Can’t you do those sums in your head?

Number of times kid woke me last night, screaming, scared, or needy: three

Number of times spouse work me last night, snoring: three

Number of times cat #1 woke me last night, kneading kitty bread on my all-too supple belly: two

Number of times cat #2 woke me last night, yowling to go outside, totally ignoring the eight year precedent as an exclusively indoor f–king cat: two

Total times some other creature woke me last f–king night: look, I got an A+ in calculus at a pretty prestigious University, but I can’t even add right  now. And does the number really matter? I am the grouchiest (what is the right word? “bitch” has too many connotations that my anger and frustration are misplaced because I’m a woman which is false [the misplaced part not the woman part…as though there is a “woman part”]; “a–hole” connotes that I’m less shitty today because I more puckered; and “motherf—er” just doesn’t work right for so many reasons…let’s try again) the grouchiest shell of a human this side of Alaska.

Aaaaargh!

I think I need a career as a pirate. Those f—ers get some respect.

National Poetry Month Part iii

Poetry is a tough assignment for me…I’m a maximalist. I love long, convoluted sentences that explode with words and phrases and reiterate their own machinations endlessly. I slurp David Foster Wallace and William Faulkner and streams of erudite consciousnesses. So poetry is my least favorite literary pursuit.

That said, I’m taking this month to learn to place a single drop of linguistic effort on the tip of my tongue so it can dissolve there. The way we’re supposed to eat chocolate so that we enjoy it and really taste and savor and notice it.  Zen reading, these poems are. But try this one…

What would you fight for?

–D.H. Lawrence

I am not sure I would always fight for my life.

Life might not be worth fighting for.

I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn’t always worth fighting for.

Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all deprnds whether I found them worth fighting for.

The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I’d fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.

Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.
And I must say, I am often worsted.

Never, never read the news

The NRA says, “Now is not the time to debate politics or discuss policy. It is time for families and communities to grieve and to heal,” in response to this:

Sun 5 April: Father kills his five children them himself in Washington
Sat 4 April: Gunman kills three policemen in Pittsburgh before being wounded and captured
Fri 3 April: Gunman kills 13 people at an immigration centre in Binghamton, New York state, then apparently shoots himself
Sun 29 March: Gunman kills seven elderly residents and a nurse at a nursing home in Carthage, North Carolina, then is shot and wounded himself
Sun 29 March: Man kills five relatives and himself in Santa Clara, California
That is just last *week*.
When is the time to debate policy?

Underestimating kids…

Peanut is a trooper. Though he is a Tasmanian Devil of energy and freakishness and age-appropriate irrationality, I am often surprised at his moments of calm, reflective, general good naturedness. I shouldn’t be. Add it to the list of reasons I’m a crappy parent, or reasons to send me a free TV. (Seriously. Send me a TV.)

Today we went hiking. We were supposed to be at the dentist, but the dentists here, as in L.A., are charlatan assmunchers who want to build swimming pools in their backyards so they can show you pictures on their iPhones of how ducks have landed in their pool. Jerks. Plus,  their staff called to cancel, saying the dentist had surgery, even though the exam was done and this was just a cleaning, so i crossed them off, aand they called later to say, oops, we’re dumb, game on and I said no way bitches, I’m going hiking. Or, maybe, I said, so sorry but let’s reschedule. One of the two.

So Peanut and I went hiking. Slightly overcast, a little chilly. Quite nice as spring hikes go because we could wear long on long and didn’t need much sunscreen. One minute in it’s drizzling. Ten minutes in it’s pouring. We have sixty more minutes to go because he wants to go to the Little Farm and there ain’t no way I’m going the easy way when I’m 3000 pounds over racing weight and feeling like making up lost (crutches) time. So. Off we go. Thank heavens he picked the stroller over the backpack. ‘Cuz I’d rather slide down a mountain in running shoes caked with five inches of slippery mud than slide down a mountain in study hiking boots with a 30 pound kid strapped to my back.

So he’s talking about the rain and the dogs and keeping a tally of how many people we see versus wildlife. Fine. He’s mentioning that he’d rather be at home. Not gonna happen, but you’re entitled to your opinion. I know the whining will begin, so I offer snacks. He passes on the super awesome tube of carrot appleasauce because he says he wants to save it for when he’s at the farm where there are new piglets. You want your squishy sauce later because it’s more fun to eat when you’re watching piglets?

Yes.

