Today over breakfast.
Ash: Mommy, you're a cow.
Me: It's not very nice to call someone a cow, unless they really are.
Ash: You're a horse.
Me: No, I don't want to be a horse, either.
Ash: Then you're a funny duck.
Family
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
the twilight of my sleep
5:10 am
Very loud music interrupts my dream about me trying put fuzzy caterpillars back into a test tube in a hospital hallway. The caterpillars were unwilling. One tried but got stuck half in and half out. The rest attempted to make a run for it.
5:11 am
Music still blaring.
5:11:30 am
B: (Rolling over toward the nightstand and slapping at the alarm.)
Me: That’s some fancy song you’re playing.
B: (Nothing.)
7:00 am
Me: I wonder if B is still here. (Little did I know then that I received my first email from B’s office at 6:15 am)
7:01 am
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzz
7:15 am
Ash: Good morning, Mommy.
Me: Good morning, sweetie.
Ash: I had a really good dream last night. I had this elephant that only had one eye…
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzzz
7:18 am
Ash: Mommy, I said “good morning” to my lady bug. (She captured one in her room last night) He’s not moving. His leg is stretched out to the side. He must still be sleeping. Come look.
Me: (Knowing there’s no urgency). Let him sleep a few more minutes.
7:20 am
Ash: Mommy, I can’t find my dog ears. The one’s I got from Kitty’s house.
Me: They’re hanging on your closet door.
Ash: I looked there.
Me: They’re in the chair downstairs. (There’s only one chair to which I am referring, and that’s the one where she piles all her toys. A staging area, if you will, before the toys are transported back upstairs.)
Ash: I don’t want to go down there by myself.
Me: Give Mommy a few more minutes.
Ash: Two more minutes..
7:21 am
Ash: Mommy, I can’t find Sean.
Me: Huh?
Ash: Sean the Dog. I can’t find Sean.
Me: He’s in the chair downstairs.
Ash: Oh. (Pause) Get up Mommy.
Me: A couple more minutes.
7:25 am
Ash: Good morning, sleepyhead. Time to get up.
Me: Okay. A few more minutes.
Ash: Two more minutes. And that’s it.
7:30 am
Ash: Mommy, look at me.
Me: (Peeking with one eye)
Ash: See, I cut my hair.
Me: What did you do? (I open both eyes.)
Ash: I cut my hair right here. See…right here. (She points to the front.)
Me: (Putting my glasses on and straining to see just how much of her long, blond locks she hacked off with her zebra-handled safety scissors.) Why did you do that?
Ash: Because I think it looks cool.
Me: (Damage done. No urgency) Very cool. Please don’t cut off anymore. Let’s leave that to the professionals.
Ash: Okay, Mommy.
7:35 am
Ash: Here’s the hair I cut off. (She has it in her hand)
Me: What are you going to do with that?
Ash: I am going to make sweater for my bear.
Me: I don’t think there is enough to knit an entire sweater.
Ash: A small sweater. I think we should get out the sore.
Me: The sore?
Ash: Not sore, Mommy. SEW–ER!
Me: The sewing machine?
Ash: Yes, that’s it. You can sew a sweater for my bear.
Me: No, I don’t think so.
Ash: Okay. But you have to make me a dog costume. (Party at preschool next week.)
Me: Later, okay?
7:38 am
Ash: Good morning, sleepyhead. Time to get up.
Me: (Big sigh.)
Ash: (Pulling back the curtains right next to the bed.) See, the sun is up.
Me: Two more minutes.
Ash: And that’s it.
7:40 am
Ash: Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…
Me: Sssshhhh.
Ash: Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…
7:41 am
I hear the click to the dog’s kennel, his door opening and him running toward my bed. That’ll do it. I throw back the covers and roll out of bed
Me: We need to get the dog outside.
Ash: (Giggling and dancing) Mommy's up, Mommy's up, Mommy's up…
Very loud music interrupts my dream about me trying put fuzzy caterpillars back into a test tube in a hospital hallway. The caterpillars were unwilling. One tried but got stuck half in and half out. The rest attempted to make a run for it.
