Score 1 for Magical Mama Abilities

Tweet I walked in the door last night a bit after 10pm. (That would be ten o'clock at night. After the sun went down. And the sky was dark.)

Big V was sitting in Cletus's bedroom, in the wing chair we affectionately have termed the Reading Chair, looking all verklempt. That is, if verklempt means that he looked like the walking dead, with his hair sticking out all over the place, exhausted, on the verge of tears and/or a complete nervous breakdown.

And there was Cletus. In his crib. Jumping as high as he could go singing, "AD DEE! AD DEE! AD DEE!" (which sounds just like Daddy without the beginning D. And also in a highly annoying pitch).

I looked over at V.

He looked at me.

I've been in here for two hours. He won't go to sleep.

Why are you just sitting here?

I'm making sure he goes to sleep.

Could you sleep if someone was sitting there, staring at you? Because I sure as hell couldn't. It's creepy.


And then I walked out. Because why the hell would I want to get involved in that nonsense?

But after another ten minutes of listening to jump! jump! jump! and AD DEE! AD DEE! AD DEE! and Go to bed. I told you it's time to go to bed. Stop jumping now and go to bed. I decided to help.

Hey, V, could you come here for a second?

(I heard the exasperated sigh from down the hall.)

And as Big V schlepped down the hall Cletus started with MOM! MOM! MOMMY! MOMMY! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOMMY! MOMMY! MOM! just. like. Stewie.

Standing against the counter I asked for an overall breakdown of what occurred during my absence that might have attributed to the scene I now found myself standing in.

I kept asking him if he wanted to go to sleep and he kept telling me no.

Uh... come again?

It kept getting later and later but every time I asked him if he wanted to go to bed he said no.

You do realize he's two. People who are two never want to go to bed. People who are two want to smash chocolate cake in their hair and lick the cat.

Well, what would you have wanted me to do?!

Might I suggest putting him in his bed at the same time and in the same was as every other night of his life. Feed him dinner, make him pick up his toys, give him a bath, put him in pajamas, read two books - no more; just two, or you'll be there all night - then put him in his bed and tell him to stay there. And ignore him when he kicks up a fuss - don't keep talking to him.

Oh, like that's going to work.

By the way, he's sleeping.

What?
He's sleeping now. Go ahead, go check on him.


And just like that the planets aligned and the kid magically fell asleep. I should have bought a lottery ticket.

Someone bring me my jello and my Geritol.

Tweet So, I've been cast in this play, and it's awesome and the people are awesome and I play this kinda younger-than-me person who has a boyfriend, which is always kind of awkward when you shake hands with a stranger and say nice to meet you, I'm looking forward to playing your love interest - what's your name again?

But what's really awkward is when you happen to be 38 years old and your love interest happens to have not graduated high school yet. Not because he's some sort of idiot miscreant incapable of passing a GED, but because he actually still reports to homeroom by 7:05am and has PE class third period and needs to remind his parents to put money on his lunch account.

And just like that I'm Mary Kay Letourneau. Except I'm not a teacher and I probably would never be one because I can't spell worth a darn and also I hate kids. Well, not hate hate, more like I just hate being surrounded by swarms of them for extended periods of time.

Anyway. This whole I'm almost 40 and you're not even 20 yet thing just makes me feel old. And weird. But mostly old. I've been out of school longer than you've been alive old. And so it's really important for me not to act old. Well, at least not act all codger-y, anyway, but rather be seen as hip and cool.

And so the other day, while waiting for rehearsal to begin, I was sitting there knitting - because nothing screams I'm hip and cool like sitting alone in the back of a theater putting knots in yarn with sticks - and my young buck of a boyfriend came up to me and said, "Whatcha fixin'?" and I said, "Oh. I'm making a scarf." And he looked at me and said, "No. Whatcha fixin'?" and he kind of smiled and pointed at my creation and looked at me expectantly and I stared at him and said, "...uhh... I'm knitting a scarf... for my daughter...." And then he just sort of looked blankly at me and walked away.

Fast forward three days later to where I'm taking a break. In the bathroom. Doing, well, bathroom stuff. And as I reached for the toilet paper - BAM! Like a freaking bolt of lightning it hit me: He was quoting the lines from the play. He was being funny. Facetious. Because that's his line. He looks over at the mother, who happens to be doing some sort of needlework and says "Whatcha fixin'?" and that's why he said that to me and he was being funny and I was being the old lady who didn't get the joke.

And now I want to run and play catch up: I get it now! I get it now! Let's have a do-over! Then I can respond appropriately with a spunky, witty comeback and he won't think of me as an elderly, out-of-touch grandmother type.

"Knitting IS my foreplay, honey."

Nicole Hunn is about to save my taste buds. I hope.

