My Heart is Sick in Bed

My heart is sick in bed
My smile is upside down
I am so sorry
Please forgive me!!

This note was left on my pillow by Gracie, after she nearly drove me over the edge with a clothes tantrum. Even for her, the tantrum was impressive (not to mention long). My friend Maryanna can attest to its power, because I called her in desperation, looking for some sort of magical parenting advice, minutes after a tearful Gracie got on the bus. (Yes, she got on the bus crying. Very pathetic, I know - but crying about having to wear dumb old regular old pants - not quite as heart-wrenching, is it?)

In case words alone weren't dramatic enough, she actually covered the note with a shred of her beloved Blanky. I have to say, when the child is remorseful, she's remorseful! I guess that's something.

It's pretty, but...


...it's not exactly what I had in mind for the MIDDLE OF THE LAWN. I'm not sure what's happened to our grass. We've got the flowering weeds invading the back yard and the front looks like someone poured gasoline all over it.

I know I'm digressing from my usual subject of children, but as long as I'm ranting about our home, call me at your own risk. It's likely that we'll both be treated to a deafening blast of static when I pick up the phone. The phone problems we experience at this house would be comical if they weren't so maddening.

First, and worst of all, there's the Poltergeist-like interference zone that seems to exist on our main level, creating a tremendous amount of static whenever we use the phone. We have tried no less than eight different kinds of phones, including digital, analog, rotary... and various phone filters. Qwest has been out and shrugged their shoulders. "The line looks OK going into the house..." (Translation: we can't fix it and/or there's a bizarre electro-magnetic forcefield in your kitchen). Using the microwave when the phone is in use is out of the question, because the static completely overpowers the call.

It's also terribly hard to hear the "low-talkers" we know on the telephone. There are a few soft-voiced folks we speak to regularly - with the phone pressed so hard against our ear that an imprint remains hours later, the other ear tightly covered to block out background noise so we can catch bits and pieces of what these whisperers say and respond accordingly.

If you've called when no one is here, you may have heard our Spanish voicemail message and thought, "How impressive! They must be bilingual!" Not so. Our voicemail message frequently switches to an automated Spanish recording on its own. Often, I don't realize it's in Spanish until someone comments about it. Then I have to call the phone company because I can't change it.

In this era of technology, this celebrated digital age, I have to draw my own conclusions about what must be happening behind the scenes on our phone line:

Getting big, getting curly

Slack-jawed. Or trying to be.

My TMJ is acting up so I broke down and went a specialist. My nearly-two-hour appointment was very educational, minus a couple laughable moments when the doctor asked me, "Do you feel like you have a sufficient amount of downtime during your day?" and "Do you find yourself hurrying or rushing very often?" She was trying to determine what factors might be contributing to me clenching my jaw.

Hmm...

Well, the short person does keep me running, especially now that she's mastered the pincer grip. Every piece of lint, every speck of dirt, every stray pebble that got stuck on the bottom of someone's shoe and made it into the house is a target that she locates and puts into her mouth. At the same time I'm doing the "finger sweep" in her mouth a hundred times a day, she's reaching past me for another piece of fuzz.

I can't keep the floor clean enough. Clearly I'm not scheduling enough time for housework, as evidenced by the fact that I notice a dusty table while giving Mira her bottle, and 15 minutes later I've dusted the entire room with the burp cloth. Or have you ever seen some dirt on the floor and gone at it with a damp paper towel, only to end up mopping your entire kitchen with a roll of Bounty? I can't be the only one.

But let's be fair. I can't give Mira all the credit for my jaw clenching.

Oh my gosh, the DRAMA. She has begun using the baby monitor to voice her woes when she is sent to the room she and Mira share. I can tell from the volume and clarity that she is speaking directly into the monitor, like it's a microphone. (Her personal complaint mic, I guess). Downstairs in the kitchen as I am making dinner and contending with three other kids, the monitor crackles: "Nothing's fair!" "This is the worst day EVER!" "You don't even care how sad I am!"

Despite what I consider to be an ocean of loving patience on my part, the accusations about injustice fly. "Everything's about Abby. You don't even care about me. I'm just a speck of dust!" (Somehow this blog seems to be all about her, though). Of course, now she's got proof to back up her claims. In the middle of a recent tantrum she came stomping downstairs and tearfully cried, "The Magic 8 Ball is right! You DO hate me!"

What can I say to that?

Curly when wet!

The normally straight-haired Miss M. has a new 'do - but only after bath time.
I almost peed my pants when I saw her! It looks like we gave her a perm. If my reaction seems dramatic, remember what her hair usually looks like.
We've been seeing a little more wave in her hair lately, most noticeably when it's wet, but her look after this last bath caught us by surprise. (Luckily she's not old enough to be offended when we burst out laughing). I think it's a sign of hair to come, and I'm going to have to learn how to do that complicated braiding after all.