As SOON as you vow to not write the word ‘penis’ for the whole month of December, you’ll get confused and think that it is ALREADY December and that really stinks because you JUST remembered about 7 penis stories that you meant to blog but now you can’t until January and so THEN you make a Penis List on a green notepad on the nightstand and then forget to put it away before the housekeeper gets to that room and… well. Maria did not make eye contact or talk to me after that. And normally she would, but not much, but I think it was definitely an unfortunate moment in our relationship.
But you see where this is going.
Start you Advent count-y down thing with candy and scripture with the kids TOMORROW, not today! Because today is the official last day of penis discussions til 2012. Which y’all all knew before I did because you probably didn’t get confused about the November/December demarcation line. Which is NOT all that fuzzy, but for some reason, it was for me this year. (In case it is for you also, though, heads up! it’s at midnight!)
(I turned into a moron very gradually. In case you were wondering. I don’t think I was always this way. Turn on your twang and sing, “Life… turned her… that waaaaay….” Because it was more like THAT than *bam-sudden-moron.* Did that make sense…?)
When I realized I might have damaged my relationship with Maria I thoughtlessly panicked and threw away my Penis List. So this is sorta from memory and it’s shorter than the original. (shut up. I tried to re-word that for 8 whole minutes before giving up. go ahead and try – i dare ya. i couldn’t come up with any better options.)
Unofficial Penis List:
(not risque and totally workplace-friendly because i am seriously un-risque. the most shocking thing i do is blog too much about penises, and not even in a sexual way. my parents must be so proud.)
1. Yes. I have turkey penis pictures. But I will not blog them because I am committed to not exploiting the overtly sexualized whole grain baked beauty of browned turkey goodness from small towns in west texas. Real live Christian mommybloggers would NEVER exploit a turkey penis. Standards, people.
(on a blog, I mean. but real live Christian mommybloggers would TOTALLY email you pics if you asked. Stan!dards!)
2. I wondered about the ladies who bake the turkey porn-art offerings and how that came to be. This is what I imagined probably happened. I mean, CLEARLY, a conversation like this occurred between two women with flour on their hands and purity and devotion in their hearts for preparing quality baked goods for the region:
“Mary, I don’t know how to make one of those turkey wattle things? Those things that hang down by the beak?”
“Oh. Yeah. Me neither. Just make it look like a penis then.”
“Circumcised or not?”
“Oh, DEFINITELY circumcised. And don’t forget the testicles. We’re going for realistic, here.”
“GOOD IDEA. OKAY. NO ONE WILL EVER NOTICE THAT AT THEIR THANKSGIVING TABLE.”
3. This isn’t really a penis thing. Well. Maybe it is. That’s just it – I don’t KNOW. When I bought my Obscene Turkey, the ladies at the bakery gave me a golden envelope. Sealed. They said to bring it back next week and THEY would open it and I would receive my prize. It’s out in the car, or I’d list all the potential prizes that are printed on the back of the envelope. I have until December 4 to take it in. (Yo. That’s coming up in… a few days. I’m ALL over time management this week.) I could rip it open and see if there’s something entertaining and inappropriate to blog about. It could be a note that says, “ha ha. you bought a turkey with a penis and didn’t NOTICE? you need to slow down the pace of your life, girl.” Or I could drive back to this little town (not far) and claim the ‘prize.’ Or reject it if they try to hand me more penis-y parker house rolls. I”M DONE WITH THAT, AND THANKS, LADIES, FOR THE HOLIDAY AWKWARD. Feel free to weigh in on this life altering decision. They do make the most glorious thumbprint cookies I’ve ever had so it wouldn’t be a total waste. To drive to the bakery or no?
4. Here in West Texas, the land is flaaaaat. Which is why the children and I trip more than usual when we go out of town. Our bodies are not used to subtle fluctuations in the earth’s surface and it confuses us into frequent faceplants. Well, Caden-7yr and me, anyway. But what we are REALLY not used to is the serious hilliness of the land near my dad and stepmom’s place. Before we get to their place there is a road with hills that gives us all that butterfly in the stomach feeling. And if you drive that road FAST, it makes me want to scream. At Mike. A LOT. But this is the effect it has had on the children over the years:
“OooooOOOOOoh! That SCARED my pay-nis!”
“My TWINKLETHING JUST… MOVED!”
“CROSS YOUR LEGS!!!! EVERYONE! CROSS! YOUR! LEGS!!! IT”S ABOUT TO HAPPEN!”
