Yesterday, I had lunch with a dear friend whom I see way too infrequently. Lunch stretched into an entire afternoon without a moment lost on small talk (except for the brief and necessary exchanges that are required after not seeing someone for a year. Me: "I love your short hair. When did you get a Prius?" Her: "Your hair is so blond!")
Michelle was one of the first people I met when I moved to Sacramento. She's also the reason that I started practicing yoga. I went to her Saturday morning classes at a downtown studio near my apartment and I was hooked. I don't know exactly when our friendship began to evolve outside of the studio. I married, had a baby, crossed paths with Michelle at another studio in town, separated from my husband, heard through the "yoga grapevine"that Michelle had opened her own studio, put off going to see her for a full year, read that she was having a one year anniversary party at the studio, and packed B up that morning to re-connect with her.
After the anniversary celebration, our friendship began to bloom. We planned yoga road trips and hit the road together in search of great yoga classes and vegan restaurants. We attended a conference together and exchanged notes and ideas after each session. We drove to Ojai and experienced a weekend that was sublime in every sense, from the magical yoga setting to the over-the-top food and endless shopping. It seems like we talked non-stop, on the drive there and back home and every moment in between (that is, when we weren't eating!).
I could devote an entire post to my gratitude towards Michelle and the awe that I have in her ability to draw people into her warm grace. She's talented, wise beyond her years, and genuinely engaged and interested in her large circle of yoga devotees. I always walk away from my time with her feeling inspired. Such was the case yesterday.
Towards the middle of our afternoon together, Michelle told me about a yoga retreat that she recently led in Costa Rica. Twenty-one people came together in the remote jungle at a secluded retreat center to practice twice daily and to enjoy quiet meditation and reflection, as well as the beauty of Costa Rica. Michelle coordinated the logistics, planned and taught the yoga classes, and dealt with all the complaints and issues that inevitably come up while traveling within a group in a foreign country. "And I had my own drama..." she began.
She went on to tell me that the accommodations, while being very adequate, were extremely open. That is, open to all the critters and creatures that inhabit the Costa Rican jungles. I personally love this about Costa Rica. Sure, Maui has beautiful beaches but have you ever seen a howler monkey outside your hotel room in Hawaii? Not likely. Costa Rica is a country to behold for its wildlife. From a safe distance, that is.
Michelle told me about the frogs, lizards and bugs that wandered into her tent cabin at all hours. And I should clarify here that a tent cabin is definitely not as rustic as it sounds. She even had her own private bathroom.
Anyway, here's the crux of the story. Michelle is taking her shower one morning before the day's first yoga class and her gaze wanders to the area above the faucet where she thinks that she sees a frog. "That's an interesting frog," she says to herself and turns around to grab the soap. Turning back toward the faucet, she casually glances up and as she puts it: "nearly shit my pants!" There, basking in the warm steam of her shower, is the "frog," which has morphed into an enormous scorpion, tail and all, in the space of a moment.
Any other female may have screamed bloody murder and ran out of the shower, shampoo still lathered up. But not Michelle. Keeping an eye on the scorpion, she quickly finished her shower, managing to get all the shampoo out of her hair (but I'm quite sure that she didn't do any kind of deep conditioning treatment!) and was on the yoga deck, ten minutes later, ready to lead class.
Michelle reported the scorpion siting to the retreat owner and then returned to her room in the afternoon to locate the spider. Gone. As easily as the scorpion had entered her life, it had slipped away.
Several retreat attendees took sympathy and offered to share their insect-free rooms for the next few evenings. She accepted their offers and was able to sleep more restfully.
Upon returning to her own room, several nights later, Michelle sent out a little telepathic message to the spider. Knowing Michelle it was something poetic and eloquent but let's just say it went something like this: "Look Scorpion, I know you're here with me. Let's just exist on our own sides of the room and respect each other's space."
Michelle didn't see the spider again until her birthday, which happened to fall on a day during the retreat. The retreat owner brought her an envelope. "Here is your gift," she said. She then added, "But you can't keep it."
Perplexed, Michelle looked in the envelope. I don't need to tell you what was inside.
The resort owner told Michelle that the spider had been killed earlier in the day and that it was, indeed, the largest scorpion that she had ever seen. "You wouldn't have died if it had bitten you," she stated. "But," she went on, "it would have been very painful."
I came home yesterday thinking about the scorpions in my own life and how if I can't get rid of them, I have to learn to peacefully co-exist with them.
