When I am Old I will be Nice

Today I discovered that I am not perfect. I know, I know. It comes as a shock to me as well. Either I have been charmed to live a life almost entirely devoid of overtly rude acquaintances, or I have spent my life avoiding all confrontation. Or I am perfect, which we've already deduced is not the case (much to our chagrin).

Whatever the cause, I do not know how to handle situations in which I feel attacked. In fact they upset me. A lot. And I don't like that. Why should someone else's remarks get my adrenalin pumping to the point that I shake and perspire and can't think straight enough to remember to buy cotton balls? And drive across town and home again in a furious trance? Why can't I laugh it off? Why can't I think of witty, sarcastic comebacks when I need them (instead of an hour later)? Why don't (some) old people quit belly-aching about the ill-mannered youth of the world and concentrate on their own etiquette? Why do I feel like a little piece of me dies every time I go to Walmart? Why do I feel bad when I have done nothing wrong? Why do I have to call my husband from the dairy section for moral support and sympathy?

I have got to master myself. I do not like feeling out of control.

So what's the secret?

Besides never going to Walmart again, I mean.

Fun-o-ween

I promised you Halloween pictures, and by golly I want you to get your money's worth.



A rock star, a princess, and a dinosaur



+



Two nights of trunk/trick-or-treating



=



Obscene amounts of candy. Most of which was consumed by the scariest Halloween creature of all:

The Candy-Snatching Mom.

BOO!

See, I told you she's scary.

(and dorky).


The End.





*I hope I don't get sued for posting a picture of all my nephews/nieces without parental consent. Oh wait, none of my in-laws read my blog, so never mind.

Here, Dad

After spending most of my marriage kicking against the brick that is hunting, I have finally embraced it. I look forward to it as a time for me to learn useless things about myself, and even about life. Here is my list of Hunting Lessons by Day for 2009.

1. I am a better mother when Ty is gone. I pay attention to my children, I plan fun activities with my children, and I enjoy the company of my children when I am not distracted by the pursuit of meaningful adult conversation/making out. I go to bed feeling self-righteous.

2. After 48 hours, I am no longer a better mother when Ty is gone. I AM more humble, though. I dream about Ty all night.

3. On the third day of hunting I begin to get angry. I start to think that I don't like my husband, after all. Wild thoughts race through my deranged mind, and I second-guess every happy marriage memory. I do not recall what, exactly, Mr. Shuman looks like, but am pretty sure he has cold black eyes and a wicked grin. Everything is his fault.

4. Next, I experience a deep shame and regret for my fickle loyalty. I spend the fourth day on the phone, leaving sappy messages Ty will never hear (because he doesn't know the code for his voice mail) and flipping through photo albums. Tears drip down my alabaster (yep) cheeks, and I am completely useless.

We have yet to find out what happens after day four, for we find it best if Ty is only gone two days at a time. Just enough time for us to have a happy (but not desperate) reunion.

Ty came home victorious this year, so I was able to squeeze a few more lessons out of Hunting Season, 2009:

1. Children are a little confused and traumatized by all the excitement over a severed animal head in the back of their father's truck. It makes for very interesting bedtime conversation ("Why Daddy cut off that elk's...neck?" or "That deer have 'sgusting legs, Mom!").


2. Children are resilient. Give them 20 minutes and they can make a game out of anything: touch the elk and run, screaming, toward the house. Turn around. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.


3. Elk bleed. A lot. Mostly all over your husband's good jeans. Never on your husband's hunting
clothes. It's some sort of hunting phenomenon. Fortunately, with plenty of soaking and stain-removal product (and very feminine dry-heaving over the washing machine), elk blood is NOT the last word in fashion.


4. Hunting is the gift that keeps on giving. I just scored a new roommate, who is set to take up residence in my living room this spring (who knew stuffing an elk takes six months?). Meet Vladimir the elk head. Hopefully the taxidermist will put the tongue back in its mouth to give it some dignity. I won't have an undignified elk sticking out of my wall. (This is the part where this post is for my dad, cause he wanted me to post pictures of Ty's trophy):


5. Hunting is an investment. In what, I'm not sure. It's going to take many more lessons to unlock that mystery. All I know is Vladimir cost more than my car, and with his lack of legs and cup holders he isn't near as useful (as a car).