“GRAB! YOUR! SELVES!!!!!!!”
“That tickled my twinklething! That TICKLED!!! MY!!! TWINKLETHING!!!”
5. Last week Maria was cleaning in my bathroom and I heard a little gasp and a cabinet door slam. VERY un-Maria-ish. I didn’t go check because I figured it was a spider and I didn’t want to be near a spider in case then I was morally obligated to offer to kill it. And I wouldn’t have. I would have said, “I’ll pay you extra to kill that. PLEASE?” (Ask me how I know this.)
After she left I was in the bathroom, putting something away in a cabinet and noticed my basil penis soap was not where it usually is. And I remembered the gasp and the slam. IT HAPPENED TO HER, TOO.
Whenever I open that cabinet, it jumps out at me and scares me and I toss it back in and gasp and slam the door. Apparently the green basil penis soap effects all women the same way. Interesting.
6. A couple weeks ago, Seth-6yr and I were sitting on the living room floor next to each other. We were petting the dogs and watching football and Duke walked across Seth-6yr.
Duke doesn’t normally step on people, and this is good, because he’s 80 pounds and it hurts.
Seth-6yr was hurt. “DUKE! You stepped on my WEINER!” And he repeated this.
I was APPALLED at his word choice. APPALLED. If you have ever not corrected your children from referring to a penis as a ‘twinklething’ – and in fact thought it was ADORABLE – then you are clearly not the sort of person who is okay with this use of the word ‘weiner.’ EW. Ew. ew, ew, ew, ew.
I gave Mike a look that said, “PLEASE CORRECT THIS. YOU ARE THE MAN. IT IS THE MAN-JOB TO CORRECT THIS RIGHT NOW. WE DON”T EVEN EAT HOT DOGS IN THIS HOUSE, SO THERE IS NO REASON IN THE WORLD FOR THAT WORD TO EVER BE UTTERED. HELP. I HATE IT.”
And Mike said, “Seth-6yr. You mean, ‘Duke stepped on my ‘penis?’ That’s what you mean? Can you say that instead? ‘Duke stepped on my penis.’ Go ahead – say that.”
Seth-6yr looked at me like, “WHAT IS DAD ON?! NO. WAY.”
I’m looking at Mike like, “WHAT ARE YOU ON? I didn’t mean for you to say THAT. Can we go back to twinklething? NEVERMIND, OH MY GOSH.”
And Mike reads all of this and hisses, “WHAT? You wanted me to correct him? WHAT DID YOU WANT ME TO SAY?”
“I HADN”T THOUGHT THAT FAR AHEAD! I JUST DON”T LIKE “WEINER”!”
And then Mike turns to Seth-6yr and requests the repeat of “Duke stepped on my penis” thing again. With a straight face, he does this. I think I’m just going to crawl under the couch and DIE right now out of sheer uncomfortableness. Seth-6yr snuggles into my side to hide from the horror of this moment in his life and whispers, “duke stepped on my tee-nis.”
And I hug him and kiss him because that was so cute and HE MADE THE AWKWARD STOP and frankly, I am GRATEFUL.
7. I KNOW there was a 7. On the official list. I can’t remember. Maybe in 2012, y’all.
There’s just so much to say. I always think that when I come home from a short trip. But really, I’d rather not be writing anything and instead I’d rather be reading all of your posts. So I’ll keep this short and then do that.
*You’ll want to remember this Not-So-Martha Stewart Tip for next year:
Liven up the Thanksgiving table by picking up a bread offering from a local bakery. The one I chose was in the form of a very large turkey and comprised of pull apart rolls, some with poppy seeds and some with sesame seeds on the tail feathers. Very cute. Until you look closely and notice that the turkey’s wattle (that hang-y down-y thing near the beak) is actually not wattle-like. It’s penile-like. VERY, VERY PENIS-Y. Also? Not to scale with the rest of the turkey. BIG and PENIS-Y, this turkey. No one wanted that… part. (Pass the potatoes, and hold the penis please.)
Did NOT notice this about the bird until right before Thanksgiving dinner, when the turkey is proudly posing in the dining room for all to see. And all DID see, wandering in one and two at a time and looking…. examining…. smiling… walking off. It was agreed upon that there was definitely… an issue. In case y’all just think I am imagining everything to be penisy when it isn’t, LIKE THE BASIL SOAP, well, you’d be wrong. Everyone who saw that soap and everyone who saw that turkey saw the same surprising thing I did. I just wish I’d noticed the special attributes of that turkey BEFORE I BOUGHT IT because I happened to meet four new lovely relatives for the very first time, and I’d rather not be the ‘oh, yeah, is she the one who brought the well-hung turkey last year…?” relative. But. Too late. That’s me.
