Great Barrier Briefs!

There are plenty of things that I detest shopping for.  On the top of that list are, jeans, bathing suits, and underwear.  Since the arrival of the boys, I have been doing a lot more homework online prior to purchasing, or doing the groundwork search for any of these things.  Searching for PJs, I saw the words “Luxury Liners” in the column on the left, and had no choice but to check it out. 

What could they be?!  Certainly, that couldn’t be the name of a variety of underwear, for who would buy something that suggests as many odd and possibly degrading things as those two words together?  I mean, are they for the larger ladies?  Clever idea, if not a bit revolting.

It occurred to me that the existance of such a product begs for a witty competitor…Mike suggested “Modesty Masks,” “Practical Pouches,” and “Comfy Contours,” but I think that sticking with a gargantuan, ocean-ish theme is in order, so “Great Barrier Briefs” they shall be.

Now, what shall they do/look like?  I suppose they could be for sports/a barrier between wearer and elements…or they could be a barrier between the wearer and the rest of the world…  nearly limitless possibilities…I guess it just needs to be a brand all its own with multiple interests covered (pun intended).

Need to get started on this right away…

Pru

Two Cute

How can I be annoyed when they are just so darned cute? The boys have begun climbing into the same bed, along with all of their things. Two sets of blankets, two boys, two sets of animals, two sets of pillows…lots of stuff for a small toddler bed to hold!

The thing is that they have been talking back and forth for about 15 minutes now, after a full day, a busted chin, and lots of raucous spazing out for their cousin Catie.

I never thought the day would come, but suddenly, they seem to actually appreciate one another’s company and find comfort in one another again! A thing that hasn’t happened since their first few weeks of life!

Finn was even worried about Liam when he was “attacked” by a bird at the zoo. The bird just wanted to let Liam know that it wasn’t okay with him waving his hand in it’s face and bending down to its level to say, “Hi!” It flew at Liam’s glorious halo of hair with it’s talons outstretched, and basically just ruffled up his mane a bit. I think it really offended the friendly little guy, and scared him pretty well. Finn was pretty concerned though. He ran to Liam, bent down in front of him, looked up at Liam’s face, and asked very sincerely, if he was okay.

Ahh…nice boys.

Pru.

Crime Wave

So, the Creepy Mom strikes again.  Well, not really me this time, but Finn. 

There is a lovely grandmother from the Little Germ that has adopted us.  She has a grandson who is a bit delayed in speech and some physical abilities (I will call him “Jack”), but he is a very bright child, and all three boys seem to get along really well.  Liam enjoys making the little boy laugh, and Finn likes telling him what to do.  We try to get out of the house at least once a week and do something fun with Henri and her grandson, and she has always been super accommodating and understanding about Finn’s little issues…which are quickly turning into his big issues…mainly, his blood-lust and biting. 

With non-stop rain for the past four days (which will apparently continue into the next week), and everyone feeling completely stir-crazy ( I have seen a cannibalistic look in my children’s eyes this week upon denying them chocolate milk…), our adoptive grandmother and I decided to take the boys to the local Pump-it-Up.  Needless to say, every mother in this city, with children 6 and under (and some who seemed quite a bit older), had the very same idea. 

Long story shorter, the boys made themselves at home in the little Flintstone cars, and laid claim to them.  This meant that anyone attempting entrance into the cars was quickly removed.  Liam solved the problem of auto-theft by just remaining in the car and holding his ground in the exact same place.  Finn, however, decided that he really wanted to jump in the “bayoon houses,” so he ran back and forth between the car and the bounce house, expelling small and large children from the vehicle (and usually onto their heads) upon their trespass.  The boys can maneuver the inflated obstacles much faster than I can, in case anyone was wondering why I wasn’t doing anything to curtail Finn’s aggressive actions. 

At about the third kid Finn evicted from the car, I decided to keep him with me in the bounce house and watch he and the Jack in the same place.  Obstacles were decidedly more difficult for Jack, so he was the one I was most worried about, particularly with the insurgance of kids far too big to be with all of the little ones, and oblivious to stepping on them.  Finn, angered at my keeping him from his car, decided to sneak away when I couldn’t reach him, and pushed another child out and onto his head while he made a quick exit back toward his car. 

