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Save Me From Myself

Today I was a Mom — Part Two

March 19, 2009 by Kathryn

A while ago I wrote a post called Today I Was a Mom. The title of the post was meant to imply that although I rarely get my job perfectly right, there are those precious few days when I can hold my head high and say, “Yay. I did it. Today I was a MOM!”

A lot of people enjoyed or identified with the post. Several others said it made them feel inadequate, that if that’s what it takes to be a mom everyday, then they were failures. One man repeatedly emailed me about the post, calling me smug and telling me that I lived a charmed life with no real problems and should shut my stupid mouth. It was sweet.

Today I’d like to share a different kind of mom day. Here is my report:

I woke up late and wandered downstairs to find Magoo watching cartoons.

I pulled Laylee reluctantly from bed and fed them sugar cereal and leftovers from last night’s dinner for breakfast, while I got dressed.

She asked if she could wear a dress to school and I agreed that yes she could… another day… if I ever did laundry again.

I dropped Laylee off 2 minutes late for school but was grateful that she made it in before they shut the main doors so she wouldn’t have to go to the office for a late slip.

After unloading Magoo at preschool where he cried because he didn’t want to attend without his baseball cap, which I could not find, I drove to the mall in search of new makeup.

I could write a whole post about how much Sephora intimidates me but I went inside anyway to have an expert help me pick out facial supplies to help cover or at least blur my pregnancy breakout. The woman who was helping me did a great job selling me on the Bare Minerals and applying them to my face and then added the finishing touch of orange blush over my entire face.

I bought the makeup and left the store looking like a pumpkin, sure that I could do a better job applying it than she had and picked up Magoo from his class.

We had 20 minutes until I needed to walk the 2 blocks to pick Laylee up from the bus stop so instead of going home and walking back up the street, I parked at the bus stop with the squirming Magoo and waited it out. Who needs unnecessary movement in her life or the life of her previously active 3-year-old? Not me apparently.

I purchased a smoothie at the mall but didn’t notice that when I placed it in the drink holder, I punched a tiny hole in the bottom of the cup with the straw. The contents of the cup leaked out all over the carpeting of my car which now smells like vomit but strangely not because I vomited in it this time.

I only let my kids play outside for 10 minutes this afternoon because the cold weather makes me nauseous and I didn’t want them to play unsupervised.

I then yelled at my kids for jumping around inside the house because it “makes the ground shake” which aggravates my nausea.

I used the word “nauseous” in it’s various forms around 300 more times.

Then I let them watch full episodes of Electric Company on PBSKIDS.org for 3 hours to keep them entertained while I laid on the couch with a pillow over my head to suppress my dehydration headache.

On the way out the door to my PTA meeting, I decided to take a quick potty break, afraid of using the teeny toilets at the elementary school. Sadly I didn’t notice the giant puddle Magoo had left for me on the toilet seat until after I sat down and dipped my shirt into it.

I madly dug through the mountain of clean but unfolded laundry on the couch where I’ve been getting all my clothes for the last week and found a shirt long enough to cover up the fact that I’m wearing my pants unzipped these days.

Although I called and begged repeatedly for the kids to get their coats and shoes on, it did not happen. Lately they have this attitude that seems to say, “What are you gonna do? Get off the couch and make me? Stop barfing and make me?” And they’re right, I’m not.

When we all got into the car, I noticed that the garage door was still open from their microscopic outdoor play time. But I couldn’t just close it. Oh no. The kids had strategically placed outdoor toys all along the line of where the door is supposed to hit when it goes down.

I cleaned up the toys with clenched teeth and growled back at the van and its passengers. Then I noticed the broken mega jumbo bottle of bubble solution spilled all over the floor of the garage.

I wasn’t nice.

When we got to the meeting, Dan was already there to pick the kids up so they didn’t get to go in and play with the babysitter. They cried. They yelled. I exited the car.

I showed no sympathy.

I got home while Dan was bathing the kids and told him I needed to go lie down, leaving him to do bedtime alone. I blew the kids kisses and headed downstairs to turn into a vegetable in front of the TV.

