Earlier this evening, G and I were in her lounge, sitting directly across from each other in identical pink-paisley butterfly chairs. I was reading e-mail on my laptop while she, a child of the new millennium, multitasked with Sims on her own laptop, Club Penguin on the DS, and a copy of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events. I had ordered a pizza about half an hour before, and we were waiting for it to arrive when we had this exchange:
G (glancing up): Is the pizza here yet?
Me: ... Did you hear a knock at the door?
G: No.
Me: Did you see me get up and go downstairs to get the pizza?
G: No.
Me: Then I'm gonna have to say it's not here yet.
Belatedly, it occurred to me that if she were just a couple of years younger and less savvy, I could have had a lot of fun with that same conversation:
G: Is the pizza here yet?
Me: Yes. When the pizza guy knocked on the door, I froze time in a one-meter bubble around your chair. I went downstairs, got the pizza, ate, washed my dish, put the leftovers in the fridge, and then unfroze time again. Since you've missed dinner, I guess it's time for bed.
Or:
G: Is the pizza here yet?
Me: Yes. I got tired of waiting, so moving faster than light, I ran eight blocks to the pizza place, picked up the pizza, ate it all, and threw the empty box in a dumpster. Then I ran home and was back in my chair before you noticed I was gone. There aren't any leftovers. Sorry about that.
But, she's 11 and a half and has mastered the Look of Withering Disbelief, so it's probably just as well I didn't.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
An anniversary of sorts
Twelve years ago this weekend, I was feeling peculiar. Food tasted funny, I was a little queasy, and I had inexplicably blossomed by a full bra size almost overnight. I also hadn't had my period since March, but had thought nothing of it until then, since I skipped at least one month out of every three anyway.
"Wouldn't it be funny if I were pregnant? Ha ha!" I said to my dad when he came over to our apartment that Saturday.
"Ha ha," he agreed.
"Hmm," said P.
"See you later," I said, and left to spend the day at a festival.
The following day, P, who had clearly been thinking about all this, said, "You know, maybe you ought to take a pregnancy test."
"I'm sure it's just a false alarm," I said.
"Take one anyway," he said.
So I went out and bought a pregnancy test, thinking that it was probably a waste of money. P and I had vague plans to have a baby in a few years, after I finished grad school (to which I'd just received my acceptance letter the previous week), but we certainly hadn't been trying to have one right then. This was bound to be a false alarm, I told myself, as I took my little white stick into the bathroom and got busy.
While I stood there watching the chemicals do their work, I heard the phone ring.
"Hello?" said P's muffled voice in the living room, just as the plus sign on the test finished turning bright pink.
Holy crap! I thought.
"Okay, hang on," said P, now right outside the bathroom.
"It's [friend's name]," he called through the door.
"Tell her it's not a good time!" I said. "Then come in here!"
"Oh my God," said P, coming in with the phone still in his hand and looking at the stick. "We're going to have a baby."
And that is how I found out I was pregnant with G. It wasn't planned, and at the time I thought I wasn't ready, but it turned out better than I could have imagined. Not only did we get G, in all her gorgeous, clever, delightful quirkiness, but had we waited, we might not have had any children: when the time we'd intended to "start trying" finally rolled around, P's health had deteriorated to the point that we probably would not have tried at all. Things really do have a way of working out, eventually. And sometimes even sooner than that.
"Wouldn't it be funny if I were pregnant? Ha ha!" I said to my dad when he came over to our apartment that Saturday.
"Ha ha," he agreed.
"Hmm," said P.
"See you later," I said, and left to spend the day at a festival.
The following day, P, who had clearly been thinking about all this, said, "You know, maybe you ought to take a pregnancy test."
"I'm sure it's just a false alarm," I said.
"Take one anyway," he said.
So I went out and bought a pregnancy test, thinking that it was probably a waste of money. P and I had vague plans to have a baby in a few years, after I finished grad school (to which I'd just received my acceptance letter the previous week), but we certainly hadn't been trying to have one right then. This was bound to be a false alarm, I told myself, as I took my little white stick into the bathroom and got busy.
While I stood there watching the chemicals do their work, I heard the phone ring.
"Hello?" said P's muffled voice in the living room, just as the plus sign on the test finished turning bright pink.
