Am I On Candid Camera?

June 15, 2005

Because sometimes I feel as though that is the only explanation for the people that I encounter in my life on a daily basis. It’s like I have a homing device implanted in me which sends out signals, calling for all the freaks in a fifty mile radius to come to me.

Arriving at the beach yesterday, the man who works at the ticket booth, taking the money and giving out a beach pass for the day, had bright pink nail polish on his fingernails. Maybe he wanted his hands to look pretty for all the people he’d be taking money from all day, I don’t know. They weren’t well done.. The polish was clumpy and all over his skin. You would think if you were going to call attention to your hands like that you would at least do it well. But then I noticed he had baby barrettes all over his hair, which was short, so that his hair stood up in tiny little clumps all over his head. What is up with that look? What is the message he is trying to send to the public? I am gay and child-like?

I drove off laughing to myself when my 10 yr old said, “Do you think someone dared him to look like that today?”

That must be it. Clearly there is no other rational explanation.

******

We schlepped all our stuff from the van to the beach, which seemed like 5 miles walking through the sand, and the kids run off to play at the waters edge. I sat down on my seat and noticed the two young women near us taking pictures of each other in their bikinis. And at first I was happy for them and their positive self esteem, and for daring to wear bikini bathing suits despite the fact that their bodies were not made for such displays. But then my happiness turned to horror as they rolled around on the sand, arching their backs into very playboyesque poses. Did they not notice all the other people on the beach? They splashed water all over themselves and posed with these pouting lips in the water.

But, they were so bad at it all that I began laughing. It was like watching a train wreck. I just couldn’t avert my eyes.

*******

Sadly, I have no pictures of the bathing beauties.

But I did get a photo of the next bikini wearing freak.

Can’t see her?

This woman laid out on her lounge chair, pulled out a razor and began shaving her bikini line and upper thighs. What the hell? First of all, Ouch! Dry shaving your bikini line. But secondly, isn’t that something better suited to the privacy of your own bathroom? And isn’t pulling out a razor and shaving on the beach just calling more attention to your hairiness than if you left it alone?

*******

To file under why I hate people:

As we were leaving the beach, we had to walk a long for a long stretch across the sand. The sand had become very hot from the sun and we were all walking barefoot. It didn’t bother the older kids at all. My feet were burning at about the half way point. I started running and picked up my two year old who had begun to cry. I am running across the hot sand holding my two youngest, when my 4 yr old started to scream that his feet are burning. I yelled to him to put his stuff down and stand on it or else run as fast as he could across the sand to the grass. Luckily my 10 year old has feet impervious to pain, because he ran and picked up his brother and carried him to safety. Of course for the rest of the day we had to hear, from him, about what a hero he was.

The people who were sitting on a blanket near him started laughing and making fun of my four year old burning his feet on the hot sand. Grown up people laughing at a child. I was so angry I could have strangled all four of them with my bare hands, except that would have meant that I’d have to walk back across the hot sand. Luckily for them my desire to preserve my feet was greater than my anger towards them.

********

Right now Rob is on a plane to Puerto Rico. He’ll be home for a day and a half and then be off to Los Angeles. I’m wondering when my business trip is. Isn’t there a mother’s convention that I need to attend somewhere?

My father in law’s open heart surgery was rescheduled for tomorrow or Friday morning, the doctor isn’t sure yet. Rob had wanted to be at the hospital to see his Dad before he went into surgery and to sit with his mother while his dad was in surgery. Everyone told him not to cancel his trip. I just hope that was a wise decision.

Raise Your Flags

June 14, 2005

Today is my third son’s birthday. Son number three.

The heir, the spare, and the nobody cares.

I can never think of my three oldest sons without the image of the three sets of feet tapping along to the tune of the tv show My Three Sons.

Today he is eight years old.

I remember how I was convinced he was going to be a girl. There was no doubt in my mind at all. When they said “It’s a boy!” I thought they were joking. All the nurses were mildly disturbed that I kept saying, “You’re joking, right?”

I gave him my last name as his middle name. I had always thought I would pass it on to a daughter. After being in labor with my son I announced I was never doing that again and gave him the name.

I remember Rob bringing his two older brothers to the hospital to meet him. They were 29 months old and 15 months old.

I remember having three different sized diapers in my house. Those were the hardest days of my life.

I remember potty training my eldest son later on in the summer. Son number two potty trained himself shortly thereafter.

I remember what a sweet personality my third son had and how he never cried. In an effort to make up for lost time, he now whines more than I ever thought was humanly possible.

I remember thinking I had it all figured out. It would take two more sons after him to show me that what I had figured out was humility and a taste for my own words.

