I am the first person to admit I am a social moron. I hide from social activities for that purpose. I don't know what comes over me, but I almost can't act right in public so I avoid it altogether. I remember reading somewhere that kids who were super smart academically were usually lacking in social skills, and I, having gone to special schools for smart kids, fit that description neatly. You can almost picture us brainiacs wandering around the school yard, bumping into each other and not knowing how to get around the awkwardness of it all. No, they didn't teach us how to deal with each other interpersonally in school, only how to program computers and dissect starfish. Enough said? I think not. Case in point:
It was a warm spring day, and I was attending a baby shower with one of my best friends being held for gal I had known for a few years. She was having her fourth child, and a baby shower was necessary because she hadn't had a girl in enough years to have had any hand-me-downs. The house sat in a cul-de-sac in a new neighborhood next door to the honoree's new home. The houses were single level spreads with the finest in decor and landscaping and of course every car out front was only within a few years of the Toyota factory. I didn't quite fit in as I care very little about this and that for the sake of appearing well to do and being pretentious is not what I believe to be a weakness of mine. Other weaknesses I have, however, and one is that my mouth is unusually large in the state of being flappy in a figurative sense, which unloads a tremendous amount of irony in this case, soon to be revealed.
The shower was held outdoors in a setting found on after school specials. White tables with white linens and centerpieces of pink made with great care and detail were carefully organized throughout the well-manicured yard. A table for the honoree and her closest friends sat beneath a canopy to keep the expectant mom-to-be (again) cool from the late-morning sun. Another table off to the side held the beautifully wrapped packages that seemed to get larger as the eye strolled along the length of it. My gift, which was shared with my friend and fellow attendee, only appeared lamer and lamer as I noticed the luxury gift wrapping and professionalism in the formation of the bows. My own homemade concoction wasn't anything to ponder, and I was starting to wonder if the extra five bucks wasn't worth the relief from gift-wrap humiliation. Inside the House Beautiful was a quaint, and healthy I might add, potluck of finger foods and salads. As the party started, we ladies of leisure and class assembled inside to help ourselves to a polite mixture of the treats. The majority of us knew each other from church, including the woman of honor, but the woman in whose home we were standing was a stranger to us. As we chatted in small ways with each other, we slowly began to pull the home owner into our conversations as we introduced ourselves in various ways. The woman, in her mid-thirties, was a beauty and looked incredibly familiar. It dawned on me that she looked like a friend we all had in common (apparently not in common enough to have been invited though). "You know who you look like?" We had all agreed that she had a great deal of familiarity written into her features, but couldn't pinpoint it until genius here spoke up. "You look just like our friend Shireen!" The women around me chimed in their agreements, discussing with each other how right on I was. Shireen's twin looked at me and smiled, not knowing how that worked in her favor. Another woman piped up, "and you also look like Rita Wilson!" again with the chimes of agreement and awareness by the other party goers. "Yeah!" I said, "that's it! You, and Shireen for that matter, resemble Rita Wilson! You all have those sparkling gray eyes!" Women repeating my words around me, nodding their heads to each other as the light bulbs went off over their heads. I persisted, "You have the same high cheek bones..." murmuring of agreement..."the hairstyle and color is almost identical" (oh yes, the hair! the eyes, cheeks and hair! mm hm, yes I see that.) Shireen's twin is looking around at the women seeing the conformity in their decision and seeking, perhaps, a way out of this attention...yet I persist. "you have the same smile too! The same smile with the same big mouth!" oh!, the expecting mother places her hand over her mouth and gasps. It's quiet for about 10 seconds as the twin looks at me with a smile painted on by her now "big" mouth in all its big glory. "No, I don't mean big, wide...large, no,..." No word seems to satisfy anyone and my moment to pull my large foot out of my mouth is yanked away as over half the women chime in, now against me, backtracking my words by soothing her with statements of the twin's unmatched beauty, and how Shireen is also beautiful and Rita Wilson a stunner. Their words intend comfort as their hearts resist the need to shun me. In the next instant, the attention is turned to the food, which is where mine usually is and SHOULD HAVE BEEN all along. The group disperses and the twin is left standing there looking for a way under a rock. As the party moves outdoors to the seating areas, I find the twin filling up a plate. I come in next to her and tell her my word choice was terrible and that she is more than lovely. She nods with pleasantries spewing from her big mouth as she delicately places a few items on her plate, most likely to prove to us that nothing on her is really big. I load up my plate with anything sugary available, only proving once again that my mouth is not only literally big, it is figuratively big and ready to accept anything large enough to keep it busy from talking for the rest of the day.
