Nafghans

Amid this wonderful world pandemic, everyone has decided that the hottest commodity to hoard is TOILET PAPER.  I can't fathom why, as the Coronavirus does not induce uncontrollable pooping, but alas, this is the world we live in.

As we are setting the table for dinner, I mention to the family that we should probably use cloth napkins because (God forbid) we may have to resort to wiping with paper napkins if we can't get toilet paper anywhere.  So we used our cloth napkins, and I told everyone to just leave them on the table if they weren't super-dirty, and we could use them at our next meal.  This announcement was met by Sydney's usual dead-pan reaction when she thinks I'm being weird.

A few nights later we decided to go to my Mom's house for dinner so that no one would get murdered in this house.  I made a salad and an appetizer, and as I'm packing it up (as we are leaving), Sydney sarcastically asks, "Should we bring our napkins?"

It was not not a bad question.

I Pledge...

To stooooooop experimenting with my essential oils when using the diffuser.  I'm mostly making this promise to myself, as I am the only one complaining about me doing this (so far).

Aside: Someone in this house often mistakenly calls them "sensual oils" and I'm not going to start correcting THAT.

So I came across several "recipes" for blending your essential oils in a way that complements a) your mood, b) THE OTHER OIL SMELLS, and therefor c) your mental well-being.  When I follow the rules (using my awesome essential oil sampler that I did NOT buy through an MLM distributor, but like a good lazy person: on Amazon) things seem to go well.  People comment positively about the pleasant (and sometimes sensual) smells.

Stuff goes awry, however, when I attempt to translate my awesome cooking skills into cooking up a batch of non-meth-smelling essential oil blends.  Flavors that SOUND like they would go together...do not.  I've made myself very nauseous a few too many times, and probably I'm wasting a lot of this oil.  Mostly my concoctions smell like industrial solvents or very bad tasting children's cough medicine.  I even start off with small amounts!  But invariably I end up putting more stuff in there than could feasibly mesh in any human nose, and it has to be immediately dumped out.  My too-much gene kicks in--I have to learn to control it around these highly erotic oils!

So I Pledge (I have also made this smell, both Lemon and Orange varieties...har har) to just STAHP and stick to my Pinterest recipes and not freelance any more with the oils.

Interestingly, I only keep the Lavender and Ylang Ylang in my room for THAT diffuser (yes, who DOESN'T HAVE TWO DIFFUSERS!?) and nothing seems to really go wrong up there with my limited ingredients.  Or maybe by the time I'm setting up the BEDTIME SMELLS, my too-much gene has already been exhausted and is no longer feeling overly sensual.  Who knows.

Faak

You know that feeling when you realize something about yourself, only to THEN realize that everyone else in your life (of course) knew this about you ages ago?  This phenomenon is constantly occurring in my life, and I don't want to assume that I'M SPECIAL, because we all really know that I am just speshal.

Anyway, apparently everyone in my life thinks that I drink a lot of coffee and love hilarious mugs.  HALF of that is true.  So I now have a collection of very funny (and some R-rated) mugs which I use for all beverages.  It's a nearly-unbreakable cup WITH A HANDLE...what more can you ask for?!!  One with varying puns on the definition of the word "F*ck"?  I'll take 10.  (I seriously may have 10). 

This morning Jack (who drinks more coffee than I ever have in my life) was using one of those irreverent mugs.  I chuckled to myself and went to grab a mug, only to see his own, favorite one (from the dinosaur museum, purchased with his own money) still sitting at the front of the cabinet.  "Jacky," I said, "why didn't you use your awesome dinosaur mug?"

I was thinking that he had just blindly reached in and grabbed something in his too-early-for-children-to-get-up-for-school haze. 

Oh, speshal Lauren, won't you ever fathom how sweet and amazing that kid is?

He told me, "I know you love mugs, and I know that you love that mug, so I saved it for you."  HE SAVED HIS MUG FOR ME. 

It is true, I do love it, it has this weird, rubbery-velvety outside coating that is really fun to touch (and hey, if I'm anything, it's a toucher), and the little handle is curved kind of diagonally, you know, the way fingers fit in a handle, so it's easy to hold and, I do really love it (as I am now realizing).   That little chucker must have noticed how often I used it later in the day, after coffee time was over, and I needed iced tea (in a mug)...if it was still available, I would chose it.  It reminds me of him so much, among the other ridiculous things that I mentioned, and it makes me happy to use it...and he recognized that. 

