I was traveling home from my mom's house yesterday on a four lane highway. We'd been making pretty decent time when I noticed in the rear view mirror (which is placed on my kids, not the road, ha-ha!) that Story started squirming and crying in her seat.
"Story! STORY!" (I had to scream loud over the Polly Pocket DVD) "What's wrong??"
"Mo-mom-mo-momma-mom-mommy!" (because she's in that stage where it takes her forever to get a word out) "My butt huwts!"
"Why?" I asked. I was met with only more wiggling and whining. So, I started looking around. I noticed a BP up ahead on the left, so I pulled into the lane, signaled, and drove in. Just because they spilled a bunch of oil in the gulf doesn't mean I can't use their bathrooms.
I got both kids and my wallet out. We walked into the almost empty gas station (which is good because lately Story has developed this thing where she likes to almost jump in front of cars and scare me to death). We walked past the guy at the counter and into the bathrooms. I put Story on first after I coated the seat with paper. She peed. I said, "Your turn, Ivy."
"I don't hafta pee." Which she would say even if she had pee running down her leg.
"I don't care." I grabbed her, yanked the pants down, and placed her on the toilet. She peed.
I sat down about the same time Story got really interested in the trash can. She started to touch the lid and I yelled, "Don't!" She diverted and touched a piece of chewed up gum stuck to the trash bag. I yelled, "Nooooo!!!!!!"
Now, some days you can yell until you're blue in the face at Story and she laughs at you. Other days you can look at her kind of sternly, whisper "no" and she collapses into tears and screams. You can guess what kind of day this was.
She looked at me with big eyes. The tears welled and spilled out over her eyelashes. She put her hands up to cover her face in shame and wailed. And I mean WAILED. I tried to comfort her as I washed her hands. She screamed louder. I thought about the guy at the counter calling social services. He probably thought I brought the kids in here to beat them.
Then I did the only thing I could think of to bring a halt to the tears. "Wanna treat?"
"Yes!!!" they both shouted with glee. I took them out into the store and looked around. I decided to get a cup of coffee. They decided to get blue slushies. We went to the counter and paid for them.
We walked outside and Story immediately jumped off the curb and out into where there would be cars if there were any cars there. I yelled, but fortunately she was so excited about the slushie that she ignored my mean voice and jumped back up on the curb.
I laid my wallet on the hood of the car as I buckled the kids in their seats. As I did it, I thought, "Shew, I'd better not forget this. It would be horrible for my wallet to be spilled all over the highway." When I have thoughts like that, I should really learn to listen to myself.
I hopped in my seat after trying to set Polly Pocket back to where she was when we turned the car off. We backed out of the spot, and I went forward. I had to wait about three minutes before I could pull out, during which I should have paid more attention to the hood of my car.
When I pulled out and got up to speed, something flew at my windshield. It hit with a thunk! and I ducked and looked into the rear view mirror (which is how I have to use it to actually see the road) just in time to see my wallet crash to the ground in an explosion of little white, plastic cards.
"*&@^$#!!" I said as I pulled into the median.
"*&@^$#? What's *&@^$#?" Ivy asked.
"Nothing you should EVER EVER EVER say again!!!" I screamed as I slammed the car door and ran back to where my wallet was sitting forlornly in the middle of two lanes.
I got the wallet before it was run over by a motorcycle. I waited out two cars and picked up my license. I started collecting bits and pieces of things that had flown out of my wallet as it crashed to the asphalt, leaving the receipts and *sob!* my ticket stubs from Eclipse.
I ran back to the car with what I could find amongst the trash that people throw out of their cars and did inventory. I had my license, my medical card, a couple doctor's appointment cards, and my cash (which had stayed in the zippered pocket- thank God I didn't put it where my cash actually should go!)
"Mommy, what is*&@^$#?" Ivy insisted.
"*&@^$#!! *&@^$#!!" Story yelled. Great.
I tried to explain what cussing was to Ivy, how it was even worse than saying "stupid." She kind of didn't get it, so I fully expect a call from her teacher or another parent tomorrow asking me just what I've been teaching my child. In the meantime, I'm sure Story will be teaching all the three year olds in her room that word tomorrow.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Wednesdays with Blake-ie (like Tuesdays with Morrie!)
Blake is my oboe student. He takes lessons with me one day a week.
Of course, when you have two oboe players in the same room in charge of completing a task, nothing will get done. We have the inability to focus on anything seriously for any amount of time. We laugh, we giggle, we talk about how awesome the oboe is.
