I can imagine how many sports fanatics clicked on this link, especially in the wake of the Morehead State victory over Louisville...unfortunately as they and you, reader, are about to find out, I'm not blogging about anything to do with points, a field, and balls.
Nope, this blog is about THE BLUES. As in sadness. Down in the dumps. That cruddy feeling you just can't shake.
I've had the blues periodically throughout life...as a teenager after a break-up...or after a possible relationship fell through (which happened more than I care to admit. I know what you're thinking- Tracee? Someone didn't want to date Tracee? I know, right? I'm totally awesome).
After I had Ivy, I had a touch of them. The "baby blues." The "oh my gosh, what did I just do letting this little stranger into my house" sads. But they passed really quickly and I was smitten with my little girlie.
When I had Story, I had them bad. I had the "can I really take my baby to the fire department and drop her off no questions asked?" bad. It didn't help that she cried all the time either. Apparently, she just wasn't that into me. But, eventually we made up, and it's a good thing because she's just about as awesome as I am.
But lately, I've had them with increasing frequency, which is odd. Aren't people supposed to be less depressed after winter leaves? Isn't the sunshine supposed to make me happy? I only have two months until summer- shouldn't I be giddy?
But I'm not, and I'm not sure why...it's not like kids keep asking me if I'm pregnant or anything. Oh, wait...they do.
Well, it's not like I've gained 20 pounds in the last year...oh, wait, I have. Am I that petty? Possibly.
At least gas isn't like over $3 a gallon prohibiting me from going on trips to see friends and family...
And I could be one of those unlucky people who has a summer of crazy yard work ahead of her...
And my property taxes could be exorbitant...
And I could have had to sell the car I loved this past year...
And I could be faced with the daunting task of having to replace all my summer clothes due to a large weight gain that's not in the budget...
Wow. I'm not sure writing IS the best therapy. Just a couple of these are enough to worry about...all of them together...maybe that's why I'm down?
Most of this, however, is petty. I'm healthy, the kids are healthy, we have jobs, a roof, cars to drive (although gas to put in them is questionable). So, I'm pretty thankful, even if I am a bit blue. =)
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Story and Hat Day
I'm always trying to walk the fine line between having my kids stick out enough to be special, and then be like their classmates enough to blend in. And I'm always trying to avoid being like my mom on dress-up days.
See, my mom (bless her heart) could take a fun day like "hippie day" and turn it into the worst day of my life. Mom would get so excited, spending an hour or two planning out every detail of my wardrobe on hippie day, pulling out all of her old bell bottoms and suits and shoes and jewelry. We'd straighten my hair, draw a peace sign on my face, and she'd send me off to school...where everyone else had just put on a tie-dyed shirt. If I'd been the person I am today, I would have tried to rock it, but at thirteen I wanted to blend more than anything.
So, this is the dilemma I am faced with when I dress my kids up. How can I guess what the other kids will be doing? How can I make sure no one will laugh at my girls?
Today was hat day at Story's daycare in celebration of Dr. Suess. My plan was to send her in Ivy's "Cat in the Hat" hat.
Except we couldn't find it this morning. I searched, Ivy searched, my husband looked, Story ran around looking forlorn. It was nowhere. So, I used my powers of persuasion to get her to wear the only other hat I could find: a Santa hat. She was on board, life was good.
Then, on my way to work, I got the call from my husband, who informed me that all of the other little girls in Story's class were wearing pink ball caps with Dora and other assorted girly characters on them. I felt so bad as he described how she took the hat off and put it in her cubby. As he told me in detail the look on her face, I hung up, feeling worse than ever.
I dialed the daycare, and while talking to her teacher, I was convinced that I had to rectify this situation. I called in to work, made what was probably a highly illegal U-turn, and hightailed it to Wal-mart. I parked in the first space I saw, ran in, and bought a $7 Barbie ball cap. I ran back outside, realized I was in a handicapped spot and was getting dirty looks from a woman walking past my car, so I tried to limp a little. I know- lame.
I drove straight to the daycare, spun my tires in the lot pulling in, and ran into the building waving the cap proudly. I walked breathlessly into Story's classroom where everyone, teachers and kids alike, looked at me like I was nuts.
"Here! Story! Here's a new hat!" I cried. She reluctantly put down her toy at the insistence of her teachers and walked over to me, looking at me like I was some kind of alien.
I held the hat out to her and said, "Is this better than the Santa hat?"