I felt sick. I felt guilty. I’ll do better tomorrow.

Filed Under: Aspirations, Save Me From Myself

Fare Thee Well JackAgain

February 22, 2009 by Kathryn

Poor Jack is dead. Poor JackAgain is dead. I noticed him laying on the bottom of the bowl a few days ago, his untouched pellets swollen on the surface of the water. This is not unusual for JackAgain. He will sometimes lie on the bottom of the bowl for days at a time as if sleeping or in deep thought, only to startle when the glass is tapped and then sink back down to the bottom.
This picture taken 2.5 years ago
I think he was always prone to depression, a little fish stuck in a bowl with no chance of escape.

When I tapped on the glass this time, his lifeless body just swayed with the motion of the water but nary a fin did he flap. I tried again, this time noticing that his body seemed to be covered in sort of a waxy film.

So I told the kids. They took it okay. Laylee was off and running in a few seconds. Magoo seemed fine until suddenly he was not. His eyes filled with tears. “JackAgain is dead?” he cried. “Yes buddy, I’m afraid he is. But it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

Magoo reached out for some mama loves and I picked his giant boy body up in my arms and held him like a baby. Seeing the attention he was getting, Laylee came running over. “I can’t believe he’s dead,” she faux-sobbed in a voice vaguely reminiscent of a half-way decent impression of real sadness. “I just can’t believe it. Oh JackAgain!”

My eyes did not do a full roll. They just sort of drifted heavenward and my eyelashes only fluttered a bit as I reached out a hand to touch her un-Oscar-worthy play-grieving arm. “Yeah. We’ll sure miss him,” I lied.

So we held a bowl-side flush funeral for the fish. Dan asked for advice on what he should say and we came up with a Finding Nemo meets The Lion King sort of Christian sermon about how all drains lead to the ocean and he’ll then be eaten by a bigger fish in the great circle of life but his spirit will live on in fishy heaven. You see, I have a firm belief in an afterlife and resurrection but I’ll be darned if I could explain exactly what JackAgain’s spirit was doing at that moment. Honestly I didn’t much care.

I have disliked that fish with a fervent dislikishness since nearly the day we brought him home almost THREE YEARS AGO. We had gone through a series of fish rather rapidly. They would die or eat each other and we’d get a new one. I was sick of cleaning fish poop out of the bowl but each time I’d cave and buy another to quell Laylee’s grief. When she was 3, it was more believable.

The day I bought JackAgain, I told Dan he was the last fish I’d ever buy. In 3-6 months when he kicked the bucket, I was done. The kids loved him for about 2 minutes every couple of weeks when their friends were over but other than that, it was just me, Jack, and the stinking bowl of fish ish. He couldn’t do anything cool. I sensed he was unhappy in his little glass prison. He looked weird. My confessions of periodically forgetting to care for him earned me nasty comments from pet lovers who felt I should not be allowed to reproduce considering my inhumane treatment of Betta fish.

At some point, around when I read the first book in the Twilight series, I began to wonder about how he was living so long. Maybe he wasn’t alive but some sort of undead fish who would “live” forever, pooping and tormenting me, long after my children were grown and gone.

Apparently he was un-undead because now he’s actually dead and I think we all know that’s impossible for an un. I can’t say there wasn’t some glee as I cleaned out his bowl for the last time, running his little glass rocks and plastic plants through the dishwasher to remove any deadness that might have rubbed off on them.

Since he left no last will and testament, his home and other personal effects will be donated to my neighbor Natasha, the marine biologist, to be used in some sort of humane and deeply noble project that will possibly absolve me from openly admitting my failure to love one of God’s creatures.

Filed Under: Faith, Save Me From Myself

I am Not Responsible for Josh Groban

February 3, 2009 by Kathryn

Dan has a hard time distinguishing between Josh Groban and Michael Bublé. I can understand the difficulty. They are both male and they both sing songs and both of their careers were created by the United States of Oprah, respectively. The difference as I see it is that Josh Groban is Oprah’s version of Andrea Bocelli and Michael Bublé is Oprah’s version of Harry Connick Junior. He still gets them confused so I say Groban — Vibrato, Bublé — bubbly brass section.