So, in a thirty minute lesson, it's safe to say only about 12.7 minutes is actually productively spent.
On this particular Wednesday when Blake came for his lesson, we had a mission. I was convinced that I was in possession of the book Blake needed to find his All-State audition pieces.
*** Side note: I know for a fact that I did at one time have the book. I had to have it for my private lessons. I promise.
Anyways, since I've moved four times since college, all of my materials have been kind of hard to locate. I'd checked out every closet before he arrived, looked in bags, under beds, and came up with the only logical explanation- this book was in the attic. Definitely.
So, when Blake came in, I told him not to worry about putting his oboe together yet, we were going on a music hunting expedition to the bowels of my attic. We trudged up the stairs, and the kids followed us. At the door to the attic, I explained to them that they were not allowed to come with us. So, what did they do? (if you can't guess, refer to any of my earlier posts). They stayed at the door, trying to edge their way in as we moved along the corridor of broken toys and Christmas decorations.
"We're looking for a box that says 'Master Bedroom'," I said.
"Are you sure, Mrs. Scheeler?" Blake asked.
I laughed. "No."
We finally found a box that said "Master Bedroom Closet." I was certain that we'd hit the jackpot. I distinctly remembered keeping my music in the closet one house ago. I cracked open the box and voila! There was my music. I handed part after part, folder after folder to Blake, who looked through them and found....nothing. There was one yellow book that resembled the one I was looking for, but everything else was not even close.
I scoured the box again while Blake paged through what I'd given him. "Hey! You told me you didn't have this!" he yelled, holding up a solo I'd encouraged him to buy because didn't own it. Apparently I did.
I backed up from the box and looked around at the others that were sitting there unmarked. "Maybe it's with the books?" I said. I opened a couple of boxes of books that were covered in little mouse poos. "Maybe not," I decided.
I backed away from the boxes that were sure to contain various surprises and straight on to a sticky trap. "Crap!" I said, trying to shake the trap off of my foot. I sat my foot down to pry the trap off if it, and noticed that there was a dead mouse stuck to it. Blake laughed. I tried not to vomit.
With my free foot, I tried to check out some other boxes where this book could be resting, waiting for us to snatch it up. I found a box of Ivy's old shoes, and they were exactly the right size to fit Story!!! Blake was balancing all of the music in one had when I started thrusting pink and white tennis shoes and boots at him.
I finally gave up and followed him outof the attic. I let him drop the shoes and some of the music in the office and we went back downstairs, presumably to play.
He played for about three minutes, but then we got in a "discussion" about something he'd said to me on facebook chat once (which he DID), but as oboe players, neither one of us will ever admit error.
I looked at the clock and 48 minutes had gone by since we started the lesson. So, I said, "Time to go!
And then we agreed that next time we would actually get stuff done.
Of course, when you have two oboe players in the same room in charge of completing a task, nothing will get done. We have the inability to focus on anything seriously for any amount of time. We laugh, we giggle, we talk about how awesome the oboe is.
So, in a thirty minute lesson, it's safe to say only about 12.7 minutes is actually productively spent.
On this particular Wednesday when Blake came for his lesson, we had a mission. I was convinced that I was in possession of the book Blake needed to find his All-State audition pieces.
*** Side note: I know for a fact that I did at one time have the book. I had to have it for my private lessons. I promise.
Anyways, since I've moved four times since college, all of my materials have been kind of hard to locate. I'd checked out every closet before he arrived, looked in bags, under beds, and came up with the only logical explanation- this book was in the attic. Definitely.
So, when Blake came in, I told him not to worry about putting his oboe together yet, we were going on a music hunting expedition to the bowels of my attic. We trudged up the stairs, and the kids followed us. At the door to the attic, I explained to them that they were not allowed to come with us. So, what did they do? (if you can't guess, refer to any of my earlier posts). They stayed at the door, trying to edge their way in as we moved along the corridor of broken toys and Christmas decorations.
"We're looking for a box that says 'Master Bedroom'," I said.
"Are you sure, Mrs. Scheeler?" Blake asked.
I laughed. "No."
We finally found a box that said "Master Bedroom Closet." I was certain that we'd hit the jackpot. I distinctly remembered keeping my music in the closet one house ago. I cracked open the box and voila! There was my music. I handed part after part, folder after folder to Blake, who looked through them and found....nothing. There was one yellow book that resembled the one I was looking for, but everything else was not even close.