I was waiting for the year-old in the car to be toppled out while no parents supervised it, but Finn bypassed the car for the Foosball table instead!  Which was fine until I saw a six-year old girl run right in front of the opposing side of the table just as Finn thrust a rod her way.  Oif.  I think most parents know that sound (the dreaded, “Thuck!”)…sickening to hear…the sound of something smacking a head, really hard.  The rod hit the child smack-dab in the middle of her forehead.  And she dropped.   As none of the parents in the room seemed to be focused on any of the children crawling the walls, I was going to run to the child at the point where I noticed her trajectory and assessed that the rod was about to collide with cranium, but I was intercepted by grandma Henri, who turned me around and shook her head, and whispered, “No, you don’t want to get involved with that.  None of the parents were watching, that was their fault.”   Obviously, she is saving me from myself, as she has seen me fess up to Finn’s past incidents only to make things worse for all of us.

After trying to calm down a bit, Finn then turned on Jack.  I don’t think grandma understood just what I meant about Finn’s vampyric tendencies.  I don’t think she understood that when he does bite, he means serious business.  Jack was playing with a toy that Finn wanted, and although Jack is one of the kindest children I know, and shares everything he has without fuss, Finn lashed out with his patented “clamp and tear” bite.  Well, two of them, since Jack was mostly in shock and didn’t know how to react, or why Finn was doing it.  Grandma Henri understands my issue with Finn now, albeit a bit too personally.

Finn was totally unaffected by the morning’s events, as upon leaving he quickly discovered a stool that he could drag around to get him enough height to mess with the arcade games.  Really, I think his aim was to dismantle them rather than play them.  I just watched him, as I was still in shock.  I am still in shock today, and I think the weak-kneed feeling has been steadily increasing since my tripping of the 18-month old.   

Is it just boys?  What do other parents do?  The fighting in our house has been escalating beyond what I ever imagined two-year olds could accomplish in nastiness, premeditation, and vengeance.  The rain continues to pour, and supplies are dwindling…  At the point of this entry, I am not sure how much longer we can last…  I am hiding in the closet, but I can hear them sniffing around outside, and I am sure that I don’t have very long.  I will try to hold on… If you are reading this, please send h e l…Ahhhhhhhhhh…

Wherd Ungko Jongko?

That’s what we all want to know, but Finn feels Jon’s absence most painfully. He cried so hard leaving the airport upon Jon’s departure, that I had to offer them a day at the zoo…which might not seem like a big deal, but was actually quite frightening. I half-hoped that we had passed the exit, but apparently Finn also knows how to spell “Zoo,” and corrected me when he saw the exit sign. So, I had to make good on my promise.

Amid sorrow-filled wails and lamentations, and Liam’s valiant attempts at consoling his twin, Finn Finally perked up when we turned off the road and headed into the zoo’s parking area.

The boys don’t like riding in anything but a train or the grocery store “race-carts” (which seem to no longer exist), so the prospect ahead of me was one that filled me with fear… The boys would be on foot, and I would be unable to split myself to chase two of them in a very crowded place. I am not really sure what happened at some moments, but I do know that they did an amazing job of staying relatively close to me, and at least coming back to me, and I would like to pat myself on the back for remaining relatively calm. We rode the train twice, we saw almost all of the zoo, we had lunch (they requested “corn dogs” which seems to be their new favorite since our trip to the Alligator Farm”), they even let me use the restroom (albeit with much messing about with the door and the lock).

I think that was one of a handful of moments in which I almost felt like an adult human mom. They were really tired when we were leaving, so I carried them both out of the gate and to the car. We celebrated all the way to the car by singing, my skipping, and Liam’s imitation of someone shooting two guns into the air (where he got that I have no idea). (Speaking of having no idea, I have no idea what that must have looked like, but I am certain it was funny. A very short woman skipping with the glee of accomplishment while carrying two large toddlers, has got to be something of a sight.)