I’m pretty over Josh Groban at this point and it’s not because most of his songs sound identical or even the vibrato, because although he has a lot of vibrato, it is not constant and therefore can be tolerated. I’m not sure what it is but I’m just over him. Except for one song.

Remember When It Rained.

I love this song. I have no idea what it’s about. I think it may have religious connotations and I know one of you will google-wiki it for me and tell me what it means but I’d rather not know. In my mind, I prefer to think that it’s about making out in the rain, one of those completely unrealistic kisses where you just run to someone through the pouring rain, probably in the dark, likely wearing a dark-colored prom dress, and the first thing to connect is your lips and you’re maybe crying but you can’t tell because the rain is pouring down on your faces… or something like that. It’s not like I envision this scene every time I hear the song and sing along at the top of my lungs while planning the rain kissing chapter of my next book or anything.

So today I was driving along when that particular song came on my Zune completely by happenstance and for some odd reason my mind was drawn to that particular line of thought (the rain kissing thing), which caught me completely off-guard and I was forced to sing along with such fervor that I lost track of my speedometer. Blame it on the strings. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on Josh Groban if you must but I feel fairly convinced that I was not responsible for my temporary breaking of the traffic laws of this good land.

As I slowed down I started thinking, what would I have told the officer if I’d been pulled over during my…erm…performance/brainstorming session? I think I would have had to tell the truth. “Josh Groban made me do it. He’s in league with Dr. Phil and Oprah. I had no choice.”

In high school I had a friend who totaled his father’s car while taking it off a jump with some friends. He proceeded to tell his dad matter-of-factly that he was not responsible. He only did it because he was listening to the Beastie Boys at the time.

I imagine my Josh Groban defense would go over about as well. I haven’t seen that boy in… a while…

Filed Under: Around Town, Save Me From Myself

Facebook Apps Are Scary

January 28, 2009 by Kathryn

I will come out right now and just say it – Facebook Apps freak me out. I just denied a request from my sister to say we were related on an app. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I AM SISTERS WITH MEG! But I will not add the “family tree” application to my Facebook page. Not a bit. Her request was denied.

Do you want me to be one of your “best girls,” kill a zombie with you, throw a pumpkin at your neck, join a group to remove the mayor of Anaconda, MT from office, or take a quiz to show how similar we are so we can take our kindred spiritness to the next level? I’m sorry but I just can’t do it anymore.

I’ve done it a couple of times and then I’m always left wondering, “Is that app harvesting all of my personal information for nefarious purposes, the pure wicked evilness of which I cannot yet imagine?”

So now I just hit “deny” every time. It’s not because I don’t like you or think your purple roses to help fight toenail cancer aren’t noble and attractive, I just don’t want to be harvested by the aliens or whoever it is that creates all these apps in the first place.

Sorry mom. I’m still your daughter. I just won’t declare it in a Facebook app.

I also refuse to claim my 1,000,000 inheritance from my long lost Uncle in Sri Lanka. There’s just too much risk to these ventures. I’ve seen Dateline. I know.

Filed Under: Save Me From Myself, Technology, world domination

Humility, Thy Name is Mother

January 8, 2009 by Kathryn

Whatever pride or dignity I thought I possessed as a young whipper-snapper came spilling out of my body along with the child when I lay helpless in the hospital answering to the name of Mother for the first time, midwifes and nurses, grabbing, pulling and touching me in ways that I would have previously found appalling.

Over the past 6 years I’ve periodically made attempts to regain some of my lost pride but it’s hard when you live with people who can’t BELIEVE there’s not a baby in your tummy because it’s SO big, who use you as a human tissue, and who pray to Heavenly Father that he will help them please be on time for school tomorrow. Laylee knows I’ve shown myself incapable of regular punctuality so she likes to call for backup.

