feel like a day there.  The military life is starting to grate. 

I'm twenty-nine and I'm holding my Grandad's hand.  I'm feeling utter disbelief.  He's dying.  Despite the weeks of knowing that it was going to happen, I'm just wretched with the shock.  Goodbye isn't something I ever thought I'd say to him.  He's listening to me. I know he can hear me.  I whisper that he can let go now.  I'll think about you every day for the rest of my life, I tell him.  I still can't say Goodbye.  It seems too formal, too false.  When a few days later I have to say goodbye to my Grandma as I leave, I settle for "Bye, Gran", and a "See you in a few months" instead of the alternative.

I am thirty.  Mum hugs me as we stand in the driveway.  I am blinking back tears.  Why?  Because I've come up against a problem I can't fix.  I can't just "organize" cancer away.  I can't erase miles of distance either.  I don't want to leave her.  I know she's not alone, and that I'll see her again soon, but I am so sad.  I make myself wave happily as the van backs down towards the street.  I fix a smile to my face and shout, "See ya, Mum" and I take my kids, and we go home.

Home.  Aaron is waiting.  No goodbyes between us.  Home is here.

I think we have a mouse living with us.  And if that's true, you'll hear me screaming very soon.  I don't like rodents!  I did used to have two pet mice when I was growing up, and they crawled all over me all the time, but an uninvited one is different.  Although, I would prefer a mouse over a rat ANYTIME.  God, I've just nearly thrown up at the thought of seeing a rat.  Shudder!!

I went down to the basement to look through my box of fabric (I need a new kitchen curtain, and ha ha, here I was thinking I could just "whip one up" with my sewing machine....I am way too optimistic) and I opened the closet and took out the box.  There, on the top piece of fabric was a bunch of teeny tiny poops.  AAAAAAARRGGHHH!!  I dropped the box like it was hot and ran to the stairs.  I had to get a grip on sanity though.  I very carefully pulled out all the stuff from the closet (it's my suitcase/sewing storage) so every suitcase I picked up, I panicked that some little bastard mouse was going to pop out and bite my face.

I even invited the dog to check things out with me, and he went NUTS in there.  I KNOW something's been in there.  I can't stand the thought.  Can't stand it!!  The closet is now empty, and no sign of a mouse, but I'm SURE this is mouse poop.  I should take a picture!  No, it would be the lowest point in my life if I posted a picture of potential mouse poop.  My life would officially be lame and pointless.  

Okay, so I took a picture.  But I can't post it.  For real.  Even if I DO need to know if this is mouse poop.  Who do I call about this?  Is there a Mouse Poop Hotline?  If there was, would they charge me to come out here at midnight and inspect the poop?  Is there a government task force set up that takes care of potentially creepy mice?  If not, why not?

This reminds me of the time there was a DEAD CAT on my front porch, and I called Animal Control and they told me that it was not in their jurisdiction to come and get it and I told them that my husband was on the ship for six months and that I was certainly not touching a dead cat (because I am a laydee) and they said "Oh Well, Too Bad For You"  I ended up having to pick up the poor dead thing with a black bag.  God, I was quite brave, actually. 

That was in Florida.  Land of Critters.  Which leads me to my next critter thought.............

During our time there, we had a snake in the house.  A huge, nasty snake.  Every time I think about it, I die inside a little.  There Hadleigh and I were, hanging out, when all of a sudden, in my hallway, was a bad momma jomma snake.  I screamed, (loud enough to be mistaken for a tornado siren) grabbed Hadleigh and the cordless phone, and leaped onto the coffee table.  The snake slithered around the house for a bit, probably unaware that I was about two seconds from a full-on heart attack.  I called Aaron at the ship.

"I need to speak to Aaron, RIGHT NOW, please!" I said, politely, yet firmly, just as my Mum taught me.

"He's busy at the minute.  Can I have him call you back?" said the ignorant sailor who answered the phone.

"Look.  This is his wife.  Tell him that there is a big fucking snake in our house, like three feet from me and our daughter, and if he doesn't come home and help me, right now, I am going to KILL HIM!"

So, Aaron came home to help. 

Only, Aaron hates snakes worse than I do.  (One time we went hiking at Petit Jean Mountain and a black snake was right in front of us on the path, and instead of carrying me to safety, my brave husband ran off and left me.)  Oh, back to the snake-in-the-house story.  So, he comes home to be just as scared of the snake as I am help me.  The first thing he says is, "Where is it?"