Holy crap! I thought.
"Okay, hang on," said P, now right outside the bathroom.
"It's [friend's name]," he called through the door.
"Tell her it's not a good time!" I said. "Then come in here!"
"Oh my God," said P, coming in with the phone still in his hand and looking at the stick. "We're going to have a baby."
And that is how I found out I was pregnant with G. It wasn't planned, and at the time I thought I wasn't ready, but it turned out better than I could have imagined. Not only did we get G, in all her gorgeous, clever, delightful quirkiness, but had we waited, we might not have had any children: when the time we'd intended to "start trying" finally rolled around, P's health had deteriorated to the point that we probably would not have tried at all. Things really do have a way of working out, eventually. And sometimes even sooner than that.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Food for thought
G: You put a video of my band concert on Facebook?!
Me: I shot it from halfway up the bleachers. No one can possibly tell which kid is you.
G: ARGH! MOTHERRR!
Me: Look at it this way. I post your photos and videos and drawings because I'm a proud mom and I want everyone to know how beautiful and talented I think you are. Would you prefer it if I were ashamed of you and tried to pretend I didn't have a kid?
G: ... Oh.
Me: I shot it from halfway up the bleachers. No one can possibly tell which kid is you.
G: ARGH! MOTHERRR!
Me: Look at it this way. I post your photos and videos and drawings because I'm a proud mom and I want everyone to know how beautiful and talented I think you are. Would you prefer it if I were ashamed of you and tried to pretend I didn't have a kid?
G: ... Oh.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Great moments in advertising
Yes, this 15.8-oz. box does contain more cereal than a 14.5-oz. box. It also contains more wheat than corn cereal, more frosting than non-frosted cereal, fewer simians than a barrel full of monkeys ... I could go on stating the obvious all day, but I think you get the point.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Remembrance of summers past
G: Today is May 13, right?
Me: Yes. Nearly the end of the school year. It's so close you can almost taste it. It tastes like chicken.
G (laughs): Ew. We don't eat chicken. (pondering) I don't know what the end of the school year would taste like.
Me: Actually, I think it would taste like popsicles and hose water.
G: HOSE water? Ugh! Why?
Me: Well, when I was your age, kids played outside all summer long. You'd get up in the morning, have your cereal, and then run outside barefoot and stay there until lunch. When you got thirsty, instead of going back inside to get a drink, you'd drink out of the hose, and the water always had a unique sort of taste.
G: Like what?
Me: Metal and dirt.
G: Gross.
Me: I'm sure there are places where kids still play outside in the summer, but this isn't one of them.
G: No, most kids go to day camp or on vacation.
Me: It's kind of sad.
G: I like it.
Me: Yes. Nearly the end of the school year. It's so close you can almost taste it. It tastes like chicken.
G (laughs): Ew. We don't eat chicken. (pondering) I don't know what the end of the school year would taste like.
Me: Actually, I think it would taste like popsicles and hose water.
G: HOSE water? Ugh! Why?
Me: Well, when I was your age, kids played outside all summer long. You'd get up in the morning, have your cereal, and then run outside barefoot and stay there until lunch. When you got thirsty, instead of going back inside to get a drink, you'd drink out of the hose, and the water always had a unique sort of taste.
G: Like what?
Me: Metal and dirt.
G: Gross.
Me: I'm sure there are places where kids still play outside in the summer, but this isn't one of them.
G: No, most kids go to day camp or on vacation.
Me: It's kind of sad.
G: I like it.
Monday, May 10, 2010
The circle of life
I think a mouse has died in the wall of the staircase that leads up from our garage into the house. At first it smelled musty and moldy, like wet towels, and now it just smells, well, dead. Everything I've read online indicates that my options are a.) knock holes in the wall in an attempt to find and remove the unfortunate deceased, which may or may not be successful, or b.) wait it out until decomposition does its work and the smell goes away. Since I don't own this house and I have no idea how much it would cost to get a ripped-up wall repaired, I've been forced to go for option b, gross as it is.
