sueeeus

Monster Truck Jam!

I don’t know if it’s just the fun of actually going somewhere as a family, or seeing the big grins on the boys’ faces as they admired the gargantuan vehicles. Maybe it’s just the Zoloft. But I had a great time.

It was an all day affair. We got tickets to the ‘pit party’ in which we could walk the pit and view the vehicles, the course and meet the drivers.

There was an event called a demo race that was quite fun to watch. Teenage boys (and girls, too) in their crash and dent cars would speed around the course, trying to make it to the finish, but also trying to eliminate their competition. Bumper cars on steroids. It was fun. At the pit party they let kids autograph their cars. The boys really enjoyed leaving their mark.

Even though I paid the premium price for our tickets, the only seating available by the time I committed to going were in the nose-bleed section. Even so, the boys loved it. Harry especially had fun climbing all those stairs.

It was a bit terrifying for me, being so high up with a squirming three year old who doesn’t have any notion of mortality.

I’m loving that my brother’s kids have moved back to our area. It’s good for the boys to spend time together. I loved having two little boys and one big boy at this event. It magnified the fun. The whole experience made me feel like such a MOM. And I love that.

It turns out that the Monster Jam is an annual event that takes place over MLK weekend in our neck of the woods. We just might make it a family tradition, since it falls between the big boy and little boy birthdays. And, because we had so much FUN!

Yesterday I dropped by Costco to order a birthday cake for Mr. Gadget, what with his 40th birthday looming.  I was distraught, distraught, I say, to find that no longer is the white whipped frosting an option.  Heretofore, it has been the only reason to buy such a cake.  It requires a major occasion to justify the acquisition of a half-sheet cake.  It’s not the only unfavorable change, either.  For some reason they changed their take-and-bake pizza options from plain cheese (our family favorite), plain pepperoni, and combo to ‘gourmet’ meat lover (disgusting concoction loaded with an abominable amount of salty greasy meat products), ham/pineapple, and mozzarella/basil/tomato.  I would probably like the fresh basil kind, but I don’t think Mr. Gadget would go for it, and we generally end up with the ham/pineapple, which we like, but it just isn’t as good as the previous plain cheese*.  We tried the meat version, but had to scrape off all the meat to make it palatable.  Not to worry.  That meat found a home in a future meal in which it was not so overpowering.  So.  As devoted a Costco customer I am, these changes are not to my liking.

*~*~*~*~*

I cooked four chickens last night.  Costco had a buy one, get one free coupon, and one in this case is a two-pack.  So I had four chickens to deal with.  I’ve been pining for some nice home-made soup so decided to roast them up and then make stock with the remains.  I could only fit three in the oven, so I cooked the fourth in the pressure cooker.  Fully cooked whole chicken in 20 minutes.  Woot.  The other three took two hours.  Every time I do this, I tell myself not to do it again, ever, due to the mess and effort.  I’m not a big fan of skin peeling and decarcassing.  I figured I’d do it in one fell swoop and get it over with, though, rather than on four separate occasions.  So I cooked them all.   I won’t be doing that again soon.

*~*~*~*~*

We had chicken with mashed potatoes, and mushroom gravy for dinner last night.  I was going to do the gravy from scratch, using the roast drippings, but that would have meant waiting for the chicken to cook, and I decided we’d dine on the pressure cooked chicken instead.  So I used a poultry gravy mix and added fresh sauteed mushrooms.  Not long after, Harry said, “Mommy, you itch my back?”  I lifted his shirt to comply and was horrified to find a sheet of bright red rash covering his entire back.  I tore off his shirt and inspected the rest of him, and it was spreading to his chest.  Luckily I had bought a pack of Benadryl skin cream and had it on hand.  I doused him with it and gave him a dose of cold/allergy medicine, only to find, upon closer inspection of the lotion label, not to cover large areas of skin, and not to mix with any other antihistamine.   Oops.   I was ready to call the doctor and/or race to the ER, but the lotion started to take effect and he showed no signs of anaphylaxis, so I waited.  And Googled.  It’s obviously an allergic reaction, but I’m not sure if it was the mushrooms or the flavor enhancer additives in the gravy mix.  I think he’s had mushrooms in tiny quantity before, but he tried tasting one raw last night.  I wonder if it was the gravy.  It’s enough to scare me away from prepackaged foods for a while, even though he’s had plenty of convenience crap like mac & cheese, ravioli, and canned soups, all of which probably have those same additives.  I’m going to have to be even more vigilant with my label screening.  Meanwhile, I need to find the culprit.  I might try a scratch test tonight**.  That year of breast milk was supposed to shield him from this sort of thing.

