Thursday, December 24, 2009

A guest post, for the nine people who read this.

This is a post from a blog I have fallen in love with in a very short time. I happened on her by accident and am so grateful that I did. I often read her posts and wonder how she has access to the thoughts in my head and can put them into words far better than I ever could. Please, go straight to the source:

A word of warning, this is an actual 'big girl blog' with links and photos and video clips for you to enjoy, not just the snippets of conversation that a sleep deprived mommy finds hilarious and feels the need to subject you to. Please, go wander around her site a little, I doubt you will be disapointed. If you happen to find her letter to her sons school teacher, you just may wet your pants. I would link it for you, but would probably screw it up. Enjoy!!

Maybe a Girl’s Best Friend. Just Not This Girl.
December 20, 2009 by Ginny
I accept some things about this time of year.
Religious folk are going to get up in arms when you wish them a Happy Holiday, insisting on “Puttin’ the Christ back in Christmas.” (All the while, ignoring the fact that they totally co-opted Yule from the Pagans, but whatever.)
Small children will exhibit sickening greed and extremely touching acts of altruism. All at the same time.
And the stores are going to play hardball.
I know that I’m going to be bombarded with advertising. I know that stores are counting on this month to bring them anywhere close to being profitable, especially in a recession. I get it.
But there was an ad on the radio the other night, one that literally made my jaw drop, and (although I didn’t see it, I’m pretty sure it happened) steam come out of my ears.

A diamond company here in town started their radio spot acknowledging that 2009 sucked the hind one. Then, in a twist of logic that was waaaay past 360 degrees of twist, they proceeded to say that the horrible economy meant that as a man, you needed to spend more money on your woman than ever before. And I quote:
“Be the hero she needs you to be.”
Oh nameless diamond store, I know you were aiming this ad at men. Poor, delusional, led by their penises men. You were trying to let them in on the “inside info”, let them know what us broads are really thinking.
Men, this is horseshit.
I’m a woman. I know how some, maybe a lot, of women think. So please listen.
Because do you know what my hero would do?
My hero would make sure the mortgage gets paid. My hero would read “Goodnight Moon” for the thousandth time because it’s a little girl’s favorite. My hero would step in, speak up if he saw someone being hurt. My hero would check out strange noises in the night. My hero would leave his ego out when making decisions that affect his family. My hero would open doors for ladies, and teach his son to do the same. My hero would be a decent, stand up guy, even when that’s the hard way.
You know what my hero wouldn’t do?
Piss away thousands of dollars on a damned piece of jewellery.
Don’t believe the hype, men.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Oh yeah, NOW I feel the spirit of the season.

I am standing outside of Macy's the Sunday before Christmas with Monkey, shivering. He's crying, I'm ignoring him, and G is nowhere in sight. How did I get here? I'm glad you asked. Frankly, I am getting tired of blaming Autism for these predicaments, so I am torn between blaming Motormouth and his ill-timed Christmas spirit, for Macy's and their charitable donation campaign, mail slots too small to stick your arm in, and Santa Claus.

Let me back up. Yesterday Motormouth decides that he should probably get around to mailing that letter to Santa before it's too late. G and I were a little relieved to find that we had managed to buy about half of his wish list all on our own, so he won't be too disappointed come the big day. Unfortunately, I forgot to have G take it with him when he mailed out the Christmas cards and Motormouth noticed. In what I thought was a flash of genius, I announced that we can take it to the 'Special Santa Mailbox' at the store, so it will be sure to arrive on time. I convince Monkey that he might like to write a letter too and help him write it (for those who care, rest assured that Monkey still wants a blue jingle bell for Christmas). We seal it and take the letters to the store.

Motormouth marches right up to the shiny red mailbox and drops his in. Monkey is unsure. Well, not really. He is sure he doesn't want to be in the store. He is sure he wants to be at home right now. He is sure he wants to keep his letter. "Don't you want Santa to bring you presents?" Motormouth asks. Monkey does. So he wavers. Not quietly. He doesn't want any part of the mailbox but he doesn't want to mess this up. We are starting to draw attention. At this point, I don't care. Leave it, don't leave it, it will be fine either way. Monkey makes his choice. He takes his letter and drops it in the slot. And immediately changes his mind. Things escalate quickly. Within seconds G and I are trying to scoop a thrashing, yelling Monkey up off the shiny tile floor. Note to self: Winter coats slide remarkably well across the entry way of Macy's. After several false starts G manages to get Monkey up and hangs on to him until we get out the door. The parking lot poses a whole other issue. Monkey has no intention of getting in the truck. It's like trying to stuff a cat into a coffee can. I am uncomfortable with the amount of attention we are still getting so G and I agree that G will leave with Motormouth while I stay behind and let Monkey work stuff out.

So here we are. Monkey is settling down and realizing the consequences of his actions. We both know it's going to be a long afternoon with no computer or video games. I'm not really sure who is dreading that more. G eventually returns and we all head home. Monkey apologizes and if the amount of giggling is any indication, finds something hilarious to think about all the way home. I only wish I could do the same.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

I shudder to think what other lies are out there, just waiting to rear their ugly heads.

