An Inch of Gray

Food Fight

2009-11-13T07:55:00.001-08:00

So I guess it’s time to share the latest round of family drama in the See household. You may know that both of our kids are small for their age. Jake is off the charts-- as in not even approaching the bottom of the chart-- weight-wise. For years we have dealt with picky eating.

We managed it pretty well at home, introducing new things slowly and repeatedly, but the pickiness was usually worse on trips. At someone else’s house, the brand of food wouldn’t be right, the house would smell funny, the butter would be wrong, you get the picture. That’s fun because you can mix in travel stress, parental angst, and relatives’ expectations to make a delightful stew of stress and recrimination.

As the years passed, Jake became drawn to international food. His favorites: Greek, Italian, and Mexican, but not standard American (read: birthday party casual) food. Barbeques and class parties were unpleasant. And Thanksgiving was the worst of all.

You would have the Thanksgiving school meal, followed by 3 or 4 days of not eating the same wonderful (yet despised by him) food as we traveled from relative to relative’s house for multiple Thanksgiving dinners. By the time we would return from our holiday travels, he would look weary and wan. We tried to throw in some Taco Bell and Subway along the highways to keep him going.

For those of you who have dealt with picky eaters, you know it can put a strain on the marital relationship. Usually the mother, for fear that her child will expire, will feed the child what he/she wishes, while the father puts his foot down, knowing that no such coddling occurred when he was a child! “He’ll eat when he’s hungry enough,” becomes the line of choice. At least that’s how it’s been for the past 10 years in this household.

So, Tom and I have reached a delicate balance, trying to juggle my wishes, Tom’s wishes, and Jake’s health. I have never cooked separate meals for Jake, even though our doctors have given us their blessing to give him milkshakes or whatever it takes to help him gain. I have had to explain to people who wonder why I don’t do more to fatten him up, that I’m dealing with multiple factors here. I am not the only parent in this house, and my way is not necessarily the right way. Also, I bring the style of my family of origin to parenting, as does Tom, but that's a topic for another post.

We have had to try to back off and relinquish our desire to control Jake. Sometimes we do this well, and sometimes not. I am sure we are not the only family who has nearly come to tears over whether a kid eats a bite of chicken potpie.

Anyway, things have improved vastly over that past years, months, and even the last few weeks, most of it due to Tom's being a great cook. Chicken enchiladas? Delish. Chili? Bring it on! Flank steak? Yum! Hamburger? Well…I’ll try it. Venison? Not terrible. He even ate salad recently! Woo-hoo! Still no interest in hotdogs, chicken nuggets, or French fries. But as I told Tom years ago, I will never force a kid to eat a hot dog. Ick.

I felt like we were making progress and were on target for a great Thanksgiving meal.

Until the expander.

Last Wednesday Jake got a palate expander put in his mouth in anticipation of braces down the road. He was a total trouper, and I gave him a hot piece of Dominoes pizza for lunch. That thing squished through the expander like Jell-O through a sieve and got lodged on the roof of his mouth. “Aaaaaaaaagh!” he yelled. “Aaaaaaaagh!” I yelled. Toothpicks, a water pick, and major intervention finally got the offending food out of his mouth.

Turns out we should have started with wee little bits of food to get him used to an entirely new way of eating. Now he is too freaked out to eat because he does not want to get food caught in it.

The first few days I was able to get away with giving him smoothies and shakes, chicken broth for dinner, and Instant Breakfast for breakfast. I could tell that Tom thought I was babying him, but I didn't care.

Now, however, the statute of limitations is up. It’s been more than a week and he should be eating. His peers have adjusted to their expanders just fine. I shudder to think of his caloric intake.

And the old standbys we used to get extra calories in him between meals (apple with peanut butter every day after school…) are no longer an option. Neither is mindless snacking, which always helps me gain weight (!)

Tom’s neck veins were bulging as Jake flailed, freaked, and complained last night while attempting to eat one of his favorite foods—tacos. Multiple trips upstairs to the waterpik and to time-out just made dinner all the more pleasant.

And today? Is Jake’s 5th Grade Barbarian Feast at school. Lamb Stew, Bread bowls, nuts, Venison. Nice.

My gift to his teacher is a cranky, hungry kid.

You can bet I threw in a thermos of Instant Breakfast just in case. Call me the enabler.

And the true Barbarian? I think it’s whoever invented this thing:

To Paint or Not to Paint, That is the Question

2009-11-12T09:51:00.000-08:00

So I've been thinking of painting my front door black. I think the results could be dramatic. This is not my dream door by any means, but replacing it is not in the budget.

Here are some images of black entry doors.

What I'd really like is a lovely divided light door in a warm wood tone, no storm door, and much bigger sidelights. When the former owners installed this new door 10 or so years ago, they kept the small sidelights, which is a bummer because our house gets very little light.

Anyway, here's an interior shot of the door. Imagine it and the sidelights and trim black and give me feedback (please!)

The dealbreaker could be the outside of the door. Here's a picture, spiderwebs complimentary.

The ghostlike image of someone in a blue bathrobe hovering in the reflection? Yeah. I'm sick of being home sick.

That's off-white vinyl on the sidelights and bright white on the metal storm door. I'm thinking that while painting the interior of the door and trim would work, trying to paint the exterior would be a nightmare that could end up costing me money down the road because of peeling paint. I don't think I can get rid of the storm door because this area of our home is super drafty.

So please weigh in:

Painting this door black:

Good idea

Can of Worms?

