I don't shop at Walmart...I have before, but it's something I try to avoid at all costs (no pun intended.) Lately, they've been using a commercial where you see a shopping conveyor belt rolling along with a bunch of seemingly unrelated items until you see the person who bought them in a predicament that brings all the items together. I've realized how very true that is. You all know that I clean Kindsay's room on occasion...usually when the smell gets bad, when I can't see the floor, or when there's a gnat--whichever is first. Once again, I found myself cleaning the room. I'm all alone (I stayed home from work for a special reason), and I'm carrying a garbage bag because...let's face it...90% of the stuff I'm picking up is going in the trash. I start at the door and work my way to the bed and along the way run into quite a scene....batteries, hm...the socks are pulled out of her drawer, hm....here's a stack of books on a stool that need to be put away, hm...flashlights, three to be exact, on the ground by her bed, hm...a cardboard box, hm...stool is pulled to the lamp by the closet, hm...WHAT'S GOING ON? Oh no, these items were not random. Let's back up a bit.
Picture it...eighth grade functional skills room with twelve plus children with varying disabilities and they are gathered around a new display to go over a science concept. In the midst of these fine children is an incubator with an egg inside, heat emitting from a large bulb in the center while the egg is nestled amongst warmth on the floor. A few days of watching this spectacularly fascinating egg go by and Voila! Baby chick. I was not aware of this incubator lab going on, so when I was cleaning her room, I had no idea that Kindsay Einstein Edison was working on her very own self-made, home-based lab...with an egg out of her friend's fridge.
So the normal human is not going to permit eating a fertilized egg that contains an embryo. Yummy...sizzling baby and bacon...no. The eggs I eat are not fertilized and are for my consumption, not my breeding. Kindsay, the darlin', doesn't get that. Remember--I left the male out of the reproduction talk? Now it's coming to bite me...go for it...everything does eventually.
Back to Kindsay.
Kindsay comes home mortified that I cleaned her room. Where is all my stuff?? Uh...the trash, where it belongs. The room was a mess, Kins. In her most graceful tantrum, she puts together her incubator and pulls an egg nestled at the bottom of a Hanes-Her-Way sock out of her backpack and puts it in the cardboard box, which is sitting on a stack of books, which are set upon her stool, which is pushed up beneath the burning heat of her lamp, which is multiplying its heat with three flashlights that are perfectly aimed at the egg sock. The conveyor belt all makes sense now. As I futilely try to explain that there is not going to be a chick any day now, (she has taken the sock to school and took it to church, of course I'm unaware of this!) she is shaking her head, pulling up the laptop on her lap in her bed, and looking up incubators for purchase. Even though she found a heck of a deal at $50, there was no way I'd ever give the girl another birthday buck again as long as I lived if I thought for a moment it was going towards the purchase of an incubator so she can breed an army of chicks that would turn into chickens, which would make her chicken coop of a room an actual chicken coop. Of course my heart was broken for her knowing that she'd most likely never experience the joys of procreation and birth (help us all), but at the same time, if I gave in to her now I'd only end up getting bit in the end as she would be begin breeding anything that had potential to live in her room...and that would include more than my nerves can handle. Not gonna happen. Yet, compromise always prevails with Kindsay because she will perseverate over this till I jump off my roof, so I tell her--take it to your classroom--maybe your teacher will let you use her incubator! The light bulb over her head goes on, the bedroom light bulb goes off (along with all three flashlights), and then...I was content and so was she.