5:11 am
Music still blaring.
5:11:30 am
B: (Rolling over toward the nightstand and slapping at the alarm.)
Me: That’s some fancy song you’re playing.
B: (Nothing.)
7:00 am
Me: I wonder if B is still here. (Little did I know then that I received my first email from B’s office at 6:15 am)
7:01 am
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzz
7:15 am
Ash: Good morning, Mommy.
Me: Good morning, sweetie.
Ash: I had a really good dream last night. I had this elephant that only had one eye…
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzzz
7:18 am
Ash: Mommy, I said “good morning” to my lady bug. (She captured one in her room last night) He’s not moving. His leg is stretched out to the side. He must still be sleeping. Come look.
Me: (Knowing there’s no urgency). Let him sleep a few more minutes.
7:20 am
Ash: Mommy, I can’t find my dog ears. The one’s I got from Kitty’s house.
Me: They’re hanging on your closet door.
Ash: I looked there.
Me: They’re in the chair downstairs. (There’s only one chair to which I am referring, and that’s the one where she piles all her toys. A staging area, if you will, before the toys are transported back upstairs.)
Ash: I don’t want to go down there by myself.
Me: Give Mommy a few more minutes.
Ash: Two more minutes..
7:21 am
Ash: Mommy, I can’t find Sean.
Me: Huh?
Ash: Sean the Dog. I can’t find Sean.
Me: He’s in the chair downstairs.
Ash: Oh. (Pause) Get up Mommy.
Me: A couple more minutes.
7:25 am
Ash: Good morning, sleepyhead. Time to get up.
Me: Okay. A few more minutes.
Ash: Two more minutes. And that’s it.
7:30 am
Ash: Mommy, look at me.
Me: (Peeking with one eye)
Ash: See, I cut my hair.
Me: What did you do? (I open both eyes.)
Ash: I cut my hair right here. See…right here. (She points to the front.)
Me: (Putting my glasses on and straining to see just how much of her long, blond locks she hacked off with her zebra-handled safety scissors.) Why did you do that?
Ash: Because I think it looks cool.
Me: (Damage done. No urgency) Very cool. Please don’t cut off anymore. Let’s leave that to the professionals.
Ash: Okay, Mommy.
7:35 am
Ash: Here’s the hair I cut off. (She has it in her hand)
Me: What are you going to do with that?
Ash: I am going to make sweater for my bear.
Me: I don’t think there is enough to knit an entire sweater.
Ash: A small sweater. I think we should get out the sore.
Me: The sore?
Ash: Not sore, Mommy. SEW–ER!
Me: The sewing machine?
Ash: Yes, that’s it. You can sew a sweater for my bear.
Me: No, I don’t think so.
Ash: Okay. But you have to make me a dog costume. (Party at preschool next week.)
Me: Later, okay?
7:38 am
Ash: Good morning, sleepyhead. Time to get up.
Me: (Big sigh.)
Ash: (Pulling back the curtains right next to the bed.) See, the sun is up.
Me: Two more minutes.
Ash: And that’s it.
7:40 am
Ash: Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…
Me: Sssshhhh.
Ash: Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…
7:41 am
I hear the click to the dog’s kennel, his door opening and him running toward my bed. That’ll do it. I throw back the covers and roll out of bed
Me: We need to get the dog outside.
Ash: (Giggling and dancing) Mommy's up, Mommy's up, Mommy's up…
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
a plot to take over the world
To All Comrades in Arms:
Yesterday our home-front mainframe was overtaken by a diabolical and extremely invasive mutant-space virus. Our frontline firewall and two anti-virus protective shields failed in the face of, I’m sorry to say, a far superior technology. This malevolent alien hacked through our entire system assuming command and disabling environmental controls. All was not lost. Most personnel and data were already safely stored off-site, keeping casualties low. It was through the self-sacrifice of a few brave scribes, email we call them, that any residual data made it to the escape pods and saved.
