Here are a couple of things I’ve been wondering about lately. Perhaps some of you have answers that will ease my troubled soul.
1.) Why can’t children ever put caps back on markers?
2.) Why, when there are possibly 10,000 crayons loose about this house, must my son still rummage through my desk to find pens?
3.) If there is 2500 sq. feet in my house, why do the children constantly need to be within 2 feet of me at all times?
4.) Why are children even issued ears? But since they are, why are they calibrated to the point that they can only hear me when I resort to yelling?
5.) Why is my boy so obsessed with hot lava? Is this a boy thing or just my boy? Tonight I’m reading him Bambi from the Walt Disney Treasury, and he interrupts me to ask, “When do we get to the hot lava part?”
6.) How come, no matter how many times I say, “I’m driving. I can’t look,” my daughter will insist, over and over and over, that I look at what she’s drawn or how she’s dressed her Barbie. Even repeating it IMMEDIATLEY after I just told her I couldn’t look. Please see question 4 for a follow up.
These are just a few of the things I’ve wondered in the last several days. If you have any insights, please let me know.
As I’ve already admitted, I parent my children by making everything up as I go along.
A few weeks ago, I was so frustrated with the girl and her poor showing in social studies, (A 62 on a test for jiminy cricket’s sake, who’s child is this? She CANNOT be mine.), that I stupidly tried to get her to study harder by offering her an IPod Touch (She’s been asking for one.) if and when she got a 100 on a social studies test.
Just how dumb am I? I didn’t even know what an IPod Touch was when I offered it. And really, it was more of a joke – but that girl has no sense of humor! She took the whole thing literally. I’ve never seen anyone study social studies so long and so well and for so many hours . . .
Some back ground: I don’t really let my children get less than an A in any subject. If they get an A, I know they learned what they were supposed to learn and then I don’t need to worry. This really works for me. Before you call the authorities, my children are perfectly capable of getting straight As – no matter what the girl tells you.
Anyway, she came home today with a 100 on the social studies test she took on Monday. I’d be super proud if it wasn’t going to cost me $200.00 for an IPod.
I’ve decided to stop writing historical romances and move on to my true vocation – writing parenting books. ”How Not To Parent Your Children” by Mrs. Snitkin.
I’ve already established that I talk a lot. However, I’m not sure that it’s totally clear that I am also exceedingly dramatic. If I weren’t so shy, I’d be convinced that I missed my calling.
If I’m feeling nervous, I have this terrible tendency to “perform”. I’ll hear words coming out of my mouth that I am literally powerless to stop. Everyone will be laughing and enjoying whatever funny tale I’m telling. I’ll be gesturing wildly and making comical expressions, and the whole time, in my head, I’m screaming, “For the love of God, shut up!” Alas, I can’t. It’s really quite dreadful.
Kurt, (Hey Kurt!) says I’m full of self created drama, but the truth is, not anymore. That was the Amy in her 20′s. Amy in her 40′s likes a nice quiet life….well I’m sure I would if I ever got a moments piece and quiet. Once again, that’s not the point of this post. I started off right and then just meandered way off into left field.
Let me give you an example of my drama. My line of work is very stressful and sometimes a little drama actually lessons the tension. I remember once, when something went horribly, drastically wrong, I went over to another co-workers cubicle and laid down on the floor until she noticed me. It was all just too much to take standing up. If I come into your office and suggest that you lay down on the floor with me for a minute, you can bet it’s not good news.
In the 1800′s, I’m fairly sure I would have been one of those women who “got the vapors”. Often times, I suspect I look and act suspiciously like a Muppet.
The reason for this little bit of character examination was that I scared the hell out of one of my co-workers today. I didn’t intend to. Honestly. In fact, my bit of drama wasn’t even intended for other people’s eyes. It was a rough day. It seemed that everything I touched burst into flames. At one point I flopped down in my chair, heaved a beleaguered sigh, and flung my top half on my desk. I lay there, face down on my file, my arms hanging limp at my sides. My poor friend turned around and quite literally screamed my name. The poor thing thought that something had happened to me; a stroke, a heart attack, or some other very real catastrophe. All the rest of our cube mates stood up and looked over the walls, either out of genuine concern for me, or more likely, out of the very real hope that there would be something good to gossip about.
And all I could do was laugh. Really, I am very sorry, T. I’d repent, but we all know that at the very next opportunity, I’ll do something else dramatic so there’s no point in pretending.
I can’t live the lie, T. I just can’t. But, it would totally serve me right if I die a slow painful death at my desk while everyone ignores me.
My sweet Sassy got her report card today. She did really well – as I expected. However, this was the note on the back
“I encourage Sassy to continue to practice talking at appropriate times during classroom activities and work time.”
That poor child doesn’t stand a chance. I spent my entire 2nd and 3rd grades in the corner for talking, and I distinctly remember my freshman English teacher saying, “If anybody talks, I’m moving Amy.” That was the only trouble I ever got into at school. My poor parents were down for more parent/teacher conferences that I care to think about.