And yet my question remains, aside from the proverbial big mouth, what was wrong with having a physically BIG mouth? They are sexy and sensuous yet classic. They create the most amazing smiles and create envy in everyone. Is the word "big" so horrid or tacky? Can I have big eyes and be okay, or big lips? It's not like I said "big behind" or "big teeth" or something unflattering. Maybe a big mouth is associated with Mick Jagger, at which point the mouth becomes freakish. Anyone know? In any case, I can admit that I wish my mouth was physically big in that supermodel sexy way, and not figuratively big, at least not enough for my size ten shoes that I manage to chew on a regular basis. So in my house I sit, safe from my own big mouth. Y me?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Red Blue Face
Embarrassing moments are character builders, aren't they? When we hear about others' embarrassments, we're so glad it wasn't us, and yet we all have them, don't we? I certainly have my share. This post is one of them...and hopefully not one of many I remember.
It was 1996. I worked at a produce procurement company that arranged purchases of produce from local shippers to grocery food chains nationwide and up through Canada. That was the job I had when I realized I needed to seek higher education. There I was, fresh-faced and right out of high school, and within six months I'd gone from secretary assistant to a buying assistant. I was labeled a buying assistant, but reality was I had the largest and only international account as my charge, and yet I was making the least amount of money. I'd sit at a large wheel, like a lazy susan, and it spun between all of us buyers with all the accounts filed inside it so we could access any file at any time. It was a cool concept, but it got hard some days looking at the same people. The small office also only had one bathroom. Ten guys, four girls, and one bathroom. Not pretty, oh boy...no privacy at all. Anyway-part of the job was scouring the produce through California, which was our main region, on top of the southern deserts of Arizona and Chilean markets, plus parts of Mexico. I had to go out one day and check out local soft fruit as the season was at its peak and our office manager wanted to know what our shippers were shipping to our customers. Yeah, I knew them all--Driscoll strawberries, Grimway carrots, Ito peaches, Fresh Express salad, the Dole empire, and on and on. It's a small world in produce, but I suppose it's also obscure to the main population. I didn't mind going out to look at produce, which required me to meet with shippers, go into their coolers and packing houses, and describe in detail what I saw. In return shippers would place large boxes of fresh fruit in my company's car so I could take it back and dole it out (dole...punny~). This was back before GPS and I would have a heck of a time finding the small shippers in the tiny towns outside of anything remotely plottable on a map. At the time I was five months pregnant with Kindsay. I was heading out early summer and she came in October, so I was showing pretty good..I always looked pregnant too soon, you know? On top of that, the maternity clothes were L-A-M-E so I was wearing this overall-jumper-shorts outfit that added a few months to my look. What did I care? I had a job to do, and my goodness--I was gonna do it! I had my paper to fill out and my flowing pen of ink ready to jot till my heart couldn't take it any more of the soft fruit that I picked up and marveled at with feigned interest. I had no idea what I was looking at, looking for, nothing. Even now I couldn't tell you how to pick a good watermelon though I got first-hand instruction from watermelon growers of California's agriculture wonderland. I still thump, smell, and look around at what other people are buying. Whatever, I was right out of high school and doing a job so off I went. I had about four shippers to visit, all plums, peaches, and nectarines--which meant great samples to take home! But first I had to get my report done. After I visited two shippers, I went to PacSun and found it pretty empty. I was the "client," the one the shippers had to woo so I would tell my clients how great they were and buy from them. I entered the shipping yard looking around for any sign of packing life. I found a worker and he told me he'd get his manager