When the dust settled in the aftermath of the initial onslaught, the intrepid Commander B was able to decipher the enemy’s despicable tactics and take back control of our system. That battle was fought quickly and swiftly. At every turn he was able to out maneuver and outwit the enemy. Once again, our lines have been secured and reinforced, and the alien was completely eradicated.
Yesterday our home-front mainframe was overtaken by a diabolical and extremely invasive mutant-space virus. Our frontline firewall and two anti-virus protective shields failed in the face of, I’m sorry to say, a far superior technology. This malevolent alien hacked through our entire system assuming command and disabling environmental controls. All was not lost. Most personnel and data were already safely stored off-site, keeping casualties low. It was through the self-sacrifice of a few brave scribes, email we call them, that any residual data made it to the escape pods and saved.
When the dust settled in the aftermath of the initial onslaught, the intrepid Commander B was able to decipher the enemy’s despicable tactics and take back control of our system. That battle was fought quickly and swiftly. At every turn he was able to out maneuver and outwit the enemy. Once again, our lines have been secured and reinforced, and the alien was completely eradicated.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Ahhhhh
I love my bed. Every night I pull back the covers, stack my pillows just so for the optimum comfort and then sink deep into my bed. “Ahhh.” Sometimes it’s, “Ohhhh. Nice.” And for those nights when fatigue has come upon me and words fail, it’s more of a “Ahnnnnzzzzz.”
For as much as I love my bed, I spent precious little time there last night. Sometime after the “Ahhh,” and my arrival at sleepytown, the girl called out a terse, “Mama!” I bounded out my bed to find her wandering in circles in her room.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says still walking in circles.
“Do you need to go potty?”
“No.”
“Did you have bad dream?’
“No.” Still walking. Sleep walking.
I try to direct her back to bed. She was able to skirt my gentle guiding and then duck the more direct marshalling. What finally worked was a shepherding approach where I led her to her bed and crawled in myself. As soon as I pulled back the covers and lied down – no “Ahhh” in her bed – she snuggled in close. And then, for the next two hours, where there should have been blissful rest, there was much disturbance from the 4-year-old spanking and kicking machine. Kick. Roll. Squirm. Whack. Poke. Push. Wiggle. Punch.
A very short while after receiving a forceful stomach kick and sharp chest jab, I returned to my bed. I slid under my covers and sank into the “Ahhh.” And then nothing. Nothing but the sound of the frigid Nor'easter rain on the window. Nothing but the dog snoring. Nothing but B talking in his sleep, interrupted only with the occassional wall kick coming from the girl's room. And nothing but me, wide awake, eyes like saucers, watching the seconds blink away on the alarm clock. Nothing, and two more hours of that.
So here I am. Email. Blog. Work. Oh, but tonight, that “Ahnnnzzz” will come early and it will come sweet.
For as much as I love my bed, I spent precious little time there last night. Sometime after the “Ahhh,” and my arrival at sleepytown, the girl called out a terse, “Mama!” I bounded out my bed to find her wandering in circles in her room.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says still walking in circles.
“Do you need to go potty?”
“No.”
“Did you have bad dream?’
“No.” Still walking. Sleep walking.
I try to direct her back to bed. She was able to skirt my gentle guiding and then duck the more direct marshalling. What finally worked was a shepherding approach where I led her to her bed and crawled in myself. As soon as I pulled back the covers and lied down – no “Ahhh” in her bed – she snuggled in close. And then, for the next two hours, where there should have been blissful rest, there was much disturbance from the 4-year-old spanking and kicking machine. Kick. Roll. Squirm. Whack. Poke. Push. Wiggle. Punch.
A very short while after receiving a forceful stomach kick and sharp chest jab, I returned to my bed. I slid under my covers and sank into the “Ahhh.” And then nothing. Nothing but the sound of the frigid Nor'easter rain on the window. Nothing but the dog snoring. Nothing but B talking in his sleep, interrupted only with the occassional wall kick coming from the girl's room. And nothing but me, wide awake, eyes like saucers, watching the seconds blink away on the alarm clock. Nothing, and two more hours of that.