I remember my mother in law telling me I should tape his ears down to “train” them not to stick out. I said that at least if he wore glasses we knew they would be able to stay up. Thankfully his head grew into his ears. Now I’m hoping his head grows into his teeth.

I remember that the year he was born his birthday fell on the Saturday before Father’s Day. I had hoped he was going to be born on Father’s Day since the first two were born on “holidays” and Rob and I both have “holiday” birthdays.

I remember being disappointed until my father in law told me on the phone the next day that it was Flag day. Every year my father in law will tell me it is Flag Day, as if I somehow forget from year to year. This year on Flag day I won’t be talking to him. He will be getting his chest cracked open and his heart removed from his body in an effort to unclog his two completely blocked arteries. I look forward to him reminding me again next year.

I remember my son’s unbridled love for his pacifier, which lasted for four years.

I remember how when he was potty training he would cheer for himself when he went in the toilet.

I remember how he dropped his pacifier from his mouth into the toilet and screamed as it was flushed away. It happened often. And it never stopped being funny for the rest of us.

He is the quintessential happy go lucky child. He skips around the house and has a penchant for show tunes. Rob thinks he might be gay.

He loves to make up jokes or ask absurd questions in an effort to be funny. (For example: Is it called Minnesota because they sell mini-sodas there?) His laugh is so infectious that we all laugh in spite of ourselves. Or as my 10 year old will say, “I’m not laughing because it is funny. I’m laughing because it is so dumb I can’t believe anyone would say that!” But he doesn’t care why we laugh, just as long as we do.

The thing that strikes me the most about having a large family is that all our stories are intertwined. It is impossible to talk about one person without delving into a memory of someone else. I sometimes wonder if this is why I have very few memories of my childhood. As an only child there is no one to remember with. No one to say, ‘remember when?’ No one to help put snippets of memories into a broader context.

My third son was admiring his globe collection the other day and suddenly sighed. He told me he felt like Alexander the Great. And why was that? “Remember when he wept because there was nothing left to conquer? Well, I weep because I look at the globe at all the places I want to go and visit, and there are people already there. There is nowhere left to explore. People are everywhere. I hate that.”

I know my son, I know. It’s true that sometimes the apple doesn’t even fall from the tree at all.

To my third son I say, Happy Birthday. And remember should son number one and his runner up fail to fulfill their duties, the kingdom is all yours. Try not to look so thrilled.

Taking A Vote

June 12, 2005

Today I was upstairs in our attic going through some packing boxes that we haven’t unpacked yet. Yes, I know I have lived in this house for over two years, what is your point?

I was looking for a vintage 1950 era fan that we have and I thought would be perfect on our sunporch, as well as looking through some old fabric I have to see if I could find any to make some throw pillows for our wicker chairs. I just sewed new seat cushions for the chairs out of a blue and white ticking

I came across an old skirt. I remember buying it 13 years ago (God, I am old) at the Goodwill store because I liked the fabric and thought I could turn it into something else, like throw pillows. But today I was looking at it and I thought, hey why not just wear it, as the skirt it was intended to be. It is a wrap around skirt, just below knee length. It reminds me of some fabric I have from France, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t wear that one as a skirt.

I put it on today to test it out, but I’m not sure. I am no fashion maven. As a general rule I try not to wear things that can also double as home accessories and upholstery. I’m pretty positive that horizontal stripes are not a good thing on anyone.

So now I have a poll. Look at the picture of the skirt and then select one of the following:

1) Nice skirt, you should wear it out in public proudly.

2) It’s okay, but better just wear it at home.

3) It would be better as throw pillows.

4) I wouldn’t be caught dead in that.

5) My grandmother has curtains that look just like it!

6) Oh my God, it is hideous don’t wear it, don’t turn it into throw pillows, in fact, just burn the fabric right now.

Alas, There Was No Snowman With His Hat Blown Off

June 11, 2005

Yesterday I spent a good portion of the day bemoaning the fact that I could not connect to the internet wirelessly, unless I sat right next to the router. Which defeats the whole purpose of having a router. A fact that the first customer service representative in India could not grasp.

“But, what is your problem? You can connect wirelessly, no?”

“Why, yes I can. IF I AM TOUCHING IT. And that, for me, is a problem.”

Things slowly and steadily went downhill from there.

They had me download things. They had me turn my computer on and off. Disconnect from the router. Reconnect the router. Do the same thing over and over again. Which I think is part of the plan, to wear you down and aggravate you so that you’ll just go buy another one.

