Comfy Chair

Eva has found the best seat in the house.

At least I don’t have to worry about the upholstery.

Mother’s Plea

Dear Eva,

Will you please stop throwing fits when you don’t get your way; especially at Costco?  I get really embarrassed when everyone stares at me with judging eyes.  Also, no one can see how cute you are when you’re flopped back wailing like a walrus.  I understand you like almonds, but the checkout line is not the place to crack into them.

I’d also prefer it if you wouldn’t hold your poo for a clean diaper.  Every time you soil a fresh diaper, that’s 25¢ of hard-earned money that could be better spent on candy bars or dirty magazines.  I really don’t think you need fresh linens to do your business.  We aren’t royalty.

Finally, could you keep your hands off my cellular telephone?  I don’t need you to purchase tickets to a Christian rock concert, link my contacts, delete emails, send voice notes to my friends, or otherwise completely mess with my phone settings.  I have your father for that.

Sincerely,

Your Darling Mother

(Think it will work?)

Moonbeam

I went running in the pouring rain this morning.  Usually I would see that it was raining and mumble something like, “Oh, heck no!” and put my lazy butt back to bed.  However, I was meeting Janna this morning and she runs without exception.  In fact, she puked last week and then ran 5 miles.  I puke once and stay in bed for twelve days yelling at Michael to bring more soup.

But I digress.  It was raining.  I knew I would have to still go out in it so I got up and started getting dressed.  The pants I wanted to wear were in my suitcase, (no, I haven’t unpacked yet.  What’s it to you?) and I didn’t want to wake Michael rummaging around for them.  I had to put on what I could find without making any noise.  My only option was the pants I hate the most.  They don’t fit right and are quite uncomfortable.  I don’t know why I haven’t cast them out of my wardrobe yet.  Probably because I’m lazy.  (Refer to my suitcase still being packed after being home for 5 days.)

Halfway through our run, my pants started to fall down.  They were soaked by this point and were feeling really heavy, like my legs were wrapped in ill-fitting wet towels.  I had my dog’s leash around my waist, rain pelting me in the face so fiercely I felt like the drops were sapping my eyesight, my shoes were making a squishing noise, and my pants wouldn’t stay on my waist.  I would pull them up but because they were rain-soaked, the fabric just stretched like a rubber band up to my waist without budging from my legs.  They were suctioned onto my skin.  After fighting with them for half a mile, I gave up.  I just let the waistband fall to it’s preferred resting place and let the quarter-moon shine.  Having rain dribble into your crack is not as refreshing as you might think.

A few lessons can be learned from this:

1. Don’t be running buddies with a die-hard.

2. Unpack your stupid suitcase in a timely manner.

3. Get rid of those darn pants.

I apologize to the drivers whose headlights illuminated my rear.  At least you have a story to tell your coworkers today.

Suspicious

I flew home from my sister’s house last night.  I’ve flown with Eva numerous times and we’ve always sailed through security.  Yesterday, the woman said she needed to swab my hands.  The swab tested positive.  I’m still not sure what it tested positive for.  They must be testing for traces of urine, poo, or snot because those are the only things I dabble in.  The failed swab turned into a complete search of all my belongings and a pat down.  I wasn’t even allowed to touch Eva until I had been cleared of any inappropriate and unpatriotic activities.

I had packed Eva’s diaper bag with the skill of a ninja; if ninjas are really good at Tetris.  I saw the guy behind the little partition taking EVERYTHING out of the diaper bag and I instantly knew he wouldn’t be able to put it back properly.  So while the TSA people were having fun grabbing things out of the bag and tossing them over their shoulders, my pat down began.

The lady asked me if I wanted a private pat down.  No.  No, I did not.  I wanted everyone in the airport to see how ridiculous TSA looked accosting a striking woman traveling alone with a young, beautiful child.  I have to say, my patter-downer did a very thorough job.  I also have to say that I enjoyed it a little since I had been sleeping alone for the past ten days.

Let me end your suspense: they deemed me innocent and handed my bags back with stuff spilling out the tops and a disclaimer that they hadn’t ruined anything.  Except my day.  Then the TSA woman asked, “Did you put lotion on recently?”  I had indeed.  In the car.  My hands were feeling chapped.  It was a delicious scent that another sister gave me.  I told her I had put some on moments before the confrontation.  She counseled, “Well, don’t do that again.  It’s probably what the machine detected.”

Are you kidding me?  What exactly are you swabbing for if lotion fails?  And if you know that lotion sets it off, how often are you groping people and dismembering their belongings because they sought relief from dry skin?  Ridiculous.

The woman did say during my pat down that I didn’t look like I had birthed a child.  Why, thank you.  I will take the compliment but I will still be indignant that you thought I was suspicious.

Thanks for the lotion, Chris.           

Geezer

Here's something I just learned about myself: I'm apparently old-fashioned.  This diagnosis was proclaimed by my 11 year-old niece.  She accused me of using old-fashioned words such as 'fool' and 'silly.'  Context?  My nephew was being crazy and hanging upside down from the couch after I repeatedly asked him to join us for prayers.  I said, "Spencer! Quit acting like a fool."  Old-fashioned.  Thursday morning the kids were running around the house kicking each other and laughing instead of packing lunches for school.  I admonished them to, "Stop being silly!"  Old-fashioned.