So, if you find yourself mystified by your man's desire to murder majestic creatures, look to me for advice. I think I've finally got hunting whipped.

Demand

By popular demand (okay, one person), and thanks to unanimous decision (mine), I am giving you a sneak peek into the portfolio of my very highly publicized (in my last blog) state-of-the-art, side-of-the-highway, spur-of-the-moment photo shoot last week. While group shots were all a bust, a few portraits turned out acceptable - or at least recognizable, so I count them a success (which means they will be featured on my picture ledge/gallery. Admission is free with a visit to my house).

And now let me shout this from the rooftops (blogtops?):

I LOVE SUN SPOTS, or solar flare, or whatever it's called when you shoot with the setting sun right behind your subject and you get glowy orbs everywhere. I know it's not proper photographic behavior, but I'm no photographer, so I can do what I want, and I adore those weird globes all over my kids' faces and hair. They make me want to put on my sunglasses, crank some '60s rock, and contemplate existentialism. Just kidding. Really they just make me smile.

Let me demonstrate:





See? Smile, smile, smile!

Know what else I love (in a photo-sort of way)? Night vision mode, or whatever it's called when the shutter speed is r-e-a-l-l-y slow, and everything looks smeared and glowing (are you starting to see a pattern?). It is my favorite thing for Halloween shots, so you can bet your bottom button I'll be posting plenty of "smear shots" soon.

Do you love taking mediocre pictures and making up names for photo effects? If so, I think we should be friends.

If not, I hope you'll still drop by from time to time to read my blog.

And humor my pictures.

Coming Down

When you're sick, you do weird things. And when I say you, I mean me. And my sick husband. And when I say sick, I mean REALLY sick. Not me (although I would definitely be a contender if sickness were a contest), mostly just my Honey Lamb (name that film), who is sicker than I have ever seen him, and who would likely become more sick if he knew I just called him, "Honey Lamb."

See? I told you being sick makes you do weird things. Like the other morning as I gathered laundry from my husband's side of the room, I found myself thinking, "Aww...the poor little fella," which made me giggle to myself because I don't usually make a habit of referring to him in that fashion. I should have known that within the hour I would be coming down with something of my own.

Or today. When I backed up in the drive thru to change my order, and then drove halfway across the country just so I wouldn't have to turn left (okay, so that's not so unusual for me). Or when I decided, last second-like, to take my kids up to the mountains for pictures, then decided the mountains were ugly, and settled for the side of the highway. Or when I made all my children gargle with warm salt water and swabbed their noses out with hydrogen peroxide (we're not taking any chances - it's a war on flu around here). Or when my Netflix videos have been sitting, unwatched, for a week because we don't feel like watching them (Gasp, I know). Or when I really wanted to make a bunch of photo collages to share with you, but Picnik was really bugging me, so I uploaded a photo at random.

Or now. When I decided to blog, even though I can't think straight and have nothing to say.

I know. Weird.

Don't Fail Me Now

*Sylas demonstrating proper behavior in public

I have a method to posting on this blog. It is called, "I will not write anything new until I have received ten comments on my last post." It is arbitrary and nonsensical, but it works for me.

However.

I must make an exception to that rule every now and then. But most especially every now.

You see, I am having a crisis that I will call, "What happened to that nice little girl I used to be?" I am feeling snarly and growly and judgmental and mean. And I wonder how charitable I am expected to be? Cause I really just don't have the patience for it sometimes. Plain and simple.

Like tonight at Saylor's gymnastics practice. I already have a little chip on my shoulder about this one parent, because the first week as soon as I arrived, her 4-year old kept running into my ankles (which, I must add, had blisters ALL over them from an ill-fated trip to IKEA in heels) on the car he repeatedly rode down a ramp. She didn't do anything. Then her 15-month old (I overheard her telling someone the ages of her children) screamed non-stop the entire hour. I don't mean scream in the normal sense of the word. I mean stomach-turning, eardrum-bursting, dog-whistle screeching. Just for fun. Let me remind you we were all in a high-ceilinged, echoey gymnasium hallway. Trapped. My ears literally ached when we left. Am I the only one who takes her children out when they are loud? Novel idea!