I scoured the box again while Blake paged through what I'd given him. "Hey! You told me you didn't have this!" he yelled, holding up a solo I'd encouraged him to buy because didn't own it. Apparently I did.
I backed up from the box and looked around at the others that were sitting there unmarked. "Maybe it's with the books?" I said. I opened a couple of boxes of books that were covered in little mouse poos. "Maybe not," I decided.
I backed away from the boxes that were sure to contain various surprises and straight on to a sticky trap. "Crap!" I said, trying to shake the trap off of my foot. I sat my foot down to pry the trap off if it, and noticed that there was a dead mouse stuck to it. Blake laughed. I tried not to vomit.
With my free foot, I tried to check out some other boxes where this book could be resting, waiting for us to snatch it up. I found a box of Ivy's old shoes, and they were exactly the right size to fit Story!!! Blake was balancing all of the music in one had when I started thrusting pink and white tennis shoes and boots at him.
I finally gave up and followed him outof the attic. I let him drop the shoes and some of the music in the office and we went back downstairs, presumably to play.
He played for about three minutes, but then we got in a "discussion" about something he'd said to me on facebook chat once (which he DID), but as oboe players, neither one of us will ever admit error.
I looked at the clock and 48 minutes had gone by since we started the lesson. So, I said, "Time to go!
And then we agreed that next time we would actually get stuff done.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Watch this, Mommy!!
You know it's going to be a great Saturday when it starts out with one of the kids yelling, "Mommy, watch this!!"
I don't know why they keep telling me to watch things. I mean, I watch twelve or twenty things, and then I stop. I mumble, "Oh, good job," or something like it a beat or two after they tell me to watch them. Not sure why they haven't caught on yet.
And most of the time, it's weird stuff they ask me to watch. Like dangerous stuff. Jumping off the couch. Jumping off the couch onto the coffee table. Jumping over their sister from the couch to the coffee table. You know, things they should do when I'm not looking. (And for those of you thinking, why doesn't she make them stop when they do that? then you obviously need to go back and reread my blog posts. I can't control these crazy forces of nature I live with. I can only keep them from killing themselves or each other. Barely.)
Sometimes it's totally odd what they want me to watch. Story holds her hands out and turns around. Ivy makes a silly face using fingers up her nose. Story blinks her eyes twice. Ivy puts five chips in her mouth at once. Story takes a drink of juice. Ivy hangs upside down from the back of the couch. I mean, why these things?
Why don't they say, "Watch this!" and then put their toys away? I'd really enjoy watching that. Or, "Hey, Mommy, watch this!" which is followed by them cleaning the toilet. "Mommy, watch us!" and they perform a scene from Twilight. Those are things I'd love to watch.
I could probably explain to them what I actually want to see them do, but I think, like everything else, they might listen and then do what they want. Oh, well. There's no use complaining, I have a lot to do....like watch them pretend to fly off the kitchen counters.
I don't know why they keep telling me to watch things. I mean, I watch twelve or twenty things, and then I stop. I mumble, "Oh, good job," or something like it a beat or two after they tell me to watch them. Not sure why they haven't caught on yet.
And most of the time, it's weird stuff they ask me to watch. Like dangerous stuff. Jumping off the couch. Jumping off the couch onto the coffee table. Jumping over their sister from the couch to the coffee table. You know, things they should do when I'm not looking. (And for those of you thinking, why doesn't she make them stop when they do that? then you obviously need to go back and reread my blog posts. I can't control these crazy forces of nature I live with. I can only keep them from killing themselves or each other. Barely.)
Sometimes it's totally odd what they want me to watch. Story holds her hands out and turns around. Ivy makes a silly face using fingers up her nose. Story blinks her eyes twice. Ivy puts five chips in her mouth at once. Story takes a drink of juice. Ivy hangs upside down from the back of the couch. I mean, why these things?
Why don't they say, "Watch this!" and then put their toys away? I'd really enjoy watching that. Or, "Hey, Mommy, watch this!" which is followed by them cleaning the toilet. "Mommy, watch us!" and they perform a scene from Twilight. Those are things I'd love to watch.
I could probably explain to them what I actually want to see them do, but I think, like everything else, they might listen and then do what they want. Oh, well. There's no use complaining, I have a lot to do....like watch them pretend to fly off the kitchen counters.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Story of Tracee and the Really Bad Week
It's been a bad week (you probably didn't get that from the title, did ya?).