The bulk of the smell is located near a large heating vent, so one of my friends has kindly volunteered to come over tomorrow, take the vent cover off and see if he can locate the offender that way. I know how to operate a screwdriver and could technically do that myself, but I'd really rather not (yuck), so just this once I'm going to take him up on the offer, and hope to God it works. The smell is minimal today because I've opened up windows and aired everything out, but when G and I got back from San Diego yesterday, it was a bit thick as we came in from the garage. (Not the sort of welcome-home you want to receive, let me tell you.) At least the top two floors, where we spend most of our time, are mostly stench-free; it's all concentrated in that stairwell, so we only have to smell it when we go in or out.
We had gone to San Diego because last month, as I was thinking about how depressing the last several Mother's Days had been, I decided that this year I was going to take preemptive action and plan something for myself. San Diego is only about a 90-minute drive from here, so I found a cute, reasonably priced hotel near the downtown Gaslamp District, and I made a reservation for Mother's Day weekend. Here are a few photos from the trip.
We stayed at The Bristol Hotel San Diego, and I couldn't believe how nice it was for the price I paid. It wasn't a bad location either, within walking distance of hundreds of shops and restaurants.
At the Ghirardelli Ice Cream and Chocolate Shop. G had the cone, I had the Rocky Road sundae. It was delicious, but I only managed to finish about a third of it. I'm not that much of a pig.
People playing giant chess at Horton Plaza. There were giant checkers too.
Outside the San Diego Museum of Art. Yes, it was yet another cloudy day for an outing.
Part of the sculpture garden and courtyard near the art museum. That's the bell tower and carillion on the left.
Museum of Man
Mayan stele inside the Museum of Man.
Hall of Modern Humans. Each of those circles had a human invention or milestone and the year it happened. My birth year was the computer microchip; G's was the euro.
All in all, it was a pleasant weekend and a huge improvement over the last few years. One of the nasty little surprises of widowhood is that while you can organize all the major holidays on your own, no one is going to pick up the slack on the days that are supposed to be about you. It's taken me a few years to get there, but I'm finally in a place where I can arrange my own special event and not feel bad about doing it myself. I'm already planning a similar approach for my fortieth birthday next year -- not sure where we're going yet, but I'm going to make it as good as I can. Surely I must deserve it by now.
The bulk of the smell is located near a large heating vent, so one of my friends has kindly volunteered to come over tomorrow, take the vent cover off and see if he can locate the offender that way. I know how to operate a screwdriver and could technically do that myself, but I'd really rather not (yuck), so just this once I'm going to take him up on the offer, and hope to God it works. The smell is minimal today because I've opened up windows and aired everything out, but when G and I got back from San Diego yesterday, it was a bit thick as we came in from the garage. (Not the sort of welcome-home you want to receive, let me tell you.) At least the top two floors, where we spend most of our time, are mostly stench-free; it's all concentrated in that stairwell, so we only have to smell it when we go in or out.
We had gone to San Diego because last month, as I was thinking about how depressing the last several Mother's Days had been, I decided that this year I was going to take preemptive action and plan something for myself. San Diego is only about a 90-minute drive from here, so I found a cute, reasonably priced hotel near the downtown Gaslamp District, and I made a reservation for Mother's Day weekend. Here are a few photos from the trip.
We stayed at The Bristol Hotel San Diego, and I couldn't believe how nice it was for the price I paid. It wasn't a bad location either, within walking distance of hundreds of shops and restaurants.
At the Ghirardelli Ice Cream and Chocolate Shop. G had the cone, I had the Rocky Road sundae. It was delicious, but I only managed to finish about a third of it. I'm not that much of a pig.
People playing giant chess at Horton Plaza. There were giant checkers too.
Outside the San Diego Museum of Art. Yes, it was yet another cloudy day for an outing.
Part of the sculpture garden and courtyard near the art museum. That's the bell tower and carillion on the left.
Museum of Man
Mayan stele inside the Museum of Man.
Hall of Modern Humans. Each of those circles had a human invention or milestone and the year it happened. My birth year was the computer microchip; G's was the euro.