I avoided further interaction until tonight when, first thing, her kid rammed into my ankle on his car, then swung a yo-yo around and around, making finding a seat precarious business. During the course of thirty minutes, my entire family (I had my two youngest with me) was mowed-down by the car, which was inconvenient enough for me, but which reduced my children to lip-trembling. Whatever. I'm not one to coddle my children. It builds character, right?

But the last straw was when her kid started swinging that blasted yo-yo around again (his mother told him to go up to the top of the ramp to swing it, but instead he wandered over by the other children. Hey, how about telling him to STOP swinging it? Or throwing it in the trash?), and smacked Samera square in the head.

This is where my charity failethed.

The mother told him to tell Samera he was sorry, which he did. Then she mumbled, "sorry," as she walked past. I said nothing. NOTHING. Am I the biggest jerk in the world? I think I might be! I had to bite my tongue not to say, "Oh, it's fine. Don't worry about it." Cause that's what I ALWAYS say. But I'm sick of always being fine.

What's come over me?

And now for the rant I had in my head, but can only now vent:

Ya know, if you want to Positively Parent your children, be my guest! But do it at home. Is it asking too much to teach them to be polite? To be somewhat aware and respectful of other people? Lady, we all have kids. I have a hard enough time thinking my own are cute and funny. What makes you think I have any patience left for your kids? I SHOULD, but I just don't. I know that I SHOULD have charity. That I SHOULD give you the benefit of the doubt, like maybe you're doing the best you can, and you just have your hands full. Cause, after all, we're both women and we shouldn't judge one another, but SHOULD support each other and all that bullcrap. Well, Sweety, I draw the line at letting my kids bug perfect strangers. It's not a rocket ship - all you have to do is say, "NO!" and mean it. While my children will probably grow up less confident in themselves than yours, at least they won't bother people. Which, quite frankly, is an attractive attribute in my book.


And now I'm finished. And I hope I didn't offend anyone. But if I did, then you should probably quit letting your kids run amok in public.


p.s. I'm no perfect parent. In fact, I am not even a GOOD parent. But some things just seem so obvious. Am I right? Or am I just a snob? You watch. Next post will be me eating my words. Can't wait!

Birthday Present

Last night gave me a gift. I wasn't expecting anything...I mean aside from an exhaustion headache from an all-day shopping excursion. But there it was, just the same:

When I carried Sylas in from the car he fell asleep in my arms. He stayed asleep when I sat down on the couch. He is not a heavy sleeper, so I was astonished when he didn't jump right up and start in on a stream of grouchy whining. I started snuggling him. Then I nuzzled his neck. Then I kissed his head. His cheeks. His nose. He twitched, but slept on.

I closed my eyes and pretended that he was my infant son again. I imagined that his feet didn't dangle past my lap, and I tried to find a patch of skin left on his face that felt soft and squishy against my lips, like it did when he was tiny. The closest I came was the small indentation where nose meets forehead, so I kissed it like there was no tomorrow. And my mind conjured up that familiar newborn baby smell, and I wished there really was no tomorrow.

Between kisses I watched his face. His lips still vacillate between a pout and half-smile while he sleeps, which I didn't know. I hadn't seen him asleep since the last time I nursed him.

Then I looked up to see Saylor at the kitchen table, hard at work on a self-inflicted math equation, scribbling away on a piece of paper. Samera was flipping wildly around the house singing, "She wears high heels, I wear sneakers...na, na, na, na...I'm on the blehchers," and I wondered where all my sleeping babies went. And when would they be back?

(and why, oh WHY, do they know that song?)

And Sylas slept on, despite my sniffling.

Then it occurred to me that it was Sylas' third birthday (we celebrated earlier in the week, so I forgot on his ACTUAL day). And then it all made sense.

And I sent Samera to get me some Kleenex.

And my camera.

And made a vow, before waking my boy, not to take time for granted.

Future, past, or present.