to come out to talk to me and show me around. I nodded and sat on a set of pallets to wait for him, and thought perhaps I could start filling out my paperwork. As I started writing, the wind whipped up between the buildings and through my arms, blowing my papers up. Thankfully, I had both hands on them with the pen ready to write as I snatched around trying to get the papers in order, fighting against the wind and it's attempt to trash my visit. As I was getting myself together, the manager appeared. There before me was a former neighbor of mine, from my childhood, the older brother of my girlfriend down the street who was so stinking cute that everytime he mispronounced my name I giggled instead of correct him. He'd call me Y-vette, pronouncing the Y like you say it, then adding "vet" on the end. *sigh* He recognized me before I recognized him. Apparently I have a distinct face. I remembered him right away after he said his name. He was still a good-looking guy. He went on to small talk about how his sister, my childhood friend, was tall, beautiful, and living the good life down south as a single, free woman of leisure. There I stood with my pregnant belly, overalls (bleh), fuzzy wind-blown hair, and my "fruit paperwork" with all the authority of newly hired produce boy. Just what was he inferring? That I wasn't tall, beautiful, and living the good life? I had a great husband, children, and a job that paid, well, better than flipping burgers I guess. But still...I wasn't scraping the bottom of anything! I smiled and nodded as he created this goddess of southern California, a "coulda been me too" fantasy of a person that just couldn't be real. And yet, there he stood with his blue shipper shirt and his name stitched on the front. Hmph. We chatted, then he showed me around, I took notes diligently with all the seriousness I could muster as I described the plums in their purpley plumpness. The flesh was orange and fleshy. The plums were round. Oh yeah, I was taking some important notes. Watch out people, I'm rising up the produce ladder. You'd be able to pick out one of my described plums in a box of regular plums in a heartbeat. I finished up my visit and shook his hand, looking into his dark eyes and watching his thick hair flitting in the breeze. I'm married, I remind myself, can't think some other guy is cute, but I also couldn't help but be swept back into my childhood with my youthful crush on my friend's big bro. I went back to the car with authoritative fruit-describing urgency, ready to meet another 'competitor' shipper and say some good stuff about his nectarines, yeah--you've got competition and I'm not taking sides, buddy, no matter how cute you are. He stood and watched me get into my car then walked back into his warehouse. I sat in the car for a moment, getting my report in order and preparing to find my next shipper in the next remote, no-name town. My mind went back to his overly kind description of his gorgeous sister. What does she have that I don't have? I'm not half-bad, right? I flip down the visor to peek into the lighted mirror. Horror stared back at me. Yes, my face had it's baby-carrying glow, but it also had a five-inch blue line drawn from the top of my brow down to my lower cheek, almost jawline, on the left side of my face. What? What was that? The silky blue inkpen I carried that was so easy to write with as I walked around with shippers quickly became my enemy as I remembered grabbing papers in the wind with the unlidded pen in my hand whipping around careless of what it swiped across in an effort to save my beloved fruit reports from flying off into some forsaken field. I had inadvertently whipped the pen across my face, so smooth was the writing that I barely felt it, yet it left a solid line down my face. All that time I spoke with my old crush I looked like a hillbilly in my overalls, unable to master my fancy writin' utensil, hair mussed and face red and shiny with a blue streak of naivety. Yeah, my childhood girlfriend was living the good life. Why he had to stand there and go on about her while he could tell I was a complete mess is unknown to me...just another unquestionable question in the life of a girl unsure of, well, anything and everything. Except I could describe the pants off a peach, you better believe it. Those "fuzzy, peachy peach things" hmm!
...I still got it.