All in all, it was a pleasant weekend and a huge improvement over the last few years. One of the nasty little surprises of widowhood is that while you can organize all the major holidays on your own, no one is going to pick up the slack on the days that are supposed to be about you. It's taken me a few years to get there, but I'm finally in a place where I can arrange my own special event and not feel bad about doing it myself. I'm already planning a similar approach for my fortieth birthday next year -- not sure where we're going yet, but I'm going to make it as good as I can. Surely I must deserve it by now.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
The geometry of romance
G explains to me, using aliases, who likes whom in her grade at school:
G: Okay, so Susie likes Tom, but Tom likes Susie's friend Mary. Mary likes Joe and Joe likes Trixie. Trixie likes Carl, and Carl likes some other girl whose name I can't remember.
Me: I'm confused.
G: It's not even a love triangle, it's like some strange polygon.
Me: *rofl*
G (with a disapproving head shake): Dating in the fifth grade. I don't know what they're thinking.
Some time later:
G: Everyone says I act like a grownup and not a kid.
Me: Why do they say that?
G: Because I like things they think are boring. I like classical music and I read a lot and I enjoy writing for the school newspaper.
Me: Those are perfectly good interests. Everyone is entitled to like what they like.
G: I know! Screw them!
Me: Um, that's not a polite thing to say. But it's true that it's none of their business.
G: Okay, so Susie likes Tom, but Tom likes Susie's friend Mary. Mary likes Joe and Joe likes Trixie. Trixie likes Carl, and Carl likes some other girl whose name I can't remember.
Me: I'm confused.
G: It's not even a love triangle, it's like some strange polygon.
Me: *rofl*
G (with a disapproving head shake): Dating in the fifth grade. I don't know what they're thinking.
Some time later:
G: Everyone says I act like a grownup and not a kid.
Me: Why do they say that?
G: Because I like things they think are boring. I like classical music and I read a lot and I enjoy writing for the school newspaper.
Me: Those are perfectly good interests. Everyone is entitled to like what they like.
G: I know! Screw them!
Me: Um, that's not a polite thing to say. But it's true that it's none of their business.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
I enjoy being a girl
This evening, G showed me the pamphlet she got at the Growth and Development (a.k.a. "Fun With Puberty") presentation at school.
It said that while 80 percent of mothers think they've prepared their daughters for the emotional effects of having their period, only 10 percent of girls report knowing exactly what to expect.
So I said to G, "Okay, here's the truth. Having your period makes you grumpy."
And she looked me up and down and said dryly, "I know."
Erm. I guess I don't hide those crazy hormonal mood swings as well as I think I do.
It said that while 80 percent of mothers think they've prepared their daughters for the emotional effects of having their period, only 10 percent of girls report knowing exactly what to expect.
So I said to G, "Okay, here's the truth. Having your period makes you grumpy."
And she looked me up and down and said dryly, "I know."
Erm. I guess I don't hide those crazy hormonal mood swings as well as I think I do.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Faire thee well
Today we went to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. We've been several times before, but our last visit was at least five years ago, and I was ready for another trip. G was all over the idea when I proposed it last night, but when it was actually time to get ready and leave this morning, she said she had changed her mind and wanted to stay home and play video games all day. "Some people just want to be lazy," she opined, to which I said unfeelingly, "Yes, well, your desire to be lazy is interfering with my desire to have fun, so get dressed and let's go."
This is not us, but if we had gone in costume, I like to think we would have looked that good.
A troop of combatants marching away after a staged battle.
Horses! We both spent a long time patting them and scratching their necks. They seemed to enjoy it, or at least not to mind.
Let's all take a moment here to be grateful for our automatic washing machines.
I'm not sure what this pile of brush and sticks and random objects was supposed to be. Maybe they were planning to burn someone as a witch later on.
I wish I could tell you that G was completely into the Faire once we arrived, but of the three hours we spent there, at least two of them were set to a constant refrain of "It's so hot! My feet hurt! There's too much dust! It's so hot! I can't do this anymore!" However, she did enjoy some of it, especially the horses and the booth where she got to shoot bolts from a crossbow. As for me, I would have enjoyed myself more if there had been more enthusiasm and less complaining, but it was good to make the point that sometimes you have to suck it up and do what someone else wants to do, rather than what you want to do. Only children don't get much practice at that, since they never have to sit through their older sister's dance class or their little brother's Barney video, but it's a lesson everyone needs to learn before they're grown up.