So here I am. Email. Blog. Work. Oh, but tonight, that “Ahnnnzzz” will come early and it will come sweet.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
confessions of a rock star
Just after sound check this morning at Musikfest, in Bethlehem, PA, an elderly man approached B, who he surmised as the leader of the rock band and said, “You’re too loud.”
B smiled and said, “Thank you.”
B smiled and said, “Thank you.”
Sunday, June 7, 2009
three dollar pants
Ash and I went to TJ Maxx, where I found a pair of jeans for $3. I actually said outloud, "How bad can they be? Jeans! Three bucks!" As soon as I stepped into them, I knew how bad it could be. I blinked, and gagged and stood staring in mirror, fixated on the horror before me. Ash - who let out a small "eeeek" - turned her face from the mirror, covered her eyes said, "Ewwww, Mommy. Take them off. Now!!" We agreed that was the worst pair of jeans ever. Noone should ever wear them. Not even for $3. Those pants should be burned.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
the church
There's one line in the Apostle's Creed that Ash interprets as, "The Holy Kathryn Church." Amen and amen.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
toy v. socks, rematch
A cool and drizzly Wednesday morning. Purple Day at preschool.
I walk into the girl’s room, as cheerfully as possible, flip on the light and announce, “Ash, time to get up.”
“Don’t. I’m sleeping.”
I ignore her and begin to rummage through her drawers for purple clothes.
“Here’s a purple top,” and then turning toward the girl, “Ash, it’s show-n-tell day. Something purple.”
I keep rummaging, “Here’s a purple sock.”
“I don’t want to take that. Can I take a toy?”
B, nearby, “Are you sure? No one else will bring one.”
“No, daddy. I want to take a purple toy.”
easter dinner
At the home of some good friends, as our host is carving the ham.
Ash: Is that pig?
G: Yes, it is.
Ash: I don’t want any.
Silent pause.
Ash: Is it dead?
G: Yes, it is.
Ash: Okay. I’ll have some.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
the birthday confession
I love birthdays. I get that from my mom. She always made a big, huge, whopping deal out of birthdays, as it was “our special day”, a free pass to no chores and happy wishes, not to mention the spoils of such a day.
And despite all the photographs and the stories, the first birthday I really remember was the one when I turned six years old. I was in kindergarten and shared the day with another kid, whose mother chose to throw him a party in the park after school. All the kids were invited, even me, although my teacher was quick to point out that it was his day and his party, not mine. When one of my classmates also honored me with a gift, that same teacher made sure to let me know that I should consider myself fortunate to even be remembered at all. (So that’s where that neurosis began.) That same day, we also played the game where you eat saltine crackers and try to whistle. The joke was really on them, I played their game, chomped down as many crackers as I could and couldn’t whistle. Still can’t, crackers or not.
My next birthday, my mom baked me a cake and bought me a yellow dress to match my room.
Age 10. Went camping with my class. Was going to fix damper, got lice instead.
Age 11. Departed on a magical four-month road trip and that ended with us living in a beach house in LA until school started in the fall. They said the trip wasn’t for my birthday, but I think they were trying to make up for the lice the year before.
Age 12. Had a birthday party. No one wanted to come but their mom’s made them. We moved shortly after that, but I’m positive it wasn’t because of the birthday party fiasco.
Age 13. Got boobs. Really big ones! (Thank you, Mother Nature.) Dad bought a gun.
Age 15. Got contact lenses. Thanks, Dad! (He bought more ammo for the gun.)
That same day, my friends threw me a surprise party – I knew about it, afterall how much of a surprise could it have been when my teenage girlfriends called on my phone to talk to my mom and my mom kept making me change my clothes until I looked nice. My friends took me to pizza and a movie. Saw Deathtrap.
Age 16. Ahh, the benchmark birthday for any young lady, and also happened to be the prearranged age when I could start dating. So, Dad thought he would take care of any boys coming around ever. He sent me a singing telegram in public! The guy wore superman tights and sang to me. No boyfriends that year. (I can’t wait to do this for Ash!)
Age 18. Year 12, ASHS. Did something fantastic. Can you help me out, Reg, Dan, Mark, Lisa? What did we do?