This morning on the way to school, I noticed I hadn’t even run a comb through her hair. This is absolutely unacceptable in my opinion, especially since she gets to pick her own clothes. I need the teacher to see one sign that she is not being physically neglected at home. So I pulled over to the side of the road and tried to do a quick fix with the only tools I had, a comb and a bobby pin. Without tangle spray or local anesthetic it’s nearly impossible to straighten Laylee’s bird’s nest without shrieks of agony so I “smoothed it over,” told her I’d done the best I could but it wasn’t great and got back into the drivers’ seat of the car.

“It’s okay,” Laylee replied. “Being on time is way more important than just looking nice anyway.” As she said this, I wondered if she was as aware as I was of my unshowered, unbrushed hair or the near-pajamas I was wearing. I could have been the poster child for “Looking Nice Isn’t That Important Anyway.” Then there was the reminder that being on time was more crucial than looks and that I’d let her down so many times in the past.

Kids will let you know what they think of you. Frequently their words are filled with love and often with that love comes brutally honest assessments of your worst traits, your biggest insecurities. Even their criticisms usually aren’t malicious at this age. They just stem from curiosity, fascination or just plain lack of social skills but they can still hurt or at least bump your pride down a notch.

Lately the kids have been using “humor” to share how they see the world, their favorite being the knock-knock joke that’s really a why-did-the-chicken-cross-the-road joke in disguise.

Both of these gems came up at dinner last night to much raucous laughter.

Knock knock
Who’s there?
Why did the mommy cross the road?
I don’t know. Why?
To go shopping.

Knock knock
Who’s there?
Why did the mommy cross the road?
I don’t know. Why?
To pick up her prescription

Nice. So this “mom” person is a materialistic shopaholic who NEEDS HER MEDS? I see why that’s funny. Almost.

Then driving to school yesterday, Magoo pointed out the window at a woman walking along the sidewalk and asked, “Mom? What name is that lady?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied.

“Oh. Oops,” he said. “That’s no lady. She’s just a MOM!”

AAAHHHHH! And yet. I love this job so much it hurts sometimes. What would I do without these kids? Besides be more of a “lady,” that is?

Filed Under: Parenting, Save Me From Myself

Old PeaceLoveMom Advice Column and Giveaway

December 2, 2008 by Kathryn

***And the PeaceLoveMom shirt goes to Michelle, commenter number 29 (with double commenters removed). Don’t forget to use your free shipping code everyone else if you order from them before December 17th. The code is DYMGIVES.***

plm-winner

Sometime this month I will become old. Older than I’m comfortable with. I really didn’t think turning 30 would be any big thing. Most of my friends are over 30. Dan turned thirty MONTHS ago and I still find myself liking him a great deal. But for some reason as my birthday month crested, I became awash with apprehension about leaving my twenties.

PLM_type_ss_whiteJust last weekend I found myself trying to convince one of my kids’ babysitters that I wasn’t much older than she was. Sad. I am that much older than she is. Text messaging, although useful and fun, is not the fountain of eternal youth.

I didn’t write up one of those “Thirty Things To Do Before Thirty” lists because I figure I’ve already done way more than thirty things in my lifetime so I’ve got it covered.

What I would like is some advice or words of wisdom from Ye of Teh Interweb, young and old, to help me get over this silly fear of the number three and the number zero put together in a certain order when applied to my particular agedness.

What do old people wear?
How should I start fixing my hair? Should I start fixing my hair?
What stores do old people frequent?
How do I get rid of the grey? Should I even bother to get rid of the grey?
When will the wrinkles overtake the adult acne in the battle for my face?
Knee highs?
How should I best console myself on that day of days?

Any advice you have will be helpful. As an incentive to get you commenting and helping me out of a pathetic, non-fly, non-Oprah-approved 30s decade (Didn’t she say 30 was the new 15 or something like that?), I’m giving away a cool shirt from PeaceLoveMom.