Right now, there are a lot of hairy, nasty, ugly scorpions in my life. The whole situation of my mom moving in is kind of like a scorpion. Not that she's the scorpion, but it's less than ideal and certainly not how I envisioned things to be. B is definitely a scorpion right now. No question about that. Any child who gets up before 5am and spews venom on his tired and well-meaning mother is right up there with the most heinous of spiders. Romantic relationship (or lack thereof), financial struggles, demanding clients...they're all scorpions, in one way or another.
As is always the case, Michelle shared some of her brilliance with me and I came away with a piece of her in my heart and a lesson to be learned.
I'm going to go practice my Scorpion pose now. It is, in fact, the hardest of all yoga poses; one that I've never mastered but to no surprise, it is a pose that my friend, Michelle executes perfectly.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Gender Differences
One day last week, I had a slew of errands to run. My mom and B came with me. B burned out on the "to do" list once we had completed our grand tour of the local Wal-Mart. My mom sat in the backseat with him and proceeded to deploy various entertainment strategies while I ran in and out of Bed, Bath and Beyond, the health food store, and the hardware store. Things were getting a little unruly in the backseat which prompted my mom to ask: "Do you have anything I could read to him?"
"Sure," I said, rummaging through the gym gear on the floor of the passenger side. "Would you like Time magazine? Or perhaps US News? Maybe the Wall Street Journal?"
But what I actually came up with was quite different than the aforementioned publications. "Well, here's an issue of US Weekly. Wait, that's no good. Anna Nicole Smith is on the cover; that's old news. What else is here? Cosmo? No, I don't think that I want B learning about the 99 best sex tricks. In Style? Hmmm, that seems pretty harmless."
Mom and B began to peruse In Style and I could hear my mother saying things like, "All the girls in here have sparkly dresses. And high heels." "Long hair," B observed. This continued on for quite some time and then B asked, "Where are the men in this magazine?" To which my mom said, "I don't really see any yet." Flip, flip flip went the pages. And then:
"There's one," B stated. "I see one. Right there, THERE'S a man!"
I looked over my shoulder while my mom laughed out loud. And here is the "man" that B was pointing to:
Monday, April 6, 2009
Getting To Know My 5-Year-Old
When my ex recently dropped the news that he'd booked a trip to Maui and I'd be "on shift" for 12 days straight with B, including five full days of spring break, my initial reaction was nothing short of complete shock. Left to coordinate the details of child care, there were many times, initially, when the idea of parenting without much of a break seemed completely daunting.
Now I'm realizing what a gift K, my ex, gave me.
During the last six months, I've been so caught up in my relationship, my business, my sleeplessness, my mom moving in, my everything, that I've failed, in a small but profound way, to slow down and revel in the sweetness of my son.
Keeping a daily routine has been so much of my focus lately. Cover this time period while I work, be here at this time to get B from school, be sure to have homework completed by bed, etc etc etc. And somewhere in the midst of the coordinating and scheduling and negotiating, I stopped connecting with him in the way that I want to connect - as a mother to her son.
So over the last two weeks, I stopped and took some time to re-discover the lighthearted side of parenting. And to be fair, what I'm about to share may only be of interest to B's grandma. But at least I have some special times to reflect back on. Here is what I discovered about my son:
He cracks me up.
One night the dog jumped up on the couch, looked over at me, proceeded to turn twice and drop onto the cushion with the typical Lab look of, "I'm so dumb that I can do this right in front of you." B literally fell on the floor, clutching his stomach with laughter. He laughed so hard that he couldn't catch his breath. I laughed right along with him. The next day, he watched a monster truck show at my friend, Shelley's house. She has Dish, we do not. When we came home, B asked, "Mommy, can we please trade TVs with Shelley?" Funny boy, he is.
He's babyish and boyish, all at the same time.
We're walking out the door. I have my gym bag and files. B has his backpack and his lunch. I tell him to grab a water bottle on the way out. "I can't Mommy," he tells me. "I'm full of hands." The very same day I tell him we're going to McDonald's to play. Indignantly, he states, "I'm am TOO old to play there." Then, "But I will take a Happy Meal. Do you think I can get the Spiderman toy?" And later that night: "Mommy, tell me about the mistakes you've made." I ask, "The mistakes I've made today?" "No," he tells me. "The mistakes you've made in your LIFE." Really? Do Happy Meal toys and tales of divorce go together?
