You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January, 2009.
Dear Truck Driving Lady,
You came roaring up the on-ramp and shot wildly across the four lanes of traffic, only to settle into the far left lane and slow down to 5 under the 65 MPH speed limit. I am still wondering why you did this. It was really weird. Was someone chasing you? Are you just really stupid?
Seriously, what was that all about?
In case you are wondering, I was driving one of the cars you narrowly avoided sideswiping, only because I noticed your erratic movement and anticipated your trajectory of vehicular insanity. I slowed from the 73 MPH I was doing in a middle lane and stayed back until you completed your pointlessly dangerous maneuver.
You’re welcome,
Tawni
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Dear Truck Driving Man,
Just because you throw garbage in the back of your truck while it is parked, thereby forcing the highway winds to suck it out as you speed along, piece by wretched, flapping-back-to-smack-my-car’s-windshield piece, it does not absolve you of the crime. You’re still littering.
Dickhead.
You’re trash,
Tawni
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Dear Other Drivers,
Please pull up into the empty twenty feet of space you are leaving in front of your car as you sit, waiting for the light to turn green. You’re totally freaking me out.
It is not only weird to leave this big space in front of your car; it is inconsiderate to the cars further down the line behind you. They might not make the light once it turns green because you inexplicably decided you needed to keep a football field’s length between you and the next car.
More than being angry at you for being rude, I am perplexed to the point of bewilderment by your strange behavior.
If I am waiting next to you in the left turning lane as you sit in the straight lane, I sometimes stare at you, then at the large gap of space you aren’t pulling into, then back at you. Sometimes I hold up my hands in a questioning manner. This is my way of trying to say: “What the fuck?”
(I thought that I should probably explain that to you, since you are obviously oblivious to the most kindergartenly, bare basics of concepts, such as forming a line.)
The next time you leave a huge space in front of your car, I am going to get out of my own car, leap spastically into the giant space you are not pulling up into with your vehicle, and dance around like a maniac. I might also simulate swimming around in the large area in front of your car before I flip you off, and get back into my car before the light turns green.
My husband thinks I should pretend to parallel park a car into the space in front of your car. That’s pretty funny; I might go with that one. I haven’t yet decided. I’ll surprise you.
Curmudgeonly yours,
Tawni
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Dear Spider,
Stop biting my fucking toes while I am sleeping. You’re really starting to piss me off. I’m tired of limping around like an old lady because my toes are hurting and tingling where you have bitten me. I am afraid to sleep in my own bed, you arachnid bastard.
I washed the bedding and sprayed Lysol around and under the bed, hoping to deter you from crawling on me as I sleep. I am neurotic enough to be afraid of exterminators and the carcinogenic Mist of Certain Death they bear, but I will be forced to call one and bomb the shit out of your stupid stinking spider world if you do not desist.
We have had many health issues since moving to Oklahoma, and your toe biting has further cemented my belief that this state is a festering boil on the ass of America. Please, I beg of you. Give me a fucking break.
I know you probably don’t understand what I’m saying, because you are a fucking spider, and your biggest daily dilemma is flies versus toes for dinner, but I’m going to say it one more time; you’d better choose the flies next time, or I will choose YOU. For bug spray death.
Stop it. My toes hurt. Asshole.
Charlotte dies at the end of the book,
Tawni
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Dear Gray Hairs,
You stayed away for 37 years. Why are you happening now? Why don’t you try to set some sort of “gray resistance” hair record and shoot for an even 40? I know I would be impressed. Everyone needs goals, right? See you in a few years?
Dare to dream,
Tawni
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Dear Triple Paste Diaper Cream,
I lied.
I took advantage of your kindness. I saw the Money Back Guarantee written on the side of your stately tub, and I saw dollar signs.
You worked okay on my kid’s ass, but come on, not 30 dollars great. You cost $32.79 with tax. That is a lot of money to people who haven’t been able to buy groceries for two weeks straight and have been eating the odd cans of old food languishing in the back of the pantry.