On Sunday morning, there were lice crawling in my kids' hair. (You can read my previous post about that drama). I also woke up with a slightly sore throat.
On Monday, I had to take the day off of work for scalding clothes (if only the big bathtub had a "boil" setting!!!) and combing hair.
On Tuesday, I woke up with a downright nasty cold/allergy thingy. I took a Tinkerbell blanket to work with me and taught kids from ages 6-14 wrapped up in a pink and purple cocoon. I ate a lot of cough drops. I swallowed a lot of chloraseptic. I felt like crud. My neighbor and bestie got really sick. I worried about her non-stop.
On Wednesday, I woke up feeling a little bit better, but the house around me was a mess. It had never been cleaned up from the Lice emergency, and a night of laying on the couch didn't improve it one bit. I spent the whole evening doing more laundry and cleaning. Story cried pitifully when I dropped her off for daycare. And for some reason, I couldn't sleep.
Yesterday, I was incredibly cranky when I woke up. Story cried again when I dropped her off. I kept falling asleep all day. I took a short nap when I got home and.....then I couldn't. I was up until 12:30.
EARLY this morning, Ivy came in our room. Story started crying at 3:30 AM.....and then she stayed up, bugging me about every ten minutes until 5 AM when I gave up and got up. Then, I found out that my husband wasn't getting his last paycheck from his old job. I know he should have another one.....and that's a large chunk to depend on and not have.
So, I'm hoping not to have another week like this one until at least the third week in December 2012. You know, the week in which the Mayan calendar suggests the world will end or at least flip on its axis.
On Sunday morning, there were lice crawling in my kids' hair. (You can read my previous post about that drama). I also woke up with a slightly sore throat.
On Monday, I had to take the day off of work for scalding clothes (if only the big bathtub had a "boil" setting!!!) and combing hair.
On Tuesday, I woke up with a downright nasty cold/allergy thingy. I took a Tinkerbell blanket to work with me and taught kids from ages 6-14 wrapped up in a pink and purple cocoon. I ate a lot of cough drops. I swallowed a lot of chloraseptic. I felt like crud. My neighbor and bestie got really sick. I worried about her non-stop.
On Wednesday, I woke up feeling a little bit better, but the house around me was a mess. It had never been cleaned up from the Lice emergency, and a night of laying on the couch didn't improve it one bit. I spent the whole evening doing more laundry and cleaning. Story cried pitifully when I dropped her off for daycare. And for some reason, I couldn't sleep.
Yesterday, I was incredibly cranky when I woke up. Story cried again when I dropped her off. I kept falling asleep all day. I took a short nap when I got home and.....then I couldn't. I was up until 12:30.
EARLY this morning, Ivy came in our room. Story started crying at 3:30 AM.....and then she stayed up, bugging me about every ten minutes until 5 AM when I gave up and got up. Then, I found out that my husband wasn't getting his last paycheck from his old job. I know he should have another one.....and that's a large chunk to depend on and not have.
So, I'm hoping not to have another week like this one until at least the third week in December 2012. You know, the week in which the Mayan calendar suggests the world will end or at least flip on its axis.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Throwing out a hairbrush
If you're my friend on Facebook, you've probably read my umpteen million freak-out posts about how my children have recently acquired head lice after one week of public school.
On Sunday morning, as I was nursing a slightly sore throat and waiting for a friend to show up to attend Mass with us, I brushed Ivy's hair, looking closely at her scalp (something I just do out of habit anymore). And I saw what I had always been dreading- white eggy things attached to her hair.
I ran to the phone and immediately dialed my mom, who is part counselor and part dramatic inciter in these occasions. She confirmed what I was seeing must be true- my darling had lice.
Normally, I would get on top of things, make lists, take action. For some reason, I was so unnerved, I just sat on the porch and drank three cups of coffee. Three. As if the infestation wasn't leaping off of Ivy's head onto every piece of fabric in the house as I sipped. After about thirty minutes, I decided maybe I was wrong. I called Ivy over to the kitchen and took the flashlight. The eggs were still there and then something crawled and I threw the flashlight and screamed. Okay, no denying it now, I told myself. Time to move.
I packed my squirrely kids in the car with a vague thought about how the car was probably infested, too. We struggled through the door at Rite Aid, and I unceremoniously dumped both girls into a shopping cart and avoided anything close to their heads. I also threatened their very existence if they so much as touched anything with their pinkie finger. I pushed the buggy mercilessly forward in order to stop any silly questions about which fingers they could use to touch things.