The second woman told me it had probably stopped working because it had interference from my microwave. Which is an interesting theory, considering that my router is on the third floor of my house far away from my kitchen… and oh yeah, I DON’T OWN A MICROWAVE.

For my third customer representative I had a man who laughed. Every suggestion he had for me to try he would laugh while he said it. I didn’t think that was a good sign.

The next man had me unplug my router from the outlet, plug it back in, push the reset button down for 20 seconds, and then repeat the process three times. Being the dutiful customer that I am, I did it, though it seemed rather absurd. It didn’t work.

His next suggestion, “Do it again, but this time push the reset button for 30 seconds each time.”

“Do you think that is really going to work?”

“No, I don’t think so. But what are you going to do?”

“I could try banging my head on my keyboard. If it doesn’t work at least I might become unconscious and not have to deal with this anymore.”

“Well, you can try.”

Who says customer service representatives don’t have a sense of humor.

When I called back for the final time I got the brutally honest customer service representative.
He asked me two questions, “Are the lights on or off on your router?”

I told him that they were blinking.

“And when did you buy this router?”

I answered truthfully, two years ago.

“Ah well your router is no good. You need a new one. It is not under warranty any longer. So go buy a new one. Don’t call anymore, I can’t help you.”

I think he may have said, “Sucks to be you!” but I was laughing too hard.

Rob went out this morning and bought me a new and better router. I think my withdrawal symptoms were frightening him. Either that or he realized he was going to have to talk way too much to me every night and that I would complain bitterly at his tv viewing habits. Which in a nutshell can be explained as turning the channel every time a commercial comes on and never quite making it back to the same show.

I am now back to relaxing on the couch with my laptop. My connection is fast. And there is no interference from my non existent microwave.

Memories

June 10, 2005

(This started off as a comment to my entry below on Little League. But it became so long and off the main topic that I decided to post it as an entry in it’s own right. It is long and rambling, but I don’t have the time to edit it as my wireless connection is still down (imagine me shaking my fist at the sky here and wailing)and I have landscapers outside digging up my yard with heavy equipment and small children who seem hell bent on getting run over by earth movers. Such is my life.)

What will my children remember?

I doubt they will remember the number of baseball games they have played. Time will ease their memories of how many games were lost. But they will remember that their father was there to coach when no one else was. They will remember that we made their desire to play a sport a priority for eight short weeks. They will remember what making a commitment means, inconveniences and all.

Next week my husband has to be out of the country on a business trip and will miss one game. He has asked for a parent volunteer to step in. Guess how many people have volunteered?

I’ll be there. With five younger children, ages 7 and under.

I’ll be there, sweating my butt off and my hair getting gray faster than I can color it from the stress of having to keep the two and four year olds out of trouble.

I’ll silently curse the people who thought putting gravel everywhere around the fence ,where the bleachers are, was a good idea. My children will each weigh approximately 20 pounds more from all the gravel they have stuffed in their pockets to bring home. They’ll tell me we don’t have good rocks at home. And they are right, we don’t. I like it that way. But I won’t tell them that.

I’ll be there. Not because I love baseball, but because it is important to them. I’ll scream their names as they come up for bat. And when my tiny little 9 yr old pitches I’ll scream, “You go, little man!” Later on he’ll tell me he heard me cheering for him and he thought it was cool. I know that we are quickly approaching the time when I won’t be able to do anything cool in his eyes. But, thankfully, we aren’t there yet. He doesn’t yet realize how very uncool I am. So I will cherish it, take it as a bittersweet compliment, probably giving it more weight than he intends.

I’ll be there and I’ll cheer for the other kids too. The ones whose parents aren’t there, for whatever reason. When they come off the field after the game I’ll give my children high fives and tell them how awesome they are. Whether they won or not. I’ll commiserate and congratulate.

And we will talk about the game on the way home in the van. And we will laugh together. At some point I’ll probably say, because I seem to have said it every other time, “So your team sucks, so what? *You* tried your very best and that is all that *you* can do.” I’ll make a mental note to remember that advice and be kinder to myself.

We’ll probably stop to get drippy ice cream cones on the way home. The babies will fall asleep in the van and I’ll have to carry their sweaty sticky bodies into the house. I’ll nuzzle my face into their necks and inhale their baby smell. I already know that time passes so quickly and soon this stage will be over for me.

Their little bodies will sprawl across the couch and they will be in that deep sleep only small children are afforded. I’ll wipe them down with a cool wet washcloth, trying to get as much of the dirt and icecream drippings off of them that I can.

I’ll carry my daughter upstairs and put her to bed. I’ll study her face for a minute after I lay her down, and brush the wisps of hair, which have curled up from the heat, off of her face. Even though she is asleep, I’ll pause at the bedroom door and say, ‘I love you.’ I think she can hear me in her dreams.