In short: My son had garbanzo beans and a dusty can of pineapple for dinner last night. So thanks for the refund.
Apologetically,
Tawni
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Dear Trashy Neighbors,
Thank you for inviting my son and me to your child’s birthday party. The water slide was really fun for the kids. Great idea.
I noticed all of the men drinking beers, so when you offered me a drink, assuming I’d drink kiddie punch with the other mothers, I chose beer. I hope you don’t think less of me for this, but I felt like you did.
As I drank the forbidden Female Beer, I felt the disapproving stares of the women. I hope you ladies didn’t mind my display of Fuck the Boys Club, but I don’t have much patience for gender stereotypes and the ensuing judgments of the holier-than-thou crowd.
Father of the birthday girl: When you said to me, “We should party sometime,” I had a hard time not laughing at you. Are we teenagers in the seventies or something? Is your daughter’s birthday party theme Dazed and Confused? Are we going to smoke a doob behind the bouncy house? Was it the beer thing that made you think I want to “party” with you? I mean really—who says things like that?
Mother of the birthday girl: Your husband is gross. And I am tired of listening to your arguments as to why I should spank my son, while my well-behaved child who has never been hit in his life is shoved around by your horribly-behaved, constantly-beaten children. Hey, here’s a little clue: It’s not working. Your children don’t respect you—they fucking hate you. By hitting them constantly, you’ve completely desensitized them to all discipline. In stoner terms, for your husband; you started with the discipline knob on 11, and you have nowhere to go but up (i.e. more violence).
When your creepy husband leeringly told me I needed to “smack that ass” when I mentioned that my son doesn’t take naps, not only did I know that you two have discussed my non-spanking beliefs, but I was completely grossed out by the way your icky husband said “smack that ass.” Sexual innuendos and children do not mix. Learn it, live it.
Also: When you hit your 3-year-old daughter in the head like that, I want to steal her away from you forever. She’s a sweet little kid and I hope she puts you in a nursing home that smells like cat piss someday for all of the times you’ve smacked her around.
In short: I think you are fucking carnie freaks and I am never coming to another birthday party or play date at your house again.
Honestly,
Tawni
P.S. You sent me a link to your family blog and I do read it, but only to make fun of your atrocious spelling and grammar blunders. And when you listed “shoot my first buck” as one of your New Year’s Resolutions, I nearly peed myself laughing.
********
Dear Son,
When you and I were driving in the car to preschool this morning and you correctly identified the band playing as Superdrag, my heart swelled with pride.
When you told me to turn up the Subways and then sang along to their song Rock and Roll Queen without missing a lyric, my pride-swelled heart nearly exploded.
You just turned 3 yesterday, little dude, and you’re already a rocker. You are going to be so much cooler than your nerdy mom ever dreamed of being. If you want a drum set or a guitar, you got it, kiddo. I support you.
Also, as long as we’re talking, if you could stop dramatically screaming “IT’S A RED LIGHT!! RED MEANS STOP!! STOP, MOMMY! STOP!!” at every red light, I would really appreciate that. It’s a bit unsettling.
Love you,
Mommy
It was one of those transitional periods on the Timeline of Me. I was unhappily exploring the post-divorce state of flux through which 60% of all married people must statistically travel. Unoriginally as the thousands of country music songs on the subject might imply, I was using alcohol as my navigational system.
Having failed at what trendy writers would flippantly dub my starter marriage, I was looking for something; the next good thing. I didn’t really know what it was yet, so I hoped I’d know it when I found it, and wouldn’t be too drunk to say hello.
There was a party house in our smaller college town that my friends and I often called home. It was one of those lovely, interesting-but-crumbling Victorians with high ceilings and windows full of old glass that seemed thicker at the bottom, like time had melted over the view of the past.