OF COURSE THAT’S ME.
I think the ladies in this small town bakery might have a sense of humor. I said as much to my mom and she was all, “nah. I doubt it looked like that before baking. It probably just looked different as it rose.”
“UM…? Yeah. They usually do, Mom.”
And then we sat in the car and giggled.
That’s not exactly how she meant it. But she later changed her mind anyway, stating that there was really no accidental way that could have come out looking quite like that. I agree.
*One relative had a very strange medical emergency that could have been MUCH more serious than it has turned out to be, and so we are very thankful. But it still included a hospital stay and it wasn’t exactly the weekend she had planned. VERY, VERY glad she’s all right.
*Caden-7yr got poison ivy. I went to tell the other boys not to get poison ivy (helpful of me), and when I came back, Mike and my dad were BLEACHING Caden-7yr’s poison ivy covered arms. This did NOT go over well with me. But 2 hours later the poison ivy was gone and I became a big believer in bleaching small children. I’d like to regularly bleach Caden-7yr now. Maybe weekly. Or monthly. Or after every meal. If any one of the three boys needs a regular bleaching, it IS Caden-7yr. I’d never heard of bleaching children before, but now I am all for it. Someone should have thought of this years ago. (remember the coca cola song? I’d like to teach… the world to sing….? I can’t sing. And i can’t be taught. But that song should be rewritten to say, “I’d like to teach… the world to bleach… the children…” Oh nevermind. That didn’t sound right. I got that song mixed up into a weird mash of the coca cola song and We Are the World. See? I am not musical. I swear that made sense in my head. sorry, y’all.)
*I mowed several pastures the day after Thanksgiving. It took many hours of sunlit peace and solitude and I enjoyed it. (No one asked me to mow. They wouldn’t have done that. I offered a few times before my dad agreed.)
*Mom and I did crafty bride-like things with LaLa. They were questionably successful, but that was weather related. Not all things that go wrong are my fault. I think that’s what I’m trying to clarify there.
*My stepmother made an AMAZING amount of delicious food. And hostessed… a lotta people. With a smile. All things I cannot do.
*My dad let Seth-6yr sit in his lap and drive the big tractor. SO CUTE.
*My stepbrothers married WELL. (Not surprising. They’re great.) I met both their wives for the first time and liked them both a lot. One is a doctor who was very knowledgeable and helpful when the Thanksgiving Medical Crisis struck, and the other made a mac and cheese that I will possibly NEVER forget, it was so yummy.
*Conversation overheard at checkout line at Target today: “Well. I don’t know. Tyler didn’t eat the turkey and HE got food poisoning too. So it must have been something else…” I felt so bad for Tyler’s family Thanksgiving celebration. Whoever they are. They woulda have a lovely time with my family instead.
From me to you, a pledge:
I’ll try not to use the word ‘penis’ in any blog posts during the entire month of December. You might think that is an easy goal. I assure you, it is not.
Today is Packing Day. OH HOW I HATE IT. But enough about that.
Mike is flying to our Thanksgiving destination, for business purposes, and the rest of us are driving. So to keep everyone busy today while I laundered and sorted and procrastinated packing four individuals, I told the boys that YES, of course you can play nerf guns.
This is a somewhat new development, because I used the fear the foam throwing devices. Well, I used to fear them being used at human targets. So I only let them shoot things. And not pets. And BOY THEY HATED THAT.
And then they started shooting each other and I was okay with it. Until they’d come tell me that someone had shot out his eyeball.
I DO NOT DO WELL WITH PEOPLE SAYING THEIR EYEBALLS HAVE BEEN SHOT OUT. EVEN IF THEY ARE LYING IN ORDER TO GET THEIR BROTHER IN TROUBLE. (THAT TOTALLY WORKS WITH ME. I FREAK OUT AND CHECK THE CARPET FOR EYEBALLS.)
So this morning, I said, “YES. You can play nerf guns but Ethan-11yr, you are the Safety Officer. Come up with preventative measures so that no one’s eyeballs get hurt and then conduct a safety meeting with your brothers in the living room before you choose your weapons.”