When I got home, I dumped the goods on the kitchen table, known as Lice Ground Zero from that point on. I went crazy, ripping all the sheets off the beds. Anything fabric and washable was immediately thrown in a big heap in the dining room. I rubbed the kids furiously with the shampoo, rinsed, and spent 2 hours combing them out. I sprayed down the entire guest room to make a Lice-Free Zone (that I promptly locked the offspring out of) for the clean laundry. My washer and dryer went non-stop on the hottest settings for 24 hours.
Exhausted, I reached in my bathroom drawer for my hairbrush. I brought it closer to my hair, looking in the mirror, and stopped. Time was frozen. I was sure thousands of lice were bungee jumping from my brush to my hair. Finally, I threw the panic aside and launched the brush at the floor.
In my family, we have four combs and three brushes (Daddy gets by with just a comb). However, these brushes are not assigned to any one person. They're passed freely from family member to family member.....kind of like the hippie ideals of free love, just with hair care. In a panic, positive that lice were breeding and spilling out of both bathrooms, I snatched up all of the skanky, dirty brushes and threw them in the kitchen sink. I ran hot water over them, filled up a pan of water, boiled it, added bleach, and dunked them in. I kept them in there for several hours.
I emptied the pot and set them out to dry. Then, I needed a hairbrush. I picked one up, turned it over, and promptly put it back down. What if the bleach hadn't killed them? Would I infect my clean head?
I bagged all the brushes in a Ziploc. I finger combed my hair. I grabbed the keys and the kids and took off for the dollar store. I bought three brushes and three combs. (I can't help it, I like sharing a comb with my husband...Rob loads the comb down with hairspray, and when I use it on my wet hair, it somehow evenly distributes the leftover product into my hair.)
When we got back to the house, I opened all the new brushes and combs. I made sure they were all different so we'd never share again. Then, I looked at the sad and lonely plastic bag of our old brushes. I gently laid it on the table now known as Lice Ground Zero, not able to part with them just yet.
You never know just how attached to your hairbrush you will become. It sticks around longer than a toothbrush. Sometimes longer than a friend. A good hairbrush will grant you endless good hair days, and the karma that flows between you is like magic....okay, that's a little strong, but seriously? It broke my heart to throw them away. The girls had two brushes, one perfect for ponytails, the other great for pigtails. One of them had a mirror on the back that the girls liked to look in when I was done fixing their hair. I had a comb that I've had for a very long time- at least college. I stole it from my mom's bathroom when I was home for the weekend.
And normally, I am the opposite of pack rat. I throw everything out! I don't even print out my pictures anymore because they add to the junk in the house.....but my hairbrush? It's too personal, too much a friend at this point.
But today I took down "Lice Ground Zero," since I think the immediate threat is gone and I no longer need immediate access to lice shampoo and nit combs. I took the 30 gallon trash bags to the garage (guess I didn't need 40 of them after all). I put the Ziploc in the drawer (funny how I only used five out of the economy pack). The last thing to leave he table was my Ziploc of hairbrushes. I cried a little inside as I dropped it in the trash can.
Lice is the cause of many casualties in this house. Rest in Peace, hairbrush.
On Sunday morning, as I was nursing a slightly sore throat and waiting for a friend to show up to attend Mass with us, I brushed Ivy's hair, looking closely at her scalp (something I just do out of habit anymore). And I saw what I had always been dreading- white eggy things attached to her hair.
I ran to the phone and immediately dialed my mom, who is part counselor and part dramatic inciter in these occasions. She confirmed what I was seeing must be true- my darling had lice.
Normally, I would get on top of things, make lists, take action. For some reason, I was so unnerved, I just sat on the porch and drank three cups of coffee. Three. As if the infestation wasn't leaping off of Ivy's head onto every piece of fabric in the house as I sipped. After about thirty minutes, I decided maybe I was wrong. I called Ivy over to the kitchen and took the flashlight. The eggs were still there and then something crawled and I threw the flashlight and screamed. Okay, no denying it now, I told myself. Time to move.
I packed my squirrely kids in the car with a vague thought about how the car was probably infested, too. We struggled through the door at Rite Aid, and I unceremoniously dumped both girls into a shopping cart and avoided anything close to their heads. I also threatened their very existence if they so much as touched anything with their pinkie finger. I pushed the buggy mercilessly forward in order to stop any silly questions about which fingers they could use to touch things.