The homeowner was an older musician with a free spirit and a lot of weed. There was a steady river of alcohol moving through the house, along with the streams of young, searching girls, trying to find themselves by getting lost. In simpler words; I fit in perfectly.
On this night, a large group of us had watched a touring band play their music at a local bar. The band came back to the party house with us to drink and be merry. Cigarettes were smoked, music was turned up, neighbors were tolerant. I found myself sitting in a corner with the guitar player of the band, drinking beer and effortlessly talking. We were clicking as intellectually as slobbering drunks might click, and he seemed like a really nice guy.
While we chatted, we got on the subject of music. He asked me if I liked a band called The Church, and agreed when I enthusiastically told him that their song Under the Milky Way was one of the top ten songs ever. It is a wistful, moody, gorgeous song that I still love to this day.
This was mentioned in passing, one topic in a series of many, and we didn’t dwell. Conversation moved onward, and soon, he did too. Someone joined our discussion, and under the guise of getting another beer, the guitar player I’d been talking with left the party. His sudden disappearance registered briefly, but I kept drinking, and like most coherent thoughts, the event was washed away in the tide of alcohol.
The party wound down. The owner of the house had extra beds, and being in no shape to drive, I was offered one. I gratefully accepted and stumbled to the spare room.
I had just settled under the covers to pass out when I heard a knock at the door. I sleepily asked who was there as the guitar player from earlier poked his head in the room. He was holding an acoustic guitar and asked to come in. I said that would be okay, and he walked in, sitting down on the edge of my bed. I sat up against my pillow, the wall behind me nobly bearing my beer-relaxed muscles and hothouse flower demeanor.
It was one of those very moonlit nights when the world feels like daytime soaked in honey, and I could see his face clearly. He noticed my curious glance at the acoustic guitar and explained that after we talked, he had gone to the band van and learned a song for me. I somewhat numbly took in what he was saying, not really comprehending what was happening. He stopped talking and started playing the guitar softly.
“Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty, sound of their breath fades with the light, I think about the loveless fascination, under the Milky Way tonight,” he sang quietly.
It was the song I had mentioned earlier; the pretty song I loved by The Church—now a lullaby for a lonely, drunken girl. The lyrics couldn’t have been more appropriate for me at that place in time; feeling small, meaningless and alone as one does standing under an endless night sky, wishing I knew what I was looking for, like the chorus repeated.
The subtle performance was a heart-wrenching and earnest aural hug. It didn’t feel like a flashy musician’s attempt to dazzle his way into my pants, it felt like an offering; like a little, hopeful flicker of candle light to hold inside when I was feeling dark.
After he finished, I slurred that it was absolutely beautiful. He smiled, tucked me back under the covers and told me to sleep well. He then left the room without attempting so much as a goodnight kiss, preserving the moment as something I would always remember fondly, rather than becoming just another groping stranger I would try to forget.
The next day we all woke up hung-over and rumpled to have coffee, with the friendly morning banter of people bonded through vices of the night before. Before the guitar player got in the band van to drive to the next town on tour, he handed me a CD of his band’s music. We hugged in silence, and they drove away.
I later opened the CD to find he’d written a message. It said, “You have the most amazing aura I’ve ever seen.” It made me cry, because at that point in my young, dysfunctional life, I couldn’t believe someone would say something so sweet to me without ulterior motive; with nothing to gain.
He had achieved the nearly impossible; he’d made a sad, insecure girl feel special and appreciated as a human being. This stranger I’d known one night had managed to do something more romantic, thoughtful and selfless than the guy I was drinking to forget had ever done in the years we were together.
I have kept the CD as a reminder of the worthiness of my soul all these years, occasionally pulling it out during moves to open, read, and carefully pack into my nostalgic belongings. I never spoke to the guitar player who gave it to me again, but when I think about that night, I smile, and sincerely hope he has had a wonderful life.