It was a good day, despite Jon’s getting back on the plane. The boys ran themselves tired, saw lots of animals, got to pet, hold, hug, and kiss a gopher tortoise, and Liam only fell out of his chair and onto his face once–and was physically unscathed!

The boys are in their parroting phase, apparently, which means that we may go into hiding soon, as they will be telling the world my secrets… As Jon noted, you can get them to repeat anything, and they will repeat lots of stuff you didn’t think they heard. He also noted that if we ever “talk smack” about him, he will know just by talking to the boys.

We had such a good time while Jon was here, we don’t really know what to do with ourselves now. It is much easier to take the boys out when I have a captive in the house, than it is having to ask people if they can handle outings with us.

Though, maybe it is these hermit-like tendencies that bring on Finn’s blood-lust. He rediscovered his vampyric nature right after I tripped the 18-month old. Coincidence?

The kid is sneaky, and bit a child at the Little Germ while Jon was holding onto him. Not even Jon was aware of what had happened. The little boy that had been trying to climb the same object that Finn wanted all to himself was crying harder than a child would be if they had just had their feelings hurt. Finn was so sly that nobody would have known what happened until they got the child home; and then they might not have known it was Finn that did it…but I decided to check the kid out, and indeed, there was the perfect imprint (he bit hard) of Finn’s teeth on the child’s upper arm. I alerted the mother anyway, and now it is quite possible that we really won’t be allowed back to the Germ.

I guess I have to get used to seeing clusters of angry mothers gathered in the parking lot to talk about my daemonic spawn. But not even that can take away from the power, joy, and elation I felt at being able to go to the zoo, alone, with two toddlers and no strolley, and walk around there for three hours without them requesting to be picked up!

Pru

Whiners

The morning started out wrong, so I should have known that leaving the house, or being in the company of any other human beings would be a bad idea today.  Liam began by not just refusing to eat, but throwing an epic fit, for which he was sent to his room until he emerged 15 minutes later, to let me know, “its okay, I all done.”  Then Finn followed up his iron-enhanced-juice with a nice “spit-up” down the front of his clothes right before we had to leave the house.

We went to the Little Germ, where we then encountered what seemed like a carnival of hundreds of children for mine to push, bite, run into, etc.  Though, they did seem to prefer to do those things to one another.

Upon exiting the gym, to my astonishment, I discovered that Liam can now open the heavy front door!  Trying to escape, not wanting to hold my hand, he pulled me out the door, and several other children tried to escape with us.  Playing tug-o-war with him, trying to keep the other kids inside and hold the door so that several didn’t get squished, and another mother could leave, I was unable to control any part of the circus-like situation.

Liam had pulled really good, and I stuck a foot out to gain my ground just as an 18-month old decided to book it.  He fell in slow motion, and I thought about lunging for him, but would have then risked pinning his sister in the door, and letting Liam get hit  by a car.  He fell so slowly and caught himself with his hands, so I thought I could just continue my hold on the door and the boys…but then he let his head drop!  His mother immediately threw up her hands and everything that was in them, came running, dropped to the ground and began a mental-patient-style chanting of, “Oh, my baby! My baby!  Mommy will make everything better, mommy will clean you up, mommy will fix it!” and cried so hard that the kid wouldn’t stop. 

If there had been blood, this might have been understandable.  Seeing as how the kid ended up with an upper-lip scrape of a mildness that neither of my boys have been so lucky to ever have (except on their arms or legs maybe), I don’t see what the fuss was over.  He wouldn’t let her look in his mouth, so she freaked out more, then he started crying again, and then she saw a little blood.  Really?  Finn’s teeth went through his lip, and there wasn’t anything I could do about that, and he stopped crying a whole lot sooner, and there was a whole lot more blood. 

Seeing the trickle of blood down the middle of his front teeth, she started crying harder, and was convinced he lost a tooth, or was going to.  I suppose there is more to her crying, and it is probably stress-related.  I can understand that, but for someone who over analyzes words, looks, and actions anyway, this really hurts, and tells me that I am a bad mother to have done such a thing to a child and his mother, especially when she is obviously stressed.