A Way with Words

2009-11-11T16:43:00.000-08:00

I have a fever. I know some of my blogging pals have written while drinking wine, but this is my first (and hopefully last) blogging-while-feverish (BWF) post.

So, as I was dozing on and off today I thought about words.

For instance, at some point when I was a little kid I got the words "hangar" and "curtain" mixed up in my head. To this day, when I am thinking of one, the other pops into my head unbidden. Useless information, I know.

Then there are words that just bug me. For instance, I dislike the word "tissue." When I was young, I would hear my dad talking on the phone to patients, and the word “tissue” will forever be linked in my brain to things like bloody, swollen, and diseased. Ick.

I also don’t like “slacks.” Tom agrees. They’re pants, people.

And, you may remember from my ill-fated Victoria’s Secret trip with both kids in tow, I don’t do “panties.” I wear underwear.

I like to ask people about words they dislike. For my mother-in-law it’s “guts.”

For my cousin it’s “trousers” and the word “moist.” Imagine my surprise when my shy, mild-mannered husband blurted out to her, “Well then, I guess you really hate moist trousers!”

Embarrassing.

I guess I deserve that for all the times I’ve said racy things in public when I didn’t really know what I was talking about.

So, since I’m sick, I’ll throw it out there to you.

What words do you dislike and why?

So the Thing That Separates Me From Fred Sanford is What?

2009-11-09T08:15:00.000-08:00

My name is Anna See and I have a problem with CHAIRS.

Today we will take a tour into the seemy underbelly of the See household to discover just how many chairs I've accumulated over the years. Prepare yourself for lots of dog hair, Legos, bad paint jobs, bad judgment and even worse photography.

Note: no dust bunnies were harmed in the making of this blog post.

I would like some lovely new chairs. They should be comfortable and stylish. Slipper chairs from Target, perhaps?

The problem is, this house is already full of chairs. Chairs seem to seek me out wherever I go. You may have already read about these chairs I found in the trash and fixed up:

They have two buddies--adirondack chairs-- chipping away in the yard and a few more "finds" on the back porch which, thankfully, can not be seen too clearly in this photo.

The suede chair I snagged out of the trash and spray painted is suffering right now. Her legs have started to separate from her body. Not sure what to do about that.

And you remember my thrift store dining room chairs. I bought 7, but only 5 survive. Not the most comfy things, but I LOVE how they look with their fresh coat of heirloom white.

But there's a lot around here I haven't shown you. The 6 Ikea dining chairs I got for $3.00 each are scattered around the house with various slipcovers and degrees of dog hair. They are comfortable and versatile.

I want to stain or paint the grungy legs of the ones that are in the kitchen, but I haven't gotten motivated to do it.

They can also be found in my office and our bedroom.

Also in the kitchen is this bench. It's an old church pew. It used to be in the front hall of my home growing up. My mom would hide her Tab and Coke behind it so we couldn't drink it. Now I use that same space as a pseudo-pantry. It's probably the only piece of furniture in the house that is safe from a can of white spray paint.

When I think of getting a nice built-in window seat here, with drawers underneath, I can't bear the thought of getting rid of this bench. This is where you will find Shadow perched (!!!!) waiting for me to get home from work.

"Pantry" view:

Then there is this elephant in the room, the dining room to be precise. Remember how I told you my grandparents were furniture people? Well, in addition to the broken settee and chair I have waiting for a new home in the basement I have this huge chair in my dining room, one in my bedroom, and a corner chair in my upstairs hall, all from the same Victorian furniture set. That pea green upholstery from the 70's is a terry cloth towel, I believe.

Wouldn't they look fun and funky painted a dove gray with black and white and hot pink upholstery? But that still wouldn't make them any more comfortable.

There's also the one that represents my first foray into spray painting and recovering furniture using a staple gun. This one is hanging out in a corner, looking for a new home.

Then we have these 2 wing back chairs. When I was growing up they were green and gold velvet. I had them covered in denim about 15 years ago and they could use some sprucing up again. Silhouette pillow courtesy of my super-creative friend Theresa. Every Thanksgiving my parents sat in these at either end of our really long dining room table.

What about my mom's little cane chair next to her antique desk? I remember her sitting there in our old house paying bills and writing notes on thick correspondence cards-- all January Jones-like with her blond hair and housecoat. Later, this became a good spot for me to sit and talk to boyfriends on the phone until the wee hours.

Do we dare venture upstairs to the top of the house?

This dainty chair was used by the smallest relative each Thanksgiving. I was the youngest, so that was usually me!

What about this one in Jake's room? It is huge AND uncomfortable, but for some reason we all love it. I'm mad at myself for getting rid of the slipcover my grandmother made for it in the 50's. Darn. How do you like all the crap on it? Keeping it real.

In fact, I'll admit that there's no way we could possibly SIT on all of the chairs I'm showing you, given their varying degrees of uncomfortableness (?) and disrepair, but they do make good holding areas for stuff.

Guest room time. This old chippy wicker rocker was on our screened porch growing up. It's the chair I rocked (and rocked!) my daughter in when she was a baby.

I love this armless rocker in the basement. Unfortunately, it got punctured in the moving van (by another chair!) and has a hole in it. My grandpa tried to talk me through how to re-cane it before he died, but here it sits. It was in my bedroom growing up.

Any tour would not be complete without a peek into the creepy unfinished basement area:

A favorite platform rocker from my Dad's parents. It needs a new arm.