Follow up: Kindsay came home the next day sans egg sock. I thought she'd come home in complete despair having lost her precious egg as her teacher broke the news of the non-fertilized egg. Oh, the teacher broke something alright...and it wasn't just the bubble Kindsay bobbed around in..."Where's the egg, Kindsay?" Oh oh...she says...we broke it, the egg is cracked and we threw it out. Onward.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Border Patrol
It's no secret that my oldest child is from a previous relationship, although my other children are unaware of that and will continue to be so as long as I can hold them off. When I say relationship, I mean he was a former boss who dated an employee. When I say employee, I mean I was a minor preyed upon by an older man (six years older, but hey..when you're seventeen, that's a ton.) When I say preyed upon, I mean it was date him or lose my job, which I did both eventually. The sorted story that describes the tumultuous years (was it two?) with him is long and probably, no--definitely--R-rated. It's nothing I should go into detail about, although it would make a great indie flick. Actually, most of my pre-Greg years would make a great indie flick, and we'll leave it at that.
In any case, what was done was done and I was with child. Fast forward nine years and I'm giving the sex talk to my daughter. It wasn't anything planned in terms of organized conversation, though the need to explain it to her to some degree was premeditated. I remember the snowball building as I went along until my brakes went out and I was a runaway truck driving the 99. She would hardly blink her eyes as I described with very little detail to the point where the organs of the process were sketchy in terms of recognizable gender. What does anyone say besides get out the book made by the "Poo Poo In My Potty" people? The words were flitting out of my mouth while my hands tried to make some sort of charades-like images in the air. The math was adding up while I was talking. She was six months when she met Greg. He taught her to crawl. She was three when we married, she was there at the wedding, though to her the big moment of the day was crawling on the back of the statue in front of the temple and waving her arms. Here she was six years later and none the wiser as she remembers very little about her days of calling him Greg. He's just always been the dad that she saw her mom marry.
Mmmmk. So about that...my description of the man fitting together with a woman to create life was brief, but my blurting out that "her dad wasn't her real dad and that she had another person help me create her who she has never met although he did meet her when she was born and saw her again when she was two but she has no idea who he is and would never be able to pick him out between two guys standing in front of her oh and by the way he's Mexican and his last name is Romero" came out even faster and jumbled together like the longest word in a Mary Poppins film. Too much info...sex and biological fathers. So, any questions?
The next day she had school and I worried so much about her. What is going through her mind? Is she able to focus at all on school? Is she telling people about what Mommy told her last night? Does she look at boys with utter disgust now? I wished and wished I had waited for the weekend when she could take more time to absorb, then ask, then absorb again. But no, I had to muddle her life-altering lessons in with her multiplication facts (truly, there were no puns intended but man...that was a good one...multiplication and sex...hah!)
She came home and I watched her, testing her attitude, mood, reactions, etc., before I braved a check-up. She seemed to be alright except a little quieter than usual. Could anything be stranger than reproduction? I mean, yeah...once you've done it it's like--okay, this is how it goes. But for the first time hearing it? W-E-I-R-D....W-E-I-R-D. Ew...WEIRD. I follow her to her room and try with all the casual tones in my throat to pronounce the words, "how was your day?" afraid to hear the answer...afraid she'd want drawings, afraid she'd heard some horrid sexual vocabulary like the O word and require explanation (that actually happened to my friend and she had to explain it to her son...bleh.) She was indifferent in her answer, "fine" the usual, "So...did you have trouble understanding what we talked about, were you confused? Were you able to focus at school?"
She answered, "Yeah, it was so weird. All day I kept playing it over and over in my mind."
Oh no--my baby is thinking about porn!
"I just kept thinking how weird it was and everyone looked different to me."
Oh no--she hates boys...she wants to be a lesbian! I'm clutching my hands together holding a timid smile.
"I just kept looking at all the kids that I've seen everyday all year and now I see the Mexican kids and think 'I'm one of them.' It's so weird. I'm a Mexican."
I sat down trying to put myself into her shoes. What would that be like to find out your are someone you never identified with before? So, maybe the additional 'father' information was good to throw into the sex conversation. I mean, how far away is her mind right now from the big O? With a squeeze of her shoulders and a peck on her head I tell her, "yeah, that's weird huh...but it does explain your beautiful skin! You're lucky!" Once again my words of encouragement and gestures of love and affection prove that I truly am...Mother of the Year.