I feel like I was driving erratically and hit a pedestrian or something.  I didn’t even know what to do, or how to react, all I can recall is letting his twin out of the door, where her mother left her stuck, and the teacher coming out to serve me with a nasty look and a bag full of ice.  The bag full of ice made things a bit worse too, since the boys were then furiously trying to get at teh ice and the snack cups that the mother dropped.

I have to admit a tinge of guilt, and the feeling that I am a bad mother for not running to my children the moment they cry, or crying because they have a scratch or a bruise, etc.  I am also imagining that the witnesses and the mother are now recalling the event more along the lines of me having purposefully stuck out my foot to trip the child, or maybe even enhancing the story, and recalling that I kicked the child several feet into the air, from which he skidded for several feet,  until his face stopped him.

I stood there with the boys not knowing what to do for what seemed forever, and I still don’t know what I am supposed to do, or was supposed to do then.

Train-wreck Pru

“Seasons of Mellow Fruitlessness” seem to be the most fruitful…

Okay, I can’t read, hear, say, or write that Keats quote without picturing Hugh Grant with a cig. hanging out of his mouth, shirt open, and rowing a skiff.  I think it was a skiff…  I am apoplectic when I assume that scene is the only reason that most of the US knows the author of those words, no matter how lovely and bad Hugh Grant was. 

But, I digress.  Mostly, I just have a random scattering of “sittin’ around” type things to relate:

• I would like to plug a book that was designed by a highly talented friend, Shannon.  I was really flattered that she asked for a piece that I wrote, from which to create her graphic project. 
• Everyone should see REAPER before it is pulled from the air, which I am certain it will be, as have all or any of the shows that have ever earned my attention.  I have my issues with John Milton, but the writers are clever, and really seem to be Milton fans, which is an unusual and appealing thing.  Smart and highly silly.  Good fun.
• This one is an Horrified Fascination Syndrome (HFS) kind of listing.  It’s not quite a train-wreck…it’s more…well…  I don’t know if I am intensely jealous, or just embarrassed that I might be a fan.  Leslie Hall is an enigma to me, and needs an editor–hmmm…  She is so young!  I had no idea how young she was, and really, who would?!  Anyone who sells pants with “Crotch Lock” is at least hilarious in my book.
• Uncle Jon is coming to town!
• Southerners like to leave their unloved dead out to rot and be picked at by vultures (well, that which isn’t worthy of eating).  At least, I think that the way in which one handles their ex animals or roadkill is telling of the way they handle their humanity, or lack of.  Maybe I need to elaborate on that, or at least explain it. 
• I am not a good Easter Bunny, Santa, Tooth Faery, etc.  In fact, if it weren’t for relatives who love them, the boys likely would never know that the holidays or their mascots exist, at least not until school.
• My boys will be in diapers for so long that they will be lucky to ever have a date.

Okay, I think that covers it.  There may or may not be more…I am a very busy Pru, with lots of sittin’ around to be done.

Ta!

Prrru

Abyss

Things are all wrong.  Oh, so wrong.  I should give up being irritated, scared, hurt, anxious, and just let the things go badly as they will, because now that what little callous to my exoskeleton structure has been worn away, the karmic vultures are smelling the soft fleshy parts, calling on their comrades, and picking away at it too. 

Okay, so that is simplistic and rather disgusting.  It’s just that since before Christmas, I seem to be on a steady decline.  I thought I was toughening up, and then the roof starts threatening to cave in again, the computers get petulant, garage doors and air conditioners decide to thwart our years of attempts at shoddy patchwork.  Add to that, the dryer, a leaky faucet, and two screaming children… and a loyal companion who is dying.  I know, I know.  Everyone goes through things like this, many go through worse. 

I think I could have sucked it up and dealt with all of the other stuff in its own time, or been able to ignore it, but D’Artagnon, I cannot ignore.  He is like another child of mine, and the thought of dealing with what comes next puts me in a deep, deep despair.  It isn’t fair that pets live not nearly as long as we do.  It isn’t fair.  I owe him some make-up walks…lots of them.  I owe him more hugs and snuggles than it seems we have time for.  More than that, I owe those things to Tillie as well.