I asked which words would be more modern and appropriate for these situations.  'Fool' should be replaced with 'imbecile' or 'moron.'   'Idiotic' or 'stupid' are better descriptions than 'silly.'  Well, I disagree.  Those words just sound really mean, not modern.  I am not old-fashioned, I am kind. 

Now if you'll excuse me, Lawrence Welk is on. 

Back Breaker

I'm at my sister's house for a visit.  Eva and I are sharing a room for the next ten days.  Eva thinks that if we are in the same room, certainly I want to share a bed with her.  She wouldn't stop screaming last night until I reluctantly pulled her into bed with me.  She then embarked on a personal mission to kick and slap me as often as her little legs and arms had the strength.  All night long she kicked and rolled and flopped and smacked.  It was terrible.  I was curled up on the edge of the bed huddled under the blankets trying to ward off the assault.  My hips and back are so sore today I feel like I need a wheelchair.  We went to story time at the local library and we had to sit on the floor like barbarians.  It was torture. 

Eva is not allowed to sleep with me again.  I don't care if she screams all night.  I'll wear earplugs.

That's what all good parents do.

Snowed In

We have had a legitimate snowstorm the past few days.  8 inches have accumulated so far and it is snowing again today.  For people who live in snowy climates, it would be just another storm.  For people who never see snow, i.e., Western Oregonians, it is complete pandemonium!  Roads are closed, stores are closed, it’s all anyone is talking about, and there are abandoned cars everywhere. 

It’s all very funny to me.  I’ve spent my life in the snow and this storm looks dinky compared with, say, Island Park, ID.  But I won’t take the excitement away from everyone.  I can see how it would be enchanting to be snowed in if it’s never happened before.  It also looks very pretty with the snow-covered trees.

One problem: we don’t have a snow shovel.  I gave that baby away the minute we decided to move to Oregon.  Another problem: this would be a perfect moment to fire up my snow blower.  Too bad it now belongs to my papa.  Can you imagine what kind of hero I would be if I went around the neighborhood with a snow blower?  I’d be a God.

Another missed opportunity to be revered and admired.  Dang. 

 

Motherhood

Sometimes I look at Eva and I love her so much it brings tears to my eyes.

Other times I look at Eva and she is bearing down, grunting, and pushing so hard to fill her diaper that her entire body is shaking.

It brings tears to my eyes for a different reason.

Cheese Lover

I was meeting my friend for an early morning class at the YMCA a couple weeks ago.  I dragged my sorry butt out of bed while it was still night outside and drove to the gym with one eye sleeping and the other eye reading a spy novel.  My friend, however, did not show up.  Consequently, we are no longer friends.  I don’t put up with that kind of behavior.

It was a small class and clearly I was not one of the regulars because everyone looked at me like I had an arm growing from my forehead when I walked in.  The regulars had already claimed their regular spots and were setting up their regular equipment.  I took the only open space in the back corner of the room and didn’t get a green resistance band because the regulars had absconded with all of them already.  I felt out of place.  Especially since I was the only one in the room with an arm growing from my forehead.

The instructor scanned the crowd and said, “We have an odd number today,” (referring to me), “does anyone mind not having a partner?”  Silence eclipsed the room and everyone turned to look at me, burning my skin with their stares, and waiting for me to volunteer to be the odd-man out.  I felt my face getting hot with embarrassment so I muttered, “I don’t mind being alone.”  The room sighed collectively.  I felt like it was the first day of school and I was the weird new kid.

Did you ever play The Farmer in the Dell?  We seemed to play it a lot when I was in elementary school.  I always longed to be chosen as the Wife.  I would take Child as an alternative, but I really just wanted to be the Wife.  I never was.  In fact, I was never a Child, the Dog, the Cat, or even the Mouse.  I was always the Cheese. Always.  Even if we played two or three rounds in a row, I was chosen for the Cheese.  I don’t know what drew my classmates to select me for that role, but I hated it.  I would stand in the middle of the circle like a doofus while everyone sang, “The cheese stands alone, the cheese stands alone, heigh-ho, the Derry-o, the cheese stands alone.”  I wanted to be in the circle dancing with my farmer and our lovely child, but instead I just stood there unaccompanied.  Naturally, I despised that game.

My life has come full circle.  I was the cheese again at the YMCA.  I was all alone while everyone stared at me and I was completely transported to the lunchroom at Kinghorn Elementary playing The Farmer in the Dell.  Having a partner during the workout turned out to be a luxury, not a necessity, but still – I felt like a weirdo.  Needless to say,  I won’t be attending that class again.  (The instructor was chubby anyway; clearly the class doesn’t work.)

Since I am an adult now and this appears to be my identity, I will embrace my inner-cheese.  If I have to finally admit that I will always be the cheese, I would at least like to be sophisticated like Brie or Camembert.

It seems only fair.