Yes, those are stacks and stacks of other chairs. I do believe these pictures clearly illustrate the dangers of having storage space. Thank God I don't have a garage.

So, I guess it's beginning to become clear why there are no new Target slipper chairs in my future. I really do want fresh, stylish furniture, but I can't help but be drawn to the Charlie Brown aspects of hand-me-downs and cast-offs. I feel like they can be redeemed. And if not by me, then by whom?

Which may explain why I did not hesitate before picking this up at the thrift shop on Thursday for $2.00.

Yes, I know, Tom is a saint.

Behold the Power of Words

2009-11-06T13:07:00.000-08:00

So I got my first snarky comment on this blog. I don’t count the one from the hermit crab lover who gently guided me to some resources on how to adequately care for hermit crabs after Molly’s crab died from neglect. She could have called me a killer, but she held it in rather graciously. I’m not going to write about the current state of our other crab, Smiley. He’s just molting, right?

The snarky comment came from someone named “Anonymous” who commented on my post about how men can’t find anything in the house. She said it, and my readers’ comments, helped explain why the divorce rate is so high. I don’t think she liked how I kindly and gently asked Tom to check his body’s orifices for the missing remote control, or something like that.

This got me thinking. When I started blogging, I had neither read a blog nor commented on one. I was “writing for myself.” Tom and my sister were my only readers. When people I didn’t know stumbled across the blog, then actually came back for more and started commenting—go Shana and Kate!—I was surprised and thrilled. The comment section became a way to make new friends and to reconnect with several dear friends I don’t see very often.

Now I want comments. I love comments. Does this serve my narcissistic side? Sure. But it also makes me feel as if my writing doesn’t just go into a vacuum. I feel connected to my readers, most of whom I’ve never met. Since I’ve started reading other blogs, and commenting on them, I’ve actually been writing less often. I have found myself drawn into a blogging community, and more of my time has gone to keeping up with other people’s writing. I don’t want to miss out.

But back to the snarkiness…Do you find it interesting that I read that comment 6 times in a row? That’s kind of like picking at a scab isn’t it? And I wasn’t even upset. And I don’t regret what I wrote about Tom at all. And I’m not too concerned about what “Anonymous” thinks of me.

Can you imagine how many times I would have read it if it had come from someone I knew and cared deeply about?

This just reminded me of the power of words. We tend to cling to the negative and let it penetrate deeply into our souls. We wrap it up and put it in our pocket. We pull it out when we are feeling insecure or vulnerable, unwrap it, and let the pain cut a little deeper.

What could seem like a passing remark can linger for years.

I hate to think of how I may have used words over the years carelessly and for sport. As a sister, a friend, and especially as a teacher. Every day we have a chance to build people up or break them down.

Just today at lunch with my friends I said more about someone than I should have. I’m going to take this as a reminder to watch my words, with my friends, my kids, and yes, even Tom, if he can get the remote out of his ass long enough to listen.

Wordless Wednesday-- Worst Mini Golf Outing Ever

2009-11-04T07:09:00.001-08:00

Eddie Haskell

2009-11-02T14:47:00.000-08:00

Do you know Eddie Haskell? If you grew up on “Leave it to Beaver” re-runs like I did, you know he is the perfectly groomed suck-up who tries to win adults over with flattery and impeccable manners while wreaking havoc behind the scenes. I remember how he’d pour on the charm with Mrs. Cleaver (who wasn’t buying it), and then turn around and act like a real turd to the Beav.

Maybe you have a real-life Eddie (or Edwina) Haskell in your or your children’s lives. You’ll note charm, looks, intelligence-- all the outward appearances of perfection. Then every once in a while you get a glimpse of an inner Eddie/Edwina. Perhaps it’s a quick elbow jab to a younger sibling when no one appears to be watching. A cutting remark. A mean ploy that the teacher never sees, but all the kids do. A desire for division instead of unity.

I’ve been trying to understand why Eddie, and the modern day equivalents in my own life, get under my skin so much. I think it’s because I want genuine kindness, not perfection. I think perfection is not only over-rated, it’s impossible. And I believe that when we are real with each other, everyone benefits. Eddie isn’t about being real. Eddie is about projecting an image.

I think back to when I was a new mom and my son was perfect. He used baby sign language, showed early brilliance and a keen sensitivity to all around him. To listen to me talk you would have thought he would get his doctorate by age 6, followed shortly by the Nobel Prize.

When I came to realize that he wasn’t perfect, my baby daughter wasn’t perfect, and neither was their mother (for some reason I had accepted this fact about Tom much earlier)…. it was a momentary bummer, but it was somehow freeing. I think it helped me become a less self-righteous and annoying parent.

I tell myself when I run across seemingly perfect kids (at least when their life stories are narrated by one or both parents), that there is likely at least a tad of behind the scenes drama somewhere. Maybe it’s screaming meltdowns during homework or a refusal to practice the piano… but something!

My kids are thoughtful and kind. Often. They care about the poor and the disenfranchised. Sometimes. They are well groomed. On occasion.

Other times they leave people out. They are grumpy. They play favorites. They don’t make eye contact. They mumble. They are selfish. They choose popularity over what’s right.

And you know what? That describes me too. Depending on the day, my hormones, my Diet Pepsi intake, and whether or not I’ve stopped to pray.