GRT03GRI love their stuff and although it definitely could be worn by a woman of my… ahem… maturity, I think I could also wear it and blend in well with the young people. If you haven’t seen their stuff, go check it out. They sent me this awesome thermal to try out for Thanksgiving and they’ll give one of you a free t-shirt just for leaving a comment here. After I choose a winner, they’ll contact you with a few choices from their site in your size and they have all sizes.

HAM41P_smTheir shirts are soft, long, cute and well made. You’ll love them. I see they’ve also come out with a cute line of stationary. If you want to order something, you can use the coupon code DYMGIVES through December 17th for free shipping within the US.

I’ll pick a winner Thursday night so spill your guts. What do I do now that I’m OLD?

Click to Read My Product Review Policy

Filed Under: Save Me From Myself

Quick! Call Angela Lansbury

October 21, 2008 by Kathryn

Maybe I’ve watched too much Murder She Wrote but when I spotted this for sale at Costco, it seemed more sinister than festive.
body-bag

Additional storage for tree stands or crowbars or whatever.
body-bag2

You’re gonna bind WHAT, now?
body-bag4

This image just creeps me out, like they’re putting the tree to rest, like rest rest, like senseless-violent-why-did-it-have-to-end-like-this rest.
body-bag5

And don’t forget the heavy duty wheels. They’re strong enough to pull a lot of weight… possibly over rough ground… on a dark and stormy night.
body-bag3

Filed Under: Save Me From Myself

Into the Drink

July 29, 2008 by Kathryn

I dare you to find a more attractive picture of a specimen of humanity than this here likeness.Guess who swam across a lake at 7:00 this morning and now has algae-looking stuff in unmentionable places? Not naming names. Follow my eyes.

I’ve been casually training for a triathlon I’m not going to compete in because my ladies are doing it and I’m nothing if not a follower. Last Saturday and then again this morning we worked on our open water swimming. There are many signs that we are taking this athletic challenge of athleticism in a very seriously serious manner, which include but are not limited to:

-Giggling like wee girls.

-Squealing as we stand at the edge of the frigid drink and then eventually needing to be pushed in (This will go over well on race day, I imagine. The shotgun goes off. There’s a flurry of splashtastic activity. One lone spaztard in my heat stands with her arms folded, dancing from one foot to the other, “OOOoooooo… but it’s so COOOOLDD. Tee-hee-hee.” Grin. “I hope I win.”).

-Doing the back stroke most of the way, even though one woman warned us that when she switched to backstroke in her last race, the medi-kayak was deployed to see what was wrong with her.

-Periodically swimming up next to another athletic athlete and saying, “Shark Week,” in a most menacing way.

I’ll be going out of town when the other ladies take the plunge, ½ mile swim followed by an 18 mile bike ride followed by a 3.5 mile run and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was just a teeny bit glad in the smallest corner of my heart to have a good excuse for my athletic truancy.

But it’s fun to train with them. Mostly. In the middle part. For a couple of minutes. After my body is numb and before my brain is filled with green water.
Trust me the lake is much bigger, much colder, and much more full of dead bodies than it appears in this picture.
There was even one sublime moment during Saturday’s swim when a duck swam past me in a not creepy, we’re-all-part-of-the-great-circle-of-life, kind of way and then a bald eagle swooped down and grabbed a fish right out of the water and glided off to munch on it’s still beating heart.

If I were Native American or even had a Native American name like Pocahontas or John Smith, I think that moment would have moved me into postponing my trip so I could complete the race, a mystical sign from my animal brothers that I had raw fish left to clutch or races to eat or something.

Alas, I am the whitest white person I know so what it actually did after the initial “WOW” wore off was remind me that lakes contain things, living things, things that are cold, wet, slimy and potentially man-eating. If a fish were to bump into me while I was swimming, I feel fairly certain that I would make no sound as my heart stopped and I slipped ignominiously to Davy Jones’ locker.

Not thinking of my neurotic aquatic terror, following the first race in which I had gotten a tiny piece of water in my eye, I went to Tarzhay and purchased a pair of goggles so that I could see WHILE SWIMMING. IN THE LAKE. WHERE THE FISH AND DEAD BODIES LIVE.