The world does not deserve this SPECIAL kid.

Goodbye Bamas!

Since Jack has been tracked out for several weeks and is now man-sized (well, slenderman-sized), my dad has taken him along on a few jobs, teaching Jack some things and getting him out of my hair.  (His burgeoning teen-humor and video game addiction is like velcro to my hair.)

On the morning in question it was particularly cold outside, and my dad arrived to scoop Jack on his way to the job site, shivering.  Jack was (of course) not ready, or dressed to go.  I explained to Jack that he probably needed to wear layers.

"Yeah, I know how clothes work," he remarked, in a turdish manner, as he scrambled up the stairs.

I raised one eyebrow and turned to look at my dad with a pained look, only to find his face filled with utter glee.

"Heehee," he said.

A minute later Jack came thumping back down, wearing pants, a t-shirt, and holding a light jacket.  Dad and I both stared at him. 

"Where are the layers?" I asked.

"They weren't working for me," he said.

I'll let you imagine how the rest of that interaction went.  In the end, he left the house appropriately bundled.  I overheard my father whisper to him, as they walked down the driveway, "Don't worry, you can take that all off in the truck."

It amazes me how it is human instinct to resist mothering, even in retirement.

"GOODBYE!" I yelled, "AND GOOD LUCK!" (With only a hint of sarcasm.)

My Belly Means I Love You!

We recently engaged the services of a dog trainer, as LuLu needed some instruction. (And apparently Dan a little bit too.)  To our credit, the trainer only recommended four sessions for Lu (and Co.), so we excitedly commenced with training.

As you can imagine, it was both hilarious and enlightening, as we learned what pitfalls “we” had been encouraging, and also how to harness this dog’s ridiculous drive to please.  Even the trainer was impressed with how fast she learned (um, that girl likes her treats), and some of the new commands only took a day to teach.  

One of the things he explained to us was that when she would flop over and show us her belly mid-way through a lesson, it was her way of derailing instruction and focus by saying, “let’s just stop all of this noise this BECAUSE I LOOOOOOOOVE YOU.”

Hmmm, seems to me that someone else that I know uses this tactic.

A bun up top

After I shower I twist my hair into a high bun to let my frizz-prone spots dry a little (hopefully) straight, and then I eventually do...something...with it.  I never really gave it much thought before Sydney came around.

Sydney has SO MUCH HAIR.  So much gorgeous, shiny, Pantene-commercial-dont’t-hate-me-because-I’m-beautiful hair.  It’s brown with streaks of gold and copper and just enough silky wave to be disgustingly ideal.  She doesn’t like to wear it in a pony tail or up, but insists on keeping it down, hanging around her tiny face like a warm shroud with just her giant, aqua eyes peeping out.

When she washes it, after having it swinging around during her normal 9-year old life (trampolines, blanket forts, various goofy hats, GUM, sweaty races down the street, and never-ending costumed skits), it is often an insurmountable collection of knots and teased bits.  Combing it out has become a ritual involving patience and loads of detangling spray, but she only trusts me to do it.  Over the years we’ve had frustrated arguments mid-tangle, and have tried all of the conditioners, wet brushes, tears, and methods.  Finally, we have a system where she can calmly sit in front of me as I slowly start at the bottom of her long locks and gently unravel the knots of her busy life.  She no longer fusses at me, and I no longer lose patience, and over the course of 10 minutes, I have cajoled her tresses into order.  It is one of my favorite rituals with her, and after I am finished, she always requests “a bun up top like you wear.”  I’ll twist all of that clean, sweet-smelling, beautiful hair into a giant top-knot on the crown of her tiny head, and she looks like a prima ballerina, ready to take the stage.  It will maybe last through the night, and in the morning it’s back down, swirling and ready to tangle the world, just like she is. Man, I love that kid.

What is REAL?

The spirit never ages...

(This is one of my more grumpily written lists.)