I wish we didn’t have a conspiracy of silence, in which we all pretend that everything’s great all the time. I wish other moms would share their kids’ problems so I could share mine. I wish I didn’t have the urge to unmask all the little Eddie and Edwinas, as if bringing them down a notch would somehow build me up.

I guess I wish none of us were sinners. As if.

So Many Skittles, So Little Time

2009-10-28T19:47:00.000-07:00

We went to our town's annual Halloween parade tonight and had a blast. The parade made me (finally!) realize that Halloween is just a few days away. I have not purchased a pumpkin to carve. I have not come up with a dog costume for Shadow, even though I promised Molly I would. Most importantly, I have not finished eating the kids Halloween candy from last year.

I tried, really I did.

But as the kids have gotten older, their ability to stay out later and hit more houses for trick or treating has meant a huge increase in candy. They weighed their bulging pillowcases last year, and Jake had 11 lbs and Molly had 5.

I thought eating 16 pounds of candy was in my realm of expertise, and I tackled it at a steady clip. Unfortunately, March-May I forgot about it completely, and I never really got my groove back. Valentine's Day and Easter also threw me for a loop. So here we are, less than a week away from the big day, and I'm not just not ready for the big re-supply.

If you are wondering if the kids know about my habit, which usually takes place when I sneak in their rooms late at night, I would have said no, but tonight on the way home from the parade I heard them talking to our neighbor in the back seat:

Jake: "I only eat about 2 pieces of Halloween candy a year. I leave the rest in my closet."
Neighbor: "Really?"
Molly: "Yeah, me too."
Neighbor: "Then what happens to it?"
Molly: "My mom eats it."
Jake: Head nod

So, with only four days remaining, I have an idea. I am seriously considering handing out last year's candy this year. Sure all the Kit Kats, Twizzlers and Snickers are gone, but there's still a decent variety.

Cheap and resourceful? Or just plain icky?

Seek And Ye Shall Find

2009-10-25T20:43:00.000-07:00

I am sick of being “The Finder” in this house, and I am not convinced that other people even try to find something before they ask me. They know I’ll hop to it, or if I don’t, I’ll have to suffer through their ineffective, lame-ass excuses for searching before I go ahead and find it anyway.

Usually in plain sight.

This weekend Tom said he couldn’t find the mortgage statement. This is annoying for several reasons. First, I was the one who wrote the mortgage checks for 11 years. Then I forgot to mail one (or 2) measly payment/s, and Tom took over.

(Not that this approach is all bad, if you really want to get out of a job, but I didn’t mind the bill-paying so much. When we were engaged he asked if I’d iron a pair of his brand new pants. I quickly proceeded to burn a hole in them and haven’t ironed a thing of his since. That worked well. But back to the mortgage statement booklet thingy…)

I knew that I hadn’t done anything with it, so after looking in my bill and stamp basket, I said finding it was now up to Tom.

You should have seen his annoyingly wide bush-baby eyes as he gave me an incredulous look and said, “What do you mean you DON’T KNOW WHERE IT IS? Aren’t you even going to look?” I shrugged and went back to my magazine.

This guy was agitated.

“What are we going to do if you really lost it?!?” he continued, pacing around the kitchen in distress.

I ventured to guess that with all the advanced degrees in the house we could probably come up with a solution, but he wasn’t digging the calm, reasoned approach. Reluctantly, I put down my Diet Dr.Pepper and looked for a bit, making a point to say, “For the record. I think you took the payment booklet and put it somewhere.”

He did not like this either.

Later that night, Tom (who had been watching tv alone on the couch) asked me where the remote was, as if I had somehow snatched it from his grasp unnoticed. By this time I was good and cranky. I may have said, “If it was up your ass you’d know.” Not sure if I should have said that, or at least in that way. I think the proper grammar might have been, “If it WERE up your ass you’d know.”

Anyway, yesterday I saw our mortgage payment on the counter all sealed, stamped and ready to be mailed. Yep, it had been in his home office all along.

Tonight at 10 when I was dying to watch “The Amazing Race” on the DVR, our son came downstairs distraught because he couldn’t find the novel he needs for tomorrow. He assured me he already had looked for it. Tom stayed firmly planted on the couch with a shrug, saying, “I looked for it earlier.”

So, I hauled my bath-robed self up and down all 5 levels of our split level and even out to the car. As the third person on this quest, I figured the book must have been tucked somewhere pretty bizarre. I did a lot of huffing and puffing and not all of it was because I’m out of shape.

Finally I found the book. On my son's nightstand.

A quiet, “Sorry Mom,” and Jake padded back off to bed.

I turned to Tom in total exasperation. “Apple. Not far from the tree. Aargh!”

He said, “Oh please. What about all the quirks the kids have that come from you??”

Trust me, this is one pissing match he does not want to get into with me. At least not right now. Girl had a lot of soda today.

Social-Networking Butterfly? OR, If the Fleece Fits, Wear It

2009-10-22T14:44:00.000-07:00

I know a lot of people have blogged about Facebook. In the months since I joined, Facebook has really cut into my blogging (and cooking, cleaning, paying attention to the kids) time but this is one of the first times I’ve felt like writing about it.

I recently realized that when I see my Facebook friends comment on dinner parties and other shindigs they’ve attended, I sort of feel left out. This is because I balance that lovely dichotomy of feeling like a complete nerdy misfit while also thinking that the entire world revolves around me .

