My weekends are always very Bandit intensive and I am always grateful when bedtime rolls around. On Friday, My Honey had a gig at the ultimate dive bar and I failed to get a sitter so I stayed home with Sassy and The Bandit. We watched several episodes of F Troop – the old TV show. The Bandit thinks it is the funniest thing to grace the television since… ever. I disagree because, although some of you may not think so, my sense of humor is more sophisticated than Cpl. Argarn. And Gilligan, too. Come to think of it, what the hell was wrong with people in the 60′s? Never mind, don’t answer that. But seriously, talk about bad television.
I let the kids stay up later than usual and then we all piled into my bed to go to sleep. Because I’m a horrible mother and I should never be allowed to put children to bed, I turned on the TV in my room to some innocuous movie. We all cuddled in and almost instantly Sassy was gently snoring beside me. I began to fade out after a while, too. Something woke me up as the end credits started to roll. I looked over and Bandit was wide awake.
“That was a good movie, Mom,” he says.
Definitely my kid.
Then today, we had to make a run to Target. I think that if there is ever a weekend where we don’t have to go to Target or Costco, that those two stores will send someone around to our house to make sure that we’re alright. Sassy and her dad were in the shoe department so I took the cart and The Bandit over to the lingerie section to see if they had any underwear on sale. Does this seem like a good idea to any of the other mothers of four year old boys? Clearly, I didn’t think it through. The minute I pause the cart, Bandit is grabbing bras off the racks and yelling loudly.
“Mommy, is this a BOOBIE PROTECTOR? Feel how soft this BOOBIE PROTECTOR is. Do you like the color of this BOOBIE PROTECTOR? I think you would look really pretty in this BOOBIE PROTECTOR.”
I hear snickering all around me and I am studiously ignoring him, while at the same time, trying to get all the bras back on the racks. I’m quite sure my face was the color of the neon pink push up bra that he deemed his favorite.
And this is why I so desperately want Isabella to have a boy.
I want to write a love letter. A love letter to some really fantastic ladies.
Today was the last day of work at my current job. On Monday I start with a new company in a totally different industry. I am very excited about it. And as an extra, added bonus, I’ll be working with Isabella again. Nothing good can come from that, I assure you.
Back to the love letter. While I am absolutely thrilled beyond belief to be leaving that industry, I will miss the ladies I worked with immensely. I have a bit of guilt leaving them all there – but, I guess that I’m not a marine and they’re not exactly “fallen” comrads that I’m leaving behind. Many of them are faithful readers of this site so I know they’ll see this. Besides, what is a blog if not an opportunity to be entirely self indulgent?
I thoroughly enjoyed working with each and every one of you. You are all brilliant and long suffering, witty and a superb audience. I can’t imagine that any group of women could have more fun while working under greater stress unless there is some group of comediennes diffusing nuclear bombs somewhere. I will honestly miss trading quips and giggles over the cubie walls with you. And rarely have I had a better audience for my antics than with you all. You have inspired me and, knowing that you’re all out there reading my stuff, you’ve made me a better story teller. Hang in there and remember, in the long, hard fight against “the man”, you’re all really good at what you do. Keep smiling, keep muttering under your breath, and when you really, really can’t take it anymore, I left you the “Bullshit” button.
XOXOXOXOX – Amylynn (your faithful clown)
The Bandit has been getting in trouble again in pre-school. The problem is that he and the crew of little dudes he runs around with have all been together practically since birth. They egg each other on quite a bit and get into more difficulties together than they would alone. My Honey calls them
The Four Toddlers of the Apocalypse.
This morning when I was helping him get dressed, he looked up at me and said, “Momma, I’m gonna have a good day today.”
“Good,” I said, smiling. “You’re going to be a good listener then?”
“Yeah. I’m not going to listen to anything those other hairballs say.”
I’ve started a new hobby. Or maybe I’ve developed a new psychosis. It’s hard to tell. The behavior is still in its infancy. I’m muttering. A lot. I’ve started muttering because I can’t let loose the stream of profanity that’s running around in my head.
Do you remember that old Bill Cosby routine where the kids are supposed to be getting ready for bed but his wife can hear them upstairs screwing around and fighting? She heads up there to put an end to the nonsense and hollers up the stairs, “The beatings will now commence.” When she comes down, all Bill can hear is whimpering from upstairs and his wife muttering under her breath, “Roll your eyes at me, boy, and I’ll roll your head” and so on. Intersperse some indecipherable swear words in there and that’s me these days.
“What did you say, Mommy?”
“Nothing. I’m not talking to you. Why don’t you have your pajamas on yet? For God’s sake, Sassy I’ve told you three times. I DO NOT want to see you again unless you have pajamas on.”
Five minutes go by.
“Hey, Mom, why do….”
“Oh My God! Why are you still in a towel. Go. Get. Your. Pajamas. On. RIGHT NOW!”
“OK!” She stalks off to her room. “Everybody is always yelling at me.”
Five minutes go by.
She emerges from her room naked. “Moooooo-oooom. Have you seen my roller skates.”
My only response is flabbergasted frustration. And muttering. It’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane.
Whew! Just finished book 4. It was alright. Just alright. The plot I’ve read a hundred times before. The heroine was a little annoying. Not my favorite.
On to book 5. I feel like I’m on a freight train.