I don't have a precise answer to this.  I mean, I know it's in the guest bedroom because I watched it slither in there, but I don't know whereabouts in the guest bedroom, because me and my impatient two-year-old have been standing on the coffee table for 45 minutes and I haven't checked on the snakes' exact location. 

Aaron (hereafter known as Hero Man) grabs a broom (yes, I said a broom) and heads to the guest bedroom.  I watch him gingerly move things, open the closet, look under the bed, etc.  Then, I see him bolt out of the bedroom. 

"Under the bed!"  He looks scared.

"Oh my GOD!  What are we going to do?" I whine.  "I HAAAAAAAATE snakes!"

"I'll get it babe, don't worry" he says, and he starts swiping the broom at the snake as it comes out from under the bed.  Then it starts coming down the hallway to where we've opened the front door to let it out.  It's like it was saying, "Oh, dreadfully sorry!  Didn't mean to intrude!  Let me just take myself out of here." And with a little help from Aaron and the broom, it was now on the front porch.

But this snake didn't reckon on one thing.  And that was how pissed off we were at it.  God, we HATED that snake.  So Aaron starts yelling at me.

"Gimme something to throw at it"

"Throw at it?  Are you frigging serious?  Throw at it?  For real?  Like what?"

"Shit, Nat!  I dunno!  Anything!  A pan!  A jar!  A bottle!"

I'm like, "Yeah, right, I'm going to just hand you glass jars to throw at a snake--I don't think so!"

So, instead, he beat it to death with the broom.  It sounds more redneck than it actually was.  He didn't hoot & holler or anything, although I did shout loudly a few times, "Keel that dayum snake hunny!" in a loud southern accent.

He picked up the remnants of the snake with the broom, put the evidence in the outside trash, and went back to work. 

I had nightmares for a week.  I hated Florida sometimes.  But we're not in Florida anymore.  And I didn't think I was ever going to have to deal with snakes, mice, raccoons, or anything else ever again!  So why is there a (possible) mouse in here?

Oh God!  Does this mean I have a dirty house?  Because I don't!!  I don't!!  I swear, I am not a bad housekeeper!!  I'm a five year follower of Flylady!!  I'm not the same girl who once had mouldy sandwiches under her bed! (Dean used to affectionately call my bedroom "The Shed" because it was so wrecked).  My house is CLEAN!  I swear it!  But why else would I be (possibly) cursed with a (possible) rodent?  I don't leave cake about.  Well, certainly not in the basement storage closet, at any rate.

I cannot think about this anymore tonight.  Do mice climb stairs?  Could it get through the catflap at the top of the basement stairs?  Would I be able to, in good conscience, bash poor Stuart Little's head in?  Why did Millie have to die last year?  I miss that cat more than ever right now! 

I'm scared! 

PS) I wanted to get through this post without mentioning the football match against Sweden, but I couldn't do it.  God, it was PAINFUL!  But at least we didn't lose.  And I'm learning more about how it's played every day.  Can't wait till Sunday for the next one.  Makes me wish I lived near Dad so we could watch it together.  We call eachother at important points in the match.  Then, afterwards, I call Mum, Rhonda and Carly to update them, and all of them say, "Eh! So What? Who Cares? Soccer's stupid!" and I have to cry.  Because now I love it.  Love it, I tell you!  And this I did not expect.  So, colour me shocked.

I've had a hankering for a good concert lately.   Trouble is, no decent bands ever come and play here.  Last year when we went to see Coldplay we had to drive three hours, on a school night, no less!  I read about concerts all the time, and sigh when I realize that I might actually be too old to care about such things.  I don't feel it, but I probably am.

Anyway, the most joyous thing happened tonight......I found out that Keane is going to be within driving distance of us!  It's still almost four hours away, but we've GOT to go!  Not only is Keane going to be there, but Death Cab for Cutie, so Aaron will be willing to go with me!   I'm so excited!!  Now we just have to sell some plasma so we can get tickets for the blessed event!

I've been reading about Summer Sundae, which, obviously I can't go, but I'd love to.  Attention Meghan!  Belle and Sebastian are playing!

Now I've got to go to bed and stop making retarded playlists for my mp3 player. 

PS) Tomorrow, very big day!  Go England!  Beat Sweden!!!!

PPS) Carly, go to see Keane at Borders (Columbus Circle) on the 23rd.  I am INSANELY JEALOUS!  They are signing copies of their new CD. 

  When I was a teenager, I had a volatile relationship with my Dad.  We are alike in many ways, and that was probably part of the problem.  We're stubborn and sarcastic; two traits that don't necessarily make for harmonious times.  Oh, and yeah, I was a teenager.  Ugh.  I hate admitting that. 

