I was still there for my little sis. You know, to help her open those gifts. Now I drink the wine with her, and maybe borrow stuff she gets. That’s how I roll.
Look at us, back in ’75! Leelee, I am sure that if we diet enough, we can wear these outfits again, and not look like sofas.
I love you, Lee. Have a wonderful birthday.
You know . . . Parenting is fucking hard.
One of the hardest parts of parenting for me is when the kids get in trouble, and I have to revoke a privilege that was to beneficial to me. Example A:
I am working on a work project AND the school newsletter today. Todd is working late all week, and so it seemed a perfect evening for us to attend the elementary school Spirit Night at a local pizza place. The kids love it, because they get to see their friends. Parents love it because they don’t have to cook. Restaurant gets free publicity, and the school makes money off the whole gig. A win-win-win-win, if you will.
Except that while i am trying to wrap up my work, Tiller figures out how to turn on the damn singing dog.
He sings that “City Sidewalks” song . . . “Silver Bells,” I think. He sings it in a really annoying St. Bernard voice, and there is barking in the background. My mama loves these things, and thought it would be funny to give us one.
Yeah, mom, hysterical.
So, the kids push his little paw, and he barks and sings Silver Bells. The kids love it. They love it a LOT. They love it every time they push the button, which is approximately four times a minute. Over and over.
And the gift that keeps on giving is that they then proceed to fight over who gets to push the button, who gets to hold the dog, etc. So, i am trying to finish my work downstairs in the office, and the kids are upstairs trying to kill each other over a battery-operated St. Bernard that sings (and woofs!) Silver Bells. I hear the mocking tone in Rollie’s voice. I am sure he has Silver Bells dog overhead and tiller is below, jumping to reach it. I hear the thumping on the hardwoods. I hear the shriek. Nope, not pain. The shriek of anger. Pure, unadulterated four year old ire. It is blood-curdling. I fear for Rollie’s life. Then i hear the all-too-familiar sound of tinkling glass.
I run upstairs to lift them, both in their socks, out of the wreckage of two glass ornaments they have knocked off the tree. Except that they didn’t get knocked off. Upon further questioning, it seems that Tiller, in her little temper tantrum, punched two of the Christmas ornaments.
I have to hide a smile at this. I get tickled at the thought of little Tiller – wearing a red polka dot dress with pastel-striped tights and pink dora shoes that light up, a ponytail on top of her head, and enough makeup from our earlier dressup session to work at a whorehouse – throwing a fit and then punching the Christmas tree. I manage to hold it together.
I had told them to stop fighting. I had warned them that children who fight and are mean to each other don’t get to go to Spirit Night. And now i have to put my money where my mouth is. UGH. Terrible parenting feeling. It is the same feeling i get when I have to leave a restaurant with a kid who is being a jerk. Or the grocery store when I have a full cart.
Rollie, upon hearing that they lost the privilege of going to Spirit Night, went up to his room and pitched his own fit, throwing his bobble head Braves guy (Hudson, i think) against the door so hard that it broke. He wailed even harder when I went in calmly, picked up the pieces, and tossed the whole thing in the trash. I guess he thought that if he threw his stuff, mama would whip out the Krazy Glue and fix it up again. WRONG.
So, here I sit, with two kids in their rooms, sobbing their guts out, tearing their rooms up, and me downstairs working until i have to cook them dinner. All because I have to keep my word and be consistent.
Sigh.
I took a few photos on Tuesday when we attended the Tucker tree lighting. Todd was working late, so the kids and I hit Matthews Cafeteria. It was great and if you haven’t had it, you should check it out. Old school southern cooking, kid-friendly, and very time-warpy. We know I love a good time warp.
Todd met us and ate the kids leftover dinners (Too much excitement! Christmas Trees! Other kids from School! Santa! Can’t eat anything, but will suck down a lemonade like nobody’s business!) and then we headed up main street, across the railroad tracks, and into the roped off section of downtown Tucker. Kids were running around willy nilly in the glow of Christmas lights. Shop owners were giving out hot chocolate and coffee and candy canes, and the Tucker Lodge (Masons, i guess?) had a tent and fires set up for roasting marshmallows. The Tucker tree was beautiful and lit in colored lights.
The kids roasted their marshmallows and went back to have smores made, and then we ate them across the street on the curb and people-watched. I ran into the new consignment furniture store run by the Tucker Arts Guild, Regroup Furniture. Pretty good selection. I came back out and the kids were running in circles, chasing each other and generally looking wild-eyed, while Todd was talking to our old East Atlanta neighbor, Howard, who is a cop and his beat is our new neighborhood. We see him at least every couple of months, which is nice.