She regarded me coolly for a moment, then reached in her cubby and brought out the Santa hat. I took it from her hands, and pushed the Barbie cap into them. "Try it on!" I urged. "Want me to put it on your head?"
She shook her head, took the cap out of my grasp, and placed it in her cubby where the Santa hat had been, Then, she ran back to the corner.
Stunned, I called, "Story! Want a hug?" She stomped back and gave me a half-hearted hug, and went back to her toys without another glance.
"It's okay," the teacher told me, "She's just not used to you being here right now."
That might be true, but I just know I've already scarred her for life.
See, my mom (bless her heart) could take a fun day like "hippie day" and turn it into the worst day of my life. Mom would get so excited, spending an hour or two planning out every detail of my wardrobe on hippie day, pulling out all of her old bell bottoms and suits and shoes and jewelry. We'd straighten my hair, draw a peace sign on my face, and she'd send me off to school...where everyone else had just put on a tie-dyed shirt. If I'd been the person I am today, I would have tried to rock it, but at thirteen I wanted to blend more than anything.
So, this is the dilemma I am faced with when I dress my kids up. How can I guess what the other kids will be doing? How can I make sure no one will laugh at my girls?
Today was hat day at Story's daycare in celebration of Dr. Suess. My plan was to send her in Ivy's "Cat in the Hat" hat.
Except we couldn't find it this morning. I searched, Ivy searched, my husband looked, Story ran around looking forlorn. It was nowhere. So, I used my powers of persuasion to get her to wear the only other hat I could find: a Santa hat. She was on board, life was good.
Then, on my way to work, I got the call from my husband, who informed me that all of the other little girls in Story's class were wearing pink ball caps with Dora and other assorted girly characters on them. I felt so bad as he described how she took the hat off and put it in her cubby. As he told me in detail the look on her face, I hung up, feeling worse than ever.
I dialed the daycare, and while talking to her teacher, I was convinced that I had to rectify this situation. I called in to work, made what was probably a highly illegal U-turn, and hightailed it to Wal-mart. I parked in the first space I saw, ran in, and bought a $7 Barbie ball cap. I ran back outside, realized I was in a handicapped spot and was getting dirty looks from a woman walking past my car, so I tried to limp a little. I know- lame.
I drove straight to the daycare, spun my tires in the lot pulling in, and ran into the building waving the cap proudly. I walked breathlessly into Story's classroom where everyone, teachers and kids alike, looked at me like I was nuts.
"Here! Story! Here's a new hat!" I cried. She reluctantly put down her toy at the insistence of her teachers and walked over to me, looking at me like I was some kind of alien.
I held the hat out to her and said, "Is this better than the Santa hat?"
She regarded me coolly for a moment, then reached in her cubby and brought out the Santa hat. I took it from her hands, and pushed the Barbie cap into them. "Try it on!" I urged. "Want me to put it on your head?"
She shook her head, took the cap out of my grasp, and placed it in her cubby where the Santa hat had been, Then, she ran back to the corner.
Stunned, I called, "Story! Want a hug?" She stomped back and gave me a half-hearted hug, and went back to her toys without another glance.
"It's okay," the teacher told me, "She's just not used to you being here right now."
That might be true, but I just know I've already scarred her for life.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Naked Girls Club
If you were expecting a blog about naked people, or maybe a funny story about how my kids run around in the nude, I'm sorry to disappoint you.
This blog is about....dolls. Did you know that I live in a strictly enforced doll nudist colony?
Any time my girls encounter a doll with clothes on, they feel it's their right...no, that it's a compulsive need to strip it down to the plastic it was born in.
It doesn't matter if the doll is large, or the size of a coin, they will attempt to de-clothe it immediately. Barbies, babies, Polly Pockets, Teddy Ruxpin. Nothing in our house born a doll is spared.
Sometimes, they even take off doll clothes that weren't meant to come off. I remember a hand sized baby that was holding a bear. The bear was sewn to the baby's hands, but also to its chest, straight through the purple sleeper it was wearing. The last time I saw that baby, its sleeper was pulled as far over the bear as humanly possible. It's been that way for over a year.
The only reason Flynn Rider still has his pants on is because they are painted on his legs. And I wouldn't be surprised to see one of them chewing the paint off one day.
Occasionally, the dolls are allowed to wear clothes in the course of a game. My professional doll strippers can't seem to figure out how to get the clothes back on though. So, after a hard day of dressing dolls, I sometimes encourage the nakedness.