(This is how you train up dorks in the way that they should go. I know. It’s okay. They’ll be dorks with the right number of God-given eyeballs.)
So Ethan-11yr goes away, a meeting is held, and Nerf Wars commence. Apparently the Safety Officer implemented some serious measures.
Three boys played safely today while wearing:
and nothin’ else.
And then they discarded their cups all over the kitchen floor and then I tripped over them. But this is better than eyeballs on the floor. So there we go.
Incidentally, I used to think that Kenny Rogers/Dolly Parton duet “islands in the stream” was ACTUALLY “Eyeballs in the Street.”
Neither one really makes any sense.
Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, y’all.
And I should really pack now.
So IF you get your hand stuck in a John Deere steering wheel because you’re going too fast and you hop a curb thing and then slam into the concrete footer underneath the fence and you think, “meh. it’s fine. whatever,” FOR LIKE – FOREVER – then maybe NO, HONEY, IT ISN’T FINE.
The hand. Hands – even left ones for right handed people – are VERY important. I am not one of those people who can play piano with my feet or paint endless rooms with only my earlobes. And I need to remember this newfound appreciation for maintaining hand health. And react accordingly. And slow down on the John Deere, even if it is fun.
Because lemme tell ya, you WILL feel like an idiot when you have to tell various doctors and nurses that story. Although one nurse did say, “you don’t look like the riding mower type.” Which could have been really mean and like, “you are so skanky you must be a rusty old 1982 push mower type.” Or maybe she thought I was just too cute to be mowing lawns. I don’t know which it was. I was so taken aback by this observation that I said, “Um… Okay.” BRILLIANT, I am, y’all. I know. In my defense, all I could think of was how bad my hand hurt because everyone had been smashing on it and it was KILLIN’ me.
So. Moral: I shoulda gone and done something about the hand THEN. Instead of having it x-rayed months later because GOSH. IT STILL HURTS AND SWELLS A LOT. AND SINCE I’M HERE FOR SOMETHING ELSE ANYWAY… They said it broke but healed in a not too funky way and it’s just going to hurt for a long time.
Today I document this lesson learned, because of COURSE i’m going to forget it, and at least this records the brief moment in my life in which I was in somewhat in accord with the basic hand health policies of the world:
If it breaks, fix it, dummy.
Could also apply to other stuff.
before i gave y’all a list of my lists. And today is that time.
The following is a list of most of the OH SO CRUCIAL lists I keep on my phone, leaving out only those most personal ones. (You’re not missing anything.)
There’s the grocery list. Which always, always, always starts with ‘milk’ and ‘sushi.’
There’s the exercise list. In which I obsessive/compulsively record every workout of my life and organize them into a list per month. (Because I can make dorkiness organized AND easy.)
There’s a list of Things I Should Do. I’m the only one who ever sees these lists. So I could entitle it, “Things I Should Do But Probably Never Will” but I don’t want to. But every time I see that list I think it. Give up Diet Coke is on that list. Although, in all fairness, I DO give up Diet Coke. Regularly. Like, all the time. It’s just that I start again and so it’s LIKE I never quit, but not really, it’s totally different.
There’s a list of Scriptures I Totally Disagree With God About and So We Need to Talk These Through. Occasionally this list shrinks as discussions lead to me either saying, “Fine. I get it now. I don’t LIKE it, but I get where You’re coming from.” Or, “OH, MY GOD. THAT! IS! WHAT! YOU! MEANT? AMEN, DUDE!” Either one requires it being deleted from the list. Anything in the category of “I’m hoping You will change your mind on this and come around to MY way of thinking” and it has to stay on the list.
There’s a list of character traits I’d like to possess and currently do not.
There’s a list of stuff to pray about.
There’s a list of stuff to think about. (a lot of overlap there, but it’s slightly different and that probably doesn’t make sense but, eh.)
There’s a list of songs that need to be iTuned.
There’s a list of writing ideas for current and future characters. Scene ideas. Conflicts. Interesting settings. Etc.
There’s a list of errands. Always on this list: Target and PetSmart. (Yesterday Mike and I were on the phone and he said he saw a lost dog but it had a collar and I was all, “LOOK AWAY! LOOK AWAY, MAN. YOU DID NOT SEE THAT DOG.” I mean, I adore Callie. I do. But no more dogs.)