*The video for Under the Milky Way, by The Church can be viewed at:
My husband David and I left our son with his beloved grandparents yesterday, and made the road trip to Norman, Oklahoma to watch OU play Texas Tech. The husband graduated from OU, so Boomer Sooner! is oft-chanted around these parts.
We got to walk around his old college stomping grounds. He was awash in nostalgia but kept his promise to not tell me about every sandwich he ate with whom at this place and that, like he does since we moved from Los Angeles.
(We now reside in his home town, and because he grew up here, he has memories. Oh, so many memories. After about six months of, “And that used to be a field,” I found myself sarcastically thinking, “Okay, Grandpa Dave. A lot has changed and you did a lot of different things here way back when. I get it.” It has become a personal joke of ours—he starts talking about some experience from twenty-plus years before, and this is my cue to mock him with some sort of, “And then you ate a sandwich right there, under that tree, with your old friends Dick Tickle and Randy McNuttlicker,” type of comment.) (He doesn’t regret marrying a smart-ass. Not at all.) (No, really.)
The campus was swarming with people carrying beers; anticipation and cigarette smoke filled the air. This was a huge game, as undefeated Texas Tech was number two, and beating them would no doubt raise number five OU in the college football rankings. A victory would be very, very good.
It was really crowded, and after receiving about five shoulder bumps from strangers, I made it clear to David that I would really like to have one of those bottles of tranquilizer everyone seemed to be holding, please. I’m high-strung (you say neurotic, I say tomato… juice with vodka, damn it) and a bit jumpy, so I don’t do well in large gatherings.
To satisfy my thirst for liquid courage, we stopped at Brothers, a bar my husband frequented in college. It was a dark little place with drawing paper on every table, artwork crafted by past students attached to the yellowed ceiling tiles. The one above us was drawn by some military fellows and featured Gumby riding a missile with a poem about getting that bad guy Khadafi. (If I were a journalistic type living in that city, I would love to write an article about how the artwork in that place documents our culture since the bar’s inception, maybe with accompanying photos of the ceiling tiles in a timeline format. Wouldn’t that be cool? But I digress.)
There were also collages all over the walls featuring thousands of tiny photographed drunken twenty-something faces. My husband pointed to an area by some booths and said, “The picture of my friend and I is over there somewhere,” and I showed amazing restraint, refraining from making my tired sandwich-eating joke. We briefly contemplated walking over to ask the people in the crowded booths if we could look for my husband in the pictures, but decided not to be those people. He went to the bar and bought a shirt instead.
Here we are at Brothers:
I’m already drunk in this picture. The smirk is your first clue.
Two beers and some fries later, I was feeling really good. The booze eased me directly into going-with-the-flow mode and my social anxiety was gone. Thank you, beer, for your years of service. I don’t know what I’d do without you (besides sweat and startle constantly in public with crazed eyes, searching for an escape route or potential weapon, I mean).
We meandered through the other drunks. I only occasionally worried about my child when I saw little boys in the crowd to remind me of him. If you have one, think back on the first few times you’ve left your kid for an entire day and night, and you will understand. (Those of you without children, just know that having a child means you will never have your brain to yourself again for more than little half-hour chunks at a time. Their well-being and present place in the world consumes you. Forever. It’s pretty heavy.)
We found the Billy Simms statue on campus that stands where my husband’s college rental party house once stood and took his picture next to it. (At least it didn’t used to be a fucking field, right? Yawn.) The statue is so gigantic it dwarfed my 6′5″ husband.
See how it dwarfs him? Dwarfs, I tell you:
Dwarfs. I really just wanted to say it one more time.
David’s cell phone rang and it was one of his buddies, also in town for the game. He’d come with a friend who was in the same fraternity, a few years after himself, who had moved into his neighborhood. They actually met through their kids, who have become preschool buddies. Isn’t that cute? He invited us to join them at the “Sig Ep Tailgate Party,” so off we went.