HOW I KNOW THAT I'M GETTING OLD... (or more "growned-up")

• I actually choose to eat soup (sometimes)
• I like watching birds and critters in my backyard, and may film them from time to time and then possibly force people to watch the videos
• My question for every ailment starts with "have you pooped today?" 
• My solution for every ailment, short of first aid, is hot tea (as a base...)
• I know which foods will give me gas
• At times I actually catch myself trying to avoid those foods
• The heating pad that never gets unplugged near my bed (and that I take on vacation)
• I trim other people's nails on an unsolicited basis (although never a stranger's...yet)
• I no longer like candy (but I sure still do love cookies!)
• Dan and I have those, "What is the word that means, you know...it starts with an 'a'?" conversations more often. i.e.,
• "...that show that you like, you know 'Under the Boat'?" 
• "...that place that is like...an Emergency Room-Lite, you know?  WAIT, if you know don't tell me, I want to figure it out on my own."
• "...that baseball player who's nickname was about a meal...you know, like 'Big Dinner,' but not Trudy"
• "...that guy who is not Lou Ferrigno but looks like him and is also a wrestler"
• I always know what the weather prediction for the day is, and not only do I verbally broadcast it myself to people WHO HAVE NOT ASKED, I also check maybe more than once a day to see if I was indeed disseminating correct info.  (I totally apologize when my weather report ends up being inaccurate.)
• Don't even get my started on lightning maps (future post)
• I laugh at myself instead of getting embarrassed (Oh, how I wish I could go back and teach younger-Lauren this trick...and it's not like she didn't have pllllllllenty of opportunities to practice.  I would say that I can instead teach Sydney, but she pretty much taught me, so thanks, younger-Lauren, for having such a rad kid!  You're welcome, CURRENT SELF WHO OVERSHARES!)

Swearage

Now that video games have become an integral part of everyone in this family's daily life (mine by default), there is a heightened level of supervision that I maintain to a) ensure that in-game communications are not unhealthy or gross, b) no one is being harassed (or being a harasser), and c) that I can marvel and laugh at the language shortcuts that these kids use.  Sydney is especially well versed in acronyms, to my delight.

Jack plays a lot of games with friends in the same room, so I overhear the mostly friendly pre-teen trash talk, which is in of itself nothing short of hilarious.  Sometimes, with his older friend, Dan and I hear some swearing, which is nipped in the bud...but not without my giggles.

Outside of these situations, I really don't have to correct them about using undesirable language, but occasionally it does happen, and I've chosen to let it go when it is genuinely merited.  After all, Dan could not be considered PG by any stretch of the imagination, so they understand when it's appropriate to swear.

Cut to the other night, when I noticed from downstairs that Sydney's light was still on in her room, despite it being past her bedtime.  I called up to her, asking why it was still on, and she responded that she was "getting situated for bedtime." 

A few minutes later I saw that it was still on, so I called up again, and told her that she definitely needed to turn the light OFF.  She did, and after a minute I heard her mutter to herself, "Great, now I can't see SHIT."

I ran around the corner to regale Dan with how well his teachings were taking hold.  Now whenever we turn off the lights for bed, one of us will observe that now, we cannot indeed see SHIT.

I wish I could permanently turn the lights off in the play room.

Mouth of the South

The best part about having kids is laughing at the stuff they come up with.  I love the mispronunciations most because I still to-this-day have problems with it.  I will correct grammar, I will correct behavior, but the nuances of pronunciation?  NEVER.

• Tangerine=tambourine
• Wardrobe=bathrobe
• Bathetism=baptism
• Yogrit=yogurt
• Hubbo=HBO

CV

Seriously considering updating my resume to read "Professional Frisbee Thrower."

This dog is indefatigable.

In the Ghettoblaster

Jack often messages me, using google chat, either from his computer in his room or from his tablet when he's at school.

His messages are endlessly hilarious and usually start with, "Mom, this is Jack" end with "I love you."

He is also an avid peruser of amazon.com and will send me links to things that he is thinking of buying with his own money which I keep for him in the Bank of Mom.  The latest is a battery powered pocket radio, because he "really enjoys listening to different things on the radio."  It's funny how even though you know someone extremely well, they still surprise you.  For instance, I know that Jack will probably:

• lose this small radio
• take it to school and have it confiscated or stolen
• drop it and break it
• use it around the house and drive various people bonkers (but it's better than whistling!)

Despite my parental reservations, I still bought him the damn radio because that kid is the best that a mom could hope for.  Also we have Amazon Prime.

Hoffice

Working from home is one of those things that sounds amazing, and then when you do it for awhile, it loses a lot of its sparkle.  Like eating brownie batter...as a kid I fantasized about being able to sit and eat the whole bowl of raw, gooey batter.  I couldn't WAIT to be a "grown-up" and do it.  And when I was finally financially independent enough to have both transportation to the store, access to a stove, and zero supervision, I did just that.  I didn't even make it halfway through the bowl before the regret set in.  See, in my greedy zeal to accomplish this lifelong goal, I had destroyed what was inherently beautiful about it: you really only need a spoonful, and only every once and awhile.  Too much brownie batter makes you start to hate brownie batter (and yourself).