There’s a list of “Go-To Foods.” This is particularly ridiculous. It’s the list I look at when I’m standing in the kitchen thinking, “what do I eat, anyway?” Not, “what SHOULD I eat?” Or, “what do I want to eat?” But, “what is it I ever actually eat, because my mind has gone completely blank and i might be hungry.” (pistachios. i eat pistachios. it’s just that I FORGET until I see it on my list.)
There’s a list reminding me of what settings to use for mowing my mom’s front and back lawns. It’s a different setting for each, and I always forget.
And there’s a long gratitude list. I read it when I’m in a funk. Y’all are on that list. (thank you.)
Some people are listy.
Some people are listless.
Neither one is better than the other, it’s just that they work for me. (Some people can remember they eat pistachios without a list. I sorta admire that.)
So which one are you?
The women in my family are quiet in the mornings. All of us… i think. I, for one, do not think all that clearly at six in the morning when I’ve stumbled out of bed to let the dogs out and come across Seth-6yr in the kitchen.
This is what happened just today, at six a.m.
“HI MOM! CAN I HAVE QUESO AND CHEERIOS FOR BREAKFAST?”
I make a face. “No.”
He probably wasn’t screaming, but it FELT like it.
“Because that’s disgusting.”
“How do YOU know? Have you tried it?”
“Nope. I just know.”
“Well how come you can make me dinner and I can look at it and say it’s disgusting when I haven’t tried it before and you get mad and ask how I know and I say BECAUSE I JUST KNOW IT IS and then you send me to my room?”
“Um… good point. I’ll send myself to my room. I want to go back to bed anyway. You can try queso and cheerios sometime right before a bath because it sounds messy and right now you’re already dressed for school.”
I wonder how long he worked on that particular set-up? It’s pretty admirable. Executed to perfection. Using my own words against me. Pre-dawn attack. Being totally dressed for school and cheerful hours ahead of time without being asked.
I didn’t have a chance.
Skip this if you’re in a real peaceful mood and want to maintain it. My crazy could easily threaten your peace in fewer than 500 words, and this is your only warning.
I was supposed to do a 1/2 marathon last weekend. You may or may not remember I got all freaked out about it and everything.
Then I got all depressed and there were various injuries (that riding mower hand injury i got when i drove into a fence? I think something in there is cracked. It’s still not okay. the hand, not the fence) and the main thing that got me all off track? An app.
Yes. Want to derail your goals and inspire regular bouts of seething? There’s an app for that.
It was a 1/2 marathon training app. And I’d go for a run and then input my stats and be all thrilled that I’d run 8 or 9 miles and then it would say, “You are 1% of the way toward your goal.”
EXCUUUUUUSE ME, STUPID APP? Math is not my thing. But 8 or 9 miles is a lot closer to 13.1 than ONE PERCENT AND I’M TEMPTED TO BREAK OUT A CALCULATOR.
And there would be a public mini-FIT and a forceful shoving of phone in purse or car or something.
I fantasized about reaching 13.1 and telling it to my app and THEN SEEING WHAT IT SAID. Regularly. Too much. Too often I thought about mind games with the app. In which I won.
And then… it defeated me. Along with the other excuses and physical stuff. And what had been muscle turned slightly, sadly, squishy. And then when I ran for just 3 miles the other day I put it in and my app added a half a percent total toward my goal and I felt my shoulders slump and I walked off without shoving it into my purse or having a mini fit and just thought, “you are right. that was only worth 1/2 a percent. i am a loser. i am a squishy, squishy loser. you win, you wise wise app. i will never get there.”
I missed the 1/2 marathon event. Which is fine with me. I was more freaked out by the social nature of the event than the actual running. (WHAT? PEOPLE MIGHT RUN NEXT TO ME? THERE COULD BE EYE CONTACT? ACCIDENTAL TOUCHING OF ANOTHER HUMAN? A SENSE OF CAMARADERIE? EWWWWW! WHERE’S MY LEXAPRO?! THE THOUGHT OF ALL THOSE PEOPLE IS GIVING ME HIVES. I NEED PRAYER NOW.)
I’ll get there. I’ll do the stupid 13.1 because I NEED to. I cannot just turn to squish and let life and an app kill me. I have children. Slow Death By App is unacceptable. It’s not an honorable way to go. I’ll get my life together and get my butt on the road and run. And when I get to 13.1 I will tell you and I may or may not say SUCK THAT, YOU STUPID APP.
Actually, there’s a real good chance i will do that.