*~*~*~*~*

Did I mention the latest exclamation heard shouted about the house?  This, from a three year old.  “What the HELL?”  You see, we let him watch the Spiderman movies**, all three of them, and in the last movie, Eddie Brock makes that exclamation when the black Spiderman (the dark side of Peter Parker) destroys his camera.  So it stands to follow that that is an appropriate expression for moments of frustration and consternation.  He says “Dammit” alot too.  I tell him these aren’t very nice words, or they’re grown-up words (and still not nice). 

*It sounds as though we eat a lot of pizza.  But we don’t.  Honestly.  It’s all relative, though, right?  Okay.  Truth.  Maybe once or twice a month.

**Please don’t call cee pee ess.

…sometimes it feels good to feel bad…

1. low grade nausea
2. fatigue
3. aching back and hips
4. heartburn
5. aching legs
6. burning breasts
7. leg cramps

I wasn’t going to say anything. I didn’t want to jinx anything. I’ve been repeating in my mind, like a mantra, over and over and over again. Whatever will be will be. Que sera sera. I’ve been trying, with effort of valiant proportion*, not to worry. Not to obsess. And yet, I can think of almost nothing else. Whatever will be will be. I wasn’t going to say anything. I was trying to wait.

And then I realized that holding back is acknowledging the fear, and I don’t want to be afraid. I’m not broadcasting to my family or in-the-flesh friends, because I’m just not quite ready for that. But to the blog world? This is my journal where I work out the issues of my heart.**

So I say that I don’t want to be afraid, but the simple action of typing out those words has raised them to the forefront of my mind and I realize, as the tears fall from my face, that I am, indeed, terrified. If a day goes by in which I don’t notice symptoms, my heart shudders. Whatever will be will be. Consoling myself. Preparing myself.

I think that things are going better this time. I feel it. I hope so. Oh GOD, I hope so.

I think I am about six weeks along.*** My first appointment isn’t until the 28th, and the first ultrasound probably won’t happen that day, so I have to wait for what feels like an eternity to see that beautiful white heartbeat. I’m praying for that beautiful white heartbeat and the sound of galloping horses.

Lucky Number Seven. This is my seventh pregnancy. I hope it ends well, with the birth of a healthy child.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*I have my good friend Zoloft, a very helpful friend indeed, to thank for this.

**Narcissistic? A little. Or maybe a lot. But c’mon, it helps me, and I really do cherish the kindness that droppers by share.

***Which puts me right around 12-13 weeks for my trip to Australia. I’m still going. No matter what. I bought the ticket, and it’s non-refundable. I’m going.

I really enjoy watching the American Idol auditions. And not for sheer mockworthy entertainment, either. Although, if I were in another, unstabilized state of emotion, I just might viciously savor the large scale humiliation. It simply astounds me to see such displays of personal confidence from people of all shapes, sizes, and colors. These people have people who love them. They all have somebody behind them, loving them, encouraging them, believing in them. And I think that’s beautiful. I never felt like I had that kind of loving support, although, in retrospect, I was probably too busy seeing what I didn’t have to notice what I did have. Typical

I feel like such a voyeur, peeking into the lives of those who were showcased, yet I hungrily take it all in. A mother and daughter living in a studio apartment with two cats and a dog. A very, very, very large young girl, with an even larger mother who fiercely and proudly believes in her. There is so much love. A fluffy man with a nice smile, bold enough to wear the Carrie Fisher Jabba the Hut love slave outfit to the audition. So humiliating. He had such a sweet smile. He had to be a nice person. I felt sad for him.

All the rejection, all the tears. These people go in to the auditions with such high hopes, and they exit with their dreams shattered. Some of them are so hard on themselves. It breaks the heart. I remember that longing to fit in, to be accepted, to be loved by the masses. Those secret dreams of being famous. A model. An actor. An artist. A writer. A composer. A singer. A musician. Anything that would make the world love me.

It’s something, isn’t it, that it took over 40 years of life experience to gain the wisdom and self-assurance that there is no need for the world to love me. There is just the need for me to love me. So I see all these beautiful people, and I see they are surrounded by people who love them, and I feel sad that they just don’t quite love themselves enough. Because why else would they be there, if not seeking fame? And fame, once achieved? How thankful I am to be spared!

A certain someone turned 3 today. Three!

He still loves anything superhero.

But boxes never cease to entertain.

I want to write one of those fabulous posts that mothers write their children, but I think I’ll have to wait until I’m more inspired. Or at least in a different hormonal state.