Working from home is best done SOMETIMES, in moderation.  I have been doing it for the past 10 years.  I'm actually pretty impressed with myself that I have been able to maintain...

1. sanity
2. a relative amount of hygiene
3. the ability to spell hygiene correctly on the first try
4. employment
5. relationships with other humans

It's hard to make yourself get into the shower (and pants) when you KNOW that you aren't going to have to see or talk to anyone but the dog (who is also un-bathed and pants-less) pretty much for the next 8 hours.  Unless the FedEx guy comes.  And he's used to my work-from home uniform.

(HUGE ASIDE: Along the lines of taking something I love and over-doing it until I reach the highest levels of self-loathing, is my commitment to my uniform.  The uniform has changed over the years, but I have a habit of finding something that I love to wear and doing just that, but almost everyday.  In high school my friends teased me about this constantly, but I refused to change, literally, and they just came to accept it.  It was so predictable, in fact, that they made me a get-well card after I got my wisdom teeth removed, and on the front was a very accurate caricature of me, wearing my "uniform."  I still have most of it actually, and I still love it.)

Anyway, this post is starting to sound contrary to point number 1 above, so I'll get to my point.  Working from home can get really, REALLY boring.  Not only are you doing a job which requires several things that are difficult to do (sit still, IN THE SAME SEAT, FOR HOURS, focus, and not talk to everyone instead of actually doing your job), but I have to do it alone!  This part is actually the crux of why I am good at working from home, there is no one to annoy or distract except myself and the dog, and she hasn't cracked yet.

When your world is this tiny each day, you have to find things that make it seem moderately exciting so that you don't go insane.  My "office" is a room on the front of the house so that I can focus my nosiness on the cul-du-sac that I live on.  I know everyone's schedule and I play this game with myself where I guess whose car is coming down the street based on the sound.  YES, you read that right.  This is a sure sign that I am spending way too much time alone with a dog.

There are other games and challenges that I give myself to keep things interesting, this is just the one that I caught myself doing today.  SEE HOW EXCITING MY DAYS ARE?

It's like Chocolate

I don't really care for it, unless it's bittersweet.

Watching kids grow up is excruciatingly slow sometimes, and hurricane-level speed in the next moment.  I've always heard this, but now that I'm experiencing it, I may have to call FEMA. 

Sydney just turned 8.  It's a tiny number.  She's in second grade, and in my memory, being in second grade reminds me of feeling little.  However, it seems like all of a sudden Sydney is not little, but a very small, very bossy, capable woman, and not a little girl anymore.  My usual hyperbole aside, I search her face for the baby that I grew inside of me every single day.  It's so confusing to feel sad that she's growing into such a healthy (and tall) girl.  I cannot reconcile this sense of...grief, I suppose, that I have such a wonderful child, but at the expense of my wonderful baby.  This makes zero sense to my head, and in the words of M'Lynn Eatenton, "I just wish someone would explain it to my heart!"

I feel this way about both children, and then I go on this self-harassing mental tirade, cursing myself for not taking a picture of their little faces EVERY SINGLE DAY so I could somehow assimilate that into a tangible change, so I wouldn't feel like I was losing someone.  Now, don't get me wrong, I take pictures and videos of these idiots (human and canine) constantly, but it feels like not enough.

Wait a minute.

Is this what getting old feels like?!?  Because if anything can make me feel old, it's these children.

Is that what I'm feeling??

Maybe the sadness is really just feeling bummed that I can't rewind and do it all over again, not because I would change a SINGLE thing, but because it is such an awesome, thrilling, joyful ride (peppered with screams and terror).

Do you get existentially wise in your old age?  Because this must be what is happening.  Wisdom...it's a new sensation.  And somewhat tiring to possess, I'm finding.  Look!  There it is again!  More wisdom!  (Note to self: re-read this post when you spend 10 minutes looking for shoes that you are already wearing. Wisdom! Ha!)