Okay, I totally fantasize about it. I must be making a comeback.
If the world knew how clumsy I am…
AND if the world knew how many hours I have spent on ladders in the last weeks…
AND then also knew that I have not fallen off even once…
Then the world would have to seriously consider the existence of a loving God who cares about the wellbeing and safety of each of us on a very personal level. There is no other explanation. This combination of factors should easily evangelize the world. Amen and hallelujah, but it really IS that simple. (Thank you, God.)
Ethan-11yr’s room is half painted. We indulged his early childhood obsession (and I do mean OBSESSION) with the most vibrant shade of fluorescent light green and his room has been that color for seven years. Now I’m struggling to cover it, since even the most heavy duty “one coat” paints and primer mixes can’t touch the ferocity of that green. This time, he wanted gold. Like, money. Actually, like gold LEAF. I said, “uh NO.” But he’d already had green. And now it was time for gold.
And that’s his daddy’s oldest son for you. When he was 2, we went on a car trip and let him pack a few of his favorite things in his backpack to take along. We quickly noticed the backpack outweighed him and he needed one of us to carry it. He had packed an extremely heavy piggy bank full of all his money and every book he could shove in there. It was VERY Ethanish. Books and money. The essentials every pre-literate two year old needs for a road trip.
One day he’ll look back on his childhood and note that his bedroom was always the various colors of money. And he’ll probably be pleased. And then I’ll laugh at him.
The boys have been getting… rougher. I suppose it was inevitable, with three of them. I’ve held it at bay for a long time. Partly because it disturbs me greatly whenever I see them playing and hurting each other. Partly because Caden-7yr inadvertently causes enough injuries to himself and others simply by walking through the room that it just seems like overkill to let them engage in even more rough play.
So the other morning I called off the roughness in the living room and ended my little mom speech with “NO punching.” Caden-7yr and Ethan-11yr were across the room. Big-eyed. Seth-6yr was a few feet from me, and seemed confused. He turned to his brothers and asked, “Wait… so….. does she know that we do that stuff when she isn’t around?”
His brothers gave him a collective dirty look that said, “SHUT UP ALREADY.”
And I glared at him.
Seth-6yr looked from his brothers to me, feeling the weight of everyone’s displeasure aimed his way. And then in a little sing-songy voice he said, “Awk!ward!” and ran off as fast as he could.
And…. Seth-6yr easily takes the award for:
Best Exit of a Dramatic Scene.
I just LOVE y’all. Really. I forget that if you tell people you’re going to meet an online blog friend that some of you would worry and then really really really worry if i don’t post right away saying, “I’m fine! She was lovely and of course didn’t kill me!”
And to her family and friends, “I wasn’t really lovely, but I DID giver her a welcome-to-Texas hug with a big stomp on her foot, but then I didn’t kill HER, either.” I’m like that.
“Her” being someone I will only refer to as M. Not because she asked me to. But because I will tell all of you everything about ME, but I am a stickler for guarding other people’s privacy whether they want me to or not. Unless you specifically tell me I can use your name and share details of conversations, I pretty much won’t. So if you want to meet, then let me know! I’ll hug you, stomp on your foot, and then keep your identity secret as well as all your secrets.
Not that M told me secrets. I think. I wouldn’t tell you even if she did. That was kinda my point up there a minute ago.
She and her husband are two of the most genuine, kind, nice people I’ve met in ages. M’s husband adores her, and frequently uses the words “my wife” with open affection as he touches her arm. It’s really something.
M is really something, too. She had sent me a text saying, “I’m wearing a purple shirt and have messy brown hair.” The hair was not messy. The shirt was purple.
The lunch was SO nice and the company was nicer. We talked food and family and God and geographical backgrounds and kitchen fires. Then we went outside and my inner holy roller came out and I prayed all over them in the parking lot. (I had my reasons. They didn’t mind.)
I just really wish they lived closer.
I’m meeting one of you Online Blogger Friends tomorrow. In person. At a Jason’s Deli. I’m excited because I really like this person. I might take an extra antianxiety pill though. Can I do that? Because I’m excited, but in an ‘I might throw up’ kinda way.
Geekwif is almost halfway through NaNoWriMo and she’s still finding time to blog. How she does this, I have no idea.
This morning I got to be in the church nursery. In all the time I’ve been subbing for various classes, they’ve never asked me to be in there before. Maybe they’ve seen me walk into walls. Or drop things. This is highly likely, so maybe they were WAY desperate when I was asked to fill in today.
