So the library had

'Truck Day' today, fire trucks, construction vehicles, school buses, all sorts of cool things. I thought for sure Alex would dig it, since he is crazy about vehicles of all kinds.
He didn't.
He didn't mind looking at the trucks from afar, but as soon as I tried to put him near one, or God forbid in one, he lost his mind. A fireman spoke to him, and you would have thought he had been approached by the grim reaper. It's embarassing when a nice man is trying to give your child a cool shiny gold sticker shaped like a badge, and your child screams and tries to climb over your shoulder and run away.
It was very disappointing for me (cause everything is really about me, when you get right down to it). I was looking forward to this all week (yes, my life is fairly empty - it's been raining a lot) and Alex might as well have been at the Dr.s office getting shots. I think this must be Karmic (is that a word) payback, since I have a pretty good idea that I was exactly the same way when I was little, and I am sure my mum must have left many events feeling gypped.
I remember the story of trying to put me in dancing lessons, and I just stood in the corner and cried until she took pity on me.
Field Hockey - I clung to the chain link fence and screamed 'don't leave me here!' - I was like 9 at that point.
Anything new or different, and I spazzed - so I guess I can take credit for this part of Alex's personality. Not that Glenn was an outgoing daring child, I think he was pretty much the same way. We'll be lucky if Alex doesn't grow up to live in a bunker in remote Montana, wearing a tin-foil hat and kleenex box shoes. Poor kid -

Good lord.

I can't describe how pleased I am that there is an X-Files marathon on today.
This morning I was thinking about my upcoming day and what I needed to get done, and it all involved cleaning and I said to myself 'it would be cool if there was an X-Files marathon on today that I could watch while I was cleaning' and lo and behold, there is. Seriously, I had that conversation with myself. It's small things like this that make me happy.
Also, I talk to myself probably more than is healthy.
Anyway... it's nice to take joy from little things, to appreciate and notice when you have a positive response to something. To think about what you are happy about, instead of what is pissing you off. I'm going to do more of this, and less of that I think - it's good to be alive and healthy.
Luke Wilson is in this one, I'm digging it.

Oh shit.

I gave my son the WORST. HAIRCUT. EVER.

Sorry monkey - mummy really isn't trying to make you look like Elmo, I promise. It just turned out that way.

Working parents

As a SAHM, I really appreciate you. I bitch a lot about how bored I am or other trivial issues that plague my stay at home days, but I don't have to leave the house and go to work everyday like you do. I don't have the stress of knowing that if I don't work so many hours, my family won't be able to eat. I don't have to agree with people that annoy me (mostly) or sit in an uncomfortable chair all day or wait until __ to eat or stand at a bus stop or train station or sit in traffic or drink shitty office coffee. All of those things you do to provide for your families is really wonderful - not to mention that you come home from work, and work some more - because you never stop being a parent, regardless of where or how you spend your days.
I know many working parents that are simply happier people having professional and outside interaction, and made the choice to work accordingly - but the stress must be incredible at times, trying to stretch yourselves all over the place, whether you are working by choice or neccessity.
So while I complain about the things I complain about, I understand that my husband has a lot to complain about too, and I appreciate him so much. How hard, to leave your baby every day and go to work with people you may not like or respect. And it's not about leaving your baby with a daycare provider or a spouse or family member - you're still leaving, you're missing things, and that must be hard.
Although on some days it must be really nice too - I say this as Alex is throwing himself on the floor and kicking his feet b/c his book fell off the coffee table. In other words, for no reason...

Daddy

Mondays are boring. Actually, so are all the other days of the week - but Monday is especially painful. The house seems empty, lonely without Daddy - it feels like we're all waiting for something to happen. (pretty sure it's the 5:24 train) Scout sort of lurks around, Alex grabs the phone and hands it to me constantly and runs to the stairs, wondering if Daddy is up there.
It just seems quieter in here - Glenn isn't a particularly noisy person, but he has a presence that we all sort of revolve around. If he isn't sitting here next to me he's in the other room singing some nonsensical song in one of his creepy voices, or puttering here and there doing some Glenn-thing. Of course it is also a lot neater when Glenn is at work, which is one good thing - he generates a lot of mess I've found. Just about as much as Alex. The two of them pull out thier 'toys' as they go, flitting from interest to interest and leaving the piles behind them.
So, we'll call Daddy every now and again today see how he's doing at work - and what a good man, a good provider he is, to work so long and so hard for us. We are very lucky - we love Daddy.