Polly Pocket and Barbie are the worst. Not only does Story like to undress them, but she also likes to chew on their hands, making any attempt at putting the clothes back on near impossible.
Maybe this means my girls are just interested in fashion. Or ER nursing. Maybe I don't need to worry about their future careers as exotic dancers or nude colonists.
This blog is about....dolls. Did you know that I live in a strictly enforced doll nudist colony?
Any time my girls encounter a doll with clothes on, they feel it's their right...no, that it's a compulsive need to strip it down to the plastic it was born in.
It doesn't matter if the doll is large, or the size of a coin, they will attempt to de-clothe it immediately. Barbies, babies, Polly Pockets, Teddy Ruxpin. Nothing in our house born a doll is spared.
Sometimes, they even take off doll clothes that weren't meant to come off. I remember a hand sized baby that was holding a bear. The bear was sewn to the baby's hands, but also to its chest, straight through the purple sleeper it was wearing. The last time I saw that baby, its sleeper was pulled as far over the bear as humanly possible. It's been that way for over a year.
The only reason Flynn Rider still has his pants on is because they are painted on his legs. And I wouldn't be surprised to see one of them chewing the paint off one day.
Occasionally, the dolls are allowed to wear clothes in the course of a game. My professional doll strippers can't seem to figure out how to get the clothes back on though. So, after a hard day of dressing dolls, I sometimes encourage the nakedness.
Polly Pocket and Barbie are the worst. Not only does Story like to undress them, but she also likes to chew on their hands, making any attempt at putting the clothes back on near impossible.
Maybe this means my girls are just interested in fashion. Or ER nursing. Maybe I don't need to worry about their future careers as exotic dancers or nude colonists.
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Toothpaste, Story
Like the fabulous mommy I am, I have no idea when I am supposed to start letting my kids have real toothpaste instead of the swallowable kind (you know, with Thomas the Train Engine on it?)
At some point that I can't remember, I talked Ivy into using real toothpaste. (Well, kind of real...it tastes like bubble gum and has a picture of Dora on the tube.) I made her rinse with a cup of water after every brush so she wouldn't get a bunch in her mouth and swallow it. She took to it extremely well, trusting that her mommy was right in all things. She followed my instructions exactly and now brushes her teeth with finesse. She prefers the toothpaste that "doesn't taste like minty gum."
Story, on the other hand, never ever ever trusts her mommy about anything. She worries constantly, reminding me how to do things if I vary from the norm ever so slightly.
So, you can imagine what happened when I tried to persuade her to use Ivy's toothpaste a couple of months ago. She said, very simply, "No."
So, I pushed a little. She screamed, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" So I gave it up for a week. All week long, I talked about what a good girl Ivy was for brushing her teeth with the "good girl" toothpaste. Story didn't care.
After the week was up, I tried it again. This time I got the brush in her mouth and on her teeth before she realized what was happening. But, when she did, she gagged and screamed at the same time. I pulled the brush out immediately and Story did her impression of an exorcism by turning red, convulsing, and spraying toothpaste and spit in a wide arc around the bathroom.
I waited a couple of days this time. I tried again after her bath one night, using the smallest drop of toothpaste I could. The gagging, crying, and spitting ensued, but this time I wasn't fooled by the act. I persevered, forcing her to open her mouth so I could wiggle the toothbrush around a bit and feel like I'd accomplished something.
For several weeks, this power struggle continued. In the morning, I let her use the baby toothpaste, but after her bath, the battle was on. You'd think it would have gotten less traumatic after a couple of days, but Story has unheard of staying power. I hope she uses powers for good and not evil one day.
Now, she uses the "big girl" toothpaste at ever brushing. She still gags. Sometimes she cries and turns red, but at least we're not wrestling anymore. I'm assuming that she'll grow out of this by the time she's in college.
At some point that I can't remember, I talked Ivy into using real toothpaste. (Well, kind of real...it tastes like bubble gum and has a picture of Dora on the tube.) I made her rinse with a cup of water after every brush so she wouldn't get a bunch in her mouth and swallow it. She took to it extremely well, trusting that her mommy was right in all things. She followed my instructions exactly and now brushes her teeth with finesse. She prefers the toothpaste that "doesn't taste like minty gum."