I know they are getting old, and that is painful beyond words.  It panics me more than other concurrent crises.  Is that foolish?  For the first time, I am begining to think that not having dogs or cats is preferable to going through the pain of losing them.  Not just of losing them, but of watching them grow old, like a super, time-lapse version of one’s children. 

Agonized,

Pru

Whos in the Fridge?

About a week and a half ago I started a sour-dough bread starter.  It did a little bubbling, I stirred it, it stopped bubbling, I kept stirring it.  Finally, today, I made the bread.  I have to say that it was a long process, and not really worth the wait, as the bread tastes like, well, white bread.  Possibly, the cookbook I used is best suited for elderly white Floridian tastes (read: no taste at all).  No matter who it was designed for, I now have two giant loaves of rather tasteless white bread. 

While I was adding the room temperature starter to the flour and yeast, I realized how absolutely insane it was to add something to my life that also needed to be fed and cared for…but which has less personality than mud.  I couldn’t fathom having to “feed” such a group of creatures on a ten-day regimen.  It seemed ludicrous.  All I could think of was the Horton and the Whos.  So, I am back to making regular bread that does not require the lives of billions of organisms to be kept refrigerated, let out to warm up, fed, etc.  It was an interesting idea, and I am not upset that I tried it, but I don’t think I will be doing it again, unless by chance I should forget that I tried it…and that is not unlikely (particularly given that the bread has no flavor).

Pru

Kinder than it was

To my checked, bridled, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind; to my longing and famished thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than it was. 

So little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fullness of delight in this taste of fruition—such, perhaps as many a human being passes through life without ever knowing.  The poor English teacher in the frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering in the wintry air, a letter simply good-natured—nothing more:  though that good-nature then seemed to me godlike—was happier than most queens in palaces.

            Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet, while it lasted, it was genuine and exquisite: a bubble—but a sweet bubble—of real honeydew.  –Villette

I’ve spent a good deal of time with Charlotte Bronte lately, and though I have always felt a certain attraction to her work, it seems ever more pertinent the older I get.  I have lately wondered, if I haven’t subconsciously modeled my life on Lucy Snow and Jane Eyre.  Thinking back, I am almost certain that I must have.  Too many hours spent with Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, can’t have helped much either.  So, here is the rub:  Is it a fiction that any of these women are fighting against anything real and truly repressive?  Is it a fiction that they are any different from the over-primped coquets, or trollops?   I don’t know.

If a woman’s means of fighting against oppression is to assume a more masculine character, as Lucy does, is it safe then to say that she also becomes part of the oppressive culture?  If she must become characteristically more stoic, less emotive, and more self sufficient, does the prolonged denial of feeling make her feel less?  Even with Lucy’s outburst of “over-excitement” above, she tempers it by telling herself, and the reader, that she will never be loved with passion, never be thought of like the flirty girls are, and never be written to in the manner she admits to thinking Doctor John’s letters are first written.   Do we all read more into things that mean so much to us that we are blinded by our over-emotional interpretations?

I feel as though I feel less all the time.  Maybe that’s a skewed perception, but that’s how it feels.  Things are declining in a way that I can’t fully describe, other than my view of humanity is always in jeopardy of making life one futile, long game of scrabble.  You know, the big words don’t win you the most points, necessarily, it is most likely strategy that does it.  Strategy, being something I apparently lack. 

When I was a child, I was certain that I would grow up.  Certain that I would fill out.  Since neither of those scenarios have  come to pass, I have often found myself spending too much time comparing myself to other women.  It’s a nasty thing women do, and I constantly question its purpose, but questioning it doesn’t diminish the compulsion.  So, I stare at myself in the mirror, and try to figure out what makes me less.  What makes me feel less.  I have lots of answers for that.  What I lack, or what I have too much of.   In doing so, I realize that the problem is competition, and that I feel like I am no longer worthy of competing, if ever I was.  Lucy never did that. 

I do though, find that I cling to words more than ever before.  Clingy, clingy, clingy…I guess I need to stoic-it-up.

Pru

Scatter