In any case, what was done was done and I was with child. Fast forward nine years and I'm giving the sex talk to my daughter. It wasn't anything planned in terms of organized conversation, though the need to explain it to her to some degree was premeditated. I remember the snowball building as I went along until my brakes went out and I was a runaway truck driving the 99. She would hardly blink her eyes as I described with very little detail to the point where the organs of the process were sketchy in terms of recognizable gender. What does anyone say besides get out the book made by the "Poo Poo In My Potty" people? The words were flitting out of my mouth while my hands tried to make some sort of charades-like images in the air. The math was adding up while I was talking. She was six months when she met Greg. He taught her to crawl. She was three when we married, she was there at the wedding, though to her the big moment of the day was crawling on the back of the statue in front of the temple and waving her arms. Here she was six years later and none the wiser as she remembers very little about her days of calling him Greg. He's just always been the dad that she saw her mom marry.
Mmmmk. So about that...my description of the man fitting together with a woman to create life was brief, but my blurting out that "her dad wasn't her real dad and that she had another person help me create her who she has never met although he did meet her when she was born and saw her again when she was two but she has no idea who he is and would never be able to pick him out between two guys standing in front of her oh and by the way he's Mexican and his last name is Romero" came out even faster and jumbled together like the longest word in a Mary Poppins film. Too much info...sex and biological fathers. So, any questions?
The next day she had school and I worried so much about her. What is going through her mind? Is she able to focus at all on school? Is she telling people about what Mommy told her last night? Does she look at boys with utter disgust now? I wished and wished I had waited for the weekend when she could take more time to absorb, then ask, then absorb again. But no, I had to muddle her life-altering lessons in with her multiplication facts (truly, there were no puns intended but man...that was a good one...multiplication and sex...hah!)
She came home and I watched her, testing her attitude, mood, reactions, etc., before I braved a check-up. She seemed to be alright except a little quieter than usual. Could anything be stranger than reproduction? I mean, yeah...once you've done it it's like--okay, this is how it goes. But for the first time hearing it? W-E-I-R-D....W-E-I-R-D. Ew...WEIRD. I follow her to her room and try with all the casual tones in my throat to pronounce the words, "how was your day?" afraid to hear the answer...afraid she'd want drawings, afraid she'd heard some horrid sexual vocabulary like the O word and require explanation (that actually happened to my friend and she had to explain it to her son...bleh.) She was indifferent in her answer, "fine" the usual, "So...did you have trouble understanding what we talked about, were you confused? Were you able to focus at school?"
She answered, "Yeah, it was so weird. All day I kept playing it over and over in my mind."
Oh no--my baby is thinking about porn!
"I just kept thinking how weird it was and everyone looked different to me."
Oh no--she hates boys...she wants to be a lesbian! I'm clutching my hands together holding a timid smile.
"I just kept looking at all the kids that I've seen everyday all year and now I see the Mexican kids and think 'I'm one of them.' It's so weird. I'm a Mexican."
