Drops of Awesome

Personal Blog of Author Kathryn Thompson

On Deprivation

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Laylee says, “Sometimes I think it’s good that poor people don’t have any toys or things because then their house will always look clean.”

I wonder if she’s been reading my blog.

She spent a good part of last night shaking and twitching with the pain of a sudden ear infection. So at about 2am we had the free on-call doctor out to our house to check on her and prescribe some antibiotics. It was the 3rd time we’d used the service.

Dan’s lucky enough to work for a company with phenomenal benefits, 100% health insurance coverage for EVERYTHING imaginable, including on-call doctors available 24/7 when you can’t get in to see your primary care physician, no deductibles, no copays.

As I was putting Laylee down to bed, clutching the Tinkerbell sticker the doctor had given her, I told her how lucky she was to have a doctor who could come out to her house anytime. She seemed surprised. “Not everyone has doctors who will come to their house when they’re sick,” I explained.

“REALLY?!” she gasped, “Like who.”

“Well, like almost everyone. Grammy, Papa, all your aunts and uncles and cousins.”

“WHY!?”

She gave me the same look she’d given me when I told her that not everyone had a house to live in and she said we should give all our money to them so they could buy a blanket that’s not made out of trash.

I don’t know why everyone doesn’t have a doctor who can come visit them. I wish we all did.

Problem Solved

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I have a problem. Every 10 or 12 years, I prepare and serve a platter of festive deviled eggs. Periodically, I’d say at least one of every two times I make them every 10 or 12 years, one or two of the eggs will roll over, bumping into other eggs and ruining their perfect spacing.

Well, now I’ve found the answer. I can buy and store this gorgeous Christmassy egg tray for 10 or 12 years until I need it to serve nothing but deviled eggs. Hey I bet I could even get one for Kwanza, Flag Day and Diwali.

Okay. Fess up. Do you have one of these? Did you pay actual money for it or did you get married a week after Christmas?

egg-tray

Setting Fire to All That’s Precious

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Does your kid have special things? A duck? A blanket? An infinitesimally miniscule bracelet that is of mind-boggling importance to her little preschool world?

Sometimes, when you’re visiting Daddy at the maze of a complex that we call MEGACORP for a reason and you can barely find your car again when it’s time to leave, does your daughter REPEATEDLY drop her prized one-of-a-kind beaded bracelet from Grammy and Papa that they bought at the Zoo store because they are the only adults in this family kind enough to take the kids inside the Zoo store and actually spend $4,000,000 buying a life altering trinket? Mine does.

When she drops the bracelet on the 3 mile walk through corridors, up and down stairs and around the cafeteria, does she suddenly make a sheepish face and say, “Uh-Oh! My bracelet’s gone again. We NEED to find it?” Mine does.

When this happens for the third time and Daddy goes back to search for the bracelet while you wait in the car with the sniffling child, only to discover it’s right next to her on the seat, do you secretly want to dispose of the bracelet in a sinister display of parental pyrotechnic power? I do.

I was thinking about it today and I decided that with all the crying my kids have done in their lives over lost treasured items, we could provide much-needed rainfall to a mid-sized African country. Now as cool as it would be to have a cistern in Ghana named after Laylee and Magoo, I’d really rather just stop the madness.

If I gathered up every toy, scrap of crumpled paper, gold fish cracker and sippy cup that they CanNotLiveWITHOUT, even the ones that they don’t yet know that they CanNotLiveWITHOUT but that they will discover that they CanNotLiveWITHOUT the minute they’re missing, stacked them all on the bamboo pile out back and lit a match, they would probably cry. And scream. And bonk their heads on the ground while screaming, “Why, oh WHY?!!! I NEEEEED that!!!! Erp. Angelina Jolie please adopt me now and save me from this heartless mother who never drives back to the mall to search for the precious rubber band I was saving in my shoe that my she told me 10 times to leave in the car because I’d probably lose it and halfway home I noticed it was MISSING and did I mention she wouldn’t go back for it??!!!!” Once.

They would have the fit once and then in would be over. All the special things would be gone and they wouldn’t have anything left to lose or whine about or make me feel guilty over my callous disregard for EVER AGAIN… until I gave them an apple to eat… and they discovered a seed inside it… THAT COULD BE USED TO PLANT AN APPLE TREE IN THE BACK YARD after being carried to preschool and back and across 12 or 13 continents until they noticed it had fallen out of their pocket somewhere between Minsk and Oshawa.

But at least when they asked about the seed, I could tell them, “Don’t you remember? I’m pretty sure it was lost in ”˜the fire’.”

Hunks of Chicken at a Stoplight

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It was THAT kind of day, the kind of day when dinner rolls around and you’re returning dishes to Linens and Things, dishes you bought earlier THAT day, while your Costco rotisserie chicken gets cold on the front seat of your van.

On the bright side, it’s a good thing the chicken’s cold because when the kids start begging for food, you can tear off chunks with your bare hands and toss them into their little mouths without burning them.