Story, on the other hand, never ever ever trusts her mommy about anything. She worries constantly, reminding me how to do things if I vary from the norm ever so slightly.
So, you can imagine what happened when I tried to persuade her to use Ivy's toothpaste a couple of months ago. She said, very simply, "No."
So, I pushed a little. She screamed, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" So I gave it up for a week. All week long, I talked about what a good girl Ivy was for brushing her teeth with the "good girl" toothpaste. Story didn't care.
After the week was up, I tried it again. This time I got the brush in her mouth and on her teeth before she realized what was happening. But, when she did, she gagged and screamed at the same time. I pulled the brush out immediately and Story did her impression of an exorcism by turning red, convulsing, and spraying toothpaste and spit in a wide arc around the bathroom.
I waited a couple of days this time. I tried again after her bath one night, using the smallest drop of toothpaste I could. The gagging, crying, and spitting ensued, but this time I wasn't fooled by the act. I persevered, forcing her to open her mouth so I could wiggle the toothbrush around a bit and feel like I'd accomplished something.
For several weeks, this power struggle continued. In the morning, I let her use the baby toothpaste, but after her bath, the battle was on. You'd think it would have gotten less traumatic after a couple of days, but Story has unheard of staying power. I hope she uses powers for good and not evil one day.
Now, she uses the "big girl" toothpaste at ever brushing. She still gags. Sometimes she cries and turns red, but at least we're not wrestling anymore. I'm assuming that she'll grow out of this by the time she's in college.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The correlation between the day of the week and the cleanliness of my house
During the weekend, I clean like none other. Vacuuming, mopping, dishes, laundry, dusting, organizing, and toy removal.
I'm not sure why I feel the need to do this. It's not like it will ever be done....there will never be a point at which I sit down and say, "Wow. There's nothing else to do." Unlike God, there will never be that seventh day of rest in which everything I have done is perfect and finished.
But for some reason I persevere. Some involuntary part of me thinks the week will go better if it starts with a clean house.
Assuming I finished the clean-a-thon by Sunday evening, on Monday evening, I cook dinner and marvel at how clean everything is. In order to preserve it, I wash dishes as I cook and I carefully straighten every room before I go to bed.
On Tuesday, I attempt to unload and reload the dishwasher, but some dishes remain in the sink. The girls' rooms probably have toys strewn about, and I've not put away some of my bathroom products.
Wednesday evening, the house goes crazy. Somehow while I'm giving lessons, every toy manages to hop out of the toybox and onto the carpet. No dish gets washed because no dinner dish makes it from the table to the sink. Clothes jump out of closets and hampers. Beds aren't made. Clean towels end up on the floor. Even though there is no mud within 10000 feet of the house, the dog will leave muddy footprints all over the floor.
Thursday is our busiest evening of the week. I'm gone and the girls come home with their Daddy. They totally take advantage of him by bringing toys into every room that doesn't usually contain them (and these aren't regular toys- oh, no, they are my nemeses Polly Pocket and Littlest Pet Shop, which are hard to clean up when the mess is centralized). Somehow beds that aren't made become destroyed. Blankets are pulled out of baskets and laid throughout the house. When I come home, I try to immediately go to bed. I can't take sitting in the nightmare that was my clean house.
Friday after school, I don my tennis shoes and jogging pants and get to work. I try to focus on decluttering one room at a time, but in the end, I'm doing laps from one end of the house to the other putting stuff away. It usually takes me several hours...and no real cleaning is happening. Every thing's just going back in its place. Hey, at least it's exercise, right?
And Saturday morning, the cycle begins again.
I'm not sure why I feel the need to do this. It's not like it will ever be done....there will never be a point at which I sit down and say, "Wow. There's nothing else to do." Unlike God, there will never be that seventh day of rest in which everything I have done is perfect and finished.
But for some reason I persevere. Some involuntary part of me thinks the week will go better if it starts with a clean house.
Assuming I finished the clean-a-thon by Sunday evening, on Monday evening, I cook dinner and marvel at how clean everything is. In order to preserve it, I wash dishes as I cook and I carefully straighten every room before I go to bed.
On Tuesday, I attempt to unload and reload the dishwasher, but some dishes remain in the sink. The girls' rooms probably have toys strewn about, and I've not put away some of my bathroom products.