Tweet I'm not going to lie. Gluten Free breads suck. Really bad. It sort of reminds me of gnawing on cow feed. Not that I would know what gnawing on cow feed actually tastes like but I'm pretty sure I'm close.

This weekend I attempted to make what sounded like a delicious cinnamon raison bread. I had to use yeast. I think that's what attributed to the cow feed taste. Anyway, it smelled warm and cozy and like a big yummy hug. Then it proceeded to sucker punch my taste buds. It was not good.

Then I made a gluten free chocolate cake and poured in an extra cup of semi-sweet chocolate morsels for good measure. It was heaven in a cake pan. Moist, gooey chocolate; except I'm having a hard time getting the lettuce and salami to stay on during lunch.

My point is I miss bread. I miss warm, soft, straight from the oven bread. I miss buttermilk biscuits and French loaves and garlic cheese bread and even that weirdly fascinating bread in a jar: I'm not kidding. It's bread. In a jar. Don't believe me? Check out THIS POST right here!

And so I have embarked on a quest to find the softest gluten free bread ever. No more dry, hard to chew bricks of nastiness. I want the bread from my gluten filled youth! (And by youth, I mean pre-October 2011.)

I typed in a quick Google search:  softest gluten free bread (because I am nothing if not obvious and logical) and 'lo and behold! a link to a post titled "Gluten-Free Japanese Milk Bread - the softest bread ever" written by Nicole Hunn over at Gluten Free on a Shoestring popped up. I don't know who Nicole is, but I'm hoping she is going to save my life and my taste buds.

No pressure, Nicole. No pressure at all. Except know that my entire happiness rests solely on the success of your recipe. (And whether or not I can whip up a Japanese Water Roux.)

* if anyone feels the desire to try this recipe out for themselves and then gleefully hand me a test loaf, I'd be more than happy to accept.

Things I've Been Doing Instead of Blogging

Tweet (1) I bought a house.
A small house. My very own small house. It is going to be absolutely beautiful and I cannot wait to share it with all with you.

(2) I watched Dotter compete in a pentathlon.
She swam. In five separate events. She (and we) spent (literally) all day in an incredibly loud confined space and she survived. Between events she hid in the locker room. I was worried about the noise. Oh, how she crumbles amongst the noises! And I worried about all the people. Oh, how she crumbles amongst all the people! And yet, she didn't. Not at all. And this made me so proud. My little girl. The one who needs her world structured just so is learning how to adapt in a world where it most assuredly is not so at all.

(3) We discovered Cletus has hearing loss.
We've been to a few doctors and have another upcoming appointment with a specialist in the city and we have a wonderful speech therapist involved. I've been down the speech therapy road with Dotter so I just needed a little reminder. Cletus is already showing signs of great improvement. Our next step is to determine whether or not he will continue to lose his hearing or if it's what you see is what you get. Or, more appropriately, what you hear is what you get.

(4) I assured a room full of angry citizens that I was not anti-American.
After an innocent miscommunication (or intentional misleading of the public), our office spent an entire day trying to reassure pissed off citizens that we were not attempting to prohibit the display and/or flying of our nation's flag. That evening's public meeting was standing room only and included a display of various flags as well as a family of well-behaved children decked out in Statue of Liberty costumes. The whole thing was as ludicrous and bizarre as you are imagining it to be.

(5) I went to see Ballet Folklórico De Antioquia at Young Auditorium, with my cousin.
Two of my cousins were adopted from Colombia but I always forget that. I forget that they're adopted and I forget that they're Colombian because I just see them as my cousins and sometimes I think they're more a part of our family than I am. Anyway, when I saw there was this Colombian dance performing in our little piece of the world I immediately wanted to go to learn more about where my beautiful cousin came from. I took my girls and she took her husband and we sat in awe of the beauty and grace and energy of these performers. And then I shielded my daughter's eyes as the dancers came out in barely there costumes to perform a tribal dance. Dotter said, "it looks like she's having a seizure." The Teen Bean said, "oh my god! It's like we're at a strip club!" And I thought, "oh, how I would love to have buns of steel."

(6) Big V will never qualify for Medicare.
Big V has worked for the same guy for over 13 years. He hasn't had a pay increase in over 8. Nor does he get any benefits. No vacation, no sick time or holiday pay. Sometimes he gets paid on Friday. Sometimes he doesn't. There's little to no documentation of actual hours worked or what was paid or what is owed. If he ever loses his job or gets hurt there is no such thing as receiving unemployment or disability. It's all pretty much suckage and I'm resentful that he hasn't opted to move on to a Real Job yet. Maybe when he turns 40...