The party was actually on campus under a tent near the Sig Ep house. I wasn’t Greek in college and have no idea what Sig Ep is short for, so I’m just going to keep calling it that, okay? (Sigma Epsilon?) (Signaling Epilepsy?) (Significant Episiotomy?) There was food, beer and every type of liquor imaginable. People were doing shots. They offered shots to me and I laughed out loud. I am of the Shots Are For Young, Childless People mindset, but thanks.
My husband’s friend pointed out the vegetarian chili to me, but just coming off the carbo-bloat of two beers and some fries, I declined. I did help myself to a beer from the beer trough, however. (Yes, beer trough. The big metal containers intended for providing water to livestock. We had them on our farm. I always get a kick out of seeing them used in other ways.) (Any “beer for my horses” jokes at this point will get you punched in the face, by the way. Fair warning.) (Sorry, that was rude. Ignore me. I’m just touchy about being trapped in the home state of Toby Keith.)
I had two beers and trotted my teeny little bladder over to the nearby Sig Ep house to pee twice. It felt just like college, sans date rape. I later regretted the decision to skip food for more alcohol, as I have the tolerance of an Amish eight-year-old, but soon it was time to head for the stadium. We bundled up in the warm things we’d brought and started our walk.
I walked behind my husband and the neighbor; his lifelong friend had an arm around me as we followed them. It was very sweet. I adore every one of his friends. If you can judge a person by their friends, I choose my mate wisely. My husband has kept the same group of guy buddies from childhood, and I think it is the most amazing, precious thing. I honestly don’t remember what we talked about, but spirits were high and we were giggling like buzzed teenagers when we parted for our separate seating areas.
David decided to use the restroom once we got in the stadium. I berated him for not using the line-free Sig Ep bathroom before we walked and he whined about “maximizing his pee removal” by waiting until the very last minute to go. Sigh. He got in line and I waited against a cement pillar by the entrance.
His bathroom journey allowed me fifteen minutes alone to be hit on by a guy in a brown fringed leather jacket.
“Do they pay you to stand here and look pretty during the games?” he asked.
“Are you calling me a WHORE?” I spat in reply, right before I punched him in the trachea. He fell to the ground, coughing and clutching at his throat.
Okay, that last part didn’t happen. But he did hit me up with that cheesy line. My actual reaction was to repay him for his cheesiness with the frozen smile of polite terror that I seem to have perfected in this lifetime, and he walked away. It’s a living.
The husband came back and I told him Bon Jovi just tried to pick me up. He laughed at me and my good fortune. We headed to our seats, which were only eight rows up from the field. Cool. We watched the players come running onto the field. The crowd absolutely roared. And I’m not just using fun words to describe noise; it was insanely loud in the stadium last night.
The OU coach, Bob Stoops, issued a challenge by stating to the press that he didn’t think OU fans could be loud enough to affect this game. That was a really smart move on his part. The “Oh no he didn’t just say that” factor can really motivate the masses sometimes. Nothing makes us want to do something like being told we can’t; it’s human nature. (This is why playing hard to get totally works. Give it a try sometime and watch them fall under your spell.)
It was amazing, the energy in the place. All those people cheering for the same thing. Oh, if we humans could only unite over other issues facing us the way we do over sports. But I don’t care if it was “just” football, I have to say it, I had goosebumps all night long. It was so exciting to be a part of it.
The team coming onto the field:
Do you feel it?
Then the ass-kicking began. Poor previously undefeated Texas Tech didn’t stand a chance. The raucous crowd of nearly 86,000 was obviously getting to them psychologically. They played “Jump Around” and we jumped around. They said “Make some noise!” and we did. I gave myself a headache, screaming so long and hard. (You are allowed to giggle whenever I type “long and hard” by the way. It’s okay. We’re all friends here.)