Age 19. Mom threw a birthday party for me in Alice Springs, Australia, invited my friends, didn’t invite me. They ate cake and called me to wish me a happy birthday. I went to Disneyland with my friend, Mike.
Age 20. Surprise birthday party, the quick throw together shindig from my college “friends”, who, if they would have remembered the exact date of my birthday, would have sent me a strip-o-gram. Was it not enough that I got the singing telegram four years earlier that they needed to humiliate me in the dining commons at Stenner Glen with birthday wishes from a crazy, naked guy who did did strip-o-grams for a six pack of beer? They had a plan. It was foiled. I was much happier for the surprise party at Tom’s Apt. (Tom taught me to flick bottle caps. We listened to American Pie until we wore out the vinyl.)
Best present that year: Bruce Springsteen’s Live 1975-1985 four-cassette compilation.
Age 21. Spring Break in Southern California with Barbie. Did what you do when you turn 21. Had a job interview the next day. Did not put my best foot forward.
Best present: Aquamarine earrings from my parents, and this really cute black and turquoise mini skirt with black tulle. (It was the 80s, and I had big, bleached blond hair, too!)
Age 22. If you were there, you remember.
Age 23. Spent birthday alone on Vashon Island, WA. I wish I could say it was a retreat, a day spent in meditation, reflection and focus. It wasn't. It was my first birthday out of college and in the real world.
Age 24. Saw Les Miserables with friends at Seattle’s 5th Avenue Theater. Captivating.
Age 26. Mom and Dad threw a birthday party for me – and invited me – and took me to the zoo!
And despite all the photographs and the stories, the first birthday I really remember was the one when I turned six years old. I was in kindergarten and shared the day with another kid, whose mother chose to throw him a party in the park after school. All the kids were invited, even me, although my teacher was quick to point out that it was his day and his party, not mine. When one of my classmates also honored me with a gift, that same teacher made sure to let me know that I should consider myself fortunate to even be remembered at all. (So that’s where that neurosis began.) That same day, we also played the game where you eat saltine crackers and try to whistle. The joke was really on them, I played their game, chomped down as many crackers as I could and couldn’t whistle. Still can’t, crackers or not.
My next birthday, my mom baked me a cake and bought me a yellow dress to match my room.
Age 10. Went camping with my class. Was going to fix damper, got lice instead.
Age 11. Departed on a magical four-month road trip and that ended with us living in a beach house in LA until school started in the fall. They said the trip wasn’t for my birthday, but I think they were trying to make up for the lice the year before.
Age 12. Had a birthday party. No one wanted to come but their mom’s made them. We moved shortly after that, but I’m positive it wasn’t because of the birthday party fiasco.
Age 13. Got boobs. Really big ones! (Thank you, Mother Nature.) Dad bought a gun.
Age 15. Got contact lenses. Thanks, Dad! (He bought more ammo for the gun.)
That same day, my friends threw me a surprise party – I knew about it, afterall how much of a surprise could it have been when my teenage girlfriends called on my phone to talk to my mom and my mom kept making me change my clothes until I looked nice. My friends took me to pizza and a movie. Saw Deathtrap.
Age 16. Ahh, the benchmark birthday for any young lady, and also happened to be the prearranged age when I could start dating. So, Dad thought he would take care of any boys coming around ever. He sent me a singing telegram in public! The guy wore superman tights and sang to me. No boyfriends that year. (I can’t wait to do this for Ash!)
Age 18. Year 12, ASHS. Did something fantastic. Can you help me out, Reg, Dan, Mark, Lisa? What did we do?
Age 19. Mom threw a birthday party for me in Alice Springs, Australia, invited my friends, didn’t invite me. They ate cake and called me to wish me a happy birthday. I went to Disneyland with my friend, Mike.