I sat down trying to put myself into her shoes. What would that be like to find out your are someone you never identified with before? So, maybe the additional 'father' information was good to throw into the sex conversation. I mean, how far away is her mind right now from the big O? With a squeeze of her shoulders and a peck on her head I tell her, "yeah, that's weird huh...but it does explain your beautiful skin! You're lucky!" Once again my words of encouragement and gestures of love and affection prove that I truly am...Mother of the Year.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The Sleep Over
I know, it's a scary prospect, but it has been done, and if my respite angel is in a good mood, it'll be done again. Speaking of angels, there are few people better than family. My baby sister has zero patience for kids, yet she's a special education aide and she has two of her own. She continues to struggle with children, yet she's committed and dedicated to her children and students. And on occasion, those rare moments in life that require self-pinching, she even extends her care to my children. Not that she doesn't love my kids and isn't an awesome aunt, on the contrary, but she's got typical 'grandmother syndrome' where she enjoys them but hands them back sooner than later. And yet she's a chicken, much like myself, to where if husband is gone over night, there'd better be a sleep over. Sure enough, with hubby and oldest daughter in D.C., my sister needed company. I really lucked out. My mother does respite for me and decided to kill a couple of birds with one stone (not Kindsay's way, the figurative way.) She took Kindsay to my sister's to provide security for my sister and a break for me. It was Friday morning and there was a carry-on sized suitcase by the front door next to Kindsay's backpack. I shrugged, assuming it was one of Kindsay's many bags that she carries non-essentials around with, like a hoarder on wheels, and I walked on by. Later my mother reminded me that she's getting Kindsay after school and does she have everything packed? Ahhh, thus the suitcase. I assured my mother that nothing she actually needed would be in the luggage and she would have to stop by my house on her way out to pick up the stuff she REALLY needs. Kindsay packs twelve pairs of underwear and no shirts, a tube of toothpaste and no toothbrush, etc. In any case, I'm telling my mom to help herself to whatever she needs in my house, even if that includes my own bed, because both Kindsay and I need the break. Afternoon came around, and I came home to an empty house, nodding in the satisfaction that my kitchen hadn't been raided since the night before, that my daughter wasn't spread-eagled over the toilet with the door wide open for me to catch sight of, that there wasn't a trail of crap leading to her mattress where she looms under a large down comforter waiting for her fellow passengers of the Kindsay Express to call her. It was great peace of mind to know where she was, that she was actually socializing and doing something fun, and that I had the night off. My mom's plan was to go to the movies, grab dinner, then go to Aunt Brit's to spend the night. I don't care if they went panhandling under a bridge, as long as Kindsay was out of the house instead of balled up in the corner of her bed in between hitting my cupboards with her grocery cart for hands. Evening came around I thought it might be good measure to check in with her, or my mom, and I called to no avail. Probably already in bed. Kindsay...she can really pull herself together when she wants t---- ring ring.....my house phone rings. I ignore it. Ring ring...my cell phone rings. It's Brit. Awww, how nice of her to call and fill me in on their adventures. How lovely of her to call to thank me for lending my little girl to her so she could enjoy a fun Friday night my way. Ahhh..."Yvette, are there any other pills we can use?"
My delusions are yanked back to reality as I look at the clock. Nine pm...which is late for them to be up considering my mom and sis are in bed no later than eight every night. "um...she took the Seroquel?"
"Yes, we gave her the usual pills, but she's kind of losing it tonight."
I'm ready to make the crackling sound in the phone and plead 'riding an elevator, can't talk,' but then I might be shooting all future opportunities out the door. Just please don't make me go pick her up.
"What do you mean? What's she doing?"
"Well...." now, my sister knows Kindsay, she's around her a lot and my mom has Kindsay even more often. They know my little cuckoo for cocoa puffs well and know to a degree what to expect. However, somethings can never be taken for granted. Like how well your children go to bed at night. Britney proceeds to fill me in on the insanity ensuing.
"We gave her the pills and then she went to bed but then she'll get up a second later and go in the bathroom and sit on the toilet. I can hear her talking but I don't know what she is talking about or why."
mmmmhmmmm....I wait for the abnormalities to surface....
"Uh, okay, then she goes back to bed, then she's up another second later in my kitchen. I can hear her opening up everything in my cupboards, which is no biggie because we're ready for shopping and she's eating the last of the last stuff before I go...but I don't hear an end to the food, cupboards, fridge, and stuff."
alright....I wait....the unusual behaviors must be next.
"Uh, then she goes back to bed and then she's up a second later back in the bathroom talking on the toilet." pause...silence...still waiting...
"Then I can hear my fridge open. Then I tell her to go to bed and she tells me to leave her alone and she's tired and stumbling around."
and....then what?