The real highlight of the day came on our way home, when we stopped at a KFC to pee (both of us would rather have exploded than use the port-a-potties at the Faire) and get something to drink. As we pushed open the front door, we nearly collided with a guy dressed up like Colonel Sanders, white goatee, pale-pink suit, string tie and all. He was doing some sort of promotional appearance and there was a professional photographer who would take your photo with him, so of course I could not resist saying to G, "Now's your chance to get a picture with The Colonel!" The look of absolute horror on her face was a wonder to behold. I managed to play it off for about five seconds before I broke down, laughed, and told her I was only joking. It was a surreal moment, though. You don't expect to walk into KFC and see The Colonel any more than you expect to walk into McDonald's and see a man in a clown suit.
This is not us, but if we had gone in costume, I like to think we would have looked that good.
A troop of combatants marching away after a staged battle.
Horses! We both spent a long time patting them and scratching their necks. They seemed to enjoy it, or at least not to mind.
Let's all take a moment here to be grateful for our automatic washing machines.
I'm not sure what this pile of brush and sticks and random objects was supposed to be. Maybe they were planning to burn someone as a witch later on.
I wish I could tell you that G was completely into the Faire once we arrived, but of the three hours we spent there, at least two of them were set to a constant refrain of "It's so hot! My feet hurt! There's too much dust! It's so hot! I can't do this anymore!" However, she did enjoy some of it, especially the horses and the booth where she got to shoot bolts from a crossbow. As for me, I would have enjoyed myself more if there had been more enthusiasm and less complaining, but it was good to make the point that sometimes you have to suck it up and do what someone else wants to do, rather than what you want to do. Only children don't get much practice at that, since they never have to sit through their older sister's dance class or their little brother's Barney video, but it's a lesson everyone needs to learn before they're grown up.
The real highlight of the day came on our way home, when we stopped at a KFC to pee (both of us would rather have exploded than use the port-a-potties at the Faire) and get something to drink. As we pushed open the front door, we nearly collided with a guy dressed up like Colonel Sanders, white goatee, pale-pink suit, string tie and all. He was doing some sort of promotional appearance and there was a professional photographer who would take your photo with him, so of course I could not resist saying to G, "Now's your chance to get a picture with The Colonel!" The look of absolute horror on her face was a wonder to behold. I managed to play it off for about five seconds before I broke down, laughed, and told her I was only joking. It was a surreal moment, though. You don't expect to walk into KFC and see The Colonel any more than you expect to walk into McDonald's and see a man in a clown suit.
Where I've been
visited 18 states (36%)
Create your own visited map of The United States
This is the best I can remember - I'd have to ask my dad if there are any I missed or added by mistake. Of those 18 states, I've lived in six: Florida, California (twice), Georgia, New Jersey, Louisiana and Texas. Also, while I've flown across the country and back a few times, I've traveled that entire route down the East Coast and across the South and Southwest by car, too, some of it more than once, and all of it before I was 10 years old.
Of the states I've missed, the two I'd really like to visit are Washington and Oregon. I'm more focused on finding a way to travel outside the U.S. right now, so we'll see if I get to them anytime soon. I do want to show G more of the country eventually, though - she's only been to California, Arizona, New Mexico and New York so far.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Putting her face on
G had a field trip to see a concert at the local performing arts center today. Apparently she was excited about it, because she not only got up when the alarm went off and started getting dressed without being told, she also brushed her teeth and hair (!), and accessorized her outfit of cream sweater, black skirt and leggings with a bracelet and a sparkly headband.
It wasn't until we were in the car and nearly at school that I realized she also had accessorized her face with lip gloss (okay) and blue eyeshadow (forbidden at school). I said, "Are you wearing eyeshadow?" and she said "Yes," with such a guilty expression that you would have sworn she thought I was going to smite her on the spot. I was about to turn into the parking lot at that point, so I just told her to use her fingertip and blend it a little more - she'd applied it pretty subtly anyway, which is why I hadn't noticed until I saw her in full daylight - and not to be surprised if her teacher caught her and made her wash it off.