It was 1996. I worked at a produce procurement company that arranged purchases of produce from local shippers to grocery food chains nationwide and up through Canada. That was the job I had when I realized I needed to seek higher education. There I was, fresh-faced and right out of high school, and within six months I'd gone from secretary assistant to a buying assistant. I was labeled a buying assistant, but reality was I had the largest and only international account as my charge, and yet I was making the least amount of money. I'd sit at a large wheel, like a lazy susan, and it spun between all of us buyers with all the accounts filed inside it so we could access any file at any time. It was a cool concept, but it got hard some days looking at the same people. The small office also only had one bathroom. Ten guys, four girls, and one bathroom. Not pretty, oh boy...no privacy at all. Anyway-part of the job was scouring the produce through California, which was our main region, on top of the southern deserts of Arizona and Chilean markets, plus parts of Mexico. I had to go out one day and check out local soft fruit as the season was at its peak and our office manager wanted to know what our shippers were shipping to our customers. Yeah, I knew them all--Driscoll strawberries, Grimway carrots, Ito peaches, Fresh Express salad, the Dole empire, and on and on. It's a small world in produce, but I suppose it's also obscure to the main population. I didn't mind going out to look at produce, which required me to meet with shippers, go into their coolers and packing houses, and describe in detail what I saw. In return shippers would place large boxes of fresh fruit in my company's car so I could take it back and dole it out (dole...punny~). This was back before GPS and I would have a heck of a time finding the small shippers in the tiny towns outside of anything remotely plottable on a map. At the time I was five months pregnant with Kindsay. I was heading out early summer and she came in October, so I was showing pretty good..I always looked pregnant too soon, you know? On top of that, the maternity clothes were L-A-M-E so I was wearing this overall-jumper-shorts outfit that added a few months to my look. What did I care? I had a job to do, and my goodness--I was gonna do it! I had my paper to fill out and my flowing pen of ink ready to jot till my heart couldn't take it any more of the soft fruit that I picked up and marveled at with feigned interest. I had no idea what I was looking at, looking for, nothing. Even now I couldn't tell you how to pick a good watermelon though I got first-hand instruction from watermelon growers of California's agriculture wonderland. I still thump, smell, and look around at what other people are buying. Whatever, I was right out of high school and doing a job so off I went. I had about four shippers to visit, all plums, peaches, and nectarines--which meant great samples to take home! But first I had to get my report done. After I visited two shippers, I went to PacSun and found it pretty empty. I was the "client," the one the shippers had to woo so I would tell my clients how great they were and buy from them. I entered the shipping yard looking around for any sign of packing life. I found a worker and he told me he'd get his manager to come out to talk to me and show me around. I nodded and sat on a set of pallets to wait for him, and thought perhaps I could start filling out my paperwork. As I started writing, the wind whipped up between the buildings and through my arms, blowing my papers up. Thankfully, I had both hands on them with the pen ready to write as I snatched around trying to get the papers in order, fighting against the wind and it's attempt to trash my visit. As I was getting myself together, the manager appeared. There before me was a former neighbor of mine, from my childhood, the older brother of my girlfriend down the street who was so stinking cute that everytime he mispronounced my name I giggled instead of correct him. He'd call me Y-vette, pronouncing the Y like you say it, then adding "vet" on the end. *sigh* He recognized me before I recognized him. Apparently I have a distinct face. I remembered him right away after he said his name. He was still a good-looking guy. He went on to small talk about how his sister, my childhood friend, was tall, beautiful, and living the good life down south as a single, free woman of leisure. There I stood with my pregnant belly, overalls (bleh), fuzzy wind-blown hair, and my "fruit paperwork" with all the authority of newly hired produce boy. Just what was he inferring? That I wasn't tall, beautiful, and living the good life? I had a great husband, children, and a job that paid, well, better than flipping burgers I guess. But