Anyway, my best friend is approaching the due date of her first-born, a boy, near the end of the month.  I've restrained from dumping all of these thoughts on her, because she probably knows all of these things already (she's very wise).  As a new parent I gobbled up any information I could find on parenting, babies, development, and eagerly awaited each new stage, equipped with my comfortable knowledge.  The thing that was missing in all of those books and articles and blogs was how heart-breakingly WONDERFUL, and agonizingly beautiful it is to survive all of those stages and have an independent and incredible little person in your life.  There is no preparing your heart for that, and I'm sure that I will continue to feel this way for the rest of my life.

One negative side-effect is that I can barely watch one of my favorite movies, Steel Magnolias, anymore because it all hits so close to home now that I have my own precious Sydney-Shelby.

Shelby: You know what you need in here, Truvy. You need a radio. Music is a wonderful thing to have in the background and it takes the pressure off of people who feel they
[looks at M'lynn]
Shelby: *have to talk so much.*
Truvy: I used to have one, but I slammed it against the wall when I couldn't figure where the batteries went. I know now that I was suffering from pre-menstruatal syndrome.

I think I'm gonna like it here!

Doo Log, 1/5/2017

They keep telling me this, and I'm now starting to believe it...I think that I may actually be pretty amazing.  I've discovered lots of hidden talents while living this place; they're sure to find me irreplaceable soon enough.  Who else could do these things but me??

For instance, I am the only one around here who...

• checks in between the couch cushions every day for stowaway rodents
• kills any and all cotton balls before they have a chance to grow into storm clouds
• wins at eating dinner (I can finish in under 10 seconds)
• digs holes in the yard to check for moles
• fluffs the carpet with my paws and body
• checks all of the trash cans in the house for squirrels
• supervises toilet use to prevent accidental drownings
• prepares for the apocalypse by stashing bones and rawhides all over the backyard
• kills and eats flies who dare invade our home
• wakes everyone each morning with warm smooches (even if this is not their preferred method of being awoken, I do know best, after all...I'm ME)
• can do a somersault on the couch and not fall off, and can also do one AND fall off
• has a tongue that, when I yawn (I win at that too), looks like one of those party favor whistles that unroll when you blow in them

Ahh, it feels good to be in an environment where my expanding list of talents can really flourish. Now if I can manage to get them on-board with my human-leash idea, we may even start making some cash!

Fruitbat

Doo Log, stardate 12/12/2016:

This is a strange place.  Everyone keeps looking at me, and smiling.  Is there something on my face?  I want to be alone but I want to be with these weirdos at the same time.  I am very conflicted.

There are a few things that I think I will like here though.  The one who sings all of the time gave me a treat.  I liked that.  Then she gave me some ham.  I liked that too.  When she offered me another treat, I politely declined.  The ham was way better.

The two baby humans seem to drop food all over the place, which is amazing.  I will show them what a good helper I can be when it comes to cleaning up! 

Everyone here seems to think that I'm pretty funny, which I think I might like too.  I tried doing some silly flips on the couch this morning and tossed a rawhide around, and that was pretty funny.  I made my own tail wag!

I think that they might catch on that I am much younger than they originally thought...I cannot pass as "mature," but that seems to be pretty common around here. 

How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee; in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.  In 525,600 minutes, how do you measure a year in life?  How about love?  How about love?  How about love?  Measure in love.  Seasons of love.

Man, 2016 has been a doozy.  You can really tell, because I'm using old-fashioned, fuddy-duddy terms like "doozy" and "fuddy-duddy."  I guess that I, along with most of America, need to get a grip on a new reality. This was a tough year: we lost a lot, learned a lot, and talked a lot. (Seeing RENT again was very cathartic.)

In order to bolster a much-needed, happy new year, we have decided to add someone to our family this Christmas--instead of saying goodbye again, we're saying hello.  Hello LuLu. Welcome home to start the loud, fun, and often-times ridiculous process of going full Tark.

I haven't managed to get a good picture of her yet (you'll understand why after reading more), but LuLu is a whippet mix (maybe pit-bull or hound?) who approximately 8 months old and 20 lbs. She too did not have a great 2016, and I can't even wrap my mind around what must have gone on in her short past. We adopted her today from the AMAZING organization Carolina Adopt-a-BULLS, a group of people whose dedication and endless generosity of spirit was as inspiring as this heart-meltingly adorable, four-legged survivor. When I reached out to set up a meeting so that we could meet the dog, they got her here all of the way from Charlotte just in case it was love at first sight (and it was).