He is a hopelessly in love with the dog.
Molly, our Lab, could possibly be the best thing that's ever happened to B. Normally, the dog accompanies us on our trips back and forth from school. One day, I didn't have time to go and get the dog before pick-up. B and I are walking to the car, through the school parking lot. B peers in the back window. "Where's the girl?" he asks. And again: "Mommy, where's OUR girl?" At bedtime, he wants Molly in her bed. In his doorway. As I am leaving his room, it's become a custom for B to jump out of bed and say that he "needs one more pet of her soft ears." He then showers her nose with kisses and reiterates to me: "You WILL leave her there all night, right? And don't shut my door. I need to SEE her." Recently, he's started to tell me, "Molly is my favorite. You're my second favorite, but she's my first." I don't find this to be threatening at all. I love that he has bonded with her.
I get on his nerves as much as he gets on mine.
In an effort to break up the monotony of two long Saturdays, we had B's friend, Ean over. Ean and B played non-stop on both days. At the end of both Saturdays, after dropping Ean off, we had the same conversation in the car. B starts to cry. "Mommy, I love Ean. And I love Lauren. And all my playgroup friends. I want them to live with me. I don't want to play alone anymore." "But I'm here to play with you, honey, I remind him. "It's NOT the same," he tells me. "You are not as fun. You have too much work to do. I get tired of playing with you." Crying increases. "I just love my friends so much. Why can't one of them come and live with me?"
He's becoming frighteningly inquisitive.
I thought that the "mistakes" question was hard. Then he hit my mom with this: "Grandma Ghee, why doesn't the Easter bunny look like Sherman, the rabbit at school?" My mom chose the honest and direct approach: "Because it's not a rabbit at all. It's a man dressed in a costume." I think I need to apologize in advance to all the Kindergarten parents because this is news that B absolutely cannot keep to himself. At least Easter will have passed once school resumes.
He surprises me with his good behavior.
We have made it to church or "big church" as B knows it, several weeks in a row. We're up to one hour of sitting quietly in the pew, using a "church mouse" voice. Not one incident. Even when the entire contents of a Crayola art set (that would be approximately 118 crayons, 42 colored pencils, 19 pens, and one pair of scissors) came crashing to the floor. I think that the donut incentive is working out quite well.
I do believe that he loves me as much as I love him.
During my single parenting stint, I developed the worst cold/flu bug of all time. I cannot remember a time when I was so sick. I lost my voice for three days straight and coughed my lungs up, all the while blowing through two boxes of Klee-nex. B responded by making me get well cards and laying in bed with me. Then I developed tendinitis. The cards continued. And then the gifts came. Gifts from the school playground, also known as garbage to most people. Apparently, B now uses much of his recess time to search for treasures for his beloved mother. He covertly slips a rock, a used up sticker, a piece of rope into his pocket and then whispers to me at pick-up, "Mommy, I have another present for you."
About halfway into our stetch of time together, he said, "Mommy, I love the time I spend with you so much. I never want to leave you." I think my heart split open, wide open, at that moment, to the wondrous and limitless joys of motherhood. And I'm reminded, yet again, of the teeny, tiny window when this child will be mine to treasure for all of his sweetness.
Now I'm realizing what a gift K, my ex, gave me.
During the last six months, I've been so caught up in my relationship, my business, my sleeplessness, my mom moving in, my everything, that I've failed, in a small but profound way, to slow down and revel in the sweetness of my son.
Keeping a daily routine has been so much of my focus lately. Cover this time period while I work, be here at this time to get B from school, be sure to have homework completed by bed, etc etc etc. And somewhere in the midst of the coordinating and scheduling and negotiating, I stopped connecting with him in the way that I want to connect - as a mother to her son.
So over the last two weeks, I stopped and took some time to re-discover the lighthearted side of parenting. And to be fair, what I'm about to share may only be of interest to B's grandma. But at least I have some special times to reflect back on. Here is what I discovered about my son:
He cracks me up.
One night the dog jumped up on the couch, looked over at me, proceeded to turn twice and drop onto the cushion with the typical Lab look of, "I'm so dumb that I can do this right in front of you." B literally fell on the floor, clutching his stomach with laughter. He laughed so hard that he couldn't catch his breath. I laughed right along with him. The next day, he watched a monster truck show at my friend, Shelley's house. She has Dish, we do not. When we came home, B asked, "Mommy, can we please trade TVs with Shelley?" Funny boy, he is.