(7) I made the most awesome gluten free peanut butter cookies I've ever tasted.
And I added M&M's. And then I ate all of them. Every last one. Probably because I was so stressed by the craptastic job Big V has and the doctor visits and, oh, I forgot Dotter needs braces, and -- it's just easier to eat.

(8) I finished reading The History of Love by Nicole Krauss.
Read it.

(9) I was cast in the production of Squirrels in the Attic at Beloit Civic Theatre.
I expect to see each and every one of you there; no excuses. I was cast as Lindsay Spencer which is, in a nutshell, bombdiggity. And now I'm stressed because I have a shit ton of lines to learn and no peanut butter cookies to eat. The rehearsal schedule is intense but worth it.

(10) I did a lot of laundry.
And I cleaned out Dotter's room. And vacuumed. And swept. And dusted ceiling fans. And tried to kill off an infestation of creepy ants. And paid bills. And attempted to organize the bookshelves (again). And watered the plants and cooked dinner and bought groceries and wiped down counters and scrubbed the toilet and, well, generally kept the house in running order. It was (and is) tiring. I'm contemplating winning the lottery and hiring a housekeeper.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. And really ticked off.

Tweet Someday I'll tell you about the last couple of days.

Not today.
It's way too raw.

Instead I'll tell you that I had the Best Pizza Ever made and delivered for me by the owner of a local restaurant even though they weren't even open today.Gluten free crust. Pepperjack cheese. And pepperoni.

And know that THAT is the only reason I'm still functioning.

Blogger's Index: A Numerical Explanation

Tweet Number of homes I lived in as a child: 2

Age when I first got glasses: 10

Number of times I have almost seriously drowned: 3

Number of times I have been washed off to sea: 1

Number of times I have been bitten by a horse: 3

Number of times I have had braces: 0

Age I first moved out on my own: 17

Number of places I’ve lived in the past 21 years (not inluding moving back home with the parents): 13

Number of times I moved back with my parents: 2, +/- 10

Longest number of years, as an adult, spent living in the same house without moving: 5

Percentage of time in any given day I think about moving to a different house: 36

Number of military branches I served in: 1

Number of guys I dated named Tommy: 3

Number of times I have consumed mussels: 1

Chances I’ll ever eat mussels again: 0

Number of jobs held in the telemarketing field: 1

Approximate number of days spent on that job in the telemarketing field: 6

Chances I’ll ever take a job in the telemarketing field again: 0

Number of people I’m related to who are prohibited from entering a foreign country: 1

Number of times I have successfully opened a box of rice by the “push here then pull back” instructions: 0

Number of abusive babysitters I’d like to hunt down and stab in the chest with a pitchfork: 1

Years since I completely blew off my scheduled audition with the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in Manhattan: 21

Number of times I spontaneously drove to the airport and purchased a ticket for “the next flight that lands in LaGuardia”: 2

Number of times I swam in germ infested flood water: 1

Number of times I got drunk and threw up on Brendan Fahey’s shoes: 1

Number of times I found out I was completely wrong about what I thought my grandfather’s name was: 1

Number of sisters who also thought my grandfather’s name was the one I thought it was and therefore also found out she was completely wrong about what she thought our grandfather’s name was: 1

Number of hours since we found out my grandfather had a different name than we thought he had: 16

Number of moles on my face which I absolutely despise: 14

Approximate number of times I have made hard boiled eggs without looking up how to make them first: 1

Approximate number of times I have called my mother to ask her how to make hard boiled eggs: 14

Number of times I lied about who I was to get backstage access to a concert: 1

Number of times I walked out on dates without actually notifying them I was leaving thereby leaving them to sit waiting for me to return (of which I cannot forgive my appalling, selfish behavior): 2

Number of times I dove off a pier in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a lime green thong: 1

Chances I’ll ever wear anything in public again that shows more than my knee caps: 0

Average number of times in any given month I’m called by the wrong name by fellow co-workers and/or customers, thus reassuring me none of my racy past will ever catch up with me: 6

Amount of money I plan to save in a 12-month period: $10,000

Amount of money currently saved: $752.86

Months left to reach $10,000 savings goal I set for myself: 3

Probability of actually reaching the $10,000 savings goal in 3 months: 0

Percentage of my brain screaming “call the police! This scuzzy guy is about to murder you!” while sitting in the back of an ambulance with Ted Nugent: 112

Number of times I was hugged by Ted Nugent: 2

Realization of who Ted Nugent actually was: 0

Number of books I read on average each year: 30

Number of times I’ve said I wanted to get paid for writing: 687,371

Number of times I’ve actually submitted my writing for paid consideration: 0

Probability of actually getting paid to write if I never submit anything: 0

Number of times I contacted the police to report a dead body on the side of the road: 1

Likelihood I will tell you I have the best life stories ever (in percent): 100

Doubt: A Parable. And a Mother's Love

Tweet 1. MY OLDEST DAUGHTER ASKED TO BE A MONK FOR HALLOWEEN. SHE WAS 2.