So when the whining begins, 45 minutes into the freezing, sleeting, drenching hike, I ask if he wants his sauce. He frowns at me, like I’m stupid. “No, I’m waiting for the pigs!” Oh. Well, did you know it’s pudding day and I have pudding, too? so you could have sauce now and pudding with the pigs…

Big smile. Huge smile. “No way. I want pudding now and save sauce for farm. Pudding day?!”

Yeah. It’s Tuesday. Everybody knows Tuesday is pudding day. (Or, realistically, everybody who counts their days not as workdays and weekends but as interminable days of sameness and neverendingness and milestonelessness knows Tuesday is pudding day. And Wednesday is movie day. And Thursday is library day. And Friday is chocoolate day. Because if we can get through Friday alive, Mommy can pretend that’s a milestone.)

So I slid/skiied down the trail in running shoes, dragged by the 900 pound jogging stroller, and screaming “Sh*t” every dozen feet as I think we’re gonna plunge off…okay, not off anything, but overturn into a big puddle of mud because I’m not such a terrible parent that I take his stroller, the one time he asks for it, on a  narrow cliff path. But I scream sh*t just because I want to and don’t really want to be soaked and muddy when I meet the new piglets. I also kind of avoid overturning jogging strollers because bruised and broken kids don’t let you go jogging next week.

He polished off the pudding and told me that this was his best pudding ever, EVER, and if it’s ever raining again, he wants to go hiking.

Damn, kid, you’re one in a million. (That means, if you were Chinese, there’d be thousands of you, but as it is, there are only 300 or so like you in this tiny country.)

I totally underestimated you.

WordPress? your twitter widget sucks.

look over there ============>

See the Twitter update that says Twitter is not responding? Bull puckey. Twitter is fine. WordPress sucks eggs. (At least 75% of the time, which is how often that Twitter widget f—ing malfunctions.)

That’s right.  I said it.  You suck eggs. Come and get me. Before Easter, when all the eggs will be symbolic little Jesuses hidden in people’s lawns.

You can’t do anything to me that the brain suckers haven’t already tried.

maybe you’re gonna make it after all…

or maybe not.

Hey, if you’re slowing to a crawl, thanks to the soul-crushing, voracious ghouls chasing you, here’s a bit of a pick me up: a site that will tell you, based on your birthday, about all the fascinating people who died before they made it to your age.

If cheating mortality ain’t good enough for you, I’m not  sure what is. Thanks to the literary folk at NewPages for this one…

Dead.AtYourAge.com

Wanna see how relatively young I am?

I’ve outlived Phil Lynott by almost a week. He was a singer/songwriter, multi-instrumentalist and founding member of rock group Thin Lizzy. He died of heart failure and pneumonia on January 4, 1986, when I was 13 years old.

Franz Fanon was two weeks younger than me when he died on December 6, 1961. He was an author of “The Wretched of the Earth” and advocate of anti-colonial violence. He died 11 years before I was born.

I’ve outlived Jacques René Hébert by two weeks. He was an editor of radical newspaper “Le Père Duchesne” during the French Revolution. He died of execution by guillotine on March 24, 1794, 179 years before I was born.

Bruno Hauptmann was about two weeks younger than me when he died of execution by electric chair on April 3, 1936. He was a perpetrator of the kidnapping and murder of Charles Lindbergh, Jr.. He died 37 years before I was born.

See? Fun.

National Poetry Month part i

A little Modernist cubism to start your month of poetry…

this is painted on our bathroom wall.

To Alice B. Toklas
— Gertrude Stein

Do you really think I would yes I would and
I do love all you with all me.
Do you really think I could, yes I could
yes I would love all you with all me.
Do you really think I should yes I should
love all you with all me yes I should
yes I could yes I would.
Do you really think I do love all you
with all me yes I do love all you with all
me And bless my baby.

Blog meme

Okay, Ink. This one’s for you…

Anyone who wants to play along, we welcome you. Give us a link in the comments and we’ll go read your less snarky replies.