I was going to put something in the title about being a good mother, as I was ruminating over the fact that I committed myself to accompanying one very big boy and two small boys to the Monster Truck Jam next weekend. At which time, the girls are having a hair day at the salon. That is, all the girls except me. So I was feeling the sacrifice and having a moment of martyrdom.  I would so much prefer getting chunky highlights and a fresh new do to sitting in an arena with thousands of people watching ridiculous behemoth vehicles and their antics.  Grave Digger will be there.  My nephew is VERY excited.  I even got pit passes so we could go early and take pictures among the vehicles on display.  And if they’re so inclined, they can stand in line for autographs.  I do hope they are not so inclined.  Hair day.  Truck day.  Hair day.  Truck day.  Such a martyr.

Then I heard those little feet making their way down the stairs, and I realized that those same little feet had been up the stairs for quite some time now, and very, very quiet. And the last time I’d seen those small feet, in fact, the small hands that accompany them were in possession of a tube of toothpaste. Albeit a child-friendly non-fluoridated Thomas the Train tube of toothpaste. But a tube of toothpaste all the same. A tube, I feared, the entire contents of which could well now be sloshing about in my son’s stomach. So. Awesome martyr-mom quickly replaced with lazy ignorant sorry excuse for a mother.

Did you brush your teeth?

Yes.

Is the toothpaste all gone?

No. (She masks a sigh of relief and continues the interrogation.)

Did you put the toothpaste back?

Yes.

What else were you doing?

I wash my hands.

Did you turn the water off?

Yes.

Did you make a big mess?

No.

Did you make a little mess?

Yes.

Okay. (I’m so proud of him for telling the truth.)

He’s going through a water obsession phase right now. Our fancy new fridge that we bought expressly for the child lock feature (okay, so we also got it with aesthetic considerations in mind as well) locks only the temperature control, but not the water and ice. So what’s the point in that? Now I have to keep a mindful eye on my child and teach him to leave it alone. It would be so much easier if it weren’t possible for him to get to the water until he’s smart enough to figure out how to override the lock, at which point in time he should well enough be able to obey when I say not to play with and waste water.

Child obedience. It’s a lofty goal. How does one actually get a child to obey? I think I might need to start recording Super Nanny again, for some pointers.  Or am I just expecting too much from a three year old?

Prescription for a fine, fine day:

1. Take the day off from work.
2. Spend it with a dear friend.
3. Drive to the city.
4. Enjoy a delightful lunch.
5. See a show.
6. Use the HOV lane to bypass rush-hour traffic while returning to the suburbs.
7. Enter the house to be greeted enthusiastically by a nearly three-year old boy dressed as Spiderman.

What a day. What a show!

I had a silly smile on my face for the better part of two hours. And when Frankie started singing “I can’t take my eyes off of you,” I cried. Cried. Truth be told, I may just be an eensy weensy tad bit hormonal, but all the same, it was quite something.

Who loves you, pretty baby? Stay, just a little bit longer. Late December, back in ’63. Oh what a night. You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you. My eyes adored you.

The sounds I grew up with.

A girls day out is just what the doctor ordered.

Next weekend? We celebrate the boys.  Monster Jam.

Even with my rosy colored glasses, I’m thinking that I can probably put together a list of twenty five physical ailments, annoyances, nuisances and shortcomings.

1. Low back pain, chronic but flared beyond normal of late
2. Neck pain, chronic
3. Bruises all over my legs.  Where did they come from?
4. What might be the beginning of varicose veins, discovered while pondering the origination of the bruises.
5. Upper back pain, chronic
6. Leg cramps
7. Itchy spots that travel when itched
8. Scars from burns made in August 2007
9. Scars from teenage acne
10. Scars from adult acne
11. Sleep apnea
12. Chronic post nasal drip
13. An alarming amount of grey hair
14. Hangnails
15. Cracked dry skin
16. Water retention
17. Type II Diabetes
18. Insomnia
19. Fatigue
20. Hair in my eyes (badly in need of a trim)
21. Wide feet
22. Multiple chins
23. Spare tires.  Not just one, but a whole set.
24. Bad breath (I suspect it’s related to #12)
25. Receding gums

I don’t dwell on these things.  I just realize that I took my youth entirely for granted, assuming that I would always feel lively, flexible, well-rested, and energetic, completely oblivious to the fact that the onset of years would eventually take their toll.

The chronic back and neck pain entered my life concurrent with the emergence of the buxom twins.  The rest can be attributed in one way or another to a combination of genetics and a desk job.

I live with these things, but no worries.  I smile every day.  I could probably put together a list of nice physical things as well, if I try hard enough.