We aren't sure what happened to LuLu in the first part of her life, but she spent the bulk of it in various shelters, shuffled around and scared.  Most of what I know about her so far is that she is very worried about her future, and pretty scared of everything in general.  The foster mom (who unworriedly peeled LuLu off of the floor of her backseat at the hand-off and plopped her into my car) assured me that this dog is putting on a shy facade, and described her has an "affectionate nut" (so she meets the requirements for Tarkhood).

The drive home was uneventful, and quiet.  Upon arriving at home, I turned off the car and peeked into the backseat...LuLu was in the foot well with her tiny head crammed under the passenger seat, hiding.  She did not seem to care that we were parked, and in the garage.  She did not care that I was softly calling her name.  She didn't move a muscle...she needed to not be seen.

Completely understanding that emotion (which usually happened to me when I had an unruly child in tow), I figured the best first thing for me to give her would be what she wanted: to be hidden.  So I closed the garage door, left the car door open, and the door to the house open, and went about my business (which was doodling around, making conversation with myself, and working, i.e., a typical day of my life).  After 10 minutes she hadn't budged.  So I cut up some pot roast leftovers and took them in to the garage.  I offered her one.  She peeked out with one eye and re-hid with gusto.  I left a nugget of greasy beef on the backseat (a huge act of love in my brand-new car!), and made a meat-crumb trail back into the house. After another 10 minutes I heard the tiny clicks of puppy toes on the garage floor.  I waited, and still no dog.

Upon investigating, she had hopped out of the car, scarfed up most of the beef-trail, and clambered right back in, this time, into the front seat.  Ahhh, progress! I thought to myself.  Having run out of beef, I found a link sausage from Sunday's brunch and cut that into pieces.  I opened the driver's door and shut the back door and then leaned in and offered her a piece.  She looked at me, and slowly leaned over and pecked it out of my had.  I plopped another piece on the driver's seat, and made another trail, this time leading further into the house.

I busied myself for another 10 minutes when I finally heard the joyous sound of puppy feet on the hardwood floor.  We had accomplished a lot in 30 minutes!  I felt encouraged.  I opened the back door and resumed my mindless chattering and singing, tidying and working at my desk.  She availed herself of the backyard, and ran back inside, and then out and in again, testing.  I ignored it. She would scurry around the house, tentatively peeking around corners to keep one eye on me, and then scooting away if we made eye-contact.  At least now she was naked in the house.

Finally, after another 30 minutes of being allowed to be incognito, she decided that she would investigate my office (where I spend most of my day, and where I have set up a crate for her).  There was lots of loud sniffing, which I tried to not giggle at, and then she squeezed past me to settle under my desk, near my warm computer, where my sweet Stanley loved to nap.  I found myself getting a little misty-eyed about all of the changes that have happened this year, when I heard a rustle of furry limbs, and felt a warm, quick doggy kiss on my knee.  Our first physical contact, and I got all of the way to first base!!  I'd say this inning is off to a good start.

About as fun as gum in my hair...

There's so many ways this story could begin, and just typing this I thought of even more background information, but I don't want to overwhelm anyone with the dangerous levels of ridiculous in this house.

So, Sydney loves gum.  The evidence of this can be found in many indiscreet places: a seat-belt buckle in my car, hanks of hair that had to be cut off her head, the sidewalk in front of our house, the leg of her night stand...I could go on.  Until last night.

She is taking a shower and insists that I be in there with her because someone convinced her that there is a "shower ghost."  Apparently I am the only one capable of scaring it off.  So as she's showering (and singing Tove Lo, also super-appropriate for a 6-yr old), I am tidying up their frat-house of a bathroom.  As I'm putting things back in cabinets, I pick up a large, half-full bottle of mouthwash, only to find not one, but TWO wads of chewed gum FLOATING IN THE MOUTHWASH.

"Sydney!" I exclaimed.

She peeks her head out from behind the shower curtain, demonstrably chomping on a wad of gum.

"Syd...I don't even, why would, ugh....I'll be right back."

So I stomped off to find a trash can (their trash can became a meta trash can last weekend, an entirely different, although no less ridiculous, debacle).  Jack and a friend are playing video games as I barge by, both chewing gum. I gave them the stink eye.

"WHAT!" they asked.

"Sydney is hereby banned from gum.  Do not give that child any gum, no matter WHAT she tells you."

They giggle.

After Syd is dried off, lotioned, brushed, and dressed, I make her spit her gum out and tell her, in my most serious voice (yes, there is ONE), that she is on a gum hiatus.