So, while these days my dad is called "Saint Rod" around here, back then I was always fighting with him over something stupid or another.  Usually it was my fault, although I think Dad would admit that he isn't the best at dealing with a sensitive girlie, especially not a hormonal one.   He did have THREE daughters and a wife.  There was always somebody on their period or having the worst day ever.  It can't have been easy for him. 

But Dad, here's a hint, when your teenage daughter comes downstairs with a massive spot on her face, don't say, "Isn't it a pity about Zit City" because by rights, I should have killed you.

I digress.

So, one morning, in my Senior year, we had the most horrible argument ever, and it happened before school.  I couldn't tell you what it was about (couldn't have been anything too important, I guess) but I cried all the way there (I don't know how I could see well enough to drive, God, I was hysterical) and spent the first hour or so of school with my head down on my desk.   My eyes were red, I had snot dripping everywhere, and I was a mess. 

My teacher, Ms. McAlister, had wondered what was wrong, but I didn't want to say.  Saying out loud that I had just had an absolutely horrible argument with my Dad was something that I couldn't do.  It would open the floodgates again.  So, I sat there, alternating between conjugating verbs and sobbing into my desk.  I was seventeen, and God, that was humiliating.

Although, as it turns out, not as humiliating as the next moment when at the classroom door appeared.....Oh Sweet Fancy Moses, Please Tell Me That Isn't My Dad!!!  I wanted to die, right there.  Then I saw his face.  He looked wretched. 

He came into the classroom and asked Ms McAlister if he could have a word with me.  I slowly got up and walked out of the classroom with him. 

"I'm so sorry, Nat" he said. 

I promptly burst into tears.

"I'm sorry too, Dad" I sobbed, not even caring if anyone walked by and saw me hugging this crusty old fart. 

We said a lot more that morning, all of which has escaped me now.  Maybe I've stored it away and I'll remember it in the future, like when I need to say something profound to Hadleigh as I hug her outside her French classroom after a particularly nasty argument.

Things got better after that.  Or maybe they didn't, and I've just imagined that they did.  I do know that as I grew up, I got close with my Dad again, and we went back to our old ways of bonding through music, movies and literature.  We can talk for hours about who's been in what movie, or how so-and-so's new solo project isn't half as good as what he did with his old band.  I love it. 

I've got a million stories.  A million things that I love about my Dad.  A million things that I need to thank him for.  But somehow, everything my Dad means to me is summed up in the short story I've just told you.   And not being with my Dad on Father's Day is hard.  Harder still is trying to think about how he must feel today, this first Father's Day of his life that his own Dad isn't here.  But I mustn't get maudlin. 

Here's to you, Dad.  For teaching me how to drive, for teaching me how to love good books and good music, for showing me how to make corned beef hash.  For teaching me how to say sorry, for explaining how to tell a good dirty joke, for letting me be me.

I love you and I'm so glad I'm your favourite.

 

 

 

I. am. so. exhausted!  I should just eat something and go to bed, but here I am!

We took the kids to the fair tonight, and God, we're just worn the hell out.   You can get a wristband so you can go on unlimited rides, and we certainly took advantage of that.  I didn't expect to stay so long, but there was a whole lotta fun going on, so we got there at almost six o'clock and stayed till 11 o'clock when the wristbands expired.  Then we walked home and the kids fell into bed, almost delirious with joy.  This is why we have kids.  I love it.  I abso-freaking-lutely love it!

Did I mention the exhaustedness?  And yet I can't shut my brain off at the minute because Aaron is banging around the house killing flies and I am just a bit wired.  I love seeing my kids have fun.  It makes everything worth it.  Hadleigh met up with her friend Brock, and watching them on the rides, giggling and talking, it was so sweet.  Tom wanted to go on everything, immediately, and we spent lots of time going, "Wheeeeee!!  This slide is soooo much fun!" or "You want to go in the House of Mirrors again??  Seriously?" 

There was a kid's roller coaster there, called Wacky Worm and run by a complete cretin, but for some reason, this ride just made Tom so damn happy.  I bet he rode it ten times.  There was a kid there, who was a LOT younger than Tom, and who was on it by himself!!  I mean, his parents were not even worried about making sure he even got on the damn ride safely.  I can't believe how lax some parents are about watching their kids at the fair.  Okay, if he's going on it alone, fair enough, but at least help the boy on there, and at least watch him while he's riding.  Me, stupid me, I ended up sitting with him and then when I had to sit next to him and smell smoke and throw-up on the poor kid, I was like, "Fuuuuuuuuudge!" and then, "If this kid throws up on me, I will throw him out of the roller coaster."  I'm nice, up to a point.