"Um....then she goes back to bed and then she jumps up again and goes back to the bathroom.....is there another pill? Mom is sharing a bed with her and she's not able to fall asleep with all that going on and my dogs are going nuts watching her...no one can settle down." I can hear the panic in her voice.
I have no other pills I tell her. But, Brit, this is all typical Kindsay, it's her routine, that's her sleep pattern. I just drown out the sounds with a box fan and look forward to the kitchen raid surprises in the morning by seeing what is left on the counters, in the sink, splattered in the microwave, and wrapped in foil in the fridge. Britney sees that she's in a corner and I can feel her frustration. "I know, my kid is weird." I give up...I'm on my way---"What if she takes an Ativan?" Oh yeah...my mom carries those in her poison ring...give her one of those, well, a half...and that should calm her down. I can hear Brit calling out orders for Ativan STAT to my mom and that was the last I heard from them. What Brit didn't realize is that my mom had taken an Ambien to help her sleep through the nonsense and it shut off her body but kept her subconsciousness awake enough to function as though she were really there. In other words, my mom has no recollection of the whole evening. Britney, had she known she was alone in that episode, probably would have called a taxi for Kindsay.
But what's the big deal? So Kindsay never stays in bed or sleeps through the night, or stays out of my kitchen for longer than twenty minutes, and prefers sitting on the toilet to have quality self-talk for hours on end....aren't we all creatures of habit?
Saturday afternoon came before I was ready, and my Kindsay Grace was back, stripped out of her clothes and drowned in a down comforter in the corner of her bed before I could ask how her sleep over was. Back to business. Brit called to tell me all was well after she took the pill. With all the casualness I could muster using the improvisational training from three drama classes, I tell her, "Hey, let me know if you ever want her back over to spend the night...whenever you want, okay?" Having a sleep over with Kindsay is like having a baby. You can't have another until you've forgotten the pains of having the last one. And since Brit's baby is ten, I may be waiting a while before another invite. I can hear the radio blasting out of Kindsay's room right now at 9:20 at night...while we are all stumbling to find sleep...she's ready to go again, making her check list of bathroom visits and kitchen raids for the evening. And I turn to the white noise...peace out.
My delusions are yanked back to reality as I look at the clock. Nine pm...which is late for them to be up considering my mom and sis are in bed no later than eight every night. "um...she took the Seroquel?"
"Yes, we gave her the usual pills, but she's kind of losing it tonight."
I'm ready to make the crackling sound in the phone and plead 'riding an elevator, can't talk,' but then I might be shooting all future opportunities out the door. Just please don't make me go pick her up.
"What do you mean? What's she doing?"
"Well...." now, my sister knows Kindsay, she's around her a lot and my mom has Kindsay even more often. They know my little cuckoo for cocoa puffs well and know to a degree what to expect. However, somethings can never be taken for granted. Like how well your children go to bed at night. Britney proceeds to fill me in on the insanity ensuing.
"We gave her the pills and then she went to bed but then she'll get up a second later and go in the bathroom and sit on the toilet. I can hear her talking but I don't know what she is talking about or why."
mmmmhmmmm....I wait for the abnormalities to surface....
"Uh, okay, then she goes back to bed, then she's up another second later in my kitchen. I can hear her opening up everything in my cupboards, which is no biggie because we're ready for shopping and she's eating the last of the last stuff before I go...but I don't hear an end to the food, cupboards, fridge, and stuff."
alright....I wait....the unusual behaviors must be next.
"Uh, then she goes back to bed and then she's up a second later back in the bathroom talking on the toilet." pause...silence...still waiting...
"Then I can hear my fridge open. Then I tell her to go to bed and she tells me to leave her alone and she's tired and stumbling around."
and....then what?