La da deeeee la da daaaa

we went to my parent's house today, an unplanned trip - Alex was bored and dog-torturing by 10:15 (not even Elmo's drunk friend Telly was an acceptable diversion) so in the car we went to York. I love going to my parent's house. I have been wanting to move back home since about 2 weeks after I moved out, which was right about when my parents realized that and moved 2 hours away from me - I think they realized that chances of me ever leaving the nest were slim, so they'd take the decision out of my hands. Anyway, we went to the beach there, Alex had a blast - he didn't nap at all, so his fun was of the frantic, edge-of-control variety. Anyway, the beach and it's frequenters never cease to amaze me. On the one hand I wonder what in God's name some of these people were thinking - or why they weren't thinking at all, apparently - when they decided to strip down to small bits of nylon and spandex, and on the other hand I am happy for them that they are comfortable enough to say 'fuck you all, look at my rolls or look somewhere else'. That's cool, good for you - but there has to be some bit of decency, some small little part of your common sense that is whispering 'hey - hey!! Check out the rear-view before you do this!' It was actually quite amusing. I also wonder where everyone has been hiding so that they haven't heard of this phenomena called skin cancer - I saw a lady that was so tan she was purple, for real - purple.
I of course kept my shorts and tank top on (I was with my dad, after all, can't be parading around in a bikini - icky) and judged people, something of a hobby of mine. But man, if you're putting yourself out there in 6 pieces of string and 4 patches of fabric, expect to be judged.
So there.

Alex is toying with me.

I KNOW he's hungry, he keeps making the 'more' sign and running into the kitchen and climbing up onto his chair. But he will not eat his cereal, he took two bites and then pushed it away. It is infuriating. And I'm not making him anything else, he needs to just start cooperating at mealtimes. I can't afford to make him 3 different meals in the hopes that he'll like one of them - GO HUNGRY!! GRRRRRRRR!!!!

My Medicine Box

I like to be prepared. I like knowing I have all sorts of remedies. I have a big shoe box - not one that a pair of sandals or something came in, but a running shoe box - full of medicines.
I have vitamins, I have decongestants. I have dramamine, tylenol, aleve, ibuprofin. I have 3 different kinds of pills that will help you sleep. I have heartburn relief. I have at any given moment no less than 3 bottles of infant's motrin, and at least two bottles of infant tylenol. And children's benadryl, even though it's now akin to baby heroin apparently. (I just like knowing it's there) I have homeopathic remedies, and drops, and powders and sprays and sucky-things. I have 3 thermometers - one ear, one traditional, one rectal - teething drops, expectorants, I think I even have some prenatal vitamins left in there.
This isn't my first aid box you understand - that one is bigger. This is merely a box of happiness, a box of peace of mind.
I hope everyone has a box. (tee hee hee - but seriously.)

Have you ever encountered a crazy old lady?

Like, for-realsies crazy, not fun quirky eccentric crazy but scary malfunctioning-cyborg crazy?
I have. I used to live next door to one. Not just next door like the next house, but like we shared a wall next door. She was awful. Her name was Priscilla, and she had a Jack Russell Terrier named Irwin. I have never hated an elderly person, or an animal, like I hated those two. And at first it made me feel guilty. But then I got over that. This bitch was so crazy and just mean to the core that we actually called the police on her - can you imagine, calling the police on a little old lady? What I really wanted to do was punch her in the face, so I guess it was the better decision on our part. She would stand outside her door and scream obscenities at nobody. She would knock on everyone's door at all hours and just harass the shit out of them for no reason.
One time - get this, this is funny - some new people moved in across the way. They went out, and didn't lock thier door. She let herself into thier apartment, moved thier fucking furniture around, and left a note on thier stereo telling them what number the volume should be at.
She would leave her stupid little mean shit dog outside in his pen for hours and hours - and if you've ever heard a Jack Russell bark, you can imagine that misery up close and personal for 3 or 4 or 5 hours at a time. She would slam her door shut over and over and over again at 2 in the morning, so hard the building shook. She was obsessed with hating the maintenance dude, who seemed like a perfectly nice guy. Anything or anyone she was angry at, she'd call it 'Cushman' (his last name) for instance: 'Goddamned Cushman door!!' she'd scream, when she couldn't get her screen door to shut right. Or 'Goddamned Cushman car!!' when somebody parked imaginarily close to her car.
I find, generally, that hating is a waste of energy. But I hated her. She made me have panic attacks towards the end... what an awful woman. She smelled funny too.