He's babyish and boyish, all at the same time.
We're walking out the door. I have my gym bag and files. B has his backpack and his lunch. I tell him to grab a water bottle on the way out. "I can't Mommy," he tells me. "I'm full of hands." The very same day I tell him we're going to McDonald's to play. Indignantly, he states, "I'm am TOO old to play there." Then, "But I will take a Happy Meal. Do you think I can get the Spiderman toy?" And later that night: "Mommy, tell me about the mistakes you've made." I ask, "The mistakes I've made today?" "No," he tells me. "The mistakes you've made in your LIFE." Really? Do Happy Meal toys and tales of divorce go together?
He is a hopelessly in love with the dog.
Molly, our Lab, could possibly be the best thing that's ever happened to B. Normally, the dog accompanies us on our trips back and forth from school. One day, I didn't have time to go and get the dog before pick-up. B and I are walking to the car, through the school parking lot. B peers in the back window. "Where's the girl?" he asks. And again: "Mommy, where's OUR girl?" At bedtime, he wants Molly in her bed. In his doorway. As I am leaving his room, it's become a custom for B to jump out of bed and say that he "needs one more pet of her soft ears." He then showers her nose with kisses and reiterates to me: "You WILL leave her there all night, right? And don't shut my door. I need to SEE her." Recently, he's started to tell me, "Molly is my favorite. You're my second favorite, but she's my first." I don't find this to be threatening at all. I love that he has bonded with her.
I get on his nerves as much as he gets on mine.
In an effort to break up the monotony of two long Saturdays, we had B's friend, Ean over. Ean and B played non-stop on both days. At the end of both Saturdays, after dropping Ean off, we had the same conversation in the car. B starts to cry. "Mommy, I love Ean. And I love Lauren. And all my playgroup friends. I want them to live with me. I don't want to play alone anymore." "But I'm here to play with you, honey, I remind him. "It's NOT the same," he tells me. "You are not as fun. You have too much work to do. I get tired of playing with you." Crying increases. "I just love my friends so much. Why can't one of them come and live with me?"
He's becoming frighteningly inquisitive.
I thought that the "mistakes" question was hard. Then he hit my mom with this: "Grandma Ghee, why doesn't the Easter bunny look like Sherman, the rabbit at school?" My mom chose the honest and direct approach: "Because it's not a rabbit at all. It's a man dressed in a costume." I think I need to apologize in advance to all the Kindergarten parents because this is news that B absolutely cannot keep to himself. At least Easter will have passed once school resumes.
He surprises me with his good behavior.
We have made it to church or "big church" as B knows it, several weeks in a row. We're up to one hour of sitting quietly in the pew, using a "church mouse" voice. Not one incident. Even when the entire contents of a Crayola art set (that would be approximately 118 crayons, 42 colored pencils, 19 pens, and one pair of scissors) came crashing to the floor. I think that the donut incentive is working out quite well.
I do believe that he loves me as much as I love him.
During my single parenting stint, I developed the worst cold/flu bug of all time. I cannot remember a time when I was so sick. I lost my voice for three days straight and coughed my lungs up, all the while blowing through two boxes of Klee-nex. B responded by making me get well cards and laying in bed with me. Then I developed tendinitis. The cards continued. And then the gifts came. Gifts from the school playground, also known as garbage to most people. Apparently, B now uses much of his recess time to search for treasures for his beloved mother. He covertly slips a rock, a used up sticker, a piece of rope into his pocket and then whispers to me at pick-up, "Mommy, I have another present for you."
About halfway into our stetch of time together, he said, "Mommy, I love the time I spend with you so much. I never want to leave you." I think my heart split open, wide open, at that moment, to the wondrous and limitless joys of motherhood. And I'm reminded, yet again, of the teeny, tiny window when this child will be mine to treasure for all of his sweetness.
Friday, April 3, 2009
My Newest Fashion Accessory
I wish that I could take a picture of the lovely new boot that I acquired today, but I dropped my camera and broke it as I was attempting to hobble into my home last night after a day of limping around the Stockton Childrens Museum.
The boot is very tall...tall boots are in vogue right now, right? And gray. With three velrco straps. Oh, and an inflater to ensure the perect fit. And I'm sure that it's worth a lot of money or at least my insurance company will say it is, once I get the bill for it next month.
