Hasn’t Had a Hot Meal in Fifteen Years

I have officially become the mother from A Christmas Story. Serving my sweet child her dinner: 

“Mom, the buttons on this dress are going up my butt.” 

Take it off. 

“Can you do it?”

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/unzips dress/walks back to kitchen*

“Mom, can you get me something to wear? I am freezing.”

I think you can do that. *attempts to prepare own dinner*

“Mom. This tag is killing me. Cut it out.” 

You’ve worn that shirt a thousand times.

“Cut. It . OUT.”

Can you say ‘please?’

“Please?”

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/grabs scissors/cuts out tag/walks back to kitchen*

“Mom, can I have more water? And I need a napkin.” 

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/grabs cup/refills water/grabs napkin/delivers/heads back to kitchen*

I am glad you’re eating all your cucumbers, but don’t forget to eat your spaghetti.

“I won’t.” 

*heads back to kitchen*

“Mom, can you get me some ham?”

*washes hands/gets ham/slices ham/serves ham/heads back to kitchen*

“Mom, I dropped some spaghetti.*

*washes hands/stuffs face full of bowl of spaghetti/gives up*

 

Mama Always Said….

So, I have been having horrible headaches for a while now and have been pretty much waiting to die of an aneurysm whilst driving or (even worse) at work. Irrational, I know (though my biological father did die of an aneurysm at 40 years old…so there’s that). 

I was having a particularly headachey day last week at work and took off my glasses and cried. And, wouldn’t you know it, twenty minutes later…headache gone. Glasses back on later, headache back. I decided to go to the office where I got my eye exam done and ask them to check my prescription on my glasses (that I got from http://www.ZenniOptical.com) to see if they were accurate. They were, except I measured my pupillary distance (What the hell is this, you ask? I didn’t know either until I printed the measuring tape from the website to measure it myself, and I’ve been wearing glasses since I was 7 years old) incorrectly and was off by 6 mm. Eye Guy told me this could be the issue. (I mean, I NEVER get headaches. I didn’t even own ibuprofen.) Then Eye Guy said, “Or, you could be allergic to your polycarbonate lenses.” 

WUT

If anyone could be allergic to their glasses, it would be I. Forget physics and such. Just have a blanket understanding that the girl who broke her rod in her back, whose doctor flew around the world to redo other people’s surgeries and had NEVER in ALL HIS YEARS had to redo his own surgery…until…, will be the one to defy the odds.

After work today, I took my sweet child shoe shopping. This has never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever been an enjoyable experience. At some point, we are both in tears. We went to Payless because they have half sizes. The Shoe Girl measured her at an 11 and said, “She should go to an eleven-and-a-half,” whereupon sweet child burst into tears. Tried on all the ten-and-a-half shoes (too tight). Tried on all the size 11 shoes (they flipped off). Cried. Left the building. 

We drove to Kohl’s. Finally found a pair we liked. Walked ten feet. Cried. Returned shoes. 

We drove to another Payless. No go. Left Payless barefoot. Mommy carried sweet child to car. 

We drove to Dillard’s, where the woman who is always there was there. I cannot believe after four years of having us as customers she hasn’t quit her job. Srsly. How does she do it? Sweet child tried on 12 pairs of shoes. And she found a pair! I couldn’t believe it. She left wearing them, because remember…I carried her in barefoot, up the escalator…with my giant purse…past the very expensive men’s shirts: 

(Worth every cent of the $99.50.)

We drove to gramma’s to pick up something, and caught the longest light in history. Took the highway. Got home. Came in. Threw dinner on the stove. Sweet child stapled her finger with the stapler and then dropped it in her applesauce. I wouldn’t let her turn on the television and she didn’t get to watch any television ALL DAY OR PLAY WITH ONE SINGLE FRIEND.

Then I found a note in her school planner that she was missing her homework on Monday. She had a folder full of papers I just assumed were classwork or some activity she received at the after-school program. They’re always giving her little activity sheets and things. HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!? 

So, I just ordered new glasses. One more try. 

And I’m drinking wine. White zinfandel. AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT. 

Oh, and the sweet child went to bed in winter tights. 

I swear….

How I Rate: Above Socks with Cracks in Them and Below Barbies

So, my daughter has show-and-tell every Friday. I’m sorry, WUT? Show-and-tell should be a privilege, not homework. Which brings me to Kindergarten Homework–. Dude, srsly. Isn’t that just punishment for parents?

Your daughter isn’t very good about turning in her homework.

“Oh, really? That’s funny. She also hates being chained-up outside.”