I called to speak with Isabella last week. I wanted to clue her in to a new version of Emma that PBS is airing on Masterpiece Theater. She wasn’t home so I had the honor of conversing with her daughter.
“Are you excited about the new baby?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“YES!” she said.
“I hear that you’re expecting a little girl.”
“Yes, I’m going to have a sister,” she told me. I could hear the smile through the phone.
“Well you know, there is just as much of a chance that it’ll be a brother,” I told her. I personally am campaigning for Y chromosomes. Every mommy should have the joy of getting mushrooms out of her son’s nose.
“No, I’m having a sister.” She sounds pretty adamant in her sing song voice.
I laughingly argue back, “But you understand that it could be a boy. You might have a brother.”
“But I’m not.”
“Alright, sweetie. But you know, boys aren’t so bad.” She knows my children well, so she is familiar with some of the issues with brothers and she certainly knows plenty of little boys. “I’m awfully fond of The Bandit and he’s a boy.”
“Yeah,” she agrees and I think I might be getting through to her. “But I’m having a sister because I only have girl toys.”
I love Isabella’s daughter to death, but I hate to break it to her that most little girls aren’t really as excited about snakes and bugs and lizards as she is. She might be better off with a brother.
GO Y CHROMOSOMES!
For those of you who are young and spoiled by the immediacy of our modern life and the timely comfort of the home pregnancy test, the rabbit is dead is code for I’M PREGNANT!! That’s right, me, Isabella. I told the sisters last week and promised a post, but I have been too busy sleeping and eating.
And as awesome as the whole thing really is, I still have a hard time believing it for myself. My sweet 5 year old daughter was very sad when we first told her, but in a five minute swing of emotions, she was soon crying happy tears. And apparently it is still hard for her to believe as well. She is constantly asking me if I’m sure I’m going to have a baby.
“Mommy, are you positive that there is a tiny baby in your tummy?”
“Yes sweetie. I’m positive.”
“How do you know?” She asked with a snarky grin.
“Well, because I took a test.”
“What kind of test? Were there a lot of questions?”
“No honey, it’s a special kind of test that looks like a plastic stick and I peed on it, and it said I was pregnant.” And after I said it, my crystal ball came into focus and I saw her sharing that with absolutely everyone.
Which she has.
She even told the new cashier at Fry’s yesterday. I knew that the cashier was new as she was wearing a large ribbon thanking me for my patience because she was new. After my sweetie shared the peeing on a stick news with the new cashier, the cashier looked at her with a beaming grin and said…
“I have heard about those kinds of tests! When I was having babies, the doctor would do a test that would kill a rabbit then we would know we were having a baby! Congratulations!”
Ooooh nooo. My daughter, the aspiring animal advocate, the would be rescuer of every nearly-exticnt animal species all over the globe, did not even have a response. She looked at me with her little mouth open in shock. I gave a warning glare to the cashier. She picked up on the daggers shooting from my eyes and looked at my daughter’s disbelief and in a stuttering attempt to fix the horror said…
“Oh honey, I didn’t mean real rabbits. That is just what we called the test back then. Thank you for shopping at Fry’s! You saved $7.46 today!”
Now really. Can’t they just stick to the script?
“Are you finding everything ok? I can help you on aisle 5! Did you find everything today? Would you like to buy some stamps or ice? Is there anything you weren’t able to find? Have a nice day ma’am!”
And when little girls come in and say crazy things, I would like it if they would just nod and smile.
I finished book 3 today. I did not like this one. Not at all. It was amateurish and, worst yet, I sincerely did not like the heroine. BLAH!
On to book 4. I am thrilled to be so far ahead of schedule. I have to read a book every 8 days now instead of every 5.8 days. That might actually leave me a little bit of time to get some of my own writing done.
2nd book down. It’s 1:22 in the morning and I just finished it. It was really good – good enough to keep up up to this ridiculous hour on a work night. 9 more to go.
Good Lord, I hope I can get up in the morning.
Ava drinks more coffee than anyone I know. Isabella is off caffeine but I know she looks longingly at coffee and misses it. I do not drink coffee. ICK! The smell is lovely and I love the idea of coffee. I really love the idea of coffee culture: having a 15 word description necessary to order what I want, sitting around coffee houses and cafes, that sort of thing. I just can’t bring myself to drink it.
On that note, this from the daily calendar:
What was fueling Honore de Balzac’s prolific literary output? Why, the same thing that helps millions of Americans brace for those interminable nine-o’clock meetings: good old-fashioned high-octane java. The strung-out Frenchman drank up to fifty cups of thick, black, Turkish coffee per day. When he couldn’t get his fix in brewed form, he simply pulverized a handful of beans and popped them into his gullet. “Coffee is a great power in my life,” Balzac admitted. “I have observed its effects on an epic scale.” And he suffered them, too. The high quantities of industrial-strength joe gave him stomach cramps, contributed to his high blood pressure, and left him with an enlarged heart. Caffeine poisoning – not to mention his gluttonous lifestyle – contributed to his early demise at age fifty-one.
Well, good grief. Imagine if there had been a Starbucks in 1820′s Paris. You’ll have to admit, he looks a bit strung out in this picture.
It would be a Grande, 2 pump Vanilla, Non-Fat, Extra Hot, Latte with a tipple shot of espresso.
And some extra coffee beans if you have them handy.