Somewhere Over the Rainbow

My daughter had her Preschool graduation the other night.  A real snoozer.  I needed toothpicks to keep my eyes open.  I was getting grim satisfaction that Alex was messing up three families worth of viedotape.  He was playing Zombie Smasher and all you could hear in the background was this munch, munch, munch of the zombies eating.  Every once in a while you'd hear Alex grunt with frustration and say, "Zombies, you're mine!  Die, Zombies, die!"

I was sitting there reading all your blog posts, trying how to figure out to comment without giving up my real identity because my phone has that nifty stamp that says "sent from soandso's I-phone."  Thanks Verizon.

Anyway, I look up to see my daughter moving on to the stage. 

I wave frantically. 

She sees me.  She waves back.  She's beaming.

I'm beaming. 

Her eyes are locked on mine.  Then she points at her chest.  She takes her index fingers and makes the shape of a heart.  Points right at me.  And smiles a big radiant smile.

She's got me.

I'm blubbering like a school girl.

Then this song comes on:




Ignore the fact his big sweaty Hawaiian man boobs are bigger than mine. 

That song gets me Every Single Time.  Now I'm a train wreck.  Blubbering, snotting, no tissues, splotchy face mess.  I made the biggest fool of myself. 

It was the best night ever. 

Zomebie Smasher included.

This is how I do it. Seriously, get your mind out of the gutter.

Normally I like to mess with my mom, keep her on her toes, if you would.  I have a whole post dedicated to how I mess with her.  She drives me that crazy.  I'll share it someday, but not today.

My mom moved in with us about six months ago and we're still trying to work it all out, having her here.  Some days are more trying than others.  But overall its been a blessing. 

She's one of the few people who knows what its really like, Spectrum speaking.  She gets Alex.  She gets the fact that it not really cute to say "Duh" to your mom, dad, teacher, and anyone else who doesn't understand the mechanical workings of a fountain.  She understands him.  Knows when he's just being a little shit, trying to push buttons because he's bored, and when he's truly maxed out and needs a gentle hand to lead him upstairs to listen to his music and calm down.

People ask me how I manage to do everything with all three kids.  She's your answer.  I couldn't take him to all his appointments, therapies and groups with the other two in tow.  Sure, I could, but she makes it possible so I don't have to. 

She takes the girls and goes to the carousel and the mall.  Something Alex would never dream of doing or want to do anyway.  She cleans out the garden beds, does laundry and changes the kids bed sheets when I run out of time.  She has a special relationship with each one of the kids and loves them with as much ferocity as I do.  

She gives me a much needed moment to catch my breath and slip out for a run so I can come back and be a better mom.  She gives me the time to deal with school and his teachers and she affords me the ability to stalk my son in the school parking lot so I can watch recess. 

She can cook but we prefer she doesn't.  She knows this and we laugh.  She makes spaghetti from a can, she'll burn anything she comes in contact with and Alex has better skills with knife than she does.  Cooking is not her strong point.  Seriously, you can only do boiled salmon patties once in your life.

I am telling you all of this because she needs her breaks too.  She has other grandchildren.  I am the middle of five kids.  So right now she's in Boston with my brother and his kids.  In May she'll visit my sister in Australia for a month.

So that's how I do it.  I don't do it alone.  I have a mom who's with me, in the background, doing everything else that I can't manage to do.  And for the next few weeks the kids and I are going to get a cold hard slap in the face. 

I just hope it's not with a boiled salmon patty.

I feel like that stretchy mom in the Incredibles...

I'm old, I'll admit it.  My ovaries are starting to shrivel, I'm getting grey hair, my boobs aren't where they used to be and my knees hurt with the weather.  I feel like an old antiquated relic left behind from some bygone era. 

Here's the deal, I'm trying to make a button and do the Twitter thing.  And I've never cussed so much in my entire life.  Well, aside from when the bird sacrificed itself on my windshield, when I almost forgot Alex in the car, when I dropped the shelf on my foot.  Shit, I have cussed this much before.

But that's not the point.

I can't figure it out.

And I'm all pissy, pissed off.

Sure, I could ask Alex, but that would defeat the point of my trying to do it on my own.  See, I want everything to be all matchy-matchy (yes my pillows coordinate with my armchairs and draperies) and perfect before I put it out there and it's not working. 

The picture size is too big and the image won't upload.  I can't find the right background and my sea star isn't the way I like it.   And now have to add that bird thing to my sidebar.  And I have no fucking idea what even goes on at Twitter.  It scares me.

What happens if I do go on Twitter and I only have like 9 friends and I'm following 15,904 people???  I'll feel like a total loser, thank you Brian for the heads up, not the loser part!  I mean, I'll be more of a loser than I already am.  I can't handle that right now.

I'm over committed.

I still have three very young kids to raise, a house to clean and three different meals to make, three times a day, every day.  All the therapies to run to, Speech homework and regular homework for the oldest two.  And now I'm meeting with insurance adjustors, roofers, gutter, deck and painter people.  I totally forgot Easter was this Sunday and now I have to get lamb cakes made, go to the cesspool WalMart to get candy, and do all the baskets and plastic egg stuff.