Damn train whistle

The train tracks are across the street and behind those houses at the bottom of a hill. (we literally live on the wrong side of the tracks) At first it was cool hearing the train, Alex would make his choo-choo noise and once or twice a day we'd walk down to the end of the street to watch the train go by, and we always walk down to the train stop to meet daddy's train at 5:30 every night. So at first living near the train was fun - it is far enough away so as not to be scary, and close enough to be a good distraction for a cranky toddler.
The bloom has worn off that rose, let me tell you. Something has changed over the last week so that those asshole train drivers (conductors? whatever) are blowing the shit out of thier horns, like through the entire center of town, starting at 5:30am and going right through to 11 at night. I hate the fucking train now. I just can't add another source of white noise to my sleeping environment, or my husband will start sleeping on the couch (he doesn't like the 2 fans and AC - sorry man, gots to have 'em). My son's room sounds like a raging inferno I have his white noise machine up so loud just to drown out those sons of bitches and thier heavy horn hand.
So I filled out a complaint form, I wonder if it'll do any good. Seriously, it's terrible. I don't know how the people on the other side of the street deal with it - I'd be throwing eggs and dirty diapers and paint-filled balloons at the train if it were going through my backyard, being a loud stupid whistley assface.
I hate noise. I was hoping now that we live in the sticks it'd be nice and quiet here... nope.
At least we don't still live next to the crazy old lady.
Oh man - new blog. Crazy old lady. She was a piece of work.

Dear Coffee,

I just wanted to let you know that I love you. You are always there for me, sweet and dark and awake. You help me handle a very alert little person when I am stumbling around with eye boogers intact and sense of humor still slumbering upstairs with it's head under the pillows.
You gurgle cheerfully as you are being born, you steam invitingly when transitioning from the pot to the cup, you look that perfect shade of beige after I add cream and sugar to you (although you aren't as sweet and tasty with just milk, I'm afraid, one thing you need to work on). After a few sips I find myself once again capable of speech, sometimes able to string even 5 or 6 words together at a time maybe even occasionally cracking a weak joke. I don't know what I would do without you in my life Coffee - sometimes when I'm not paying attention I run out of you, and then I have to make do with some other form of caffeine and I just want you to know that I never ever stop thinking of you.

I am having trouble breaking into the

mommy club around here. Mothers are hard to meet. For me it's harder to make friends with a mother than it was to ask a guy out on a date. Sweaty palms, fluttering heart, inappropriate comments coming out of my mouth - all signs of nervousness. But I gotta do it.
Do any of my friends want to hear about Alex's latest tooth, or give me advice about how to handle eating problems? Nope, not at all. And do I really want to hear about the latest drunken escapades? No, not really - it's hard hanging on to friends when you have moved into a different place emotionally. Not to mention that now that I live in Ipswich I might as well live in Kansas for the amount of visits I get from friends - not that I was ever Ms. Popularity, now that I think about it. Oh, I get the obligatory once a week phone call that usually occurs as I am putting Alex down for a nap so I don't get to the phone, and then I can hear 'you never answer your phone' - right. Cause it is ringing off the hook, folks.
How deep are my friendships? When you tell a friend about something scary that is happening in your life, don't you expect them to check back in with you, find out how you are doing? That is what I would think, anyway. When I was part of an online mother's forum, those ladies that I had never met in person knew more about me and my life than friends that I have had for 10 years.
So I guess when you get married and have a kid, you really begin to understand the levels of friendship that were not apparent before. There are people who are truly interested whether or not they can relate personally, those who pretend to be interested but at least make the effort to pretend, and those that pretend that nothing's changed.
Don't get me wrong, I know we're all busy, working, going out, whatever - but a true friend takes the time to follow up. This could also be said to me - but I really only give what I get these days. And I suppose that isn't much in either direction.
Whatever - I'm lonely, and I have nobody to talk to. It's too hot to play outside.

Ways to make a toddler mad

that you might not have thought about:
1. draw smiley faces on the bottom of his feet - apparently the bottoms of your feet aren't that easy to see. oops.
2. draw a smiley face on his butt - he can feel it, but definitely can't see it. again, oops - btw, we were coloring tonight and he was hogging the paper.
3. bungee-cord something open that he usually gets great enjoyment out of slamming shut repeatedly
4. take one of his shoes off and then get distracted and forget about the other one.
5. get his blankie out of the crib for him and leave it on the counter by mistake.

Poor Alex... in my defense though if the kid would just learn to speak many of these would not be issues.

I love kits and packages and

compartments. I love airplane food - not for the taste, obviously, but for the neatly packaged meal. I bought these plastic plates like you'd get at a cafeteria, the ones w/ the different sections? I bought them to use for Alex, but I use them at every meal. I LOVE them, I love seeing my food all nicely separated and laid out in a grid for me. I love frozen dinners - again not the taste, I've yet to discover one that doesn't taste like the box it came in - but they're just so cute and neat.
I also love coloring books, and paint-by-number things. I find blank paper daunting when it comes to creating. I love filling out paperwork, and checking boxes and 'initial here'ing.
I love word searches - only not the hard ones with backwards words, my brain doesn't work that way - and I love putting little things together. I must say though that I have also developed a skill for starting projects and not finishing them, so the putting things together I try to avoid unless Glenn is home to finish the job when I get either bored or frustrated, and one or the other is sure to happen sooner or later.
I think you can all get a good mental picture of what kind of old lady I'll be... one of those ones who has to be rescued from her piles of shoe boxes and empty egg crates b/c she can't get out of her kitchen.