We sat and looked at the tree lights, and then Tiller had a meltdown and we headed back for home, skipping the Santa they had set up in the frame shop. The kids didn’t even notice, thank goodness, as we would never have gotten home.
It was fun to see my friends and neighbors, and for the kids to know people walking down the street. I love that small-town community feel that we get here. The whole thing reminded me very much of the Christmas Tree they had in downtown Alpharetta when I was a little girl, all magical to my little eyes.
I just wish that Tucker had some carolers and maybe, just maybe, a bar. Or at least a liquor license. Or a glass of wine with my din din. It’s like the worst of both worlds – No Christmas Carols, no nativity scene, no menorah, and no booze. Bah humbug, Tucker, but i love ya, anyway.
So, Todd didn’t cry after the game. I know I promised Iron Bowl, Part II, but I am all out of witty comments. Here is the abridged version:
We left the game, and “borrowed” a couple of cokes. We hitched a ride back to our car with Ned’s mom, Gwen. We parked at Todd’s old Jr. High and I got a good laugh out of him on his old stomping grounds. We went to Iain and Noelle’s to watch the second half. We went home and pigged out on Thanksgiving dinner and went to bed REALLY early. We got up the next day and went to the park with Todd’s dad, Todd’s brother, Wade, and our niece, Luci. We played. We left and went bowling. Todd won. The Auburn bowling alley is pretty darn good people-watching, too.
We went back over to Iain and Noelle’s to watch the Georgia/Georgia Tech game, and I came close to killing Matt, because he kept on switching over to LSU/Arkansas. There were eight people there, and ten dogs. yes, I said TEN. Quint came too. He was nervous, what with all the butts to sniff and nudge, and the fact that Iain was cooking ribs, and a couple of the dogs got into the grease under the grill, so they smelled like ribs, and a little bitch named Lela didn’t like him one bit, and kept growling at him. There was Lela and her brother, who was well-behaved and so i can’t remember his name, and T’s puppy, Coden, and the four of them finally settled down on the couch with Lela’s Daddy Matt and me. A brown dog love fest. There was also Casey, Sammers, and Ginger, along with Bodhi (spelling?) and Omar. Wait. Maybe that’s nine. Or I’m forgetting a dog. Oh, Butters from next door! Ten!
They all slept around and begged ribs, and at one point, I thought they were gonna eat T and Matt for sure.
All in all, v. fun. Then we got home and slept late, and there were no kids there when i got up, because they went to Sunday School with my in-laws. Then we ate Cracker Barrel after church (which we didn’t go to, but we met the kids and in-laws after) and then we sat in Thanksgiving traffic on the way back to Atlanta.
(Mouse over a photo for the caption.)
I really wanted to post about my weekend in Auburn, the Iron Bowl, seeing old friends, and Georgia surprisingly beating Tech. But I have had too much to do today to do the weekend justice. Instead, i will just give Thanksgiving picture love. . . .
Cousins
Malex
Dash
Tiller
Princess Visiting Puppy (Yes, she came up with that name on her own.)
Little Brave
Hope everyone had a wonderful and safe Thanksgiving.
Tiller: “Mama? Are the clouds flat?”
Me: “Flat?”
Tiller: “Yeah, flat.” She lies on the couch and points up. “Like the ceiling.”
Me: “Um, well, no, they are kinda poofy.”
Tiller: [Face lighting up with joy and recognition.] “Oh! Like cotton candy!”
Related posts:
Our Eyes are Like Doors
Growing Chocolate and Wonder and Hope
So, Todd went to Chicago this weekend to meet fellow Auburn boys, Brian and Tom. And to see the Pixies. Yes, I am the best wife in the world for not pitching a hissy fit that he was flying to Chicago to see one of my favorite bands ever. (Yeah, right. You know I didn’t take this lying down. I made him promise that I had a free pass if they came anywhere in the Southeast on this tour. So, if you want to go, let me know and you will be included if it comes up. ) In all seriousness, Toddler really deserved this weekend, as he is the best husband/Daddy combo ever, and he has been working his ass off for the last six months.
I decided that I would go visit my parents at the lake for the weekend. It’s always nice to have someone to talk to after the kids go to bed, and i love taking the kids to the lake where they can run free in the trees, and fish, and crawl around in the bushes and get wet and muddy. They get to learn about life in the food web via fishing and all of the dogs decimating a nest of baby squirrels. I worry they don’t get enough of that. Nature Deficit Disorder, if you will. We thought it was going to rain all weekend, but it ended up being really nice weather on Saturday, so the kids played, and I did some yardwork for my dad (leaves and pruning bushes, mostly.) So, about noon, just as i popped open a beer and was finishing my yardwork cleanup, i heard this . . . running water sound. It was pretty loud, so it didn’t take long to locate the source – the spigot in the front yard had sprung a leak. Water was bubbling up out of the ground.