See, these things are a pain in the ass to make.

So here's what I propose to do:

1. Do blog posting on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  Anything else is a special gift from me to you. 
2. Run around and visit all my bloggy friends when I can because seriously, I love you guys.
3. Do the Twitter thing, but you have to help me and not make fun of me.  Promise???
4. Try and make a Godammed Button.
5. Stop cussing. 
6. Erase number five.  Well, at least until one through four are completed. 

Deal???


I hope everyone has a decent Easter.  One with no meltdowns.  One with rainbows and kittens and cotton candy.  With lots of ham, deviled eggs and lamb cake.  And a different meal for the kid who won't touch the ham.  A different one for the kid who doesn't want their food groups touching each other.  And one for the kid who only wants to eat Oscar Meyer turkey hot dogs, 98% fat free, and only cooked on the stove boiled in hot water for exactly 7 minutes with the red stuff on the side, never on the bun.

 And three different lamb cakes.  Can't forget the blessed little lambs.  I need a chocolate lamb, a white lamb and Goddammed tradition states the white lamb has to have coconut and Heaven forbid we have a chocolate coconut lamb or white coconut lamb because the kids don't like coconut.  Tradition states the fucking lamb has to have a coat so I have to make a white coconut lamb, so yay me, I get to make another frigging lamb.  By Sunday morning I'll have a whole flock of little lambs just staring at me as I go around the kitchen, waiting for the kids to chop off their pretty little heads and eat their asses.

Wait, that's my Easter!  Have a good one everybody!!!

I'm living with a Valley Girl. Yay me!

My son is talking like a Valley Girl.  I have no idea where he picked up this new use of vernacular but it has to stop.  It slowly started to happen last week and he's now morphed into a complete Valley Girl. 

Like totally!

His new favorite word is duh, with the perfect inflection.  He uses the word like, like 451,003 times a day.  He's thrown in the word totally as well.  I think he picked that one up from me but the sheer fact he's adapted it to Valley Girl talk amazes me.  I'm secretly impressed.  But I'm also about ready to drop a brick on my foot for the sheer pleasure of having a sensory issue rather than an auditory one. 

Like, Oh My God, you know I like oatmeal for breakfast?  Duh?  

Yes Alex, I do.

Well, duh.  So, I'd totally like my oatmeal now, duh.  And I'd totally like some chocolate chips with that.  Like Duh.  Duh.

That's one example.  Now magnify it to Every Single Time he talks.  I feel like clawing my eyes out with a fork.  I must be a sensory seeker.  Anyway, every bloody sentence is started with an Oh My God and ended with a duh.  And it's all said with that perfect little Valley Girl tone and pitch. 

To think I was worried when he was three that he was going to be talking like a robot for the rest of his life.  What-ev-er.  We worked on inflection and sing song prosody for almost two years and I'm happy to say he can now choose to talk like a robot, if and when, he wants too. 

At seven, he's now picking up terms and phrases and he's using them.  I know this is a good thing developmentally.  He's taking things from around his world and testing them out.  He's stretching his wings.  Only thing is, I think he's using this one for the sole purpose of pissing me off.  I can see a little giggle, a glint, in his eyes when he says it. 

And I think it's become his new thing.

Oh My God this is totally killing me.

Well, duh.



Note: If anyone tells him of the word tubular or even mentions the phrase gag me with a spoon I may, just may, come over there and beat you.  I'm not above inflicting bodily harm.

The mystery of the pine cones.

Over the past several days I've noticed strange things coming home in Alex's pants and coat pockets.  He's been bringing home pine needles, pine cones and the seeds from the cone. 

I pulled a pair of pants from the washing machine and out fell a bunch of pine needles.  I found pine cones in two other jackets, the pockets stuffed full. 

I asked Alex why I was finding pine cones and this is what he told me:

He was playing with them, by himself, at recess and a classmate came over and stated she wanted them.  And then she took them.  He told her he was playing with them and she took them anyway.  Ever since he's been pocketing things and hiding them from her.

I asked him why he didn't go to his para or teacher for help and said he couldn't.  If a disagreement was a "small thing" the kids are supposed to try and work it out themselves.  Fair enough.  Under normal circumstances I actually think that's a pretty good policy. 

I pushed him a little further and said something like, "But you told her you were playing with them and she took them anyway, that doesn't sound small to me..."  Honestly, it sounds like she was bullying you, that little hussy.  I kept my mouth shut on that last part. 

He said, "No. No, mom.  The pine cones are small, so I had to work it out on my own.  Those are the rules..."

The pine cones were small and therefore couldn't ask for help.  Such a literal interpretation of the rules. 

The next day I was in his resource teacher's office (I swear I think my car could drive there itself sometimes) explaining the situation.  We have it all worked out now, but it just goes to show how something so simple can be misconstrued or misinterpreted.   How literal and rule bound he is.  How he held on to the other child taking his things and he did what he thought best which, honestly, was not the best thing to do at all.  It shows how vulnerable he really is.

I've not seen any more pine needles or cones come home yet.  I'm off to check the backpack...