I was incredibly excited. BABIES. Baaaaaaay Beeeees. I could hardly sleep last night. I dressed in non-drycleanable clothing that was absorbent enough to handle significant spit up issues. I cut my fingernails short. And i got there early because OH THE EXCITEMENT.
Yes, this is my life, and it may SOUND pathetic but it is not. I am just easily thrilled. I see it as a positive, thankyouverymuch.
I arrived and got things ready. For a stampede of adorable diaper-butted babies. I was ready. I waited for 20 minutes and then a baby came FINALLY and I might have overwhelmed his parents with my enthusiasm for their decision to hand over their child to me, a total stranger with clumsiness issues.
Not that I told them that. In fact, I’m only telling Y’ALL this, but I’m really good at Falling While Holding An Infant. Once I fell down a flight of hotel stairs holding a sleeping Caden-baby and it was a pretty bad fall. The ball of my left foot was messed up for at least six months, but I had that whole ‘protect the sleeping baby’ instinct kick in and he never woke up or had his head bashed into the wall or anything.
Today, the baby’s mom asked me to get him to sleep. He was 4 1/2 months of gorgeous Old Man looking baby. You know that look? This baby owned that look. And he wore a yellow collared onesie with his denim overalls. I can’t resist the down-to-earth charm of the preppy/hint of redneck combination, and today was no different.
This is a little creepy of me, I admit, but I took a picture of his adorable, serious little face and sent it to my mother because I HAD to share the cuteness. I’d show y’all, too, but I can’t quite bring myself to put pics of other people’s adorable Old Man Babies on the internet, no matter how cute they are. I covered his darling blond fuzz head with a thousand kisses in the shade of Estee Lauder’s Maplesugar. I just COULD NOT HELP IT. You wouldn’t have been able to, either. I wiped them off (or rubbed them in, rather) once he fell asleep.
Then he had an ethereal, pink glow to him. Oops.
There was no baby stampede. But that’s all right. I had one gorgeous little guy to swaddle and snuggle and walk around the room with until he fell asleep and then he cooed on my chest until my replacements for the next hour arrived.
He didn’t spit up. He didn’t cry. I didn’t want to hand him over and leave.
After church I made a large-ish communication mistake. It involved a well intentioned, but somewhat… unflattering analogy. Analogies are not my strong suit. Y’all know that. But they don’t usually get people seriously angry with me, they just usually come out wrong and don’t make any sense.
Today: Notable exception.
I’ve been working on the kids’ rooms. I’ve painted two bedrooms and just have Ethan-11yr’s left. He has this railing stuff that goes around his room and Ethan-11yr and I had talked a few days ago and agreed that I’d take it all off and retexture underneath, paint, and not put it back on.
Mike has not been involved in these projects, because he’s a busy guy and I haven’t asked for or needed his help and he’s been out of town a lot and when I get my blue collar out… I generally like to do that when he’s gone. I can crank up the Johnny Cash, and Mike doesn’t have to try to resist telling me how to do everything better or different. Even though he knows these things.
Mike talked to Ethan-11yr about the plan and made some changes. And then told me about them.
I’ve already planned. Bought supplies based on these plans. And am ready to get to work as soon as everyone is out of the house on Monday. And then the plans changed. I was irritated. I tried to explain. Without the use of an unflattering analogy. But I just couldn’t get through. He didn’t seem to get it.
Enter: the Analogy That Should Never Be Made
I’m the job foreman and Ethan-11yr is the client. And you, Mike, are the volunteer day laborer who came in to help (without being asked) and you went over my head directly to the client and made changes. Even though I’m the job foreman and all communication and changes with clients are my responsibility.
Enter: Foot in Mouth
Are you wincing? Was that painful even to read? Oops. Mike doesn’t get ‘eyes flashing, livid’ very often. Um. Calling him an unruly volunteer day laborer in his own home will accomplish that, REAL EASILY though.
Have since apologized. Profusely.
After a few hours of thinking, “what is the big deal? i kinda think that made my point REAL well.” (And it did. And that was part of the problem.)
But I suppose the importance of ‘not insulting the husband’ was totally overlooked, and that is probably the bigger deal here. Not that I meant it in an insulting way. Oh, nevermind. It’s probably time I just stop talking and writing before I make things worse.
Amazing Race is on soon. Someone on there will say something worse than I ever could. Should be good.