1. Thick hair
2. Peanut buttery skin color (the down side is that it scars easily)
3. Smooth skin (edema and spare tires help keep it stretched out, thus hiding potential wrinkles; see, there is a bright side to everything, if only one looks)
4. Strong teeth
5. Fairly white teeth (even if they don’t smell good, at least they look good)
6. Pleasant smile (see 5)
7. Medium height (I’m pretty sure I’d be happy with my height, no matter what it was.  Like my 5’3″ grandpa used to say, his legs reached the ground so they were long enough.)
8. Nicely shaped hands
9. Nicely shaped feet (albeit quite wide)
10. Innie (not that it matters whether one’s navel is an innie or an outie, but mine happens to be an innie, and I’m happy with it)
11. Brown eyes that tend to look a bit amber/golden in the right light
12. That vaguely exotic look that mixed race people tend to have
13. Oval face
14. Very little body hair (no shaving necessary!)
15. Sunburn-resistant skin
16. High cheekbones
17. Perfect earlobes (other than that they’re pierced)
18. Healthy fingernails (apart from hangnails)
19. Muscle strength (beneath the many protective and insulating layers, there is actually some good, strong muscle tissue!)
20. No missing appendages (not that it matters, but I do have ten fingers and ten toes, and that’s all right by me)
21. Nearly 20-20 vision (thanks to RK)
22. Low maintenance hair (that holds a style nicely if I were to bother with styling it)
23. Reasonably good coordination
24. Hand dexterity
25. Well-proportioned skeletal form (I can see that beneath the many protective layers, should I ever shed some, there is the potential of a nice figure, and I find that somewhat encouraging)

See?  I came up with 25 things!

…Mostly at bed time… 

1. Why?
2. Mommy, I not feel good.
3. I can’t.
4. I don’t want to go a bed.
5. I want chokkut.  (chocolate)
6. Mommy, I want joo-ooce.
7. Just a ‘lil tiny tiny bit.
8. Hey!  I got ideeeeee-uh.
9. Dammit*
10. Want to take a show? (pronounced like how)
11. Want to take a hot tub? (i.e., a bath)
12. I dinn’t.
13. No.
14. I done haffa go poddeee.  I’m good.
15. See?  I tole yewwwwww.
16. I jus’ kiddn’
17. I’m not <real name>.  I’m HARRY.
18. You’n teem ow (you’re in time out)
19. My special prize (surprise, as in gift or reward)
20. My sister gave it to me (does he mean his aunt, or does he know something I don’t know?)
21. I wanna peanut butter and jam sammich.  Jus’ reglar budder (regular butter, not peanut butter)
22. I’m not a jam-face.  YOU a jam face!
23. Oh crap**
24. Pooz me (excuse me)
25. Dat’s duh weeezun (that’s the reason)

What with all these twenty five things memes floating about, I thought I’d throw one in.  I sort of like the TFTTSMTT idea, but don’t want to think too much about things of that nature while I’m riding the high on my wave of mood stabilization.  I could quite likely compile a list based solely on commiserating items from others’ lists.  But I’m too lazy even for that.

*Not from me
**From me. Oops.

No.  Not that one.  (Although…)

This one. 

I’ve decided that mood stabilization does, indeed, work.  At least so far.  For me.  Sometimes I can feel the fringe of the battle raging within, but it’s only the fringe.  I know the battle is there, but I’m no longer on the front line under fire.  Instead, I’m tucked safely away in a watchtower.   Observing, but not being pummeled.

I like that.

Every night as my head hits the pillow, I try to think of the happiest moment of my day.  It’s such a good exercise, because it makes me think of all the moments of happiness, and weigh them against each other to decide which was the best.  So I fall asleep with happiness as the last thing on my mind.

Sometimes I’ll ask Mr. Gadget what his happiest moment was, but I think  he thinks it’s a trick question, so he tells me what he thinks I want to  hear, “Coming home after work, walking in the door, and seeing you and Harry.   Dear.”  I tell him it’s not a trick question, but he must not believe me, because he gives the same answer every time I ask.  (Of course, it is possible that that truly is the highlight of his day. I’m not complaining!)

Some of my happiest moments take place on mornings of days in which I stay home.  Early morning, in my office.  Eventually I hear soft steps making their way carefully down the stairs.  I hear the gentle tinkling sound of the safety gate opening and closing.  I hear little footsteps, padding towards the office.  And there he is, my sweet little man, groggy and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  Looking for me.  It makes the heart swell.  I open my arms, he climbs into my lap, and we have our morning conversation, which always goes like this:  “Did you wake up?”  I ask. “Yyahh…” he replies in his sweet young voice.  “Did you have a nice sleep?”   “Yyahh…”   “Did you have some dreams?”  “Yyahh…”  (And then sometimes we talk about spiders and he tells me of the time that he woke up screaming, thinking there was a spider crawling on his face, but it was just the curtain.  Or a spider on the curtain.  Or a dream about a spider on the curtain.  Or all of these things.)

And he lets me snuggle him for a few moments.  Those are the moments I love best, because usually he has so many other things he’d rather do than let me hold him close and bury my nose in his hair.  I treasure those moments, fleeting as they are.