This was one of those moments where i thought to myself, I should not say a word about this. Just let it run. If I say something, Cecil is going to want me to help fix this. I have fixed a leaky water pipe in this yard before. This will not be fun. Keep. Mouth. Shut.
I am dumb. I said something. We decided to eat lunch before starting to fix it. I like that when I am at the lake, I can eat things for lunch like turnip greens and leftover Old Clinton BBQ and wash it down with a margarita. (My sister had come down that morning with my nephew Dash, and god bless her, the first thing she usually does when she gets to the lake is make margaritas. I couldn’t let her drink alone, no matter how much leaky pipe i had to fix that afternoon.) After that Dad had me knee deep in mud before i finished the damn margarita.
I dug and dug and was a complete and total Goat Man in minutes. After digging a couple feet down all around the spigot, we found the trench where the water line was. In the true spirit of half-assed construction, and wiring that is the lakehouse, the water line is in the same trench as the power. So, I was digging in a hole that was quickly filling with water and through which electricity was running. Brilliant.
I did not get electrocuted, although that might have been sweet relief from my father telling me how to do everything. Twice. Because just saying it once might not sink in through my thick skull. No, everything must be stated twice. If something isn’t working, and I am trying to figure it out, while I am doing so, my father repeats his instructions. Over and over. Just taking the volume up a notch each successive time.
I finished the margarita, which was helpful both in regulating my attitude, and because I could then use the cup to bail the water out of the hole. That’s what you call forethought and ingenuity. I will just pour myself this drink, so that when i am done, i can use the cup to bail out a muddy hole filled with water.
About this time, we decided to turn the water back on, and find out where the leak was. It was, of course, right below ground level, on the pipe running up to the spigot. Not in one of the pipes running through the yard at all. Basically, this means that I didn’t really need to dig up the whole damn trench anyway. Sigh.
Dad and I went to the hardware store to get a replacement pipe. Just trust me when i say that trips to any store with my dad are a nightmare, but especially to a store where they sell things men would be interested in: manly things like trucks, lumber, tractors, fertilizer, nails, power tools, knives, guns, or ammo. I love him, but he really likes to “talk shop” with whomever the resident expert is on any subject. I usually stand around avoiding eye contact with the other folks in the store, while pretending to be really interested in joint compound. This time, I stood in Ace with mud from head to toe and checked out the vast array of dead deer heads on the wall. People walked by me like i was an insane person wandered in off the street.
We headed back to the house with our pipe, just in time to meet the neighbors who had come over to visit. This is another thing I find humorous about the country. People just show up at 2 pm on a Saturday, with a cooler and a chocolate lab on the back of their golf cart or Gator, and everyone starts drinking. In this particular instance, the two gentlemen were decked out in their Bulldog regalia and informed me that they were “tailgating.” They didn’t have a tailgate and weren’t in Athens, but i liked the spirit of it anyway.
They stood with my dad, drinking beer, while I got down in the hole and fixed the pipe, and all the while they were telling me how to do the job. “Don’t strip it now.” “You need to get it tight,” and so forth. The only saving grace to this was that they made me drink their moonshine (all the way from Silver City, Georgia! Peach flavored! Straight outta the mason jar!) and I needed two shots to make sure it tasted alright, but after that, I felt much more equipped to deal with the peanut gallery.
We finished up and the pipe was fixed, and then my kids wanted to fish, so I sat on the dock and enjoyed another beer in the late afternoon light, while making sure they didn’t plunge into the lake. I untangled crossed rod and reel lines, and put minnows on cane poles, and I was muddy, and hanging out with the pack of five or six dogs that always seem to congregate in our yard whenever we visit. It turned out to be a pretty nice day.
I was thankful for the lake and the good weather, and the company of my kids, and even my father, and some big, dumb, wet and muddy dogs. It is funny how disconnecting from the tv and the radio and the internet, getting outside in the fresh air, working, getting muddy, hearing your own breathing and the sound of your child’s laughter and dogs barking and growling and wrestling in the yard can make you feel relaxed and at peace and like all is right with the world.
Oh, and then I finally had my shower. There is no better shower than a post-yardwork, muddy Fall day, very hot shower. Then a steak dinner.
Sheer bliss.
So, my online friend and fellow blogger, Melanie, wrote a really funny post about having to find a particular toy for her daughter for Christmas. Zhu Zhu pets?