  1. How did you come up with your blog title OR what does it mean?
    I began the blog on a dare from someone I adore, who told me that if i was so nervous my writing was crap, I should start a blog and see who came to read. I was trying to think up  a name when a squall erupted in the baby monitor. I realized I could only write at naptime, and that was part of the blog’s raison d’etre *and* neuroses.
  2. What are your general goals for blogging?
    Sanity. Connection with the other wackjobs who think the way I do. Exorcising demons about isolation and writerly worthlessness
  3. Do people “in your real life” know that you blog and do they comment on your blog OR is it largely anonymous?
    Everybody knows…I might need an anonymous shadow blog soon.
  4. How often do you post (x per week)?
    Usually 5x but I have no expectations for myself.  I just have an inability to shut up.
  5. How often do you read other blogs (x per week)?
    Once, maybe twice. Sorry blogobuds.
  6. How do you select blogs to read (do you prefer blogs that focus on certain topics or do you choose by tone or…?)
    I surf by tag and generally find favorites by pilfering blogrolls of my favorites.
  7. Do you have any plans to copy your blog entries in any other format, 0r do you think that one day, you’ll just delete it all?
    Copy into journal; steal some stuff for fiction writing
  8. What are the things you like best about blogging?
    Easier than bathroom walls; garners an audience, no matter how small, who likes to read my blatherings; makes me feel more sane because others share my insanity; makes me feel heard and for that reason unburdens Spouse; no editor, no deadline, no peer review, no mediation; found peeps I never would have otherwise, and really, genuinely appreciate what they’ve added to my life
  9. What are the things you don’t like about blogging?
    feels totally egomaniacal and vapid…don’t like to contribute to the noise because now I’m part of the problem.
  10. How do you handle comments?
    Accept all that aren’t offensive. Didn’t reply to comments in the beginning because it felt silly. Now use it as dialogue because commenters take the time so they deserve acknowledgment.  I rarely check back to the blogs on which I comment, though, because I am offering a thought that usually doesn’t need response.
  11. Optional: add your own topic here: any burning thoughts to share on blog etiquette? desired blog features? blog addiction?  blog vs. facebook?
    Are you kidding me? I have forty-two other things to be doing and you’re offering a fill-in-the-blank? To you I say bah. That’s right. BAH!

Something of worth

If you take some time to focus on the present, to take every day as it comes and honor each moment, rather than looking back at the demons chasing you, they will catch you and claw their way up your back and slow your progress to a crawl as they cling to your neck and head.

So go ahead and run from them, and glance back every now and then to make sure they’re not gaining on you. Because if you focus on the present, tomorrow will absolutely suck, in terms of psychic pain and gouged eyeballs and whatnot.

This sunshine-y moment of zen (which came from realizing I’m made to be an aggressive, constant-list-of-projects, hard-on-myself-if-they’re-not-all-done kind of gal rather than a cheerful, live-each-moment-to-the-fullest type), is brought to you by a perfect storm of personality, internalized social expectations, perfectionism, shitty economy, massive errors in judgment, self-absorption, and the lies we’ve  all been told about having it all. With whipped cream and a three-year-old on top.

Rantlets; little rants of the day (v)

We’re back for another installment of “everybody bugs the crap out of me.”

It’s been a while….

Hey, toy makers? Yeah, you. The ones outsourcing to China and making crappy toys.  Would it kill you to put nipples on your dolls? I know some of Middle America likes their dolls without groinal distinguishers, and without any openings except those that can be crammed shut with a pacifier, but could you please put nipples on your stinking dolls? You don’t have to build separate sets…boy babies and girl babies all have nipples. All humans do. We’re mammals. We feed our young with milk. We have nipples whether the formula companies let you admit it or not, and whether we have weird post-delivery black hairs around them or not. My kid wants a doll, and I want him to have another doll. But all your dolls drink and wet and cry without nipples. i mean, I’d drink and wet myself and cry if I had no nipples, too, but that’s a little traumatic and advanced for a three-year-old, don’t you think?

And can you put nipples on all the mammal toys, while you’re at it? Peanut wants to know where a deer’s nipples are. We’ve seen elephant nipples (armpit) and horse nipples (belly) but we have no idea where deer nay-nays are. Help a frustrated stay-at-home basketcase out, please! i don’t want to have to take him to the library and teach him where the encyclopedias are. That’s *so* 80s.

Mr. Center of the Universe? You’ll do it because I said so, that’s why. and if you ask why again you’re going to have to sit through presentations at the American Academy of Sciences conference, because if you want to “why” me to death, you can do it with those who have mastered the purposeful “WHY,” because it would be a joy to think at that level for a while, instead of developing an answer to the questions you readily admit you could answer yourself.

Nannies at the playground? I know you have it tough, what with being paid to do what I do for free, and making me feel all gyped because I was paid exorbitant amounts to do things I didn’t like and am now being paid in blackeyes and pee-soaked laundry for tasks I like even less (if that’s possible) but would you please stop making your tiny ward give stuff to my kid? Teach sharing not the same as teaching surrender. I know you’re better than 50% of the nannies at the playground because you actually watch the kid you’re paid to watch. And that you pay attention to the kid you’re paid to pay attention to. But could you give that kid a chance to play with stuff before ripping it out of their hands and giving it to my overpriviledged kid (who needs to be taken down a peg or two by an older kid, anyway)?