So, if a neighbor puts pictures of a party on Facebook, or someone else writes about a Girls’ Night Out, I’m bummed about not being invited. I don’t think it’s at all tacky to put pictures like this up… I just have a wee bit of social envy. And it’s not as if I am dying to actually GO to these events—the fact that I’ve donned my fleece bathrobe by 6 pm four out of the last five nights might give you a clue that I’m a serious homebody. A homebody who wants to be asked.

I don’t know but this could stem from the fact that I was never invited to a boy/girl party in Junior High. I now consider that to have been divine providence, but at the time it felt downright cruel. New Year’s Eve 1985 didn’t help either. My mom drove me around looking for “THE party” at Tommy White’s. We just could not find the darn house! After several attempts, we had to give up. This is pre-pre-pre GPS and cell phone.

I lashed out at my mom, who just wanted to spend a quiet New Year’s at home in her bathrobe not carting her weeping daughter around the darkened suburbs. My best friend (and blog reader!) Lisa G. borrowed the phone to call periodically and update me on the rockin’est party of the year and to encourage me to keep trying. My pain was deep. I cried my 10th grade self to sleep right around midnight, bemoaning the misery that was my life. To this day I can't bear the idea of other people having fun while I'm not.

Sooooo, be it a bat mitzvah in Boise or a baptism in Bellingham, I want to be included.

When Tom surprised me on my 40th this month with dinner out with 8 friends, I didn’t put pictures up on Facebook. If any of them had been super-flattering of me I admit I would have reconsidered, but really I just didn’t want to leave someone out. Even if those some ones were people I hadn’t seen since 6th grade student government camp.

One option to rev up our social life would be to entertain more ourselves and be the instigators of fun social events. But that takes time, energy, and gumption, which seem to be in short supply at the See house these days.

And this weekend? We were kindly invited to an adults-only Halloween party for the first time EVER! We can’t make it for multiple reasons, one of which just might be the siren song of my blue fleece bathrobe, but I must admit it was awesome to be asked.

So I’m wondering… does Facebook make you feel more included or more left out?

Bubble Boy

2009-10-18T19:50:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one or is all this talk about The Balloon Boy also making you think about George Costanza and The Bubble Boy?

Or, reaching way back into the mid-70's archives, do you remember that fine example of film making, "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble?" I mean it was no "Ice Castles," but that stuff was G-O-O-D!

Bonus points if you can remember which big star with an even bigger cleft in his chin starred in it. No Googling.

*****

Okay, okay. I'll tell you. Ever seen this looker before?

Not Ready for My Close Up

2009-10-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

So I was watching “Trading Spouses” last night and I came across this high-strung Vegan mom. I didn’t get to watch the whole episode, but with the way it was edited, Vegan Mom came across as a nightmare.

Some gems:

1. She forces people at a dinner party to watch a video about cruelty to animals, then the producer cuts to a scene of her shoving a dog’s face in his own pee and giving him a swat. We had seen this earlier, but the producers wanted to make the connection for us in case we were, well, blind.

2. She extols the virtue of a tofu burger: “These help prevent cancer, meat burgers cause cancer.” Cutaway to her lighting up a cigarette.

3. They show one of her kids saying he isn’t looking forward to her coming home because he’ll probably get in a lot more trouble when she does. Ouch. This could have taken place right after he says he misses her, but we'll never know.

Anyway, although I did not care for Barbara in the least, it got me thinking about how someone would “edit” me for prime time. Scary.

During my 9 years as a stay at home mom with little kids and little help, I was often glad Dateline wasn’t there to catch me hiding in the bathroom with a Diet Pepsi and Little Debbie’s or needing to put myself in Mommy Time Out. Living in a 5 level split with no bathroom on the main level made potty training F-U-N. Let’s just leave it at that and say a lot would happen on any given 12+ hour day—definite highs and lows.

Now that the kids are 8 and 10 and my husband has a fantastic work schedule, I have a lot less stress, but I can see how I could still be edited in a not so flattering way.

Take yesterday. Jake and I were enjoying a lovely Friday afternoon. He finished a puzzle as I cooked tacos. We laughed, we joked, we bonded. As soon as Tom walked in the door and started breathing my air I became a total…crab.

I plunked the tacos on the table with a gruff “Let’s Eat NOW!” Anyone who knows what happens when mom is hungry will hop to it. But there was more to it than that: I had a cold, I was bored, I couldn’t seem to get anything done, I had ordered a $5,000 shed with vinyl siding and I don't even LIKE vinyl siding, and it won’t stop raining. Somehow this was all Tom’s fault.

It wasn’t a big moment, just one of many moments, big and small, that make up a day. And I was glad when it passed.

Of course if I were to go on one of those wife swapping shows, there is the possibility that I could stay nice for the duration because I'd be with strangers. Isn’t it a sad fact that we are uber polite to those we don’t know, but we turn like caged lions on those closest to us? Or is that just me?

Anyway, I’m glad I’m not on one of those shows. I certainly don’t think it will help prove the integrity of the whacked-out family of the Balloon Boy of earlier this week. Not only were they on Wife Swap, but you have the little gem of the parents basically ignoring the kid as he pukes repeatedly on national tv.

I guess the beauty of real life versus “reality show life” is that we get a chance to get better and to start over every day, for His mercies are “New every morning. Great is thy faithfulness.” I'm glad to choose a Divine Do-Over over being preserved in cable tv glory for all the world to see.

Plus, I have a really pointy nose. And no one needs to see that.

Put Through the Wringer

2009-10-15T19:37:00.000-07:00

So in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and my recent milestone birthday, I had a mammogram today.