Their older siblings will be running around the house re-enacting various parts of the game. I’ll probably yell too much at them to settle down and go take their showers. I always seem to yell too much. But I’ll laugh too. In spite of myself, my children will make me laugh.

And after what seems like an eternity, the children will all be in bed. I will kiss them all, tuck them into bed, and sing “twinkle, twinkle little star” a few times. Like I have every night for the past ten years, and like I will for at least the next ten, or however long they will let me.

I’ll go downstairs and pick up the articles of clothing that have been discarded around the house and bring them to the laundry room. I’ll straighten up around the house and kick the random shoes into a pile before I flop onto the couch.

Children will come downstairs, in turn, needing water, to use the preferred downstairs bathroom, get a hug, get a toy that has been forgotten, or just tell me something of earth shattering importance that has been forgotten until that moment. After several rounds of this I’ll tell them that I am off duty and all further discussions will need to wait until morning. Someone will test this.

As I go to bed that night I’ll check in on my children, all finally asleep. I will marvel at how big they are sprawled across their beds. The sight of their scraped knees and bruised shins will make me smile, because it will mean they were having fun playing outside. I’ll see their sunkissed cheeks and the freckles across their noses. I can almost see the young man that my eldest son will grow into, his bed filled up with gangly arms and legs. I’ll pull the sheets up and cover them back up.

Before I leave their rooms and close their bedroom doors, I’ll pause for a moment to hear them softly breathe. Even though they are no longer babies, I still need to do this.

They don’t know I do this. They will have no memory of it. They wouldn’t understand anyway. Not until they have children of their own will they understand.

And days similar to this one will happen again and again. Another chance to do it better. Another chance to be the mother I long to be. Such is the benefit to be the younger children in a large family.

What will my children remember? I don’t know.

I hope time will soften the edges off their memories. I hope that they remember me kindly and forget the times I lost my temper. I hope they will realize I always tried my best, though at times it probably won’t be enough, and I will disappoint them. I will hurt their feelings, without ever meaning to. And some of their deepest hurts I probably won’t know about until years later. I hope they will remember a childhood of laughter, and less of sadness. I hope they remember me as a better mother than I felt like I was. I hope they remember how important they were to me. I hope they will forgive my failures.

This is how I’ll remember it all. I hope that it is good enough.

I’ll hope I was good enough

The Injustice Of It All

June 9, 2005

Why would my wireless internet connection suddenly decide not to work, forcing up to the third floor of my house, where it is at least 30 degrees hotter than the 90 degrees it is in the rest of the house, and be forced to plug in? Why?

Why would this happen on a day when I have both the small kids napping at the same time and could, ostensibly, surf the net and type up a witty post? One which you will not be able to read anytime in the near future since the sweat that is pouring off of my body right now will no doubt cause the computer to short out. Either that or I will fall to the floor from dehydration and be forced to lick up the puddle of my own sweat to survive.

My husband thinks that God is trying to send a message that perhaps my time would be better spent doing something more productive around the house like clean.

If God is a man, that is probably precisely what it is.

The Big Yellow Albatross

June 6, 2005

Taking a break from eating my bon-bons and watching soap operas on tv.

This past weekend Rob put up new clapboards on this small portion of the house and put the trim around the new picture window. A picture window he installed in the fall and we never got around to finishing before the endless winter came.

Look, there is Rob cutting a hole in the side of the house for the window, while standing on the rickety ladder and using a power saw. Notice I am standing a far distance away, out of danger in case he falls. I’m a nice wife like that.

Remember the screened in porch we paid a contractor boatloads of money to build for us, and was in danger in collapsing, well Rob fixed it.

I then painted the porch exterior and stained the steps. It looks great now and we are happy with it. This week a landscape contractor is coming to tear up our front yard, move the plants and trees, and put down grass seed, to replace the green weeds we cut short to give the illusion of grass now.

My new motto: Painting, It’s Almost Like Having A Hobby, Except For The Enjoying It Part

A Fly On The Wall

June 4, 2005

If you are going to tell me to take a shortcut, you really need to tell me the direction in addition to the route number. I am directionally challenged and will not realize I am driving in the wrong direction until I leave the state.

**************************
“Well, Christine, it seems as though you have made up your mind and are not going to be happy until I give you an antibiotic prescription.”

I am feeling like a junkie, pressuring the doctor for my drugs. “Gimme the prescription. I’m jonesin’ for some amoxicillin”

***************************

No they’re not all my kids. I thought it would be fun to bring other people’s kids to my doctor appointment so that we could have the fun of all trying to cram into this teeny tiny room and touch all the fragile equipment.
Really? My blood pressure is slightly elevated? I wonder why.

