Thursday, November 30, 2006

Thursday? Thursday already?? How can that be? The time is flying, dear reader, and I am counting down the paychecks 'til The Big Day. Spencer, on the other hand, prefers to count down the hours 'til Christmas, and can hardly bear the thought of wasting any of them sleeping. The dilemma comes in knowing that Santa will be highly displeased to hear of him not listening to Momma and going to bed in a timely fashion. To slip peacefully off to sleep after a hard day of play, or to torture Momma with whiny excuses? Such are the moral struggles of a 3-yr-old. At the end of the day, of course, the Santa card trumps all, but you knew this.

Julian, on the other hand, hasn't a clue what is looming on the horizon and knows only his immediate pain. Frustration, thy name is SHOES! We had allowed our sweet baby to run with the wind between his toes thus far, but decided with falling temperatures and increased walking ability, shoes were in order. I had forgotten how putting the damn things on can throw all previous walking feats out the window and set us back, oh, to about 2-wk-old status. Poor Julian crawls around army-style these days, dragging the offending sneakers as if he were a war hero crawling home, useless legs behind him. What a drama queen. He gets that from his father.

Julian has also discovered his tongue, which adds boundless emphasis to his encrypted vocabulary. It's all so Sylvester, phbltt-uffering phbltt-uccotash.

Consider yourself updated, dear reader, a virtual peeping Tom in the bushes of my life, and fret not! I swear on a stack of patents, more postcards from the edge (isn't that a movie? Is that phrase trademarked? I should know, huh?) tomorrow!

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Thanksgiving. Perhaps the easiest of holidays to explain thematically to the young'uns. More difficult, however, is explaining the meaning of the word, "thankful." Things or ideas you have, that you like, that you are just so so so happy to have. Or like. Things or ideas. You know. Stuff.

Seeing as how my insightful interpretation was laid out so cleanly before him, I don't understand how Spencer could not immediately grasp the concept.

"What are you thankful for, Spence?"

"Ummm...I'm helpful for..."

"No, thankful, look at my mouth, thu-ank-ful."

"Oh. Kay. I'm thankful for...Ummm...My friends at school..."

"Yes! That's great! Oh good job, what a nice thing to be thankful for. Go ahead, baby..."

"And I'm thinkful for..."

"No, thankful, Spence, thankful, what are you so happy to have?"

"I'm thankful for...Ummm...my friends, and...my school, and..." (Eyes start wandering) "...My mittens, and...our car, and...stop signs, and...stores, ay-uuund...car wash, ay-uuund...sidewalk, ay-uuund...lady walking her doggie, ay-uuund...Cwismas lights! And I'm thankful for Cwismas! And Santa Claus! And I will sit on Santa Claus lap! And I will say, (falsetto) 'Santa, please may I have a 'mote control car?' And he will say 'YES!!'"

Ah, Thanksgiving, you poor overlooked holiday. You are merely a stumbling block on the road to Christmas.

I am thankful for my boys, for my entire family, may they forever be deliriously happy and healthy, and for my sense of humor, without which sanity would not be possible. Amen.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Just recently we touched upon how similar dear Spence’s personality is to that of his father. In today’s Happy Hour, we will discuss a way in which Spence reflects a love of my own heart, The Great American Word Game.

Word play, it seems, provides endless fascination for this 3-yr-old, and he will happily engage in it with any willing participant/innocent bystander for hours on end.

“Hey Spence, look, it’s Uncle Jonah!”

“Uncle Jonah?”

“Yup. Say hello!”

“Hello, Uncle…Cheek!”

My dear brother, being the kind-hearted goof he is, plays along.

“Hi Spencer! How are you?”

“Fine, Uncle…Blanket!” (hysterical laughter)

“Oh yeah? Well that’s good, Spence-cheek!” (more hysterical laughter) “How was your day at school today?”

“Fine! I played on the swings pickle! I said pickle! Ahahahaha!!”

“Well the swings are fun…But what about the slide CHEEK?!”

(Spencer, of course, now believes my brother to be The Funniest Man On The Planet.)

“Well my favowite is the monkey PICKLE bars!! Ahahahahahaha!”

“All right, Spence, you’re a silly boy...Oh look, it's dinner time…Are you hungry? How about a WOODEN BLANKET SANDWICH?”

(Spence falls down on the floor, arms wrapped around his own stomach to keep from busting a gut.)