I thought it would be a great idea to get this done in my local doctor’s office rather than the massive radiology building downtown. Of course I planned this well before I discovered this office has become the apparent world epicenter of the swine flu.

Half the patients in the waiting area were wearing face masks and there was much sneezing and hacking. I tried to fill out the paperwork using only my elbows so my hand wouldn’t touch the communal pen, but that proved difficult.

The magazine rack? Empty. A sign said: “Due to the large number of cases of swine flu (H1N1) we will not be providing magazines at the present time.” Eww. Not the kind of thing someone like me needs to read. After years of inner turmoil and debate I had almost convinced myself that it was okay to read magazines in doctors’ offices, at least in the supposed “well waiting” areas. No more. One step forward, two steps back.

Anyway, when it was time for my mammogram, as I stood there in all my (8 years post-breastfeeding, marble in a tube-sock) glory, the technician asked, with a straight face, “Do you have implants?” Now I know she was just following policy, akin to 7-11’s “We Card Anyone Under 100 years Old,” but STILL. If what the technician saw today had ever been touched by a plastic surgeon’s knife, there’d be a lawsuit out there with my name as plaintiff.

The actual smooshing? Worse than I remembered—by the time she took the pics my boobs were somewhere between the thickness of a toaster strudel and a frozen waffle-- but I’m glad I got it done.

I hope you’ll remember to make an appointment, too.

30 Days and 30 Nights

2009-10-13T19:51:00.001-07:00

No, not since I last updated this blog with any meaningful content.

That's the time that elapsed between when I realized Molly's hermit crab LuLu was dead and when she finally noticed.

In my defense, I discovered the dead crab the night before the first day of school. Not the best timing for weeping and gnashing of teeth. Remember the new school? The huge class size? The weeping blogger Mom in the cafeteria? The switch from plaid uniforms to go-go boots? The riding the bus for the first time? Yeah.

And it wasn't just Molly's reaction I was worried about. Jake hasn't turned on his ceiling fan in over a year, even though his room is down the hall from the crabs, because he read once that hermit crabs need a warm environment to survive. We've assured him that under no circumstances will his fan kill the crabs, but he's not buying it.

So, yeah, I tucked LuLu's leggy little self back into the shell, clamped my mouth shut really fast, and prayed the kids wouldn't notice her demise for a day or two. I had the utter pigsty of Molly's room going for me on this one.

The good news? The dead crab wasn't Smiley (the beloved crab we almost buried alive over a year ago ) and who appears to thrive on benign neglect. LuLu, the newer (and now departed) crab, apparently needed things like food, water, and attention. Diva.

Best line when Molly finally discovered LuLu's shriveled up body: "Mom, I think LuLu's dead. But it's okay, I didn't have that much time to get to know her anyway."

Yeah, like 30 days and 30 nights?

A Rootin' Tootin' Good Time

2009-10-09T13:35:00.000-07:00

I like to encourage Molly's creative spirit and spunk, but I may have taken a teeny weeny bit of offense when, during family movie night, she ran upstairs and returned with 3 face masks for Jake, Tom, and her cute little self.

Just because Mom might have had a little too much chili....sheesh!

p.s. This photo features her latest invention called "Comfiness on the Go." It has her blanket, pillow, tissue, snacks, and favorite pets right at her fingertips. For Christmas I think this girl needs a Snuggie.

Flashback Friday-- TMI

2009-10-09T11:53:00.000-07:00

For Flashback Friday, we're digging into the archives for a post about one of my favorite subjects-- The Gyno. Originally posted 10-13-08.

With school in session, I can take care of a lot of things I put off during the summer, things I don't want to have the kids around for. I'm thinking haircuts, doctors' appointments, the dentist. This has not always been the case. If you are an at-home mom with little ones, you have probably taken your kids lots of places you wish you hadn't. Even a trip to the grocery store can be a major pain.

I remember taking both kids to the gyno with me when they were little. This, of course, would not have been my first choice, but circumstances prevented my getting a sitter that day and off we went. Now a pregnancy visit is one thing-- pee in a cup, the weigh-in, a little feeling of the tummy. This was an annual exam.

The waiting room wasn't bad, although I wonder if a few of the pregnant women were self-righteously thinking, "MY kids will never act like that!"
Does this happen to you? When the waiting room time is over, you think you're close to seeing a doctor, but instead you are tucked into a tiny examining room, told to strip, and then you wait for a seemingly interminable length of time. Maybe it just seems long because of the lack of pants.

When you are on your own, you can artfully fold your little pile of clothes on a chair, pull the paper robe around you and read old copies of Good Housekeeping. With an 18 month and a three year old in tow, you are simply on germ and damage patrol.

Keeping order in such a small space was nearly impossible for me. Within seconds, my neat pile of clothes hit the floor and Molly started caressing the Sharps container. When I got her away from that, she tried to lick the stirrups. Ugh. Three year old Jake was easier to restrain. Sure, at one point he opened the door to expose me in my paper-gowned glory to folks in the hallway, but I actually think that helped get the doctor in sooner.

During my exam, Jake asked, "Mommy, why does that man have his hand in your bottom?" Yikes. I quickly thrust an old National Geographic at him. "Here, read about the pretty zebras." My exam was brief, to say the least, and after the doctor's hasty retreat, I retrieved my clothes from the floor and began to dress.

Jake soon had another question, "Mommy, why are these people all bloody?" Yep, zebras may have been on the cover, but the magazine was documenting a massacre, in full color.