"Um....then she goes back to bed and then she jumps up again and goes back to the bathroom.....is there another pill? Mom is sharing a bed with her and she's not able to fall asleep with all that going on and my dogs are going nuts watching her...no one can settle down." I can hear the panic in her voice.
I have no other pills I tell her. But, Brit, this is all typical Kindsay, it's her routine, that's her sleep pattern. I just drown out the sounds with a box fan and look forward to the kitchen raid surprises in the morning by seeing what is left on the counters, in the sink, splattered in the microwave, and wrapped in foil in the fridge. Britney sees that she's in a corner and I can feel her frustration. "I know, my kid is weird." I give up...I'm on my way---"What if she takes an Ativan?" Oh yeah...my mom carries those in her poison ring...give her one of those, well, a half...and that should calm her down. I can hear Brit calling out orders for Ativan STAT to my mom and that was the last I heard from them. What Brit didn't realize is that my mom had taken an Ambien to help her sleep through the nonsense and it shut off her body but kept her subconsciousness awake enough to function as though she were really there. In other words, my mom has no recollection of the whole evening. Britney, had she known she was alone in that episode, probably would have called a taxi for Kindsay.
But what's the big deal? So Kindsay never stays in bed or sleeps through the night, or stays out of my kitchen for longer than twenty minutes, and prefers sitting on the toilet to have quality self-talk for hours on end....aren't we all creatures of habit?
Saturday afternoon came before I was ready, and my Kindsay Grace was back, stripped out of her clothes and drowned in a down comforter in the corner of her bed before I could ask how her sleep over was. Back to business. Brit called to tell me all was well after she took the pill. With all the casualness I could muster using the improvisational training from three drama classes, I tell her, "Hey, let me know if you ever want her back over to spend the night...whenever you want, okay?" Having a sleep over with Kindsay is like having a baby. You can't have another until you've forgotten the pains of having the last one. And since Brit's baby is ten, I may be waiting a while before another invite. I can hear the radio blasting out of Kindsay's room right now at 9:20 at night...while we are all stumbling to find sleep...she's ready to go again, making her check list of bathroom visits and kitchen raids for the evening. And I turn to the white noise...peace out.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Black Hole
I realize you are apprehensive about reading any further, and I don't blame you knowing what we know about my Kindsay Grace. Just when you think you've heard it all, or dry-heaved it all, we are blessed with more. I try to imagine her husband-to-be...perhaps that guy on movies that the girl dumps for the better guy because the nerdy one has an allergy to everything and has a humidifier hooked up to his face? Or maybe the guy who cannot clear up his pizza face? I imagine her future mate to be someone from my class, one that walks by you and lets a big one rip without flinching or apologizing while agonizing over the embarrassment. Yes, a typical guy, but one who appreciates the flatulence of a woman too. If only Shrek were real, right? Because Shrek enjoys bubbling up the spa using natural gases and loves the flavor of his own ear wax...which is a lot like Kindsay.