still...I wasn't scraping the bottom of anything! I smiled and nodded as he created this goddess of southern California, a "coulda been me too" fantasy of a person that just couldn't be real. And yet, there he stood with his blue shipper shirt and his name stitched on the front. Hmph. We chatted, then he showed me around, I took notes diligently with all the seriousness I could muster as I described the plums in their purpley plumpness. The flesh was orange and fleshy. The plums were round. Oh yeah, I was taking some important notes. Watch out people, I'm rising up the produce ladder. You'd be able to pick out one of my described plums in a box of regular plums in a heartbeat. I finished up my visit and shook his hand, looking into his dark eyes and watching his thick hair flitting in the breeze. I'm married, I remind myself, can't think some other guy is cute, but I also couldn't help but be swept back into my childhood with my youthful crush on my friend's big bro. I went back to the car with authoritative fruit-describing urgency, ready to meet another 'competitor' shipper and say some good stuff about his nectarines, yeah--you've got competition and I'm not taking sides, buddy, no matter how cute you are. He stood and watched me get into my car then walked back into his warehouse. I sat in the car for a moment, getting my report in order and preparing to find my next shipper in the next remote, no-name town. My mind went back to his overly kind description of his gorgeous sister. What does she have that I don't have? I'm not half-bad, right? I flip down the visor to peek into the lighted mirror. Horror stared back at me. Yes, my face had it's baby-carrying glow, but it also had a five-inch blue line drawn from the top of my brow down to my lower cheek, almost jawline, on the left side of my face. What? What was that? The silky blue inkpen I carried that was so easy to write with as I walked around with shippers quickly became my enemy as I remembered grabbing papers in the wind with the unlidded pen in my hand whipping around careless of what it swiped across in an effort to save my beloved fruit reports from flying off into some forsaken field. I had inadvertently whipped the pen across my face, so smooth was the writing that I barely felt it, yet it left a solid line down my face. All that time I spoke with my old crush I looked like a hillbilly in my overalls, unable to master my fancy writin' utensil, hair mussed and face red and shiny with a blue streak of naivety. Yeah, my childhood girlfriend was living the good life. Why he had to stand there and go on about her while he could tell I was a complete mess is unknown to me...just another unquestionable question in the life of a girl unsure of, well, anything and everything. Except I could describe the pants off a peach, you better believe it. Those "fuzzy, peachy peach things" hmm!
...I still got it.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
The (Circular) Conversation
There's a Spongebob episode (I love that little yellow dude) when he thinks everyone is a robot because of a movie he saw the night before, which freaked him out. He was paranoid from the movie and happened to overhear a conversation Mr. Krabs was having on the phone. Mr. Krabs liked a new song on the radio and went to request to hear it, but the DJ had to correct him. Mr. K--"I want to hear the song that goes 'boop beep beep bop boop boop bop'; DJ--"Actually it goes boop beep beep bop bop"; Mr. K--"bop bop?" pause while listening to DJ "beep bop?" pause for DJ again "bop beep?" (you can now picture Spongebob freaking out because his boss sounds like a robot when in reality Mr. K is just talking music with a DJ.) ANYWAY...Kindsay has conversations like that all the time, where I hear her side and it sounds like Mr. K just "boop beep bopping" while she is on the phone with her girlfriend. So last week I hear Kindsay's side of the conversation going in circles with her special friend.
Kindsay--"Thursday and Friday?" pause for friend to talk "Saturday?" pause "Wednesday or Thursday?" pause "Sunday?" pause "Thursday, Friday and Saturday?" pause...over and over and over...I'm thinking--what the...? Then Kindsay hollers at me through the house, not caring where I am or what I am doing, I am to respond to her. "Mom! When is my birthday party?" Birthday party? I tell her not till October. I hear her say on the phone, "Not till October." pause "Sunday?" pause "Monday or Tuesday?" pause "Thursday?" pause "MOM!! What time is my birthday party over?" Party? What is it with the party? I tell her, Your birthday isn't until October, there is no party. Kindsay proceeds to tell her friend, "Uh, we don't know when it's over. I just don't know." pause "Saturday or Sunday?"
and around we go....