Age 20. Surprise birthday party, the quick throw together shindig from my college “friends”, who, if they would have remembered the exact date of my birthday, would have sent me a strip-o-gram. Was it not enough that I got the singing telegram four years earlier that they needed to humiliate me in the dining commons at Stenner Glen with birthday wishes from a crazy, naked guy who did did strip-o-grams for a six pack of beer? They had a plan. It was foiled. I was much happier for the surprise party at Tom’s Apt. (Tom taught me to flick bottle caps. We listened to American Pie until we wore out the vinyl.)
Best present that year: Bruce Springsteen’s Live 1975-1985 four-cassette compilation.
Age 21. Spring Break in Southern California with Barbie. Did what you do when you turn 21. Had a job interview the next day. Did not put my best foot forward.
Best present: Aquamarine earrings from my parents, and this really cute black and turquoise mini skirt with black tulle. (It was the 80s, and I had big, bleached blond hair, too!)
Age 22. If you were there, you remember.
Age 23. Spent birthday alone on Vashon Island, WA. I wish I could say it was a retreat, a day spent in meditation, reflection and focus. It wasn't. It was my first birthday out of college and in the real world.
Age 24. Saw Les Miserables with friends at Seattle’s 5th Avenue Theater. Captivating.
Age 26. Mom and Dad threw a birthday party for me – and invited me – and took me to the zoo!
Age 27. B flew from Seattle to Colorado to spend my birthday with me. We decided to get married! (I must confess that there is a huge controversy about this…B thinks he was conned, I say it was his decision, blah, blah, blah…Yeah, so I did already have my wedding dress hanging in the closet. C’mon, it was on sale. Who passes up a one-of-a-kind Alfred Angelo on sale?)
Best present: B, for life.
Age 28. Had a wedding.
Age 29. Quit Smoking.
Age 30. Cried, a lot.
Age 31. Quit my high-powered, corporate-America, Director of Advertising job. Went freelance. Danced around my living room with glee.
Age 32. Spent my birthday at the beach with great friends. It was beautiful.
Age 33. Long weekend in Yakima. It was a long way from the beach. (B had a gig.) Our dog, Kelly had puppies the night we returned. We still have one of those pups, Squeaky.
Age 34. Bought patio furniture.
Age 37. Got pregnant. Seriously, Pregnant, On My Birthday. That was the best present, ever.
The rest of my thirties were a blur, although I can number the birthdays in the last 15 years that B had band practice or rehearsals or gigs. On those particular years, we employed a more festival approach to my birthday. When he would say to me, “I have a thing with the band that night,” I just smiled sweetly and know that I get a birthday celebration that lasts for a week. These last two birthdays are no exception – no gigs, but festivals nonetheless. (It's now tradition.) And with these last two birthdays, I’ve fully embraced my “Decade Of Decadence”, and B has thrown very extravagant chocolate parties for me and ordered days of indulgence to follow. I always feel so celebrated and spoiled. (Last year, in addition to the party, B even bought me a brand new, hot rod computer with 20" flat screen monitor, tons of memory and speed.)
So, even this year, in the midst of my festival week, I wonder just what I am going to do with some unexpected birthday money: a belly button ring, a tattoo or a new outfit. What do you think?
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
inking the precedent
There was an importunate sense in her voice as she tugged on my shirt and looked up at me. “Mommy,” she whined, “I want a rattoo.”
The statement should have surprised me. It would surprise most parents of a four-year-old girl. But for me, I knew it was just a matter of time before Ash started asking for a tattoo, oh, and piercings, too. B and I knew this day was coming, just not this soon. But as those words escaped her mouth, I wondered how many times over the next 14 or so years that I would hear that sentence. Then I stopped to count how many times I heard it from B over the last 14 or so years.
I looked down at the pleading eyes of my darling little girl, I cupped her cheek gently in my hand and was just about to dispel any illusions that she may be the next in line to get a tattoo – a spot clearly reserved for me – when I saw the Sticker and Temporary Tattoo book she got for Christmas gripped in her hand.
“Absolutely you can have a rattoo. Which one do you want?”
The statement should have surprised me. It would surprise most parents of a four-year-old girl. But for me, I knew it was just a matter of time before Ash started asking for a tattoo, oh, and piercings, too. B and I knew this day was coming, just not this soon. But as those words escaped her mouth, I wondered how many times over the next 14 or so years that I would hear that sentence. Then I stopped to count how many times I heard it from B over the last 14 or so years.