When I got home, I dumped the goods on the kitchen table, known as Lice Ground Zero from that point on. I went crazy, ripping all the sheets off the beds. Anything fabric and washable was immediately thrown in a big heap in the dining room. I rubbed the kids furiously with the shampoo, rinsed, and spent 2 hours combing them out. I sprayed down the entire guest room to make a Lice-Free Zone (that I promptly locked the offspring out of) for the clean laundry. My washer and dryer went non-stop on the hottest settings for 24 hours.
Exhausted, I reached in my bathroom drawer for my hairbrush. I brought it closer to my hair, looking in the mirror, and stopped. Time was frozen. I was sure thousands of lice were bungee jumping from my brush to my hair. Finally, I threw the panic aside and launched the brush at the floor.
In my family, we have four combs and three brushes (Daddy gets by with just a comb). However, these brushes are not assigned to any one person. They're passed freely from family member to family member.....kind of like the hippie ideals of free love, just with hair care. In a panic, positive that lice were breeding and spilling out of both bathrooms, I snatched up all of the skanky, dirty brushes and threw them in the kitchen sink. I ran hot water over them, filled up a pan of water, boiled it, added bleach, and dunked them in. I kept them in there for several hours.
I emptied the pot and set them out to dry. Then, I needed a hairbrush. I picked one up, turned it over, and promptly put it back down. What if the bleach hadn't killed them? Would I infect my clean head?
I bagged all the brushes in a Ziploc. I finger combed my hair. I grabbed the keys and the kids and took off for the dollar store. I bought three brushes and three combs. (I can't help it, I like sharing a comb with my husband...Rob loads the comb down with hairspray, and when I use it on my wet hair, it somehow evenly distributes the leftover product into my hair.)
When we got back to the house, I opened all the new brushes and combs. I made sure they were all different so we'd never share again. Then, I looked at the sad and lonely plastic bag of our old brushes. I gently laid it on the table now known as Lice Ground Zero, not able to part with them just yet.
You never know just how attached to your hairbrush you will become. It sticks around longer than a toothbrush. Sometimes longer than a friend. A good hairbrush will grant you endless good hair days, and the karma that flows between you is like magic....okay, that's a little strong, but seriously? It broke my heart to throw them away. The girls had two brushes, one perfect for ponytails, the other great for pigtails. One of them had a mirror on the back that the girls liked to look in when I was done fixing their hair. I had a comb that I've had for a very long time- at least college. I stole it from my mom's bathroom when I was home for the weekend.
And normally, I am the opposite of pack rat. I throw everything out! I don't even print out my pictures anymore because they add to the junk in the house.....but my hairbrush? It's too personal, too much a friend at this point.
But today I took down "Lice Ground Zero," since I think the immediate threat is gone and I no longer need immediate access to lice shampoo and nit combs. I took the 30 gallon trash bags to the garage (guess I didn't need 40 of them after all). I put the Ziploc in the drawer (funny how I only used five out of the economy pack). The last thing to leave he table was my Ziploc of hairbrushes. I cried a little inside as I dropped it in the trash can.
Lice is the cause of many casualties in this house. Rest in Peace, hairbrush.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
One Shoe
I hate finding one shoe.
In my house, many things can happen when you find just one shoe. If you find it in the living room floor, it's possible that the mate is on the other side of the coffee table. Maybe under the couch, or behind the wicker basket in the corner. Or, up in the playroom. Behind Ivy's bed. The possibilities are endless.
Of course, it's also possible that the mate might never be seen again.
The girls love to empty their closets one pair at a time, wearing them around the house for about 4.3 seconds before discarding them and going for another pair. They, of course, rarely take off both shoes in the same place. You can imagine that after 10 hours of being in the house, 32 pairs of Mommy, Ivy, and Story shoes are scattered intermittently throughout the house. (They never attempt to steal Daddy's shoes......wonder why? HAHA!)
At the end of the day, I gather up the ones I can find, sort through whose is who's, pair them up, and place them lovingly back in the closets. Okay, "lovingly" might be a stretch.
But often, I'm left with that rogue shoe who's partner cannot be found. If I'm lucky, in a couple of days it'll pop up as the girls range around and find new places to drag crap out of.
Several times, I do not find the missing shoe for about 6 months. Of course, as I pick out clothes in the coming days and weeks after its disappearance, it's apparent to me that the pair of shoes is the only pair that matches anything that kid has to wear. And if it belongs to one of them, it usually doesn't fit by the time I have it in hand.