For those of you in the throes of toddlerhood and preschool, I wish for you unencumbered visits to the gyno, the dentist, and maybe even to get a pedicure. The day will come when you can do all these things on your own again. I know we aren't to wish away our kids' childhoods, but I think in certain circumstances it's okay.

Am I Projecting Loudly Enough For You?

2009-10-07T11:35:00.000-07:00

So I woke up this morning pissed at the president. In my dream Barack Obama had dumped Michelle for a much younger and far inferior model. Instead of beating around the bush, “I did not have sex with that woman,” he immediately gave Michelle her walking papers and installed the young hussy in the White House.

I felt betrayed. What about all those “date nights?” The flirtatious dancing at the Inauguration? The fist bump that rocked a nation? Was it all a façade?

I love reading about history, but a lot I’ve read about presidential marriages upsets me. I liked the ideals of the Kennedy’s’ Camelot, and I LOVED the clothes. But the pill popping and sex swapping? Not my cup of tea!

I was hoping the Obamas would be different. Until last night.

Now you might wonder how Sasha and Malia figured into the dream. They didn’t even have a cameo. I think that MIGHT have been because a certain someone who had a milestone birthday this week, and who also likes to bare her arms in a fun sheath dress now and then, may have been relating solely with Michelle in this particular dream.

I mean that little hussy he brought in? Do I even need to describe her to you? A reality star wannabe? A celebrity in her own mind? So skinny and young she’d probably slip down the drain when she took a shower? A vapid vixen raised in the era of MySpace and “friends with benefits.” What was Barack thinking? Trading in Michelle, Princeton graduate, trailblazer, true partner and great mom for such a substandard replacement? Ugh.

I know Mr. Obama got a lot of female validation after those shirtless Hawaii photos came out. I know I certainly appreciated them. But no need to get so high on oneself you start to look elsewhere for a good time. Mr. President, we know Michelle’s been your rock in every way during the past 20 years. You need to get a grip.

I fully expect you to wise up and see the error of your ways. And to help, I’m turning in early tonight so you can start digging yourself out of this one.

Potential Pitfalls of Shopping Curbside?

2009-10-05T11:35:00.000-07:00

I don't have any new projects to show you right now, but I thought this comic strip captured the not so lovely underbelly of my favorite way to shop. I'll be sharing it with other dumpster divers and thrifters at A Soft Place to Land.

I'm sure garages are overrated anyway.

And for those of you who like before and afters, here are some of my curbside and thrift shop finds from elsewhere on this blog:

buffet

suede chair

dresser turned console

assorted dumpster dives

dining room table and chairs

dining room table and chairs

black bedside tables

Getting Older I Am

2009-10-03T12:08:00.000-07:00

I had been trying to figure out what my lips, complete with vertical wrinkes, looked like. Smoker's mouth? Marian the Librarian who had pursed one too many times?

Not quite.

Then my son and I spent a little quality screen time together last night:

It is all so clear now.

"An Inch of Gray Facebook Status Update Edition" OR, This Title is Longer Than This Post

2009-10-02T06:54:00.000-07:00

Anna See is wondering why, in all these piles of laundry, so few of the clothes are hers.

You've Got A Lot of 'Splaining to Do

2009-10-01T06:59:00.000-07:00

Tom’s and my all-time favorite show is “The Amazing Race.” Ever since the kids were little, Tom and I have watched it on Sunday nights and given them the play by play on Monday morning. By the end of the season, the kids have all sorts of opinions of who should win and why, but it’s sort of like old timey radio, since they aren’t actually watching with us.

Now that they are 10 and 8, we hoped we could watch as a family. Tom and I dvr-d the premiere to preview it. This show is modest by reality show standards--none of The Bachelor’s making out, bikinis, and “let’s take it to the next level” stuff --but there is cursing. Lots of frickin’ and freaking and crap and ass and even a bitch thrown in here and there. That was enough for us to veto the kids watching last season.

I know I would curse too if Tom and I were trying to race around the world for a million bucks-- we argue when we try to go downtown for dinner. Put me on a bus in India? I don’t even want to think of my reaction, but that doesn’t mean I want my kids to hear foul language.

Then there are the couples they choose. One year there was a controlling husband who seemed borderline abusive to his former Playmate wife. And each year, it seems, there’s a gay couple. Now before you go and call us haters, let me just say please don’t. We just don’t feel like having to do a lot of ‘splaining during our reality show escape. I didn’t feel like explaining the gravity defying, enormous boobs of several contestants last year, but that doesn’t mean I’m anti-implant.

If you’ve noticed with these reality shows, whichever way a couple has been labeled at the beginning comes back time and again throughout the competition. Last year we had a mother/son team in which the son was deaf. They’d show a competition and then cutaway to the mini-interview: “As a deaf person, how did today’s challenge effect you?”

I think it will be the same this year with an interracial couple, a team who has a member with Asperger’s, and the dating born again Christians. This painfully pretty couple, on one of their mini-interviews said, “We are committed to being chaste so we aren’t going to have sex before marriage.” I imagined sitting there with Jake and Molly. “Well, duh. Of COURSE they aren’t having sex, and none of these other people are either.” I mean, how many times this season will their sex life, or lack thereof, be mentioned?