I looked down at the pleading eyes of my darling little girl, I cupped her cheek gently in my hand and was just about to dispel any illusions that she may be the next in line to get a tattoo – a spot clearly reserved for me – when I saw the Sticker and Temporary Tattoo book she got for Christmas gripped in her hand.
“Absolutely you can have a rattoo. Which one do you want?”
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
meeting of the minds
The other night B walked into the bedroom where I was lounging on the bed and watching TV. He went about his normal routine, set the alarm clock for O Dark-Early, and then said, “Meet the volume.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “Excuse me?”
“Meet the volume.”
I was baffled. Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly. “Could you repeat that?”
He stared at me for a moment and then reiterated, annunciating every word as he spoke, “MEET–THE–VOLUME.”
Meet the volume? Meet it with what? How do you do that? I gripped the remote in my now trembling hands, so confused by his request. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I really don’t understand what you want.”
My apology met with an even sterner stare and exaggerated, “MEEEEET, THHHHEEEE, VOOOOLUUUUMEEE.”
I stared at the remote as though a Meet Button would suddenly illuminate. When that didn’t happen, I tossed the remote like a hot potato to his side of the bed. “Why don’t you do it, baby, since you know what you want.”
The look in his eyes was so unnerving, as though I were really Venutian, while his demeanor took on a rather Martian-like appearance. His head grew three sizes, his eyes began to bulge and his skin turned the color of algaed water. He swung a long, flailing green tentacle to the bed to swoop up the remote. With the suction-cupped tip another tentacle, he poked the remote until there was no more sound to be heard.
We stayed in silence for what seemed like an eternity, until I finally said, “What did you want me to do?”
“Mute the volume.“
“Oh, I could have done that.”
“You would think so.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “Excuse me?”
“Meet the volume.”
I was baffled. Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly. “Could you repeat that?”
He stared at me for a moment and then reiterated, annunciating every word as he spoke, “MEET–THE–VOLUME.”
Meet the volume? Meet it with what? How do you do that? I gripped the remote in my now trembling hands, so confused by his request. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I really don’t understand what you want.”
My apology met with an even sterner stare and exaggerated, “MEEEEET, THHHHEEEE, VOOOOLUUUUMEEE.”
I stared at the remote as though a Meet Button would suddenly illuminate. When that didn’t happen, I tossed the remote like a hot potato to his side of the bed. “Why don’t you do it, baby, since you know what you want.”
The look in his eyes was so unnerving, as though I were really Venutian, while his demeanor took on a rather Martian-like appearance. His head grew three sizes, his eyes began to bulge and his skin turned the color of algaed water. He swung a long, flailing green tentacle to the bed to swoop up the remote. With the suction-cupped tip another tentacle, he poked the remote until there was no more sound to be heard.
We stayed in silence for what seemed like an eternity, until I finally said, “What did you want me to do?”
“Mute the volume.“
“Oh, I could have done that.”
“You would think so.”
a great safari
I am about to brave the far-reaching and untamed region of Ashlyn’s closet. Oh, yes it’s wild. It’s scary. And of all the expeditions I’ve embarked on in my life, this is one that turns my hands to ice and sets my feet trembling with fear. Just thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine so electric that it could light a small city. It’s not just that I am afraid of what I might encounter, it is that I am afraid I won’t ever return. B will have to send search parties, who may not return either. Years from now, a bespeckled man in a safari suit would stumble upon and announce, “Kat Groshong, I presume? It is exactly like adventuring into the darkest regions of Africa, crawling with fauna -lions and tigers and bears- enshrouded with thick, overhanging and overgrown flora.A few days ago, Ashlyn cried out in that panicked voice that only a mother can hear from two floors away, “HELP ME!” I dropped a pot on the floor, skidded around the corner and flew up the stairs. By the time I reached her room, Ashlyn’s voice was weakening as she repeated, “Help Me, Mommy! “ I called out, “Where are you?”