I’ve always been scared of dead bodies under dark water but after watching that one scary movie where Harrison Ford plays a villain and you spend the whole movie asking “Han Solo, why’s it gotta go down like this Homey?” I now know that dead bodies under water are true.

So today as I swam along, I kept catching glimpses of my paler than death, whiter than normal white people arm flashing by as I swam. At which time I would die just a little, thus partially self-fulfilling prophecy, and scream under water, sure I had seen the floating remains of some poor victim of Mr. Solo. This would result in the inhalation of said water and in a fervent vow to never ever EVER again open my eyes in those way-too-clear goggles of terror. Then I would swim with eyes closed way off course until my compatriots yelled my name and pointed back to shore. I repeated this zig-zag pattern all over the lake, getting worked up to the point where I was sure that the skirt on my tankini was really a giant strand of semi-sentient sea weed tangled around my legs and bent on my most hideous destruction.

One of my friends told me after the swim that she was only in it to get an athletic body like the other triathletes she knows. I thought about this and I realized that hers is an unrealistic goal for someone like me.

People who eat cheese will never have triathlete bodies. I mean, they can sample cheese betimes at cheese tasting events. But I’m fairly sure that people who EAT cheese will never look like that.

That’s why I’m in it for the glory.

Filed Under: Aspirations, Poser in Granolaville, Save Me From Myself, women

Heard This Week

June 24, 2008 by Kathryn

Laylee to me: “It’s so much more fun to cuddle with you because you’re so much more fatter and it’s just more comfortable.”

Laylee: “Can I get a whoop whoop?!”
Magoo [very sternly with raised eyebrows]: “No. You. May. NOT!”

Apparently Laylee’s not completely deaf. She overheard us having a “tickle fight” in our room the other night. (That was the only viable scenario I could throw at her in a pinch.) Now she wants to have them all the time. Eeep! I wonder when she’ll be old enough to have that “Aha!” moment that turns her off tickling for life.

Filed Under: Save Me From Myself

Speed Walking Glory

June 10, 2008 by Kathryn

Best Parade EverDan supervised the kiddie festivities with mildly-annoyed resignation while I walked a 5K in the mud behind some of my running girlfriends. My joints are fairly bad and I once had a physical therapist tell me not to become a runner so I use that as an excuse to walk races with dignity. And I was chock full of dignity on Saturday, speed-walking along the gravel trail past the cows with my stretch pants rolled up to mid-calf to keep them out of the mud.

My original goal was to complete the 3 miles in less than an hour. By the time I finished my only goal was to not let the old lady with the cane cross the finish line before I did. She kept passing me as we walked along the trail and at first it stressed me out. Eventually I just had to face the fact that I was an amazing speed walking athlete and that if an old lady with a cane could pass me like that, then she was the freaking awesomest old lady with a cane who ever lived and thusly a worthy opponent. She was my nemesis and I could not let her win.

Mud EverywhereSo towards the end of the race I ran a bit until I was a safe distance ahead of her and then crossed the finish line with a time of 1 hour and 30 seconds. I was glad to beat my arch rival but a little frustrated that I couldn’t walk 3 miles in under an hour. And then I saw a friendly face at the sidelines so I walked over to chat. After a few minutes went by, someone mentioned that although I had crossed the finish line, my place in the race wouldn’t be recorded until I walked another hundred yards and turned in my number. So yeah. Several people had passed me at that point, including the OLWAC, who was probably laughing to herself knowing that our epic struggle had ended and she had gotten her revenge.

But at least I got a free t-shirt… and a free banana… and some free water… all included in the $25 entrance fee. And I found out later that the clock at the finish line had been set to time a race that had started 15 minutes earlier so I’d actually walked the run in about 45 minutes, smashing my original goal to tiny shards of glory.
Nancy Likes Bananas

Filed Under: Around Town, Aspirations, Save Me From Myself, weather, world domination

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