And don't even get me started on the teenagers.  I do know some nice teenagers, but for the most part, I think they should be locked up from 13-19.  Seriously.  And do parents realize that they are letting their kids walk around in completely offensive shirts?  There was a kid there, probably 14 or 15, who was wearing a shirt that said, "The Man" and had an arrow pointing to his face, and "The Legend" pointing to his crotch, and I just wanted to go up to him and say, "Does your MOTHER know that you're wearing this shirt?" and then, just to be cruel, I should have said, "And it's not a Legend if you're the only one that's ever seen it or touched it, you retarded kid!"   I'm so glad I was never a teenager.  Sheesh!

Hadleigh went on way too many "little kid" rides (she has numerous issues) but she at least had the decency to be embarrassed about it.  All that changed when Brock and his Mom started hanging out with us.  Brock kept asking her to go on all these "scary" (not actually scary for most people, we're talking about the umbrellas here) rides, and Hadleigh finally gave in to all of them and said, "I'm going to be brave" and she did it!  This worries me for many reasons, and I hope that when she's a teenager she can make a distinction between facing a fear and giving in to pressure.  I told her that she didn't have to go on anything that she didn't want to, and that it would be stupid to do that because it wouldn't be fun.  Only go on things that you think you have at least a chance of enjoying, I told her.  And she did.  She ended up having a blast.

For a while there, I thought Hadders was going to end up like her Aunt Rhonda, who, one year when we went to Billing Aquadrome, made me shout down to the man running The Cages That Are Shaped Like An Egg And That Can Flip and tell him that she was about to PUKE EVERYWHERE AND COULD WE POSSIBLY PLEASE STOP THE RIDE!!? 

Or, (sorry in advance for this, Rhon) that she would be like Rhonda in that she would be about ten years old and only go on the Twinkle Twinkle Little Star Wheel (where Rhon's Amazonian legs dragged the ground) instead of the actual Big Wheel.   I've just typed that with a smile on my face, remembering Chapel St. Leonards and that stupid wheel.  It's given me years of ammo against my sister. (Someday, I'll tell more Billing Aquadrome stories, but they're humiliating for me, so it will have to be a post where I have been drinking).

As usual, the workers freaked me the hell out.  God.  I shouldn't judge.  I'm sure they're all lovely people, but red eyes and no teeth is not the way to inspire my confidence in your ride-operating abilities. 

I've got to hit the hay.  I think the memories of tonight will keep the kids going until next year.   I think my feet will hurt until next year, but I'm not complaining!!  :)

Click here for the pictures

Go England!!  2-0!!!  I must admit, Aaron and I didn't know if it was going to happen, but you came through!!  Yay!!!!!

 

I've been joking with Az lately about how if I hang an English flag outside, Mel across the street will call the Patriot Police.  Mel (bless his heart) drove a boat on D-Day at Normandy.  He's a proud Navy veteran and somebody who is very much "old school".  He's a nice man, but not somebody who's ever going to really be cool with looking out of his window and seeing an English flag.  Especially not if there's no American flag to go with it. 

Today though, I sent Aaron to buy a flagpole and told him that we could fly an American flag too, but that I wanted my English flag flying outside instead of in the basement (where I put it up on the wall).  I'd even be okay with the American flag flying higher than the English one--after all, I AM in America and do love the Stars and Stripes too.  He came home with one flagpole ("they're expensive!" he said) so in honour of the World Cup and the fact that England plays tomorrow, we put up our lovely St George's Cross.   It looks very nice! 

I was at the mall this afternoon when I got a frantic phone call from my beloved. 

"Nat!!!  Do you know what day it is??"

"Um. Wednesday?" I say, hopefully.

"Nat!!!  It's Flag Day!!  And we're flying the English flag!!  On a day celebrating the American flag!!"

"Oh, shit"

So, I've come home and taken down my flag until tomorrow (when it goes up again, no matter what, because we are going to have the football on and will be cheering madly). 

Here's a secret:  I don't even really like football.  I have no idea how to play.  I can only name like, three players on the England squad (and one of them is David Beckham, and everybody knows that, so it doesn't really count).  But there's something so, well, patriotic and amazing about rooting for your national team.  It makes me feel like a part of something big and happy, and if that's stupid, then I guess I am. 

Good Luck England!!!! 

 

 

Oh, also?  After extensive (and I DO mean extensive) research and trying-on of swimsuits, I think I've settled on one that will fit me.  Take a look.   I think this one will work for my body type.