There was a Texas Tech player, a big guy with tattoos on his arms and major face paint, who was taunting the OU fans at one point and trying to get his own team ready for battle. The OU fans purposefully drowned him out with shouting and yelling. “Shut up, Braveheart,” I commented dryly to my husband. The angry player soon pulled the helmet over his colorful head and gave up.
We saw Brian Bosworth walking along the sidelines. My husband did a loud Will Ferrell as Harry Carey voice, “Hey! I just saw the BOZ,” and all of the males in the vicinity turned and laughed at him. He’s a bit of a ham, the husband.
The BOZ:
That’s the back of Brian Bosworth’s head, between the long-haired girl and the dude in yellow. He walked with arrogant purpose. Cocky. It made me dislike him instantly.
We also saw the stoner kid from American Idol, (Jason Castro, I want to call him? I’ll Google it.) (Okay I Googled, and I guess he’s from Texas, so maybe that’s why he was here? We thought he might be hanging out with David Cook.) He was standing on the sidelines and they put him on the big screen for a second. We found him in real life on the sideline, walking with a girl. They were holding hands. She wore a brown messenger bag. Probably not full of weed or anything. Nope.
I am often fascinated by the little worlds within worlds; the subcultures of which we are unaware unless we are immersed in them. The cheerleaders got my attention this time. I found myself watching them between plays, wondering if the boys were dating the girls, or maybe dating the boys, and studying their interactions with each other.
One cheerleader seemed sad, and she was the only one without the big fake clown smile plastered on constantly. She already had multiple worry lines furrowed across her forehead, even though she looked to be about fourteen. I named her Sad Cheerleader in my head and wanted to hug her. I wondered what could make such an adorable person so miserable. Maybe the cute jeans she wanted only came in a humongous size two? Did she get assigned the wrong cheerleader boy to lift her and throw her about? Maybe the one she had a crush on was tossing another girl into the air?
I watched Insecure Cheerleader, a blond who wasn’t quite as anorectic as the others; she self-consciously flipped the waistband of her pants down to minimize her belly as she was being lifted into the air. She fidgeted with her waistband constantly. I thought “Wow, I would think you’d have bigger things to worry about as you are being chucked into the atmosphere,” But then I realized that the maneuver was probably like brushing her teeth, she’s done it so much.
There were two cheerleaders that I am sure were sleeping together, Flirty Cheerleader and Straight Boy Cheerleader. They kept bumping into each other and other such grade school grab-assery. It was entertaining to watch. I decided that cheerleaders probably have fantastic sex, what with all the gymnastic training and flexibility.
The Game Day guys from ESPN were at the game, and we saw them filming on the sidelines. We also got on television, if you were watching early in the game, when the cameras scanned the crowd. Luckily we record every game, so we found the exact moment and took pictures of the television to send to our relatives. I’ll post those at the end of this blog. I’m wearing my new black parka. Try to contain yourselves. I’ve wanted a parka for around nine years now, and finally realized this dream in time for the OU game. I know, I know. Congratulations are in order. Right after you check out my sweet parka goodness.
The Game Day guys, filming:
Yeah, um, dude in the blue stocking cap? Vincent Gallo called. He wants his sneer back. Thanks.
The game was an absolute blow-out, in case you don’t follow college football—Oklahoma 65, Texas Tech 21. Just brutal. Afterwards, Coach Stoops walked over to the student section and bowed, then gave them a game ball. He was quoted in the paper as saying, “That’s the way fans should be. I’ve always envisioned a loud and raucous crowd to influence a game, and they sure did tonight.”
The scoreboard from hell, or heaven, depending on your allegiance:
‘Nuff said.
We got home around 1:30 a.m. so my husband is taking a nap right now along with my son. We had a really great time, so I wanted to share my latest “sports from a female perspective” story. I haven’t done this since the PGA tournament last year, so it was high time. (Somewhere out there, Jason Castro’s ears just perked up and he doesn’t know why. “High time? Wait… what? Get your messenger bag, babe.”) I hope you had a wonderful weekend as well, my friends.