My mum

made me a family of cabbage patch dolls when I was 7 years old. Sewing not being one of my mother's strong suits, these dolls - especially the first doll she made, Cecelia - were kind of funny looking - but I loved those dolls. I still do, in fact - they're in my bedroom. Cecelia, Margie, Katie Baby, Emily, Mark, Julie & Gary (the preemie twins) - she made me a little doll family, and on Christmas morning I came down to the living room and it was set up like a nursery, with each dolly in it's own bed and each w/ birth certificates - it was the best Christmas ever. Margie had a face made out of nylon, and eventually her face got a run in it. So Mum set up our kitchen like an operating room, with toilet paper tubes for IVs and surgical masks and everything, and we operated on Margie and gave her a brand new pale pink face, she was so pretty. My mum would sing me lullabyes every single night, until I was about 12 - yes, I was a strange kid - and she understood my neediness but didn't let it overcome me. When I was a horrible, nasty, asshole teenager and said something mean to her she sang 'I don't like you, but I love you... seems like I'm always thinking of you...' you know that song? It's an oldie - anyway, it was the perfect thing at the perfect moment that made me just stop and remember who I was, and who she was. (it only lasted a minute I'm sure, and then teenageriness overtook me again) When my mum went to field camp for a few weeks when I was young I would sleep with her sneakers (???) in my bed, wearing her t-shirt every night.
When I was 19 she stayed up all night with me while I cried when my boyfriend, my first love - that she hated - broke up with me and I thought my heart was broken. She has been a constant source of support and love and wisdom and humor and strength my whole life, if I am a good mother - a good person - at all it is because of her and all she has given me emotionally.
To have the shadow of a possibility cross in front of my sunshine mother is a hard thing, one we all go through eventually as we get older - but one that I am not remotely prepared to face, and hope with all my heart I don't have to. I don't know how to be a person without my parents, both of them.

Neighbor fireworks

SUCK. I wish these assholes would stop this baby-waking shit and go to bed. So what if it's only 10:25 on a Friday night? I have a toddler that I would like very much to sleep through the night, so take your damn stupid noisy ass fireworks and shove them up your butts. They aren't pretty or sparkly or colorful, they are just fucking noisy. What fun is that??
The fourth of July is like New Year's Eve. I always have great expectations for it, I think I'm going to do all sorts of fun things and really enjoy myself and instead pretty much the opposite happens. Stupid holiday... stupid neighbors. Stupid explosive noisy things.

Our neighborhood

seems to be in a constant state of construction. We live on a fairly quiet street in a very small town, so you'd think that sitting outside would be an enjoyable experience. Right now I am listening to no less than 5 different types of power tools, a lawnmower, a leaf blower, and a fucking annoying barking dog that is going to take a dirt nap if he doesn't shut the fuck up soon. It sucks. I can smell paint or stain or something, the old man w/ the yard bordering ours is out watching his son mow the lawn and bellowing instructions at him, the dudes working on the house across the street are chattering to each other in a language I don't understand - but somehow it all sounds crude and vulgar - and the mean gray cat next door is yowling.
See people? This is why I was inside, minding my own business.
There are 2 houses across the street from us, multi-families - the Dirt Houses, we call them. The people who live there are always ALWAYS outside on the front stoop, smoking, drinking cheap beer out of cans, and throwing some sort of ball around in the street, shirtless, barefoot, and dirty. The guy who lives there that is seriously always out there has been shirtless and barefoot since March, no joke. Seems like a nice enough guy, I suppose... but don't they have to go to work at some point?
Anyway, it's strange - the rest of the neighborhood is nice and well kept and tidy, until you come to the Dirt Houses. Apparently in the eighties the 2 houses were occupied by Hells Angels, and the cops refused to come up to this neighborhood b/c it was too dangerous. This is coming from the Dirt Grandmother though, so who knows how true it is - she was well into her third paper bag when the story was told so it may be a bit embelished.
What a boring blog. Sorry.

I am so lazy.

I can hear Alex in the office doing something that involves ripping and squeals of delight, and am I getting up to see what he's doing? No. Instead I am watching Elmo.
What is wrong with this picture? So many things...
It's hot out, so I am using that as an excuse. I hate the heat. I don't care that a few short months ago I was complaining about the cold, it really doesn't matter - I will complain about absolutely anything and everything. It's a hobby, almost an occupation. I can complain for you, if you let me know what needs complaining about.
Uh-oh, now I hear the sounds of rage... I don't hear tears yet, should I get up? Oh there he is. All is well.
I don't like seeing Elmo's feet, they freak me out - you don't usually see Elmo's feet, just his upper body. And that is how it should be - oh God, there's Elmo w/ no clothes on, and his legs look like red furry chicken legs. Creepy.