The girls at work posted this at my cubicle:
I’ll admit. I have a lot to say. Most of it interesting or funny, or at the very least I’d like to think the delivery is good. I certainly have an audience that wants to hear my silly stories. I can’t help it and neither can the girl.
I only hope that the chairs they put in the corners these day have less splinters.
I tried to kill myself this weekend and I don’t even remember how. The result is I have a blue goose egg on my forehead. I can remember that I was in the laundry room, but I can’t remember anything after that. Well about the accident – I do remember where I live, who the people are in the house, and that I still have massive amounts of revisions to do on that damn book.
I remember hitting my head hard enough that I thought I was going to fall down and I grabbed on to the washing machine to steady myself. After the mind searing pain left and my eyes stopped watering and the cursing petered out, I honestly can’t remember what I hit my head on.
People I have told about this have thought that my forgetfulness is very alarming. I’m not alarmed. Not at all. I am absurdly accident prone. I hit, bang, bash, smash, pinch, and collide with things on a regular basis. Often times I’ll even say out loud, “Wow, that’s gonna leave a mark” and then later I’ll remove my shirt and think, “Good Lord, where did I get that bruise?”
This incident was related to me by My Honey this weekend.
He and Sassy and The Bandit were leaving Bandit’s soccer game on Saturday. They piled into the pickup and headed off to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream snack since it was still in the high 90s. I know – isn’t that ridiculous for the last week of October? Anyway, the girl was driving the boy crazy. Apparently it was all nag nag nag and yap yap yap from the back seat. Finally the boy had had enough.
“Sassy, I am not having this conversation,” he told her.
I love that. At four years old he’s finally getting the verbal skills to do more than just scream at her. Eventually, he’s going to get tired of the physical abuse as well. And lord help me, but I won’t stop him.
I’m an older sister – I know how the torment went. My Honey, a younger brother himself, tells me all the time, “Older sisters suck.”
I can’t deny it. I once handcuffed my younger brother to the mailbox for an hour while my parents were out of the house.
Occasionally, I will change our family’s name to something a little more fun then Louis. I have recently settled on “Snitkin”. I did not make this name up, it really belongs to someone. After changing us to the Snitkin’s, I decided we all needed new first names that began with S. This name changing has all of a sudden upset the 11 year old boy that lives here. I have been told to stop changing his name and that he will no longer tolerate such nonsense. He really seemed to mean it . . .
Now – here at the Louis/Snitkin residence we have eye rolling. Generally, this happens when Ed or I have annoyed the boy or the girl so thoroughly that they give up all verbal response and must resort to a physical protest of some kind. I know what you’re thinking – you’re wondering why we allow such rude and disrespectful behaviour at our house. My aunt would certainly like to know the answer to that as well. The truth is, we really have very little idea how to raise children – so we just entertain ourselves with the whole thing.
Today, we had a virtual eye rolling fest. It all started when the boy told me for the thousandth time to stop calling him Sigmund. I just love Sigmund Snitkin! Go ahead admit it – you find it entertaining, too. Anyway, after I called him Sigmund AGAIN – he rolled his eyes. But it was only a poorly executed half hearted eye roll. I asked if that was all he had, such a sad poorly executed half hearted eye roll.
This caused Ed and the girl to jump into the fray. The girl really rolled her eyes well, but there was still a small sliver of color that we could see. Ed rolled his eyes so far up that we could only see the whites. It would easily have been a perfect 10 if he were competing in the Olympics and if eye rolling were an Olympic sport.
Oddly, the boy did not find this funny and went to his room. But here’s the thing – when he walked away, he rolled his eyes. They went so far up that we couldn’t see anything but the whites. Another 10! Clearly, the Louis/Snitkin family has a competitive streak.
We are inching towards November 1st. It’s a fact, not a theory. Where has this year gone? I don’t know, but it has sure been interesting. I know three people who were all fired this year. Of course, I know three people who are much better off, but there were three separate nervous breakdowns first. But the above was not the point of this post. There is a point to every one of my posts, I just meander a bit before I get there.
November 1st kicks off NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth (called NaNoWriMo for the uninitiated). There is a web site for this don’t you know. http://www.nanowrimo.org/. Last year the Quills all signed up to participate, but we each petered out at the end. Some of us did much better than others – I remember Ava got a bunch done. The point of NaNoWriMo is that you and a gazillion other people around the world all agree to try to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. There are write-ins and incentives and pep talks. It’s all very amusing and worthwhile when you’re trying to jump start a new project.
Isabella and I have agreed to participate this year. We’ll try to coax Ava into it also, but she rolled her eyes at me when I told her I was going to start a new project. As you may remember, I’m still doing rewrites on my 1st novel and there is a deadline, as I will be pitching it to an agent in November. She forgets that my brain is always going and I need to keep it writing or bad things happen.
Stay tuned – I’m sure that we’ll keep you all posted on our progress and various existential crises.
I saw this cartoon and thought it so fitting for one of the other posts from this week.
Again, from www.shoeboxbog.com
That’s my little boy as represented by the little brown dog. His father is the cute little white bunny with pink ears. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. Don’t you?