Stores and restaurants…please. Before I go all Sharpie on  your ass, it’s “DVDs and CDs.” There is no apostrophe in a plural. Dinners, diners, customers, all. No apostrophe if it’s plural.  You are the strraw that just might break the deer’s back, depending on where her nay-nays are placed in relation to the hay bale.

Finally (it’s a short list because I’m out of practice, what with being all sunny and perky all the time), um, self-absorbed working dads? Stop it. Just f—ing stop it. You have no idea, and you have no right to speak, and I’m going to cram this all the way from your hole-less nethers to your pacifiered crier if you don’t just bite your lip and keep your delusions to yourself.  It is not an easy job, and if you weren’t so clearly wrapped in your own world and not in your child’s, you might see that.

Spring in my step

So last week’s experience at a potential preschool has me doing ill-advised cartwheels (seriously, our house is small, there’s crap everywhere, and I’m old and not so bendy anymore in the adductor region) about my family’s freaking growth and development as decent human beings.

What the hell is in their Kool-Aid, you ask? Well, we don’t like that kind of talk around here. (Kool-aid is not on our preferred beverage list. “What the hell is in their unflavored rice milk, dammit” is more like it. Thank you.)

I can’t quite put my finger on it. Other preschool tours made me feel I wasn’t being something enough…one made me feel not stern enough, one made me feel not musical enough, one made me feel not detached enough. This preschool we just visited, though, made me feel that the approach I’ve always wanted is possible, and that with a few new techniques Spouse and I can be even more of the parents we envisioned when we had a good, old-fashioned panic attack about a little pink line.

Tell you this much…since the preschool visit I have been patient and hopeful and calm. Without feeling put out or thwarted or martyr-y. I’m doing stuff now because I want to, not just because several generations of Drs. Sears say so. I’m offering two yesses for each no because it makes sense and it’s fair. I’m more relaxed about telling Peanut what I need because I know I’m meeting his needs. I’m setting up sensory stations in the dining room and smiling as a paint-covered Peanut streaks the wall with purple then offers to clean it.

And the conflict resolution the potential preschool uses is TOTALLY working! How? Well I’ll tell ya. Peanut hits Spouse. A lot. To be fair, just between you and me and the ninety other people who read this blog, Spouse totally deserves it, but I can’t say that to Peanut, who is confused by the idea that grabbing stuff and blocking people from things, and generally not letting a person use their own body in ways they stinking want to is not nice, unless you’re big and lacking in patience.  So I  started taking each by the hand and asking the one more recently violated what he wants to say to the other. Then when he finishes, I ask the most recent offender what he wants to say. And back and forth until they stop. Then ask is there anything else you want to say? Each takes a turn. Then “does anybody need a hug?” It’s really freaking awesome because Peanut got the technique immediately, without a seven hour explanation from me, and always has one more thing to say.  Spouse never has anything else to say except, “No. Nothing to say, I just love you.” And when asked, Spouse always says he needs a hug.

Get this. Peanut always gives him one. Who are these people? Where do I sign up for this school? Oh. Behind the forty other families waiting to get in for September? I see. Is there anything for those of us who would like to have our lives back sooner, rather than later? No? Okay.  I’ll take your life-affirming techniques and apply them at home. Thanks. See you when he’s almost four.

So this potential preschool has Spouse and Peanut talking and hugging, has me running around joyfully placing tubs of dry beans and brownie tins full of raw flour and different sized scoops all over the house. What’s in the unflavored rice milk? Don’t know. But I’m getting a subscription on Amazon so it’s delivered every three months at a 15% discount.

Pleasant toddler movies: update

So I’ve taken your suggestions from an earlier post. And I’ve watched a billion movies for small people in an effort to find sweet, non-violent, non-scary, non-gender-stereotyped movies for small people. Here’s what I’ve found (spoiler: most are shorter shows, not movies):

We still love Signing Time. The pace is great, the tons of kids that come in thirty-one flavors makes us feel good, and the language skills built by children who learn sign language are all reason enough to watch these half hour segments. The best, though, is watching real parents and kids talk, with sign language, about feelings and activities. Captivating. It’s a very simple series, where you learn one word at a time, and build to a song that uses five or six of the key words you’ve learned. Catchy, catchy tunes. Check your local PBS station…they may play it weekly. If not, the videos are available though the Signing Time Foundation and the regular DVD sources.