I know that my mother is just waiting in the wings to laugh her butt off at me when I go through this v. same thing some Christmas soon. She is still bitter about the whole Cabbage Patch Kid shortage in the early 80s. Girls in Georgia, before Roberts sold out to Mattel or whomever, called these “Adoption Dolls.” They were sold in high-end toy shops, and they were ridiculously expensive. Never mind that my sister and I, living in GA, already had original, signed Xavier Roberts dolls. Two each, no less. That’s right, Annie Mouse and Sport Model were too good for just one $100 dollar craft doll each. Oh, no! We had to have the plastic ones too. Boy, those cabbage patch girls really didn’t smell very good. And I never loved the plastic mass-produced ones nearly as much. I know it is wrong to say that you love one of your children more than the others, and this is true in the adoption doll world, too. But I loved Minerva Vivian and Betsy Eunice, and even knock-off adoption doll, Stephanie Lynn (named her myself), much more than. . . hmm. . . what was her name again? Maybe Lisa will remember. Update: Just went and found her papers in my hope chest, along with all the girls. Ginger Minnie. That was her name.
Ginger Minnie, Cabbage Patch Kid
Cecil, being Cecil, thought that he could get away with the knock-off Adoption Doll. And sure enough, I loved blond, green-eyed Stephanie.
Stephanie Lynn, the knock off
Lisa’s blond, blue-eyed knockoff was Samantha. Minerva, a real Xavier Roberts, was big-boned, red-headed, freckled and green-eyed. Not the prettiest doll on the block, but my first real one, and I loved her.
My first real Xavier Roberts doll.
My second, dark-haired beauty
And then there was Lisa’s Tiffany.
Oh, Tiffany. . . bless her heart.
I must dig Tiffany out of hiding. Lisa, where is Tiffany? We need to post a picture of Tiffany, particularly of Tiffany’s very strange legs. Preferably a picture of Tiffany naked. This is the most bow-legged adoption doll in creation. They also neglected, at Babyland General, to give Tiffany a waist. So, sad. All of the other adoption dolls, and their mothers, whispered about Tiffany behind their hands when she was carried into a room.
And then we made picket signs out of poster board, sticks from outside, and scotch tape, and proceeded to set up a “Mom and Dad, Please Quit Smoking” picket line in my parents’ bedroom, each adoption doll holding a sign. I can tell you that if that didn’t convince my parents to quit smoking, nothing will convince a parent to quit smoking except for their own decision to quit. We were quite the Carrie Nations. We also used to try to charge my Mom’s side of the family for cussing. Most four-letter words were ten cents. The big ones were a quarter. We loved it when my Uncle Charlie and Cousin Finley got together, because we were assured of a windfall when they came to town. I will never forget that one time, Finley came in and said, “Hell, Charlie, just give the damn kid a fuckin’ twenty!”
Anyway, as of this year, my kids want absolutely everything in sight, but they have not narrowed down their wants to one particular, hard-to-find item. Knock on wood. If you have kids, is there a particular must-have item this year? What special things are you getting your kids? And what special must-have items did you get as a kid? Do you have any funny stories of your parents or yourself staking out K-mart of Richway for that perfect toy?
Oh, and p.s.
You don't want to know what else I found in this hope chest i've had since middle school.
What has been keeping me up at night . . .
You swear to uphold something, or stand by someone, or support something. It turns out that the thing or person is not at all what it/he/she purported itself to be.
You are at the end of your rope, physically and mentally, but you promised, and you feel that to go back on your promise would make you no better than the other person/thing you are involved in. Maybe you are too proud to say that it is not working. Maybe you are afraid of the repercussions, on yourself and others, of dropping out. You stand by it, even though you don’t understand why it is the way it is, and why it isn’t what you thought it would be, and you don’t understand why things can’t be better, and you are not happy, and you are afraid that you never will be again.
Is there a point where your own sanity and mental health requires you to give up on others? Are you setting a bad example for others by sitting idly by and putting up with a miserable situation out of pride or loyalty or fear? Are you forcing other people to suffer through watching you be miserable?
I’m not exactly sure what it is that I am getting at here. This is not a post about any particular situation or person. It is more about me thinking about the question in a general manner since it has come up for a number of people I know lately, or at least the larger idea of it has come to me in talking with these people over the last couple of years. It seems more and more that I know people in their mid to late 30s who are struggling in their daily lives to get by, and to be happy, and to set a good example for their children. They want to raise happy children, but they are not happy themselves.
Happiness. Is that not the point? Seeking out happiness? If not, what is the point? Martyrdom? If you are not really happy, can you ever really make those around you happy? If you are not happy, can you ever really teach your children to be happy?
My brain hurts.