Basically, any Kindergartner can flunk Kindergarten because their parent can’t remember to throw an A thing or a K thing or a V thing (because OH NO, we can’t go through the alphabet the way it actually goes, THAT would be too easy for the child GOD forbid) into their backpack. So, she gets a zero for not having anything for show-and-tell because I couldn’t remember to put it in her bag because I was too freaking busy KEEPING HER ALIVE and such.

I just remembered that tomorrow is Friday (the first Friday back from spring break). I walked into daughter’s room and said, “You want to take this for show-and-tell?” She said, “A train? Sure.” I said, “Not just any train. It’s the J train. The one I rode home when I lived in New York City.” She starts whining and writhing around on the bed (two things I HATE almost as much as listening to people chew with their mouths open, and eggplant). “I’LL NEVER REMEMBER ALL THAT!” she yells.

I walk over to her toy cubbies and say, “How is it you can remember where every toy in Target is located, but you can’t remember your homework?” I am a mother, after all.  “You could take me. My name starts with a J.”

She looks at me like Woman, please and says, “I’ll just take Justin Bieber. Put some clothes on him.”

Sure. Fine. Whatever.

Welcome to Pleasantville

My daughter’s school is so ridiculous! Every day, they send home something from school that I have to pay for. I am over it! Scholastic book sale, classroom party, teacher having a baby, student teacher leaving, student teacher takes over as long-term sub/needs a gift, Valentine’s, Read-Across-America, book drive, after-school art program (which I was all for), spirit ribbons, scratch and sniff book marks, teacher back from maternity leave.

“Mrs. Jones likes TJMaxx, Target, Olive Garden, the Town Center, pedicures, movies, blah blah blah.” I don’t give a shit. Ask me what I like!

Now it’s the Mother/Daughter dance. “Come to the school at 3 p.m. for a fitting for neon pink tee shirts (don’t forget your Sharpie to sign each other’s shirts), neon pink capri sweatpants (In what world are these appropriate?), headbands, socks….”

Um…3 p.m.? Does no one in this town work? Guess not. Moms walking to the school with their kids’ Razor scooters folded under their arms so they can scoot all the way home while mom runs behind them with their three dogs. Jaysus.

I’m going to walk to pick up my daughter with three beers and a Razor for her to carry home. Not a scooter. An actual razor blade. Uncovered. And very sharp.

Well, this is awkward.

When my daughter is beyond tired she has a lot of trouble falling asleep. This isn’t news to anyone. I assume all children are this way. She deserves love and understanding. Sadly, when I hear her little voice say, “Mah-uhm! I had a bad [jeem]” I am not filled with compassion. Instead, I become so incredibly helpful and inform her that she has yet to fall asleep.

Who wants to hear that crap? I certainly would not.

Last night, I had book club. I took her with me. She didn’t watch TV. Nothing scary happened, except maybe a lot bit of inappropriate mommy talk. We were home and she was in bed by 9.15 p.m. Nevertheless, she woke up at 1.30 a.m. and didn’t fall back to sleep until 3.15 a.m., claiming the entire time that she was having nightmares.

What I am about to say may shock you, but…I am NOT nice if you wake me up. If I wake up on my own, I am one of those annoying morning people, chipper and ready to take on the day. Wake me up ten times in an hour and I honestly don’t care about your problems. This makes me a mommy I would not want to sit next to at the playground. It is not my most shining moment.

When I was a child, I would sneak into my parents’ room and sleep on the floor next to their bed. No blankets. No pillow. Hardwood floors. My mother would have no idea I was there until the next morning when she would swing her legs over the side nearly crushing me as she attempted to stand. I did this for many years.

My freshman year in college on Christmas break was a record. I slept on the floor next to my mother’s side of the bed for a week straight after watching…wait for it…Ghost. Yeah. That Ghost. Patrick Swayze. Whoopi Goldberg.

It’s those “things” that come out of the ground after Sam’s murderer is killed. And then they’re back at the end for the evil friend. Yes. It is one of the worst displays of special effects in a movie ever, but I couldn’t close my eyes for a week. I was hearing voices, seeing things move in my room. But, at a month away from 19 years old I was an unwelcome guest in my parents’ room. Even though I brought my own sleeping bag and pillow and didn’t try to squeeze in between them, my mother finally insisted I return to my room (which was right next to their room).

Don’t you think your father and I would like to be alone?

“Um, no. Then you would have let me spend the night with my friends more in high school.” *grabs blanket and pillow and stomps off to own bedroom*

So, I guess I’m trying to convince my child that there is nothing to be afraid of. I’ve told her as much in the notes from her fairy godmothers. “Dreams are just movies in your head. Once you wake up, the movie is over.”

But seriously, who am I kidding? Like my dad always said, “If we didn’t bring extra toilet paper up from the basement, Jennifer would go without.”