Sometimes, I don't find the shoe at all.....this one time, Ivy had the cutest pair of tan leather sandals. Ivy wore them once, and then suddenly one of them was missing. I held onto that sandal for two years....even until Story was too big to wear it. I just never gave up hope that it's mate would turn up one day.
They say once you lose hope, you've lost everything.
In my house, many things can happen when you find just one shoe. If you find it in the living room floor, it's possible that the mate is on the other side of the coffee table. Maybe under the couch, or behind the wicker basket in the corner. Or, up in the playroom. Behind Ivy's bed. The possibilities are endless.
Of course, it's also possible that the mate might never be seen again.
The girls love to empty their closets one pair at a time, wearing them around the house for about 4.3 seconds before discarding them and going for another pair. They, of course, rarely take off both shoes in the same place. You can imagine that after 10 hours of being in the house, 32 pairs of Mommy, Ivy, and Story shoes are scattered intermittently throughout the house. (They never attempt to steal Daddy's shoes......wonder why? HAHA!)
At the end of the day, I gather up the ones I can find, sort through whose is who's, pair them up, and place them lovingly back in the closets. Okay, "lovingly" might be a stretch.
But often, I'm left with that rogue shoe who's partner cannot be found. If I'm lucky, in a couple of days it'll pop up as the girls range around and find new places to drag crap out of.
Several times, I do not find the missing shoe for about 6 months. Of course, as I pick out clothes in the coming days and weeks after its disappearance, it's apparent to me that the pair of shoes is the only pair that matches anything that kid has to wear. And if it belongs to one of them, it usually doesn't fit by the time I have it in hand.
Sometimes, I don't find the shoe at all.....this one time, Ivy had the cutest pair of tan leather sandals. Ivy wore them once, and then suddenly one of them was missing. I held onto that sandal for two years....even until Story was too big to wear it. I just never gave up hope that it's mate would turn up one day.
They say once you lose hope, you've lost everything.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Practical Advice for My Daughter
So, Ivy is starting Kindergarten.....and as her mother, I'll be called upon often to give her advice on socializing. And I've decided to be truthful with it, rather than that PC garbage everyone tells you. I remember the social hierarchy of grade school, and I see it every day. I plan on giving her real and practical advice. And if there is one thing I am, it's realistic.
"Be Yourself!"
"Be Yourself!"
- Everyone tells you to be yourself. "People will like you if you just be yourself!" I say this is stupid, Ivy. People might not like you if you are yourself. I've encountered that several times, just as I've encountered people I've never liked because they are themselves. So, my advice to you is this: You can try to be yourself, but if you find that after a couple of weeks no one likes the real you, then alter it a little. You can always change back into yourself after you have your friends hooked.
- This one's all right up to a point. You can be nice to everybody, Ivy, but you can never trust everybody. Every best friend I ever had in grade school told a secret, blabbed to the boy I liked, sold me out to the popular-girl-torturers, etc. I say, yes, pretend to be nice to everyone, but don't trust everyone with your stuff. Especially the girls.
- This is absolutely wrong, Ivy. You can do your own style in high school. I am definitely going to be honest on this- Ivy, you can't wear tutus. Or princess dresses. Or those T-shirts you love that are stained and holey. Trust Mommy.
- Okay, Ivy, don't jump off a bridge. But sometimes I know you have to play the game. Everyone does. Don't go along when they're being mean to someone....but I understand the playing of the game. It's a lifetime skill.
- Sure, you can be that kid with their hand always up in the air, stretching as high as they can, waving at the teacher wildly. But, if you are always that kid, the other kids will smell it. It's okay to be smart, but not to be annoying with it. Don't lord it over the whole classroom.
- But don't be the opposite, either, Ivy. Try. As long as you're in the middle of the pack I'm good. :)
- But nobody, and I repeat nobody wants to play with the bossy kid. Life is all about compromise and give-and-take. Don't make everyone do what you say, do not refuse to play with others just because you didn't get your way...on the flip side, don't let everybody else tell you what to do all the time (except your teacher!). I know, it's a tightrope. But learning to walk it early will mean great things.
- No. Don't. Stay in line. Do not cut line, or skip line. Don't take "fronts" or "backs" unless it's okay with all parties. (Fronts are much better than backs, true friends will give you fronts!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)