*************************

Could I put some of those dog flea and tick collars on the kids?

*************************

I took the kids out to eat after my appointment at a real restaurant… one with a dedicated kids menu, paper placemats to color on, and plastic covered menus, but a real restaurant nonetheless. I heard several people count the number of children out loud while pointing, a practice I find very odd. I am unsure what I am supposed to do when they are doing that. Congratulate them for being able to count to seven?

**************************
Rob, attempting to paint while I nursed the baby, “I am just not as good at painting as you are. You are just such a good painter. Oh look, it’s splashing everywhere. I am ruining my clothes. You are so good at this, it’s unbelievable. I’m getting vertigo on this rickety ladder. You make this look so easy. My tendonitis is acting up in my elbow.”

Me, “How about you just say you don’t want to do it? I can totally see past your empty flattery.”

Rob, getting down from the ladder, “Well, if you’re going to be like that.”

****************************

Later on.

Rob, bemoaning the state of the kitchen while cleaning it up.

Me, “Wow, you are so good at cleaning up the kitchen. I can never do it as well as you. You don’t splash the water from the sink all over the floor. It’s incredible, really. I have never really cared enough to line the kids water bottles up on the counter in a perfectly straight line, in alphabetical order no less. But when you do it, it seems effortless.”

Rob, “Do I sense some sarcasm in your voice?”

************************************

“We screened the back porch in to keep the bugs out. When you leave the screen door open it defeats the whole purpose. And, frankly, it aggravates the crap out of me.”

“Now, leaning on the screens so that they form a permanent impression of your face, that’s not aggravating at all.”

Bulls-eye

June 3, 2005

Damn ticks.
Like I have nothing else better to do than go to yet another doctor.

The best part of the experience so far, because I’m sure it will get better, was calling the doctor’s office and having the secretary tell me that the doctor won’t want to see me. They tell patients to call back and come in when they get sick with flu-like or arthritis symptoms. Are you freaking kidding me?!?

I was speechless for a moment before I told her that, according to the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society, the protocol for erythema migrans (fancy name for bulls-eye rash) with no constitutional symptoms was a 6 week course of antibiotics. If this type of rash is present treatment must begin immediately as that is when treatment is the most effective. There is no definitive blood test for Lyme disease.

She wanted to know where I had read that. I hated saying that I read it on the internet, since that makes it seem as though I read it on some insipid mommy and me message board, and not a medical journal.

So now I get to drag seven kids to the doctor’s office with me, should be boatloads of fun. It’s times like this I wish I had gone to medical school instead of pursuing a master’s in English (yeah that was worthwhile) and law school.

Throw a dart at me, I’m done.

Well, That Changes Everything

June 2, 2005

Yesterday I was driving in the car to my dentist appointment to have my stitches removed. During this past week, I have become quite adept at cutting my foods into tiny pieces and chewing with only my front teeth. I had thought that only being able to eat soft foods would help me to lose those last few pounds this week, but no. What I found instead is that I eat even more soft foods that “normal” foods because there isn’t the chewing factor. I have decided that I am relatively thin because I am just inherently lazy.

The dentist is about an hour and a half drive from my house. They are located in a town I grew up in. It was a nice place to grow up, though I can hardly recognize it anymore. The conspicuous consumption and ostentatious displays of wealth make me ill. And prove that money doesn’t buy good taste. And driving in the little car on I-95 surrounded by huge SUVs, frightens me. I feel like I am in a go-cart with my ass dragging on the pavement. I sit, gripping the steering wheel with my white knuckles, telepathically willing all the other vehicles to stay in the respective lanes. And silently cursing all the people clogging up my highway.

So yesterday, I was absent mindedly listening to the radio when from the backseat I heard my two yr old singing along to the radio. It was the old Bob Marley song, Jammin’.

A song that would ordinarily prompt me to jam ice picks into my ear drums rather than suffer through it.

But, as I have already established, my life is not about me anymore.

My daughter was singing “jammin, jammin, jammin, jammin”

And it was cute, but the song was still annoying. Irritating, overplayed, and annoying.

I looked in the rear view mirror and she was dancing in her carseat, still singing, “jammin, jammin, jammin…”

Then Bob Marley sang: We’re jammin’, we’re jammin, I hope you like jammin’ too”

My daughter raised her arms over her head, and screamed, “YES. I LIKE PEANUT BUTTER AND JAMMIN”

My hatred for that song lessened just a tiny bit.