I’m the average-looking redhead in the really incredible parka with the faux fur hood. My husband is next to me in white. He refused to stop watching the game to ham it up for the camera. He also asked me to clarify that he does not weigh 275 pounds as it appears, he is merely wearing four layers of clothing for warmth.
Note: the lady to the left of me. She was sitting a row down from me, but hopped up to wave her arms in front of me for the camera. That smile on my face is the carefully disguised rage of a woman whose shining moment is in danger of being usurped. Do not usurp my shining moment, bitch!
Don’t you wish your parka was hot like mine?
Hey, look at my mom, the Attention Whore! Isn’t she funny?
My husband is off golfing, and I put the boy down for his daily nap.
This is a real issue for us. My son does not like to sleep. He screams and throws a fit about every nap, every bedtime, every day.
He gets it from his father. No, really. My husband still remembers how much he hated bedtime as a child, the feeling that he “might be missing something” being the dominating reason for his dread. It seems our son has inherited this loathing of all things restful.
Lucky me.
My son spends the time he’s supposed to be napping singing songs and playing in his room. Sometimes he sings the songs in all meows, like a kitty. (He gets that from me.)
He likes to try on the clothes in his dresser, so I had to put all of his clothes inside the closet, where a lock prevents him from getting to them, rendering the dresser an empty, cumbersome box on top of which we keep diaper wipes and supplies.
Rather than the silence of sleep, I hear him acting out little scenes with the stuffed animals on his bed that are the only toys left in his room. Our living room looks like a used toy store post-hurricane because we have to keep them all out there, or he would never sleep.
In his room, we have a blackout curtain on his window that makes the room dark, and an air purifier with a loud motor we run for white noise, so car alarms and ringing phones won’t wake him if he actually manages to fall asleep. He rarely does. But just in case, he is safely encased in a womb-like, soundproof chamber of our desperate creation.
I’ve tried lying down with him- many, many times I have tried. He welcomes the company, the distraction, the playmate, and spends the entire time chatting with me and poking my eyes, petting my hair and crawling all over me. Which is wonderful snuggle time for an affectionate mommy who loves the touchy-feely stuff, but doesn’t get the kid the sleep his body needs.
Basically, he only falls asleep when he is bored into it, so having anyone else in the room negates all chances. For this reason, his preschool teachers have had only sporadic luck getting him to nap with all of the other kids in his class twice a week. He is the only kid they can’t consistently get to sleep, which makes me feel embarrassed, yet somewhat relieved. Even the experienced professionals can’t do it, so maybe I don’t stink at lulling a toddler into unconsciousness as much as I think. Maybe I really do have the child who fights sleep harder than anyone ever.
Recently, a new, terrifying development has arisen. One that involves my son releasing himself from the diapers that bind during naptime. He has discovered that it is a funny new trick to very quietly pull off his clothes and diaper, so that he is stark raving naked amongst the pile of bedding and stuffed animals on his bed.
Last week, he took the poo from his discarded diaper and smeared it all over the wall above his bed. While I understand that he may be able to get a government grant to pursue this artistic statement in the future, I am really more concerned with the fact that I will have to repaint his bedroom in the present. Like I have time for that.
He removed the diaper and peed on the rug like an untrained dog the other day, and I found him sleeping in the corner of his room on blankets he had dragged there, adding to the canine similarities. (He also likes to chase balls, and tries to escape out the front door anytime we have visitors. I just wish I could teach him to sit.)
It isn’t like I stick him in the room and don’t check on him when he’s supposed to be napping, either. I listen to the baby monitor and crack the door to peek at him constantly. I go in and make him get back in bed; tuck him in for the seventh time. Around the ninth time, I start to take slightly evil pleasure in catching him out of bed. I quickly open the door while barking out a sharp, sudden, “What are you doing?!” that makes him jump in fear and run shrieking to his bed.