Kindsay--"Thursday and Friday?" pause for friend to talk "Saturday?" pause "Wednesday or Thursday?" pause "Sunday?" pause "Thursday, Friday and Saturday?" pause...over and over and over...I'm thinking--what the...? Then Kindsay hollers at me through the house, not caring where I am or what I am doing, I am to respond to her. "Mom! When is my birthday party?" Birthday party? I tell her not till October. I hear her say on the phone, "Not till October." pause "Sunday?" pause "Monday or Tuesday?" pause "Thursday?" pause "MOM!! What time is my birthday party over?" Party? What is it with the party? I tell her, Your birthday isn't until October, there is no party. Kindsay proceeds to tell her friend, "Uh, we don't know when it's over. I just don't know." pause "Saturday or Sunday?"
and around we go....
Friday, May 14, 2010
Update Update Update
It's been a while. That doesn't mean Kindsay has been an angel for the last couple of months...it just means that I've been a bit distracted with life. Who isn't, right? So, just to keep you on top of my unquestionably questionable life, here's an update of the fam:
Bek graduates in May--can you believe it? My baby who was born three weeks early and had the biggest cheeks (butt and face) is now a woman ready for college. We've got her enrolled at Fresno City (she doesn't know what she wants to do except that the ex-boyfriend is at the Willow/International location and that option is out)...and we have to drive to Utah on a Wednesday night to be at her ceremony Thursday evening to leave Sunday and be back for work on Tuesday. WHEW! (can't she just fly home and video tape the ceremony? I'm not very sentimental am I...) We are also buying her another car when she gets home. WISH US LUCK. For those of you without a driving teen--it's a blessing and a curse.
Kindsay--what can I say? Is there another home she can move into? People are always saying, "oh I'd love for her to live here!" Do you really?? Do you want all your toilet paper rolls unrolled and re-rolled into balls? Do you want all your food eaten in the middle of the night even after you've been through great lengths to hide it? Do you really want all of your animals lost and scattered in your yard? (mice, people, mice.) Do you really want feminine products in your laundry that you don't know is there and you go to grab it only to discover it's a used pad? Do you really want someone eating Cheetos in your bed and then telling you off when you balk at it? Do you really want a full sized car seat with an anatomically correct boy nakedly lying in it in various places of the house? Do you really want someone taking hour long showers that you don't know are happening until you get home from work and find her still in the shower dumping all the shampoo down the drain? Do you really want...what am I doing? Sorry--venting. In any case, we've told her she can move into a halfway house and learn to appreciate how good she's got it at our house and that our rules need to be FOLLOWED.
Garon...my adult in a baby body. He tells me if he finds someone more beautiful than I am that he'll send it away, but he also says that is not likely to happen. Oh yeah...my boy is sprung. I had to take him to a doctor appointment at a female doctor for Kindsay (yes, we got something to help with her bloody periods, what she calls them...how fitting?)...and Garon went on to discuss the differences between the female body and the male body along with all things similar. While we're trying to discretly discuss Kindsay, Garon is inserting his opinions left and right. Not wanting to dissuade him from expressing himself, I keep giving him the look of "okay, dear, that is enough" until I finally had to tell him straight out "NOT ANOTHER WORD CHILD." Only to have him jump into the origins of his name. What?? He's definitely like some adults I know.
Ty--my artist, my dreamer, my Alice-in-Wonderland, Tim Burton film loving child who can draw the most amazing pictures right out of his imagination. Greg and I keep all of them because we just marvel at them. Really marvel. He's a sensitive child but a teaser and a stinker that loves to rile us up. He's mister social out in the neighborhood doing whatever he can to leave the house even if he has to lie about having his homework done. One day a boy grabbed him and he came home just devastated. I worried about his little heart and gave him some comforting snuggles. Then just last week some boys were bullying Garon at our neighborhood park. Garon finally gave up the teasing and came home (they were teasing about him liking a girl, and they were RELENTLESS)...Garon was frustrated because he really wanted to be outside. As Greg and I were getting our shoes on to shut those jerks down, Ty rode up on his bike and said, "Hey--I told those two boys to shut their portholes, potty mouths, and pieholes...they said they are sorry." and off he went, just another day in the life? Greg asked him later--weren't you afraid they'd beat you up (they were older boys and already flipped Garon over) and Ty scoffed, "Uh, no, I have the Holy Ghost." Technically not yet since he's only 7, but I'm glad that he's using it so much now--imagine what he'll be like when he gets baptized! A bullet not to mess with!