The stress of the holidays can get to you. It doesn't take much. You are running and shopping and mailing and baking on top of all the usual craziness and it doesn't take much for you to feel out of step. Miscommunication has been an issue for G and I lately. It goes in cycles in our house as I am sure it does in every family. Sometimes you click, you are in-sync, sometimes you are...not. It happens more when things get busy, and I don't worry about it too much. Until the other day, when I stumbled upon a realization that shook me to my very core. When I learned that something I had considered to be a fundamental truth was false. My marriage is based partially upon a misconception. It turns out...

that G

doesn't like

Pot roast.

That's right.

Pot roast.

Not a big deal, you say?

Sure, I can see why you would think that this is frivolous.

I mean, after all, it's. just. pot roast.

Pot roast. The easy, simple, impossible to screw up, throw-it-in-and-walk-away dinner. Except for the fact that I can't make it. That's not entirely true, I can indeed make it, it just isn't very good. My pot roast is one of those meals that when served, I am praised as if I am 12 and this is the first meal I have ever cooked. Oh, sure, people eat it, because it's rude to come to dinner and not eat what is served, not because it is delicious-just-like-grandma-makes-it. Now, please understand, I am not begging for your recipes and tips for delectable pot roast. The truth is that I can't stand pot roast. The vegetables are smushy and everything tastes the same. I'm not even going to get into all my particular issues with this meal, just know that it makes me gag a little just thinking about it. That's not the point either. The point is, that my husband likes pot roast, and gosh-darnit!!! I am going to make my man pot roast. No husband of mine is going to wish for his Mama's homecookin' no sireee! So, every six weeks or so (for the past 12 YEARS!!!) I stare at the roast in the meat department and decide that THIS TIME will be it, that I will conquer the beef and my husband will declare it the best dinner. ever.

So imagine my surprise when we are discussing possible meal options for the upcoming week and he mentions his indifference to the roast.

Turns out, he thought I liked it.

It's a world gone mad.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

That's what I thought.

Motormouth comes home from school and is retelling his day to me, in order of importance to him, which means I hear a lot about the 6th grade girls that sell crafts at lunch time and the snow fort he built and who farted during snack and not a lot about what he actually learned or if he teacher has a message for me. When pressed for more information I got a minute by minute breakdown of his daily schedule complete with a little song about how he does the same thing every day and it is boring. Booooorrrrrring!!!!! I know I shouldn't stifle his creativity and that I should have more patience but I listened to his monologue for five minutes and then the highly repetitive song for another 2 minutes before I interrupted. Which is monumental for me since the word boring or bored is a hot button for me. You cannot possibly be bored if you have an active imagination, which this kid clearly does. Find something to do or I will find something for you to do. So I interrupt with the following suggestion. If you are bored with your never changing routine that consists of school, playing, eating, home, playing, eating and more playing how about you change it up a little by scrubbing the kitchen floor? Motormouth doesn't miss a beat (literally) No mom, I love my boring routine.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

I'm not crazy. I'm resourceful.

I am not a great mom, I think by reading through this blog I make that abundantly clear. I harbor no illusion that I excel in any way at motherhood. I hate mornings, I forget that dinner comes around once a day, my kids are always plugged into some electronic screen, and I have on more than one occasion announced my intent to sell them to the first band of traveling gypsies I come across.

What I find interesting is that my husband still somehow expects more of me.

Take this afternoon for instance. Monkey comes to the sliding door and is upset because his sled is broken and now he can't sled in the backyard. Motormouth isn't sharing his sled because he is 'using' it to haul snow for his fort. Monkey will not be put off. He wants a sled. Now. He is being very polite about it, so I feel bad. "Here" I say, as I hand him the rubberized tray that is used to collect the water from our boots. "Use this" Monkey looks at it and looks at me. His only complaint is that it is wet. Look around dude, so are you. Monkey takes it and heads off. I shut the door, feeling very proud of myself and turn right into the shocked face of my husband. "Your actually letting him try to sled on that?" um. yeah. Face it G, I am letting him sled down the stairs and into the dog run fence, do you really think the boot mat is what's wrong with this scenario?

It doesn't take me long to buy everything on my list.

I love my kids. They very much live in their own little world. They get this from me, I know, and I can say from experience that your own world is nice. No one bothers you there. We don't deal with the social pressure that plagues most parents this time of year, because our kids are clueless as to what is the popular or hot toy. We don't listen to "I HAVE to get this for Christmas" "I NEED this toy, EVERYBODY has one!" all season long. It's nice. It does have it's drawbacks though, because we often have no clue what to buy the kids because they don't ask for anything. (note to all parents who are listening to their kids beg, plead and whine right now; at least you know what they want) My mother in law would tell you a different story, since I guess Motormouth circled every toy he wanted in her Target toy catalog while at her house one weekend, but I have yet to see or hear about anything he wanted.

Imagine my surprise this year when Motormouth points to a game being advertised on TV and says "I want that". Really? super. Anything else? Nope. just that. Riding in the car this weekend we are discussing that maybe Motormouth should write a list, and he is resisting the idea. I turn to Monkey. "What would you like for Christmas?" I ask, not really expecting a good response. "Jingle bell" he answers. "A blue one".