I have tendonitis. In my anterior tibialisis. Which is right around my ankle; a very unusual place to get tendonitis, or so says the orthopedic physican who examined my leg today.
"You are a special one," he told me. "Uhhh, thank you?" I replied. Then: "Now quit charming me and please fill the syringe with cortisone right now and make this excrutiating pain, which is now radiating up to my knee and causing me to lose a lot of money because I can't stand/walk/ hardly breath - go away." "Ahhhhhh, welllllll, no," he said, "Too risky for that tendon. Strange place for tendonitis. Are you a hurdler?" "No, I'm a walker," I replied. "I only hurdle when my dog pukes in the house and I need to jump over the mess." "Special, indeed," he said.
No injection for me. Instead, I have the god-awful ski boot, an appointment for a MRI and a referal for several weeks worth of physical therapy. At least he gave me some decent painkillers. Anything rated for "severe" pain is bound to be good, right?
Hard to believe that today I am supposed to be on a plane, bound for Florida with S and his kids, to spend six days at Disney. At least I now have a legitimate reason for not going. And a doctor's note too.
Truth be told, there were a number of reasons that I couldn't go, notwithstanding the fact that S and I broke up. First, there was the nasty flu bug that ripped my vocal cords out. Then, the hours of work that I missed since you actually have to have a "working" voice to do my job. And let's not forget the camera incident...who goes to Disney without a camera? Now this - the inability to walk more than ten steps without falling to my knees and begging God for mercy.
On a happier note, my stepmom went along with the original plan to take B for two nights, despite the cancelled Disney trip, thus giving me a much needed break from my loooooonnnnggggg stint of single parenting. And the Childrens Museum was quite a hit. That place is one redeeming quality of god-awful Stockton. B had a grand time, documented by my now defunct Olympus and is now talking my stepmom into hours of television time, lots of spending in the toy aisle and nights out for pizza.
So for my "night off", I popped in a Netflix without consulting the title. "Nights In Rodanthe." I'm going to say-god awful for the third time in this post. I must have put the movie in my queue for Mom because no way would I waste two precious child free hours on that train wreck. Especially on the heels of a break-up. Note to self: read reviews before placing movies in queue and certainly consult the title of selected DVD before committing two hours of your life to mindless Hollywood crap.
My life kinda resembles The Twilight Zone this week. And now I get to tromp around in a ski boot and hope that I get lots and lots of sympathy.
The boot is very tall...tall boots are in vogue right now, right? And gray. With three velrco straps. Oh, and an inflater to ensure the perect fit. And I'm sure that it's worth a lot of money or at least my insurance company will say it is, once I get the bill for it next month.
I have tendonitis. In my anterior tibialisis. Which is right around my ankle; a very unusual place to get tendonitis, or so says the orthopedic physican who examined my leg today.
"You are a special one," he told me. "Uhhh, thank you?" I replied. Then: "Now quit charming me and please fill the syringe with cortisone right now and make this excrutiating pain, which is now radiating up to my knee and causing me to lose a lot of money because I can't stand/walk/ hardly breath - go away." "Ahhhhhh, welllllll, no," he said, "Too risky for that tendon. Strange place for tendonitis. Are you a hurdler?" "No, I'm a walker," I replied. "I only hurdle when my dog pukes in the house and I need to jump over the mess." "Special, indeed," he said.
No injection for me. Instead, I have the god-awful ski boot, an appointment for a MRI and a referal for several weeks worth of physical therapy. At least he gave me some decent painkillers. Anything rated for "severe" pain is bound to be good, right?
Hard to believe that today I am supposed to be on a plane, bound for Florida with S and his kids, to spend six days at Disney. At least I now have a legitimate reason for not going. And a doctor's note too.
Truth be told, there were a number of reasons that I couldn't go, notwithstanding the fact that S and I broke up. First, there was the nasty flu bug that ripped my vocal cords out. Then, the hours of work that I missed since you actually have to have a "working" voice to do my job. And let's not forget the camera incident...who goes to Disney without a camera? Now this - the inability to walk more than ten steps without falling to my knees and begging God for mercy.
On a happier note, my stepmom went along with the original plan to take B for two nights, despite the cancelled Disney trip, thus giving me a much needed break from my loooooonnnnggggg stint of single parenting. And the Childrens Museum was quite a hit. That place is one redeeming quality of god-awful Stockton. B had a grand time, documented by my now defunct Olympus and is now talking my stepmom into hours of television time, lots of spending in the toy aisle and nights out for pizza.