My brother has now cemented his place as favorite uncle. This only leaves the question of how to explain to the extended family at the upcoming holidays why Spencer now refers to him as Uncle PickleCheek BlanketPants. I’m sure they’ll understand.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Happy Friday! Friday, Friday, you know what that means...Donuts for breakfast, takeout for lunch, and pizza for dinner, meaning by the end of the day you will probably be unable to sit down comfortably in those jeans you were so excited to wear to work today.

Yes, Casual Friday, dear reader, Denim Paradise as far as the eye can see. I have a theory, yet to be disproven, that there may be a direct correlation between one's age and exactly how high-waisted one's jeans are. A teenager, bopping around the mall or whatever it is teenagers do these days (feels like ages since I've been one), will unflinchingly sport pants with approximately half an inch of material between crotch and button. These are called "low-rise," or "belly before baby" jeans. Display it now, chickies, display it while you still can.

Add on an inch or so for each decade lived and you've got the formula! Remind me to stop wearing jeans in about thirty years, Ok? Thanks.

When this theory leaves you questioning your results, an additional way to determine how old one truly is is to engage said person in light conversation. Note the enthusiastic use of the word "sucks" and the sideways glances to be sure you think they're using it properly. Very telling.

Again, these are just theories.

I'd like to lobby management to instate Pajama Thursday. Then we could really have some fun.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Oh, LAWD, here we go again. On a very reputable bulletin board that I visit, the inevitable debate of whether to return to work after children or stay home has reared its ugly head.

I thought I'd come here to vent a bit. Smart girl, aren't I? These things can get pretty heated on the boards and I'd rather not wake up with a severed stuffed animal head in bed beside me.

So humor me, won't you? I believe I've stumbled upon the perfect illustration of how it feels to be a working mother in the company of those who so fiercely believe anything less than staying home full-time to be equivalent to leaving your children in the woods to be raised by wild squirrels (I'm in Cleveland, Ok?).

Say you are one of the afore-mentioned mothers. Now say you throw a dinner party, of mixed company. If an acquaintance of yours, attending said dinner party, had a mastectomy, and you were aware of it, would you gather your bosomy friends 'round and go on and on about how you couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose a breast(s)? You couldn't possibly ever go through that, what it must be like to wear a swimsuit, how could you please your husband, etc. etc. etc.

See what I mean? Now, I'm not a (complete) idiot, I realize that these two things are not comparable in real life, not even close, but I wanted to paint a picture for you of what it feels like to be degraded in such a manner, even unintentionally. One of my best friends does this to me.

That said, I understand that each of us makes choices we hope will be best for our family, with the research we've done on our own personal situations and a desperate attempt to project the future of each decision. I say, if you can feasibly stay home, if you have both the financial stability and patience of a...very patient thing, then do. Enjoy the hell out of it! But please don't assume that I'm an asshole who could stay home and doesn't, or rub it in that you have that luxury. While I read your posts, I am at work missing my boys like crazy, hoping like hell they'll still love me best at the end of the day.

CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG??

P.S. Silly, light-heartedness tomorrow.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Today is an absolutely beautiful day in my neck of the woods. The sun is shining, it's warm(ish), & the leaves are lazily floating down all around. I'm thinking we'll take little Spence out to the park, as this may prove to be our last genuinely nice day of the year. Then...bum ba BUM...Snow, and ice, and all manner of things hazardous to this commuting chick. Ick. I keep threatening to move to Arizona. I actually know nothing about Arizona, but I hear it's a nice dry heat. I'm IN.

Irregardless...(I'm KIDDING, if you ever actually say this non-word to me, I'll take it as a personal affront & bitch-slap you)...We are looking at an inevitable stretch of cabin fever ahead of us. There are only so many times you can read The Boy's favorite book, or watch Toy F Me Sideways Story (oh no, it seems I'm tired of this one already, & winter isn't even fully upon us), or glue popsicle sticks together or whatever fun projects I can pull off my bookmarked kiddie websites. I can never come up with something truly original. I'm crafty like a fox, and only that way.

Where was I? Oh, cabin fever, indeed. These two words, along with "financial preparedness" are possibly the only obstacle on the path to having three children. I simply don't think I can stand to be sardine-d in with one more single person over the course of an impossibly long, dreary Ohio winter. For a scary sight, swing by my place around, oh, February-ish, peek inside, and watch the zombies duke it out over the remote. Fun times.