“In the closet!”
I dashed into her room, and there she was wedged between a giant tiger and a humongous horse, surrounded by penguins, pinned by puppy dogs and guarded by Barbie and the Washington Mutual Ken doll. (It was a gift from the bank). I grabbed the door frame, firmly planted my feet as to not get sucked into the quick sand of toys and reached as far in as I could. Ashlyn stretched and as our finger tips touched, I lunged to grab her hand. With a solid pull, she was free. She stumbled past her captors, and we both crumpled to floor in exhaustion, chest pounding. In a move that only a mommy could make, I maneuvered my foot around the closet door. With all the strength I had left, I pushed and pushed until the door latched, assuring that none would escape. That’s when we heard a muffled cry. My first thought was that our Yorkshire Terrier had been captured and now trapped in the closet. Instead, it was merely Ashlyn’s new interactive baby doll crying for mercy after we landed on her. Ash giggled.
“What were you doing in the closet?”
“Looking for Narnia.”
Thursday, January 22, 2009
no hat needed
My daughter, almost famous for her brave fashion choices, matched a black and red top with black polka dotted pants. She stood in the doorway to her bedroom, donned her Mickey Mouse Ears and twirled her Dirt Devil mini broom, without the accompanying dustpan, mind you.
“Look at me, Mom,” a phrase I hear about 100 times a day, for outfits, feats of strength, fanciful poses, daring escapes, drinking water, you get the picture.
“Very nice,” I said, a dutiful and pleasing answer.
“Does this broom match my top?”
The question surprised me, and I did a double take, “It does!”
“Then I don’t need the hat.”
I was not aware that a broom could be an accessory. If that's true, it does beg the question, what about a vacuum cleaner, a duster, a can of bathroom cleaner?
“Only if they match, Mommy!”
“Look at me, Mom,” a phrase I hear about 100 times a day, for outfits, feats of strength, fanciful poses, daring escapes, drinking water, you get the picture.
“Very nice,” I said, a dutiful and pleasing answer.
“Does this broom match my top?”
The question surprised me, and I did a double take, “It does!”
“Then I don’t need the hat.”
I was not aware that a broom could be an accessory. If that's true, it does beg the question, what about a vacuum cleaner, a duster, a can of bathroom cleaner?
“Only if they match, Mommy!”
Friday, January 9, 2009
off guard and unawares
The temperature hovered just below freezing, yet it felt as though it were sub zero. And aside from the occasional gust of wind and irregular snow flurry that floated to the barren ground, the night was still. Inside and out, it was quiet, too quiet for my liking. That alone should have been the first and last indication that something was in the mix. Unsuspecting as I was, I peered around the corner into my bedroom, my sanctuary. The darkened room and the television’s soft glow lulled me to a false sense of security. Then, all at once I was taken off guard.“Aiieeeya!” She pounced.
My attempt to dash into the closet to don my tights and super cape was foiled. Instead, I found myself quite unprotected and quite unbalanced as my opponent delivered her split-second offensive blows. Bam! Kapow! She fired a jab to my abdomen with wrecking-ball force. Oooof. An instant later, I howled in pain as an uppercut to my right cheekbone stung as though it had just been hit with flaming lava. How did she know? How could she possibly know that my cheek was still sore and bruised from our last encounter just a day before? Her super-human strength and unpredictable moves make her my most feared and dangerous adversary. She was invincible, and she had me at her mercy. And that was when she went for the upside-down, runaway freight-train kick to the face. She flipped and hung in the air for a moment, foot cocked emphasizing the inevitable. Once released, it was unstoppable. Whhaaaackkkk! I was undone.
A few hours later, B walked in the door and took one look at me, “What happened? Your eye is black and puffy.”
We’ve had no secrets in regard to my super-hero alias. He's witnessed the treachery and bound many a wound.
“Your daughter,” I replied calmly.
“Say no more,” he said with a smirk and a wave of his hand.
Even so, I felt compelled to relinquish the details. “I was the human playground. This,” I said pointing to my eye, “happened when I was the slide.”
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