Kipper is the sweetest, more unassuming, thoughtful animated show I’ve seen. He engages in all manner of roles, defying conventional gender and species stereotypes. He’s caring, has lovable friends who each have their own quirks. The gently drawn cartoons are 10-15 minutes each, which is perfect for limiting tv time. I love Kipper. He was clearly a sling puppy.

Maisie is pretty sweet, too. Another loving character who has endearing friends. Longer episodes than Kipper.

Planet Earth: watched with a finger on fast forward for the carnivore scenes, this is a gorgeous, sweepingly breathtaking tour around the planet. My favorite, though not Peanut’s. And since we only watch once a week or every other week, he never chooses it. But I’ll pop it in on movie day when I want to row, so he knows I get to choose some things, and he doesn’t have to watch Office Space, which I think is a little much for the preschool crowd.

Charlie and Lola. A bit tough for some American kids to get used to the accent, but once they do it’s a funny and loving pair of siblings. Probably best for ages 4 and up or the humor is lost on them. For ages 2 and up it’s good to see how gently Charlie treats his little sister, and to see how to creatively handle age appropriate behavior. As with all our other favorites, nothing sinister lurking in the shadows, no gender stereotypes, and no violence. The Christmas one leans pretty heavy on the fantastic and on Santa Claus as real dude, but maybe that’s your family’s thing, too.

Bob the Builder: surprisingly good…characters who are generally nice (some mocking, and really requires parental supervision to explain some of the poor choices the characters make). Interesting stories, anthropomorphized trucks. Exactly what most kids want. (I try to limit Bob movies because the episodes each involve me way more than I want out of a video, but especially because he’s one of those characters who appears on everything from toothpaste to shoes, and just don’t want to fight the character-marketed crap battles. But the videos themselves are quite nice.)

Backyardigans: some nice music and lovely focus on imagination, but very gender stereotyped, and often not ideal behavior (refusing to share, sarcasm, mocking others, vanity, etc). Peanut loves them. I spend way too much time discussing why there are better ways to treat people.

The Snowman: Of all the 1970s book adaptations, this is the most gorgeous, sweepingly epic and wonderful. Many of the old Westwood Woods book adaptations are fun, but some have of namecalling, violence, and menaces.

Boobah: Why do I love this show so much? Seriously? It’s goofy and nonsensical and musical and dancy, but I still tolerate it. It’s as though Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Twyla Tharp had a lovechild and raised it, frustratingly, on Teletubbies. Once grown and on her own, she responds with Boobah–the way lumpy, brilliantly colored characters ought to be.

Little Hard Hats: great for when you don’t want animation, or when you miss the garbage trucks on garbage day and are jonesing for some heavy lifting. Real people and live action of trucks. Descriptive but not over the head of a two year old, eco-focused without being preachy.

Didn’t cut it:

Winnie the Pooh: the films and the show have scary elements, and the older pieces have guns. But no name-calling. Thanks goodness for small favors.

My Neighbor Totoro: I adored this film, but Peanut was terrified when the little girl went missing and the authorities dredged the pond. Gross fear of death not his favorite in filmic entertainment.

Disney films: dead mothers, animal cruelty, princesses who can’t do anything without a price, menacing evil around every corner. After I previewed a few, I gave up on Disney. update: Even Frozen, which finally embraces the power of girls to find their own way in the world without male rescuing, has the snow monster and witch hunt. Too scary.

The Muppet Show: I didn’t remember it being so sarcastic and violent. But the love I have for those puppets stems from watching in my tween and teen years, when all that is less sinister. Not for littles.

Veggie Tales: seriously? really? the first episode we saw (at a friend’s house) was about being selfish. We’re trying to parent without labeling and name calling. We talk about behavior in positive terms and this series is just too heavy handed with the “proper way to act” stuff. Reminiscent of some of the least appealing Richard Scarry “pest” narratives that moralize in annoying 1950s ways.

Curious George (the series not the film). Like the science projects and the monkey. Don’t love marketing crap or the absentee parenting of old Mr. Worst Parent Ever.

So. Signing Time and Kipper and Little Hard Hats and The Snowman and Maisie. Then Charlie and Lola and Boobah and Planet Earth. Then Bob the Builder and Curious George. Not a big fan of the other stuff.

What about at your house?