And now I can’t sleep but I can’t think clearly either. I can think clearly enough that the list of things I didn’t accomplish today and likely won’t accomplish tomorrow play over and over in my head in vivid detail, but not clearly enough to actually do any of them.

My kids ate raw spinach leaves and Costco chicken shards in the car for dinner because apparently we are on the mobile Atkins diet. For breakfast tomorrow I think I’ll load them onto a ferry somewhere in the Puget Sound and throw sausage, eggs and chicken livers at their heads.

A Mother Is

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A mother is someone whose phone call you can answer unembarrassed even though Vanilla Ice is blasting on your stereo while your kids dance around like maniacs in the background.

Retail Death March

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For 7 hours we drove around getting further and further from home. If we’re already in Redmond, we might as well go to the mall in Bellevue. If we’re already in Bellevue, we might as well drive 15 more miles to IKEA. While we’re so close to the airport, I might as well take the kids to Hawaii. [read more at Parenting.com]

One Way Ticket to Muumuu-Ville

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I had no idea things were deteriorating this quickly. She’s always shown a preference for soft fabrics but I thought it would take her more than 4 years of life to spiral downward into a world clothed exclusively by stretch pants. Her future now seems certain. She’ll be shuffling around in a floral house dress by age 12.

Yesterday when I was getting her dressed for school, she complained that her jeans were uncomfortable. “When I wear them I feel like my legs are bleeding,” she whined dramatically, tugging at the legs of her pants. “I want to wear soft pants only.”

“But these are warmer and the fabric is stronger. They look really nice.”

“But they hurt so-ho-ho ba-ha-had! If I need warm pants, I can wear the ones that are made out of fleece.”

Her useable wardrobe is now limited to sweats, stretch pants, leggings, pajamas and princess gowns and I’m a little worried. Don’t get me wrong. I love me a comfy pair of “yoga pants.” The new title “yoga pants” sounds so much more chic and active than “stretch pants” or “spandex”. I’m well pleased with it. However, I don’t wear them out in public, except to the gym and it’s taken me years as a stay at home mom to love them as much as I do right now. I’m guessing I’ll need to give birth to at least 2 more kids before I degenerate to the point where I wear them at all times and in all places.

Laylee on the other hand has already given in. She has no desire to rage against the dying of the light. She cares only for comfort.

I think my only option is to get her hooked on yoga or some other brand of near-eastern fitness craze. Then we can always tell people that she’s on her way to work out.

Now when the stretch pants get too scratchy and she’s ready to move on to muumuus, I’m not sure what I’ll tell people. Maybe, “Her grandkids are coming over and she’s got a whole bushel of beets to pickle.”

Insecure Voter

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Procrastinator seems like a made up word, like slang for someone who procrastins. It makes me think of the rodenator or a guy who would give me the wink and the gun and call me Kate-inator.

Well I’ve been procrastinatorating filling out my absentee ballot, or to be more exact, I’ve been putting off researching candidates and initiatives so that I’d have a clue how to fill out my absentee ballot for today’s election.

I’m coming to believe it’s impossible to be completely informed about who I’m voting for. I can read the voter information pamphlet, stare into the candidates’ black and newsprint-colored eyes and try to gauge the temperature of their souls. I can get out a magnifying glass and try to determine whether or not they floss their giant banana shaped tooth. It’s also useful to count up the total minutes of conflicting and deceptive TV ads for both sides of each issue, multiply them by 8 and vote for the one with the smallest amount of small print. Sometimes I find useful information online or on local newsgroups or in email forwards Dan gets at work listing the candidates’ bizarre habits and favorite flavors of lip gloss.

There’s really no way to know absolutely what the best choice will be in every single race. For initiatives I usually vote for the side that’s supported by the groups I trust most on that particular issue. It’s not foolproof but it’s worked for me so far.

Well I completely forgot about the ballot as it was sitting on top of the fridge in my basket of things that are so important for me to do that I hide them in a basket on top of the fridge where I will never think of them or ever do them. As I was leaving a friend’s house this evening, she reminded me to vote. For what? So You Think You Can Dance doesn’t start again till the summer. Oh, that one democratic election thingy.

“Well,” I told her, “I haven’t missed voting in an election since I turned 18. I guess I missed this one.”

But on the way home, I was overcome with guilt. If I didn’t vote and the public school initiative didn’t pass, what would I tell Nancy my PTA-volunteering, public school-lubbin’ friend? I must vote in every election. What if the lady who loves mint-apple lip gloss got to be on my city council? I could not abide it. So I pulled out my information packet, did some speedy research and voted to the best of my abilities.

Laylee was concerned.

“Why are you boating?”

“I’m VOTing to help decide who gets to be in charge of our country.”

With wide-eyed concern she protested, “But I don’t want ANYONE to be in charge of our country. I just want it to be America so we can have our America flag.”

I tried to explain that America is still American, even if someone is the boss of it.

I don’t think she bought it.