So for my "night off", I popped in a Netflix without consulting the title. "Nights In Rodanthe." I'm going to say-god awful for the third time in this post. I must have put the movie in my queue for Mom because no way would I waste two precious child free hours on that train wreck. Especially on the heels of a break-up. Note to self: read reviews before placing movies in queue and certainly consult the title of selected DVD before committing two hours of your life to mindless Hollywood crap.
My life kinda resembles The Twilight Zone this week. And now I get to tromp around in a ski boot and hope that I get lots and lots of sympathy.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Naivety
Getting B to church this morning was not going to happen without some major incentives. I haven't taken him since December and all he seems to remember is that his kindergarten Sunday School class is "too much like my 'real' kindergarten class."
My church has adopted a very forward-thinking curriculum for children; unfortunately for B, it's modeled after Montessori, which to him is "way too much job time."
Nevertheless, we arrived to church armed with stencils, crayons, a drawing board and a pack of gum. "But what is my real prize for going? asked B. "It's good for you," I tell him. "You can't see the rewards of going to church. But I will get you a treat when we're done IF you're good. Something you haven't had before. Well, maybe you've had this at your dad's but you definitely haven't had it at my house."
"What is it?" inquired young B.
"A donut," I replied.
"What's that?" he asked.
Cut to an hour later and a mad dash out before Communion. Donut store on J Street. My big-eyed boy was enchanted. He got the last rainbow sprinkled donut and then said to the girl at Starbucks: "Wow, this is the best bagel I've ever had!" And then:
"When can we go back to church?"
My church has adopted a very forward-thinking curriculum for children; unfortunately for B, it's modeled after Montessori, which to him is "way too much job time."
Nevertheless, we arrived to church armed with stencils, crayons, a drawing board and a pack of gum. "But what is my real prize for going? asked B. "It's good for you," I tell him. "You can't see the rewards of going to church. But I will get you a treat when we're done IF you're good. Something you haven't had before. Well, maybe you've had this at your dad's but you definitely haven't had it at my house."
"What is it?" inquired young B.
"A donut," I replied.
"What's that?" he asked.
Cut to an hour later and a mad dash out before Communion. Donut store on J Street. My big-eyed boy was enchanted. He got the last rainbow sprinkled donut and then said to the girl at Starbucks: "Wow, this is the best bagel I've ever had!" And then:
"When can we go back to church?"
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
10 Signs That The Vacation Is, Most Certainly, OVER.
1.) On the long leg of the trip home, you are seated near a woman who is traveling with two babies under the age of 14 months. The babies cry in unison as the plane boards which stirs up the rest of the children on the flight, prompting you to ask your boyfriend: "Didn't you request a no crying flight?" To which he replies, "They're like dogs. Once one starts, they all join in."
2.) The babies take turn crying though out the flight. The mother deploys questionable calming tactics such as tickling and offering the older baby swigs of her Pepsi. Thankfully, the woman sitting across from the young mother takes pity and offers to hold the babies. You watch, incredulously, as they trade wailing babies throughout the flight and feel somewhat guilty that you feel no desire to help out whatsoever.
3.) Several hours into the whining and flying, you are convinced that deep vein thrombosis is setting into your legs and that the plane must be experiencing gale force head winds because how on Earth could we not be there yet? You ask your boyfriend how much longer. "Did we miss Sacramento?" you wonder aloud. "Did we mistakenly board a flight to Hawaii?" He tells you it's at least another hour.
4.) The babies cry on and you wonder, for the hundredth time, why this young mother has not brought "Mommy's Little Helper," also known as Benadryl, on board.
5.) You realize that your own "Little Helper," also known as Zanax, is packed away in your checked luggage.
6.) Upon arrival, you wait for the luggage as your boyfriend goes to retrieve the car. You are the last person standing at the carousel as you call him on his cell phone. "Ummm, honey, your golf bag is nowhere to be found."
7.) You take the wheel of your boyfriend's car and begin to circle the airport, as he attempts to locate his golf clubs, which you are pretty sure, are worth more than your own car. You proceed to circle four times. It's midnight.
8.) Arriving home, there are no less than seven sticky notes scattered throughout your house containing information such as "the dog has an ear infection" to "I cleared two shelves in the garage for my things" and "plastic baggies are now located HERE (insert arrow). Did I mention that my mom is moving in?