I suppose I ought to have scolded her about it, but in fact I found it kind of funny, because she had such a Busted! expression, and it's such typical behavior for her age. Most 11- and 12-year-old girls (me included) try to sneak off to school with makeup on at some point, or else hide it in their backpacks and put it on when they get there. I did remind her that she's not allowed to wear makeup to school until seventh grade, though, as she knows full well. Clear or sparkly lip gloss is fine, nail polish is fine, those strawberry- and bubblegum-scented teenybopper perfumes are fine, but not the heavy stuff.
Even when she does expand her cosmetic horizons, I'm sure I'll be checking every morning to make sure she hasn't caked it on - a bit hypocritical of me, given the amount of black eyeliner I wore in high school, but yesterday's moody Goth teen is today's fussy mother. Although come to think of it, I do still use a lot of black eyeliner. Hmm.
It wasn't until we were in the car and nearly at school that I realized she also had accessorized her face with lip gloss (okay) and blue eyeshadow (forbidden at school). I said, "Are you wearing eyeshadow?" and she said "Yes," with such a guilty expression that you would have sworn she thought I was going to smite her on the spot. I was about to turn into the parking lot at that point, so I just told her to use her fingertip and blend it a little more - she'd applied it pretty subtly anyway, which is why I hadn't noticed until I saw her in full daylight - and not to be surprised if her teacher caught her and made her wash it off.
I suppose I ought to have scolded her about it, but in fact I found it kind of funny, because she had such a Busted! expression, and it's such typical behavior for her age. Most 11- and 12-year-old girls (me included) try to sneak off to school with makeup on at some point, or else hide it in their backpacks and put it on when they get there. I did remind her that she's not allowed to wear makeup to school until seventh grade, though, as she knows full well. Clear or sparkly lip gloss is fine, nail polish is fine, those strawberry- and bubblegum-scented teenybopper perfumes are fine, but not the heavy stuff.
Even when she does expand her cosmetic horizons, I'm sure I'll be checking every morning to make sure she hasn't caked it on - a bit hypocritical of me, given the amount of black eyeliner I wore in high school, but yesterday's moody Goth teen is today's fussy mother. Although come to think of it, I do still use a lot of black eyeliner. Hmm.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
I can't believe it either
While shopping at a craft store today, I saw a book called I Can't Believe I'm Knitting Socks. I giggled over it because it sounded so startled, as if the author had never knitted in her life, then looked down one night while watching television and discovered that she was holding a pair of needles with a half-finished sock dangling from them. I don't think sock-knitting usually takes people by surprise like that, but what do I know? I buy all our socks at Target.
G is at a campout with her Girl Scout troop this weekend, which is why I have time to roam around shops and muse about socks. She goes to this particular event every spring, and I've found it makes a great yardstick for how much she's matured that year: from first grade, when she attended as a day camper with me right beside her, to third grade, when she managed to sleep over one night before needing to come home, to fourth grade, when she thought she could only do one night, but ended up staying both nights and loving it. This year, fifth grade, I signed her in at the campsite, gave her a hug and said "Have fun," and she said "Bye Mom!" and was off like a shot.
I should probably be more sentimental about my baby not needing me, but if you knew G as a small child, and how clingy and terrified of everything she was, you know this level of confidence is practically worth throwing a party over. I may launch an independent adult yet!
G is at a campout with her Girl Scout troop this weekend, which is why I have time to roam around shops and muse about socks. She goes to this particular event every spring, and I've found it makes a great yardstick for how much she's matured that year: from first grade, when she attended as a day camper with me right beside her, to third grade, when she managed to sleep over one night before needing to come home, to fourth grade, when she thought she could only do one night, but ended up staying both nights and loving it. This year, fifth grade, I signed her in at the campsite, gave her a hug and said "Have fun," and she said "Bye Mom!" and was off like a shot.
I should probably be more sentimental about my baby not needing me, but if you knew G as a small child, and how clingy and terrified of everything she was, you know this level of confidence is practically worth throwing a party over. I may launch an independent adult yet!
Monday, April 12, 2010
Sunday, April 04, 2010
But I didn't mean to!
Orchard Bank might want to rethink their marketing campaign. It's an invitation to apply for a preapproved credit card, but it reads like a Puritan minister thundering accusations from the pulpit. Oh, you can try to hide, but we all know where the blame lies. YOU made this happen! Do you feel guilty? YOU SHOULD.
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