Wednesday evening, the house goes crazy. Somehow while I'm giving lessons, every toy manages to hop out of the toybox and onto the carpet. No dish gets washed because no dinner dish makes it from the table to the sink. Clothes jump out of closets and hampers. Beds aren't made. Clean towels end up on the floor. Even though there is no mud within 10000 feet of the house, the dog will leave muddy footprints all over the floor.
Thursday is our busiest evening of the week. I'm gone and the girls come home with their Daddy. They totally take advantage of him by bringing toys into every room that doesn't usually contain them (and these aren't regular toys- oh, no, they are my nemeses Polly Pocket and Littlest Pet Shop, which are hard to clean up when the mess is centralized). Somehow beds that aren't made become destroyed. Blankets are pulled out of baskets and laid throughout the house. When I come home, I try to immediately go to bed. I can't take sitting in the nightmare that was my clean house.
Friday after school, I don my tennis shoes and jogging pants and get to work. I try to focus on decluttering one room at a time, but in the end, I'm doing laps from one end of the house to the other putting stuff away. It usually takes me several hours...and no real cleaning is happening. Every thing's just going back in its place. Hey, at least it's exercise, right?
And Saturday morning, the cycle begins again.
Monday, January 17, 2011
My house, the stranger
I end up traveling. A lot. Especially for someone who doesn't like to leave the house.
Many of my forays into the outside world are overnight. If we're gone for a night, I try to straighten up the house a bit before I leave. When we come back, it's no big deal to unpack and get into our routine again.
Some of our trips are more than one night...and for some odd reason the math doesn't work on packing. Instead of taking the overnight trip and adding that much more stuff per day, instead we take the amount of stuff for overnight, multiply it by 3.281, and pack it into every single bag we have.
I clean the house furiously before we go somewhere for more than one night. I like coming home to a clean house...however, 99.8% of the time we destroy the house rummaging through drawers and closets on our way out the door.
When we get home, I have the exponentially enormous luggage to unpack, plus the last minute stuff we drug out, and any presents the animals have left for me.
The house also feels weird. (See? I am finally getting to the point. Don't lose faith, readers!) It's like I can't seem to reconcile it with the house I left...is the stuff in the fridge good? What's even in the fridge? Is the dishwasher clean? Did I take the trash out before I left? What's that smell in the sink???
I walk to the bedroom. Are my sheets clean? Is there dirty laundry in the bins? Did I suddenly get a bed bug infestation? Does the shower still work?? Is that really where I put my jeans in the closet????
See, even a short absence can make me feel like I don't know my own home. It's like I gingerly put stuff away and get to know the place again when we get home. It feels weird to just step back into things...the end result is that my house feels like a stranger; like a beach house you rent where you have to look for everything and get used to its weird smell.
Maybe it's something to do with routines, and not about my house at all. Or maybe I'm just nuts.
And this might possibly be the worst blog ever.
Many of my forays into the outside world are overnight. If we're gone for a night, I try to straighten up the house a bit before I leave. When we come back, it's no big deal to unpack and get into our routine again.
Some of our trips are more than one night...and for some odd reason the math doesn't work on packing. Instead of taking the overnight trip and adding that much more stuff per day, instead we take the amount of stuff for overnight, multiply it by 3.281, and pack it into every single bag we have.
I clean the house furiously before we go somewhere for more than one night. I like coming home to a clean house...however, 99.8% of the time we destroy the house rummaging through drawers and closets on our way out the door.
When we get home, I have the exponentially enormous luggage to unpack, plus the last minute stuff we drug out, and any presents the animals have left for me.
The house also feels weird. (See? I am finally getting to the point. Don't lose faith, readers!) It's like I can't seem to reconcile it with the house I left...is the stuff in the fridge good? What's even in the fridge? Is the dishwasher clean? Did I take the trash out before I left? What's that smell in the sink???
I walk to the bedroom. Are my sheets clean? Is there dirty laundry in the bins? Did I suddenly get a bed bug infestation? Does the shower still work?? Is that really where I put my jeans in the closet????
See, even a short absence can make me feel like I don't know my own home. It's like I gingerly put stuff away and get to know the place again when we get home. It feels weird to just step back into things...the end result is that my house feels like a stranger; like a beach house you rent where you have to look for everything and get used to its weird smell.
Maybe it's something to do with routines, and not about my house at all. Or maybe I'm just nuts.
And this might possibly be the worst blog ever.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Ivy, and Marley, and Me.