9.) Monday morning brings a slew of clients, an hour of continuing education, and two eggs - dropped off by your mom - since you have no time for the grocery store. Then it's off to Kindergarten pick-up where you learn of the next new project: construct a model of the Sistine Chapel; and the upcoming parent volunteering "opportunity": flip pancakes at the Kindergarten breakfast. You call your ex and start delegating responsibility.
10.) The effects of crossing three time zones in three days and changing to Daylight Savings Time definitely begin to show when, at bedtime, you are reminded that B did not do his nightly homework. You haul him back out of bed and begin a lengthy debate over whether "the tot is on the dot" or "the dot is on the tot." You finally concede and realize that he is, indeed right, and that "the tot is most definitely on damn the dot." You wonder why they are teaching the word "tot" in Kindergarten and think that your son is certainly not 5-going-on-85 and vow to never use the word in your home.
And for the silver lining:
11.) One sleeping pill does the trick and you sleep for a solid six hours!!
2.) The babies take turn crying though out the flight. The mother deploys questionable calming tactics such as tickling and offering the older baby swigs of her Pepsi. Thankfully, the woman sitting across from the young mother takes pity and offers to hold the babies. You watch, incredulously, as they trade wailing babies throughout the flight and feel somewhat guilty that you feel no desire to help out whatsoever.
3.) Several hours into the whining and flying, you are convinced that deep vein thrombosis is setting into your legs and that the plane must be experiencing gale force head winds because how on Earth could we not be there yet? You ask your boyfriend how much longer. "Did we miss Sacramento?" you wonder aloud. "Did we mistakenly board a flight to Hawaii?" He tells you it's at least another hour.
4.) The babies cry on and you wonder, for the hundredth time, why this young mother has not brought "Mommy's Little Helper," also known as Benadryl, on board.
5.) You realize that your own "Little Helper," also known as Zanax, is packed away in your checked luggage.
6.) Upon arrival, you wait for the luggage as your boyfriend goes to retrieve the car. You are the last person standing at the carousel as you call him on his cell phone. "Ummm, honey, your golf bag is nowhere to be found."
7.) You take the wheel of your boyfriend's car and begin to circle the airport, as he attempts to locate his golf clubs, which you are pretty sure, are worth more than your own car. You proceed to circle four times. It's midnight.
8.) Arriving home, there are no less than seven sticky notes scattered throughout your house containing information such as "the dog has an ear infection" to "I cleared two shelves in the garage for my things" and "plastic baggies are now located HERE (insert arrow). Did I mention that my mom is moving in?
9.) Monday morning brings a slew of clients, an hour of continuing education, and two eggs - dropped off by your mom - since you have no time for the grocery store. Then it's off to Kindergarten pick-up where you learn of the next new project: construct a model of the Sistine Chapel; and the upcoming parent volunteering "opportunity": flip pancakes at the Kindergarten breakfast. You call your ex and start delegating responsibility.
10.) The effects of crossing three time zones in three days and changing to Daylight Savings Time definitely begin to show when, at bedtime, you are reminded that B did not do his nightly homework. You haul him back out of bed and begin a lengthy debate over whether "the tot is on the dot" or "the dot is on the tot." You finally concede and realize that he is, indeed right, and that "the tot is most definitely on damn the dot." You wonder why they are teaching the word "tot" in Kindergarten and think that your son is certainly not 5-going-on-85 and vow to never use the word in your home.
And for the silver lining:
11.) One sleeping pill does the trick and you sleep for a solid six hours!!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wordle Magic
My friend Kirsten, who inspired me to start blogging, provided this great new way to waste time. It is Wordle: http://www.wordle.net/
Basically, you type your blog name into their site and somehow, magically a bunch of words that you commonly use while writing will come together in a rather cool image. By the looks of what Wordle created for me, I'd say that the theme of my blog would probably be something along the lines of: "One single mom who has too much to think about, with not enough time in the day and litle sleep at night." Those Wordle folks are pretty brilliant.
Check it out:
Now I have to go kill some more time by trying this with my Luscious blog.
Basically, you type your blog name into their site and somehow, magically a bunch of words that you commonly use while writing will come together in a rather cool image. By the looks of what Wordle created for me, I'd say that the theme of my blog would probably be something along the lines of: "One single mom who has too much to think about, with not enough time in the day and litle sleep at night." Those Wordle folks are pretty brilliant.
Check it out:
Now I have to go kill some more time by trying this with my Luscious blog.
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