Other than that, all is well, nothing out of the norm, and life is a basket of peaches. (sigh)
Bek graduates in May--can you believe it? My baby who was born three weeks early and had the biggest cheeks (butt and face) is now a woman ready for college. We've got her enrolled at Fresno City (she doesn't know what she wants to do except that the ex-boyfriend is at the Willow/International location and that option is out)...and we have to drive to Utah on a Wednesday night to be at her ceremony Thursday evening to leave Sunday and be back for work on Tuesday. WHEW! (can't she just fly home and video tape the ceremony? I'm not very sentimental am I...) We are also buying her another car when she gets home. WISH US LUCK. For those of you without a driving teen--it's a blessing and a curse.
Kindsay--what can I say? Is there another home she can move into? People are always saying, "oh I'd love for her to live here!" Do you really?? Do you want all your toilet paper rolls unrolled and re-rolled into balls? Do you want all your food eaten in the middle of the night even after you've been through great lengths to hide it? Do you really want all of your animals lost and scattered in your yard? (mice, people, mice.) Do you really want feminine products in your laundry that you don't know is there and you go to grab it only to discover it's a used pad? Do you really want someone eating Cheetos in your bed and then telling you off when you balk at it? Do you really want a full sized car seat with an anatomically correct boy nakedly lying in it in various places of the house? Do you really want someone taking hour long showers that you don't know are happening until you get home from work and find her still in the shower dumping all the shampoo down the drain? Do you really want...what am I doing? Sorry--venting. In any case, we've told her she can move into a halfway house and learn to appreciate how good she's got it at our house and that our rules need to be FOLLOWED.
Garon...my adult in a baby body. He tells me if he finds someone more beautiful than I am that he'll send it away, but he also says that is not likely to happen. Oh yeah...my boy is sprung. I had to take him to a doctor appointment at a female doctor for Kindsay (yes, we got something to help with her bloody periods, what she calls them...how fitting?)...and Garon went on to discuss the differences between the female body and the male body along with all things similar. While we're trying to discretly discuss Kindsay, Garon is inserting his opinions left and right. Not wanting to dissuade him from expressing himself, I keep giving him the look of "okay, dear, that is enough" until I finally had to tell him straight out "NOT ANOTHER WORD CHILD." Only to have him jump into the origins of his name. What?? He's definitely like some adults I know.
Ty--my artist, my dreamer, my Alice-in-Wonderland, Tim Burton film loving child who can draw the most amazing pictures right out of his imagination. Greg and I keep all of them because we just marvel at them. Really marvel. He's a sensitive child but a teaser and a stinker that loves to rile us up. He's mister social out in the neighborhood doing whatever he can to leave the house even if he has to lie about having his homework done. One day a boy grabbed him and he came home just devastated. I worried about his little heart and gave him some comforting snuggles. Then just last week some boys were bullying Garon at our neighborhood park. Garon finally gave up the teasing and came home (they were teasing about him liking a girl, and they were RELENTLESS)...Garon was frustrated because he really wanted to be outside. As Greg and I were getting our shoes on to shut those jerks down, Ty rode up on his bike and said, "Hey--I told those two boys to shut their portholes, potty mouths, and pieholes...they said they are sorry." and off he went, just another day in the life? Greg asked him later--weren't you afraid they'd beat you up (they were older boys and already flipped Garon over) and Ty scoffed, "Uh, no, I have the Holy Ghost." Technically not yet since he's only 7, but I'm glad that he's using it so much now--imagine what he'll be like when he gets baptized! A bullet not to mess with!
Other than that, all is well, nothing out of the norm, and life is a basket of peaches. (sigh)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)