**SPOILER ALERT**
For some reason (fate? God? A weird slip of my finger on the mouse?) the movie Marley and Me appeared at the top of our Netflix queue. We didn't know this until it arrived when we were expecting Grown-ups.
My husband and I were kind of upset. "What was that doing on the queue?" he growled.
"I think I put it on there to watch with the kids," I said, sheepishly. At one time in our lives, we thought watching movies with the kids would be fun. We have since found out that if the movie is not animated and full of royalty, watching it with the offspring is not a pleasant experience. It's up there with root canals and public speeches.
At any rate, one evening after dinner, we put it in the PS3 and sat down as a family to watch it.
There's no dog at the beginning, so I had to keep Ivy interested. Story watched it for approximately 24.7 seconds before she was running back and forth, jumping on the chair, and shouting random comments in my ear (Mommy!! MOMMY!!! Is Abby a dog?)
Finally, the puppy appeared. From that point on, as long as a dog was on the screen, at least Ivy was engaged. As the movie wore on, it became clear to us that the dog was going to die. (There's the spoiler!!)
I had two choices: Stop the movie and pretend the dog got better and it was over, or face the sorrow of a six-year old who has just watched an animal die. I decided to go with the latter...our dog is nine years old and at some point, she's going to have a real life lesson in family pets dying. The parent in me knew it would be hard, but it would also be emotionally cleansing and healthy, right?
WRONG.
Never ever ever ever ever again will I think that way. Ivy cried for almost two hours after that movie was over. As soon as we thought she had stopped, fresh wails came out of her mouth, tears flew from her eyes, and she asked us unanswerable questions:
Ivy finally came up with her own solution that would put her fears and sadness at ease: She wants us to write a letter to the director. In this correspondence, we should explain to him how the movie should have ended and that we would appreciate it if they could remake the movie with the appropriate closure. I said, sure, we'd work on it in a couple days, hoping that she'd forget about it.
but she's not, of course. Four days later, she's still bugging me about this letter at random times. When I'm in the shower. When I'm cleaning toilets. Before I am awake.
I think I'm actually going to have to write it.
And no, we're probably not watching anymore movies with the kids. Ever. =)
For some reason (fate? God? A weird slip of my finger on the mouse?) the movie Marley and Me appeared at the top of our Netflix queue. We didn't know this until it arrived when we were expecting Grown-ups.
My husband and I were kind of upset. "What was that doing on the queue?" he growled.
"I think I put it on there to watch with the kids," I said, sheepishly. At one time in our lives, we thought watching movies with the kids would be fun. We have since found out that if the movie is not animated and full of royalty, watching it with the offspring is not a pleasant experience. It's up there with root canals and public speeches.
At any rate, one evening after dinner, we put it in the PS3 and sat down as a family to watch it.
There's no dog at the beginning, so I had to keep Ivy interested. Story watched it for approximately 24.7 seconds before she was running back and forth, jumping on the chair, and shouting random comments in my ear (Mommy!! MOMMY!!! Is Abby a dog?)
Finally, the puppy appeared. From that point on, as long as a dog was on the screen, at least Ivy was engaged. As the movie wore on, it became clear to us that the dog was going to die. (There's the spoiler!!)
I had two choices: Stop the movie and pretend the dog got better and it was over, or face the sorrow of a six-year old who has just watched an animal die. I decided to go with the latter...our dog is nine years old and at some point, she's going to have a real life lesson in family pets dying. The parent in me knew it would be hard, but it would also be emotionally cleansing and healthy, right?
WRONG.
Never ever ever ever ever again will I think that way. Ivy cried for almost two hours after that movie was over. As soon as we thought she had stopped, fresh wails came out of her mouth, tears flew from her eyes, and she asked us unanswerable questions:
- Where did Marley go when he died?
- Why didn't they just make the movie with him being alive and happy at the end?
- Why couldn't the doctor fix Marley?
- Did the family get a new puppy?
- Who made this movie be like this?
Ivy finally came up with her own solution that would put her fears and sadness at ease: She wants us to write a letter to the director. In this correspondence, we should explain to him how the movie should have ended and that we would appreciate it if they could remake the movie with the appropriate closure. I said, sure, we'd work on it in a couple days, hoping that she'd forget about it.
but she's not, of course. Four days later, she's still bugging me about this letter at random times. When I'm in the shower. When I'm cleaning toilets. Before I am awake.
I think I'm actually going to have to write it.
And no, we're probably not watching anymore movies with the kids. Ever. =)
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