Ya think?

I started this blog with the intent of documenting my life, since I haven't kept a steady diary for many years.  I also wanted to have written memories for my kids, so that one day, they can look back on the blog and know how their Mom felt about various things, and about them, obviously.

Today, I took Tom to his favourite park.  We haven't been there in a whole year, because it's at a school, and we can't usually go there during the day when school is in session.  He was so excited when I told him where we were going, and I could tell it was going to be a "My Mom Rocks" sort of day. 

But things didn't go the way he planned, and when we got there and he'd played and hung out with Jacob for a little while, there came along the issue of "taking turns".  Tom doesn't usually have a big problem with this--no more than any other kid I suppose. 

When it was Jacob's turn to drive the fire engine, there was whining from Tom.  And more whining.  And hanging on the side of the engine.  And whining. 

I said, "I'm going to count down from five, and by the time I get to zero, I want you to have stopped that noise and let Jacob have his turn". 

Internally, I'm going, "Damn, I've backed myself into a corner--now I HAVE TO leave if he doesn't stop" and I really didn't feel like going anywhere, because the sun felt nice on my legs.  I counted down and he was still whining about how he WASN'T FINISHED WITH HIS TURN YET AND HE WANTED TO DRIVE!!!!!

Sigh

I picked him up and attempted to soothe. 

"Tom-Tom, come on dude, calm down."

More whining and yelling.

I put him down and went to grab his hat so we could leave.  Then he legged it across the playground while yelling.  I had to chase him and then put him in the van, all the while he's going, "It was MYYYYYYYY TURRRRRRRNNNNNNN!!!!"

Big sigh. 

I said bye to Kristi and started to drive home, with Tom yelling at me from the back seat.  I told him we needed to talk and he got quiet.  We discussed how counting down gave him a chance to "get a grip" as it were, and that I was helping him control himself.  We talked about how taking turns isn't always fun, but it's one of those things in life that has to be done. 

When we pulled into the garage, he was still mad at me.  I could tell, because Tom uses silence and death-ray glances to show me how much he hates me.  He came in, yanked off his shoes angrily (I had a hard time thinking he was a badass because of his outrageous toenails, which are pink and blue) and told his Dad that he hated me.  Then he threw the cushions off the loveseat and sat down huffily. 

I picked him up and put him on my lap. 

"I love you, Tom, and I want to help you learn to deal with life, and I mean what I say; If you don't control yourself, we leave."

"Harrumph!" he snorts.

"Let's try again tomorrow and see if we can do a better job of handling that, okay?"

Silence.

"Awight, Mom"

He snuggled up to me and kissed me.  I thought to myself how easy he is to deal with, even with his four-year-old brain controlling him.  Hadleigh has a personality like mine--messy and complicated.  Tom is so simple to understand, well, like Aaron really.  He has a quick temper, which flares easily, but which disappears just as fast.  He forgives everything and just needs to blow off steam when the need arises.  Hadleigh, bless her, is like me in the way that she holds grudges, sulks, makes extensive revenge plans and gives Meryl Streep a run for her money in the drama department.

She's still amazing though.  Last night as we all painted nails *, Tom said he wanted pink toenails with blue dots.  I cautiously mentioned that maybe pink was a tad, er, well, girly.  Hadleigh's eyes got wide as she looked up at me. 

"Mom, don't you think that's a bit sexist?" she asked.

I backtracked.

"Well, um, obviously Tom can wear whatever nail polish he wants, and er, I think you're right, perhaps that was sexist of me."

"Here you go, Tom, here's the hot pink" and she hands him his chosen colour and continues with her England design.  His girlyness is unimportant now.  His choice has been validated by his sister, (the human rights advocate). 

Yeah, I'm a little freaked out by the nail polish thing.  I used to be okay with it, when he was younger, but now I worry.  Is he going to be a cross dresser?  Will I come home one day and find him wearing my underwear?  Of course not!  I'm just being silly.  (I have to tell myself that!).

As we sat together a few minutes ago, eating cupcakes and sighing contentedly, I thought to myself that this mothering gig is both everything and nothing that I expected.  I love it.  I love them.

* Props to Auntie Shazza and Em for the idea. 

 

Postscript:  This was written this morning, after we came home from the park. I was feeling warm and fuzzy towards my kids then.  Not anymore!  We’ve just been to Subway where Tom LOUDLY made the following announcement:

“You know that commercial that says, “You’re Crumb-believable."   Well, if Mom was in it, they’d have to change the words to “You’re Fart-believable.”