You know… simple pleasures.
Today I was lying in my own bed drowning in the latest respiratory virus gifted upon our household by his preschool, desperately needing and hoping for a nap. I had the baby monitor nearby as usual so I could listen to him in his room.
I suddenly heard him singing a little song, a happy little song, all about his penis.
Uh-oh.
I jumped out of bed and raced to his room, knowing that if the penis is being featured in a song, it is probably also being featured in the bedroom. Visions of diaper-less boys peeing all over the place—or worse—danced neurotically in my head.
He was lying under the covers, completely naked, diaper and clothing on the floor next to the bed. He gave me a really big smile as he continued singing to his penis. I’m sure the penis was much more appreciative of the new tune than I was.
Miles is growing up so quickly, and I do the “knuckle check” quite often these days. A friend of mine with a few kids warned me that they get their knuckles around three. One day, squishy, chubby little baby hands with the cute dimples; the next day bumpy grown-up knuckles in their place. Overnight. I’m on constant knuckle watch.
This is the same friend who pinpointed the exact moment they lose the wonderful Baby Head Smell, so that I could really appreciate it before it was gone. I did. Best smell in the world. I still smell his head all of the time, but now it has taken on that earthy “sweat and dirt” combination scent of which all mothers of boys are familiar.
In the learning arena, Miles has now learned all of the basic sounds made by the letters of the alphabet.
My cousin Nia very successfully homeschools her five children, and sent me links to two great educational websites. I have now incorporated computer time into our daily activities. The phonics-friendly website I have been using for this so far is http://www.starfall.com and it is amazing.
I put Miles on my lap and we run through the alphabet sounds and do the activities together, read the short online books that sound out everything aurally and visually (via animated highlighting) for the student. There are cute animations and songs to keep his interest. I think that in addition to being a nice first foray into the world of computers for him, it is going to be a very helpful tool for taking him from learning the sounds the letters make to actually sounding out words and reading, an important step about which I was uncertain. I can’t thank my cousin enough for the links and will be exploring the other website more very soon.
I believe in phonics because I was taught them as a child, have always loved reading, and read at a freakishly fast rate. This can be annoying, because I will finish a library book in a day, much to the incredulity of my husband, leaving me bored with nothing to read very quickly. I’ve spent a few check-outs explaining to the irritated library employee that no, I am not being greedy, I promise I will be reading every single book in this stack rising up to my chin, so please let me check them all out. Under-ten book limits are no friend of mine.
I recently applied for library card online, Google Mapped locations, and made my first trip to a Tulsa library. Hardesty Regional. It was huge and gorgeous inside, with a newly built theater, a coffee shop and a beautifully decorated children’s zone with a colorful jungle theme and animals prowling the walls. To get to the story-time area, one must walk through the center of a gigantic tree they’ve created. It was like walking into a magical world. I wanted fairy wings on my back so that I could flutter into the tree properly to the oversized mushroom-chair I was certain awaited me inside. (Stop laughing, you already knew I was a big dork.) And I can’t wait to start taking the kiddo there.
I later told my husband that one of my top favorite things in the world, one of my Zen moments, easily on par with the inner peace I derive from planting flowers and gardening, is walking into the adult fiction area of a library. I realized that an oxymoronic calm exhilaration had washed over me while I was looking through the books and making selections. All of the stories, the possibilities for adventures lived through the eyes of others, were waiting there for me, ready to be plucked from the shelf like delicious literary fruit for my starving brain. I love that feeling. He said he gets the same feeling from playing golf—a centering, grounding feeling—so he understood perfectly.
I have lived in Tulsa for a few years now and sadly, the last library I visited was the one around the Sunset and La Brea area in Los Angeles, across the street from the awesome Bossa Nova Cuban food restaurant. In addition to missing those fried plantains, I realized I’ve really missed the library.
I hope you are having a wonderful week full of naps and good books, my friends.