My last thought on this as I prepare to hibernate is this...If you take the term "cabin fever" lightly, consider this...There was a gentleman you may remember who suffered through a child-induced case of cabin fever. His name was Jack Torrance. 'Nuff said.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Just in case there was ever any doubt as to my coolness, it's been confirmed...Starting sometime soon (???), I will be writing a "journal" (blog, really) for babycenter.com, the site for the hippest mommas. How cool is that?!

True, it will be a lot of hard work, a thankless, non-paying job, but that's motherhood, really. I'm already signed up for that, may as well sing about it from the mountaintops for the sheer rush of it...The hiiills are aliiive...With the sound of tyyyping...

So I'm here today to write about writing, to blog about blogging...I do so apologize for the redundancy, but being offered that journal spot absolutely MADE MY FREAKING DAY. Tell your friends about me! No seriously, tell them. I could use the exposure.

I'm kidding, of course...if you actually tell anyone you're reading my lame-o crapola, they will certainly snub you. Or at least snicker a bit. If anyone asks, you Googled "vivacity" for a work project and stumbled across this really weird site, check it out, you might like it. It's this certifiable mom chick writing about her clearly disturbed children and the train wreck called her life. It's a scream!

Well darling dears, the journey to becoming the next {insert favorite author here} starts with one step, so...I'm off! Wish me luck! And thank you, audience, I sincerely appreciate your patience with these humble attempts to catalogue My So-Called Life...It is your support that gives me the inspiration to continue pursuing this, my dream.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Well, folks, it's happened. The inevitable is upon us, and I find myself less than prepared to deal with this new onslaught of milestones and the emotions that ensue. The Baby, if I can even call him that anymore, is walking. I am the proud emotional wreck of a mother to one young boy and one, GULP, toddler. I'm not ready. Hold me.

Tears aside, it is HILARIOUS to watch. He'll get halfway across the room, crawling like an express locomotive, before remembering that he knows how to walk. Pause, mid-knee-raise, head cocks to the side, wait for it, wait...A-ha! Gathers his legs beneath him, a push off the ground with little sausage-fingered hands, and VOILA...He's a stand-up kinda guy. Then, and this requires much effort...lift of the foot and quickly thump it down...steady now, steeeaaadyyy...and...other foot. This is exponentially more amusing than watching paint dry, although it takes about twice as long.

Spence is both intrigued and frightened to death of this new development. Our enthusiasm is contagious, and he'll fight to be the one to stretch out both arms and invite Julian to take a stroll his way...But at the same time, when said baby does actually reach him, he gets a little freaked out at someone pitching towards him, tearing at his clothes and leaning in, doe-eyed and dewy-lipped, for a kiss. Some day he'll actually search this out, from the appropriate girl of course. Oh, excuse me, the appropriate girl or boy. Momma's an open-minded kind of gal, you lucky sons of guns.

Even with Spence running hot and cold on him, The Baby seems interested enough to pursue this walking endeavor. And we are one hundred percent behind him, literally, arms ever-ready to catch a stumble.

On the bright side, I suppose this puts us one step closer to Adulthood and Get The Hell Out. Some shining day of the glorious future, when Nathaniel and I have the time, energy, and money, we'll travel and travel and travel. Or maybe just stay in bed and recoup from years of nerve-wracking stress. Either or.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Working on the 19th floor these past 3 weeks, I've come to realize some valid concerns I have regarding Gravity-Defying Death Traps, or what my completely oblivious coworkers call "elevators." Perhaps I can squeeze some free therapy out of this blog.

Concern #1: What if, or should I say when, because it seems like an inevitability over the course of time and daily wear and tear...What if the whole damn hulking thing should come loose, that is, the brake and corresponding emergency brake should give out, while an innocent person was, say, stepping out onto a floor? Would that person lose the leg they were so unsuspectingly stepping out with? And if so, whose insurance responsibility would that be?? How much blood are we talking? And just how many Halloween horror movies does it take to turn one's mind to an all-day gore-athon?

Concern #2: What if this same innocent Death Trap rider were "safely" in said Death Trap when Concern #1 occurred? Hurtling to the earth, free-falling and rapidly gaining speed...18, 17, 16...What would be the best course of action? 15, 14, 13... Randomly push buttons while screaming "Fire!" because any chick with an email address knows that would bring the most help the quickest?? Or...Maybe, just maybe, brace yourself as best you're able, thereby avoiding the direct impact of Death Trap vs. ground? Hmmm. Food for thought. And Lord knows I have plenty of time to review my options while rocketing up and down all day in these crazy, crazy machines we've come to rely on. I should have asked for more money.

Next week: Fire In The Stairwell...Now What?