Needless to say, Kindsay is gross. Most girls of fourteen are no longer gross. They worry about their looks, their smells, what people are thinking, etc. Not Kindsay...it's all about her own perception of herself, which can be a great thing, but sometimes not because the rest of us have to suffer for it. Take for example her eating habits. I've explained to her on numerous occasions that she cannot eat everything on her plate as though it were one long spaghetti noodle. By the time she's done, she hiccuping and rashing up from the food goatee left on her face. It's not like I have twelve kids and only seating for three so my children have to fight their way to dinner. In fact, I'm down one kid now, but still Kindsay acts like a recently saved POW from Ethiopia. Not only does she eat like the food is running out and cannot be eaten in pieces, but she does it while balancing the plate on her leg. No, not her knee. Aren't we lucky? I'm watching t.v. and Kindsay plops down on the couch. Beware the couch. She's wrapped in a huge down comforter (believe me, I've tried) because she thinks it's an adequate alternative to clothing. She's wearing her uniform of sports bra and large panties up the booty. I'm watching something like Avatar because the boys cannot get enough air bending, and I look over to an NC-17 rated food fest. Her leg is propped up so her calf is perpendicular to her chest and her plate is on her calf (well, whatever the side of her calf is called) and her foot is sticking out past her plate while she engages in her usual shoveling, her eyes darting around the room. The blanket is NOT covering the part of her body that is exposed when one hikes her legs over her head, and the girl doesn't care if the undergarments are a week into wear. At that point I want to drop to my knees and express gratitude that I'm either A) done eating, B) not eating because I'm dieting, or C) needing to diet because that would certainly remove any fragment of an appetite. I want to jump my body in front of her peek-a-boo show to save my boys from childhood scars that can only be removed by hours of shock therapy that I will have to pay for because it's ultimately my fault, but I'm in horror. Thankfully she's not experiencing any kind of monthly action because when that is the case, which is at times, it looks like my daughter has been shot, as clean as she keeps herself, and at that point it's only pity one can feel...for me. Despite the loss of air, wind, lung, and energy I consume to remind her to be dressed and sit at the kitchen table when eating, she eats it so fast that she's done while I'm repeating myself once again and is flying back into her room, down comforter trailing behind her like a fur on Cruella DeVille. While my boys are not exactly unaffected by this, they are also becoming desensitized since their reactions are becoming slower and less dramatic. Instead of a gasp of horror, pointing, screaming little boy terms to describe what they see, it's more of an--EW!
But bless her heart, I hear her thudding down the hall because when she walks, even in bare feet, it sounds like she's wearing Doc Martins. I'm never sure if she's going to stop in at her toilet for her hour long session of dangling freely while carrying on one-sided conversations with herself, or if she has to say something to me and will thus come to my room. This time, she goes by, thudding in furious speed, and goes to my bathroom, flipping open cupboards. I ask, "What are you looking for?" As she picks everything up one at a time to smell it to decide if that's what she needs (her smell senses are keen whereas her sight cannot be trusted from what I've gathered), she tells me her bellybutton is black. "Oh oh oh, I have black stuff in my belly button, ew it's gross, I have to get it." WHY DO I ASK? Why? Do I really think there will ever be a time when I will get an answer that doesn't cause seasickness or a desire to hit my head on the ground to lose my short-term memory? In the meantime, she digging for something to do the digging. Yay. Her bellybutton at birth was such an outie that we would push it like an elevator button. It was large and round, comical and cute. But now, with her very poor eating habits, or binges, whatever you like, her bellybutton is quite the innie. So much so, that we're not sure how deep it goes, and it should probably be cleaned regularly. Sadly, I know this because...sports bra...you know. Finally she finds cotton swabs and proceeds, in front of me, to describe what she is cleaning, and how she is actually disgusted by it (that deserves a perfect 10 in my book), and she is flicking it into my bedroom trash can. My face is now stoic mixed with despair. She finally gets to the bottom, or as far as she could go, and says, "oh oh, that's gone, okay, the black is gone. I don't know WHAT that was, I just don't know why it's black." Could it be a gnat that lost it's way...thinking it was finding the perfect cave in which to hide and hoard from the other gnats? Unlikely, but whatever it was, it is now halfway in my trash can, partially flicked onto my armoire, and repulsing some poor cotton swab that preferred the hairy ear of an unbathed 90-year-old homeless man.
Now go eat some lunch.