At first we assumed she wanted to be a monkey. But, no. She insisted that what she wanted to be was a monk. She had just watched a documentary about the Dalai Lama and was infatuated with Tibetan monks. She was also infatuated with dingoes and whether or not they actually ate the baby.


2. I WAS CALLED IN TO SPEAK WITH MY DAUGHTER'S TEACHER WHO HAD SERIOUS CONCERNS OVER MY DAUGHTER'S FUTURE CAREER CHOICE.

My daughter announced she wanted to be a Fortune Teller when she grew up. This was a grave concern and required the immediate attention of myself, her teacher at the parochial school she attended, as well as the prinicpal of the school, because only God can know the future of one's life and we ought not to fall into Satan's trap by buying into witchcraft and false prophecy. When I turned and asked my daughter why she wanted to be a Fortune Teller she explained that she wanted to wear long flowing skirts and to hear the sounds of bracelets clinking together. She was 8.


3. SOMEWHERE BETWEEN 8 AND 16 MY DAUGHTER TURNED INTO A STEREOTYPICAL TEENAGER.

This meant conversations were strained, riddled with angst and frustration, shadowed with distrust, and completed in tears. Mostly on my end.


4. SHE WILL NEVER CEASE TO AMAZE ME.

It was a risk to take her to the theater. By myself. With no one to help moderate the conversation between us. With no witnesses in the car. I doubted it would end well. I imagined her rolling her eyes. The way my lips would pinch together and my eyes would narrow in direct reaction to her incredibly obvious unappreciation and lack of respect.

As we sat awkwardly side by side, waiting for the show to start, I wondered why I had even bothered. She will hate this. It's a play called Doubt: A Parable written by John Patrick Shanley. There are only four actors in the play. It is simply described as:

It's 1964 at a Catholic school in the Bronx, Sister Aloysius believes that Father Flynn may have engaged in sexual misconduct against Donald, the only black student at the school. Father Flynn angrily denies and wrongdoing.

I doubt she will enjoy this.

I doubt she will appreciate this.

I doubt everything about this night.


And yet, I am wrong.

90 minutes later the lights rise and she looks at me with a look on her face I can't describe. That's it? It just ended? That's not fair! We'll never know what happened - if he really did it or not!

I'm surprised to find out she was listening. Paying attention. Hanging on to words.

I hate cliffhangers, she mumbles as she exits the row.

We fight our way through the crowd.

"STAMPS FOR YOUR TICKETS! IF YOU NEED YOUR TICKET STAMPED, SEE ME!"

Why do you need your ticket stamped? I explain how college kids can earn credit for attending shows. They must watch the show, get their ticket stamped, write a report. I'd like a class like that!

It's cold outside. She's wearing flip-flops. They're cute, but impractical. I swallow the urge to point this out. Instead I ask what she thought of the show.

I liked it. But I can't believe the mom was basically Who Cares? He's gay - just let him graduate. What kind of mother does that?

I think for a minute. She's right. What mother would just "let" their child be abused... just so he can graduate from a respected school? To better his chances at a future? But then... I am a mother. I doubt she'll understand when I say that maybe this is the only way she knows how to protect him. She said the father abuses him. Beats him because he's gay. That if word got out the boy would surely die at the father's hand.

And she thinks for a moment.

Maybe.

It's something. "I don't think it's right, what she did," I explain. "As a mother." And even as I say it, I doubt my conviction. I've been there. Trying to fight for my child. And finding myself surrounded by brick walls all around. I know what that woman feels like. That feeling where you hand it over and do the best you can and just pray that everyone just makes it through.

There's more silence in the car. It's so cold! she says. My feet are freezing! I laugh and point out the flip-flops. But at least they're cute she giggles. Yes, that they are.

We drive.

I really liked that play. It made me think.

About?

Everything. It just always made you think. Like, I don't know for sure if he did it or not. He acted like he did - by leaving, but then, maybe he just left because he couldn't take it anymore and nothing happened.

I don't know what to say because she's said so much. I don't want to come across preachy. Or like a know-it-all. I doubt my words. I doubt the sureness of my voice, so I say nothing.

We're surrounded by silence.

I liked what they said about the pillow -- that gossiping is like opening up a pillow and letting all the feathers fly away in the wind. You can't ever get all those feathers back. You can't ever fix things completely.

I smile in the dark.

I don't doubt her. Who she is. I worry about her. I want the best for her. But I don't doubt who she is: my wise beyond her years child with the sensitive heart and the logical soul.

I do not doubt my love for her.