"'Till when!?" she asks, about to get grumpy.

I blurt out, "For awhile.  We can re-evaluate on your birthday."  Which is in about 7 weeks.

"Ooooooo!" she hoots excitedly, "is that because you're giving me a giant gum present for my birthday!?"

Yeah, I think to myself.  A bottle of mouthwash with chewed up gum in it.

Life is a Beach

It's funny the things that you realize about your childhood only after having kids.  And by funny things, I mean realizing that kids are self-centered assholes. So the a big focus of my parenting has been to find and encourage patience and thoughtfulness.  In myself.  Most of the time I can see it.  

Growing up my parents made it a priority to take us to the beach for one week each summer.  We typically went with my father's entire family, including cousins and grandparents.  It was the HIGHLIGHT of my life until I turned 15. (Then driving ANYWHERE became the highlight of my life).

In preparation for the glorious week of sun and sand and squealing, each summer, as the date neared, our small dining room would turn into the staging ground for the things-that-only-happen-at-the-beach: cases of soda, candy bars, bags of chips, those miniature boxes of cereal that come in a variety pack, the list goes on.  All things that were not bought the other 51 weeks of the year.  

As the piles of bacchanalian supplies grew, so did the anticipation and excitement to GET TO THE BEACH.  I had trouble sleeping.  I was not allowed to wear any clothes that were going to be packed.  Everything was organized and prepped and ready to go and it was painfully, ecstatically, dangling in my future.  I dreamed of the boardwalk, the waves, a week with so much adult attention, and all of the food!!!  

Needless to say it was always amazing, the week always flew by, and I accumulated so many happy memories; enough to provide a lifetime of smiles and eager summer months.  So now, as a grown adult, when I take my children to the beach, it is those memories that sustain me.  

They sustain me through:

• Combing through listings of 47,129 beach house listings for ones that are a) close to the beach, b) not gross, c) allow dogs, d) have enough beds, e) are not hideously expensive, and and f) available the actual week we manage to all be off of whatever we're usually on (work, school, black tar heroin, etc.)
• Buying all of the items for the dining room stockpile o' junk
• Lists
• More lists
• Washing all of the clothes
• Realizing no one's bathing suit fits from last year and doing more shopping
• Answering 5 million questions about exactly when we are going to the beach (these kids need a calendar)
• Staging and packing all of the clothes
• Getting yelled at that there are no clean clothes because they're all packed (sure, you only have 7 outfits to your name...mmmhmmm)
• Cramming, carrying, folding, and tetris-ing all of the things into the back of the car.
• Doing all of that without losing my temper (HAHAHAHA)
• Making it to the beach without choking anyone who asks how much longer until we get there
• Unpacking everyone
• Making beds
• Telling small people, that you do in fact realize that the ocean is RIGHT THERE, however you're still busy unloading the car and cannot escort right this second
• Braving the grocery store for the 19 items that you still need and ice
• Hating the grocery store for the 19 lines of 5 customers each waiting to check out
• Hating yourself for hating the grocery store
• Unpacking all of the groceries and then answering 500 questions about where the snacks are

Overheard

Now that the kids are older (ish), they can get themselves up on a Saturday and fix a modest breakfast.  So on the weekends, Dan and I typically sleep in.  For me that means 9:30am, for Dan...well, let's just say he has the whole hibernation thing down.

I came down the stairs one Saturday morning to find Sydney playing in the sunroom (her "classroom") and Jack on the couch watching cartoons.  As I am nearing the bottom of the steps, she calls to him politely, "Jacky, can you please help me with something?"

"Sure Syd, what is it?" he asks as he walks into the sunroom.

I stop, and hover on the stairs, not sure I'm fully awake.

"I can't open this marker" she complained.

"Oh, here, let me try...there you go!"  He turns to leave. I continue to eavesdrop.

"Thank you Jack!" She hollers at his back.

"You're welcome Syd."

"I love you Jack!!"  Even louder.

Patient but weary, Jack says over his shoulder, "I love you too Syd."

Never one to be satisfied, she calls loudly, "Can I have a hug too?  Just a real quick one."

"OK," Jack mutters as he turns and plods back into the sunroom.

One quick squeeze and it's over, he's back on the couch, she's back to bossing around imaginary students.  A fleeting moment of brotherly-sisterly love that brought me to tears.  Then the tears continued when I saw the mess in the kitchen.

Gotta love them.