Needless to say, Kindsay is gross. Most girls of fourteen are no longer gross. They worry about their looks, their smells, what people are thinking, etc. Not Kindsay...it's all about her own perception of herself, which can be a great thing, but sometimes not because the rest of us have to suffer for it. Take for example her eating habits. I've explained to her on numerous occasions that she cannot eat everything on her plate as though it were one long spaghetti noodle. By the time she's done, she hiccuping and rashing up from the food goatee left on her face. It's not like I have twelve kids and only seating for three so my children have to fight their way to dinner. In fact, I'm down one kid now, but still Kindsay acts like a recently saved POW from Ethiopia. Not only does she eat like the food is running out and cannot be eaten in pieces, but she does it while balancing the plate on her leg. No, not her knee. Aren't we lucky? I'm watching t.v. and Kindsay plops down on the couch. Beware the couch. She's wrapped in a huge down comforter (believe me, I've tried) because she thinks it's an adequate alternative to clothing. She's wearing her uniform of sports bra and large panties up the booty. I'm watching something like Avatar because the boys cannot get enough air bending, and I look over to an NC-17 rated food fest. Her leg is propped up so her calf is perpendicular to her chest and her plate is on her calf (well, whatever the side of her calf is called) and her foot is sticking out past her plate while she engages in her usual shoveling, her eyes darting around the room. The blanket is NOT covering the part of her body that is exposed when one hikes her legs over her head, and the girl doesn't care if the undergarments are a week into wear. At that point I want to drop to my knees and express gratitude that I'm either A) done eating, B) not eating because I'm dieting, or C) needing to diet because that would certainly remove any fragment of an appetite. I want to jump my body in front of her peek-a-boo show to save my boys from childhood scars that can only be removed by hours of shock therapy that I will have to pay for because it's ultimately my fault, but I'm in horror. Thankfully she's not experiencing any kind of monthly action because when that is the case, which is at times, it looks like my daughter has been shot, as clean as she keeps herself, and at that point it's only pity one can feel...for me. Despite the loss of air, wind, lung, and energy I consume to remind her to be dressed and sit at the kitchen table when eating, she eats it so fast that she's done while I'm repeating myself once again and is flying back into her room, down comforter trailing behind her like a fur on Cruella DeVille. While my boys are not exactly unaffected by this, they are also becoming desensitized since their reactions are becoming slower and less dramatic. Instead of a gasp of horror, pointing, screaming little boy terms to describe what they see, it's more of an--EW!
But bless her heart, I hear her thudding down the hall because when she walks, even in bare feet, it sounds like she's wearing Doc Martins. I'm never sure if she's going to stop in at her toilet for her hour long session of dangling freely while carrying on one-sided conversations with herself, or if she has to say something to me and will thus come to my room. This time, she goes by, thudding in furious speed, and goes to my bathroom, flipping open cupboards. I ask, "What are you looking for?" As she picks everything up one at a time to smell it to decide if that's what she needs (her smell senses are keen whereas her sight cannot be trusted from what I've gathered), she tells me her bellybutton is black. "Oh oh oh, I have black stuff in my belly button, ew it's gross, I have to get it." WHY DO I ASK? Why? Do I really think there will ever be a time when I will get an answer that doesn't cause seasickness or a desire to hit my head on the ground to lose my short-term memory? In the meantime, she digging for something to do the digging. Yay. Her bellybutton at birth was such an outie that we would push it like an elevator button. It was large and round, comical and cute. But now, with her very poor eating habits, or binges, whatever you like, her bellybutton is quite the innie. So much so, that we're not sure how deep it goes, and it should probably be cleaned regularly. Sadly, I know this because...sports bra...you know. Finally she finds cotton swabs and proceeds, in front of me, to describe what she is cleaning, and how she is actually disgusted by it (that deserves a perfect 10 in my book), and she is flicking it into my bedroom trash can. My face is now stoic mixed with despair. She finally gets to the bottom, or as far as she could go, and says, "oh oh, that's gone, okay, the black is gone. I don't know WHAT that was, I just don't know why it's black." Could it be a gnat that lost it's way...thinking it was finding the perfect cave in which to hide and hoard from the other gnats? Unlikely, but whatever it was, it is now halfway in my trash can, partially flicked onto my armoire, and repulsing some poor cotton swab that preferred the hairy ear of an unbathed 90-year-old homeless man.
Now go eat some lunch.
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