So, even though the language in the first 5 minutes meant that we probably wouldn’t be watching this season as a family, we were wondering if we’d have more gay contestants. We’ve had the lesbian ministers (boring!), the stereotypical middle-aged gay couple who made a strategic mistake by choosing to stay in a quaint little resort celebrating how far ahead they were but ended up last. Last year we had the gay father/son. They were our faves and we hated to see them eliminated.

As they introduced the couples this season, “Inter-racial couple!” “Best Friends Since Childhood, one of whom has Aspergers!” “Married Yoginis” “Dating On and Off for Years—Will he Commit? (NO.), Professional Poker Players!”… we saw one more couple coming down the pike. They were male. They were young. They were hot and well groomed. Could it be? “Brothers!” Tom and I high-fived.

Cutaway to the mini interview: “So how did it feel to come out to each other as Gay Brothers?”

Oh well.

Mice Would be Nice

2009-09-30T11:10:00.001-07:00

While I am impressing you with my mad photography skills and aversion to touching things, I have another fun thing to show you.

During our quest for Chalk Ink at Michaels, the kids and I picked up this little kit from Martha Stewart for about 4 bucks. It took about 2 minutes to put them up with the sticky dots provided.

Before:

Here’s my blurry little mouse at the top of the stairs.

After:

Here’s the same staircase after we Halloweened it up a bit with these mouse (rat???) silhouettes.

They haven’t freaked any of us out yet.

Pumpkins, bad lighting, and dog hair optional.

Product Shout Out: Chalk Ink; OR, I Have Issues

2009-09-30T10:51:00.000-07:00

I love the look of chalkboard paint and chalk, but the thought of actually touching a piece of chalk sets my teeth on edge. I know, I’m a little bit weird. Don’t even get me started about how the pages of certain books feel or how I love to read the newspaper, but touch one? Not so much.

Anyway, this post isn’t about my sensory issues so much as to introduce you to a product I discovered while cruising blogs instead of sleeping the other night.

Cool product = Chalk Ink.

Chalk Ink flows freely like a paint pen and can be used on any non-porous surface. Chalkboards? Check. Mirrors, Check. Counter tops? Check. But seriously, would you really want to risk it?

Chalk Ink is what Starbucks and other businesses use on their blackboards and on those clear plastic signs.

Anyway, I tried them out on the little sticky chalkboards I have on the pantry door. The result? Although my crappy photos don't begin to do it justice-- clear, vibrant, non-smudgy (or dusty!) words that will stay there until I wash them off with water. There’s a product website, but I bought them at Michael’s.

The best part? I don’t get the heebie jeebies when I pick them up to use them.

The Final Countdown

2009-09-26T18:27:00.000-07:00

As our summer wound down, Jake said, “Mom, August is the Sunday of Summer.”

I wasn’t sure of what he meant, but he explained that rather than being able to enjoy August, the flurry of school supply shopping, haircuts, and general back to school angst generally put us into a funk, unable to savor a perfectly good month. Likewise, Sunday can be depressing because what a few hours before had been a weekend full of promise is now winding down all too quickly.

As a teacher, I could relate because I used to struggle mightily with both August and Sundays. Now that I have a “regular” job, I enjoy them both.

Here’s hoping you are able to live in the moment today, and that your Sunday doesn’t feel too much like “August.”

License to Spill?

2009-09-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

So I opened my email at work and saw a note from the principal, subject line: “Jake.” Now if it said, “5th Grade Party” or “Tuition Overdue,” my heart would not have jumped into my throat the way it did when I saw “Jake.”

A kid’s name in the subject line? Never good.

Turns out during lunch he was bumped, or jostled, or startled, or breathed on, or looked askance at by his tablemate, spilling his Danimals drinkable yogurt on his shirt. Jake’s reaction? To pour the remainder of the yogurt on his friend’s shirt.

A sincere apology by Jake, a talking to by the principal, a clean shirt for the friend, an email to mom, and some time to “think about it” have cleared things up, but it got me thinking.

When I was packing Jake’s lunch and had just taken the Danimals out of the fridge, I had a fleeting oogy feeling. Now I know you know I get these feelings.

“What is it?” I thought. “Is the sugar going to make him hyper?” Since I didn’t think a tad more sugar would kill him, and never did I imagine the “pouring it down your neighbor’s shirt scenario,” I plunked it into the bag.

Which leads me to consider, in light of this oogy feeling, was Jake destined to commit this yogurt-fueled crime? You see, I am a Christian and I believe God knows the exact number of hairs on my frizzy head. I believe he knows each thought in my mind and feeling in my heart before a word ever reaches my lips.

So I wonder did God, through his Spirit, send me a divine nudge or feeling, akin to (insert booming voice here) “Put down the yogurt Anna, before your beloved son sends it flying?”

Whenever I have paid attention to the nudges I feel, I’ve been blessed. The outcomes vary from making a new friend, avoiding dangerous situations, having the opportunity to help someone going through a hard time, or getting the chance to talk to someone about God. These nudges have often led to little miracles.

But Danimals?

I just don’t know. In addition to being a Christian, I was raised Presbyterian. Although we barely ever discuss it, Presbyterian doctrine has this whole predestination thing going on.

Sooooooo I ask you, was Jake predestined to chuck his Danimal? If so, why would God give me the oogy feeling in the first place? Was it so I could stop him, by replacing it with a nice, nearly solid Yoplait Thick and Creamy? And where does Jake’s free will, in this case the will to overreact and hurl food, come into play?

Has this post given anyone but me a headache yet?

I believe I am predestined to eat a pie tonight. Might as well get it over with.