Snide Reply

Category: Family life

  • Hey, baby! They’re proofing the house!

    Image: Getty RF

    If things go as planned, I will be able to remove the last child proofing device remaining in our home this afternoon. Reason? Our cat, Oliver, will no longer be living with us. Oliver is on his way to a new home, one that can afford his veterinary care.

    We have the lock on our cabinet because Oliver loves nothing more than breaking things, especially glass and china. Before the cabinet lock was installed, a favorite Oliver activity was jumping on the kitchen counter, opening the cabinet where drinking glasses are stored and, with one swipe of his paw, dumping the contents on the floor. Hence, cabinet lock.

    Astounding as Oliver’s antics appear, they are mere trifles. A blogging friend wrote recently that her baby daughter likes to gnaw on mini-blinds. I had a dog that ate one. This friend and her other baby-wrangling friend are dreading what happens when the Christmas tree goes up. I have a dog that ate a string of Christmas lights.

    I think these parents worrying about mini-blinds and Christmas lights are so cute. Sure, one needs to be aware of the dangers these impose, as well as glass coffee tables, staircases, unlocked liquor cabinets and other baby magnets.

    But there are so many more dangers lurking in your house, people. So many more.

    There’s the oven.

    My son didn’t crawl much. The first time he tried, he went backwards. Rather than repeatedly practicing to get it right, he bided his time until he had the muscle strength to walk. We installed gates at the staircases to the basement and the upstairs, of course. This, in effect, restricted our son to destroying playing on the first floor. He discovered the oven and, within moments, discovered how to open it and climb in. Fun!

    The first oven lock adhered to the side of the oven and required two hands to achieve oven openage. This was defeated approximately half an hour after installation.  The second lock had to be ordered. It successfully defeated all opening efforts.

    There’s the toilet.

    Oven opening off the tour of terror, my son discovered the toilet.
    All manner of things went into the potty, none of them vaguely related to pee or pooh. Cars, toothbrushes, tub toys. Again, a lock was installed. Again, it was defeated. Then our son discovered flushing. It is very expensive to have a plumber remove a flushed washcloth.

    There’s the bathroom door.

    His efforts at opening things thwarted, my son began closing things. Doors, in particular, were fun to shut, providing an irresistible form of peek-a-boo. Door open? There’s Mommy! Door closed? No more Mommy! Door open, door closed, door open, door closed. Fun!

    Then there was the day the door closed . . .and locked. From the inside. In an old house. Built at a time when people expected privacy, not 18-month olds on overdrive.

    For a while, my husband and I tried to get our son to unlock the door, reasoning that if he could flip it one way, he could flip it the other. While he couldn’t, it was clear that talking to Mommy and Daddy through the door was a blast. Fun!

    Then we tried removing the door from its hinges. Daddy wrote funny pictures on a piece of paper and passed them through the bottom of the door while Mommy tried to remove the door. Daddy is a terrible artist; every thing he draws looks like a penis. Fun!

    Silly Mommy discovered that hinges are not on the outside of doors. Figuring if they can get a cat out of a tree, they can get my son out of the john, I called the fire department.

    Within minutes, at least four firemen, a police squad car and a hook and ladder truck arrived at our house, along with every neighbor within a quarter mile. Daddy continued to push penis pictures under the bathroom door while a fireman, boosted to the second floor (Oh, didn’t I say this was the second floor bathroom? Silly Mommy! Of course it was!), attempted to open the window. Fun!

    Then it became not fun. A child can only pass so many penis pictures back and forth under the door. And having a strange man banging at the bathroom window did nothing to calm our son. He began to cry.

    “What would you like to do, Ma’am?” said the police officer. “Should they break the window?”

    “No,” I said, envisioning my baby covered in broken glass. “Keeping trying to open the window.” My son kept crying.

    So, they tried to open the window. And they tried to open the window. My son cried harder.

    “Ma’am,” the police officer said, “Your son is hysterical.”

    “Break the window!” I cried.

    I heard glass break and my son stop crying, then “It’s ok, little guy. It’s ok.”

    I didn’t see the ladder descend and I don’t know if my husband did. The aftermath of the escapade isn’t burned into my brain, except for the sobbing release when I knew my son was all right.

    So, parents, get your cabinet locks, your coffee table cushions, the door knob-defeaters, and the staircase gates. But don’t forget to take pictures when the hook and ladder truck arrives.

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 7

    A little political humor. My daughter is 10. Those of you who have or had 10-year old daughters, I accept your pity.

    We were all gathered in the kitchen, getting ready to eat dinner. My daughter was shrieking like a professional wailer at a funeral. We have become quite accustomed to these outbursts.

    “What’s she crying about now?” I asked.

    “Obamacare,” my son responded. “She has all these mixed emotions about Mitt Romney and Obamacare.”

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 6

    Occasionally, I rebel against the mashed potato and un-sauced meat diet that keeps my family fed. Then, I go to the hot food and salad bars at Whole Foods and pile a mish-mash of green things into a box to eat while the heathens make their daily sacrifice to the Gods of Meat.

    Recently, my son looked inquiringly at my plate. “Whatcha got there?” he asked. Because hope truly does spring eternal, I jumped at the chance to introduce him to foods without hooves.

    “Well,” I said, “This is cole slaw, that’s tofu and this is broccoli.”

    He didn’t turn away, so I continued on a tour of my dinner plate.

    “This is quinoa salad and that, with the yogurt, is falafel.”

    He looked at me and said,  “Now you’re just making up words.”

  • Happy Birthday, Dear Mom

    Happy Birthday, Dear Mom

    Yesterday was World Mental Health Day. No, not a day when everyone on earth spends the day trying to act calm, stable and happy, but a day devoted to encouraging people to discuss mental health issues. This year’s topic was depression. Not to belittle the global crisis of depression, but I guess all the other mental disorders got to take a break.

    Most of you know that I am bipolar and may wonder why I didn’t write about what it’s like to be bipolar on World Mental Health Day. According to the National Alliance for Mental Illness, I’ve got all week. Mental Health Awareness Week in the United States runs from October 7th through the 13th. I am American and I’m writing this on the 11th, so I figure I’m covered. Even if I’m not, National Mental Health Month is in May. Of course, a mental health month puts a lot of pressure on us; I’m not sure I can keep my mania and depression from popping up for an entire month even with meds.

    I didn’t write about mental health—mine or anyone else’s—because yesterday was my mother’s birthday. When she was alive, I hosted a beef-centered dinner at my house. I did this because I loved my mother, but also because I spent years listening to her complain that no one ever did anything for her birthday and she was not going to plan her own party. And she loved beef.

    Yesterday, we had fried chicken for dinner. That is not as contrary as it sounds. My mother was from the South and, while she made really good fried chicken herself, she also loved Popeye’s. My kids don’t really like beef—I think my daughter may become a vegetarian soon—but they like Popeye’s.  So, fried chicken for dinner.

    I think my mother would have approved, but there were many things in my life that she didn’t really like a whole lot.

    My hair? Not curly enough. Never mind that it is stick straight, fine as frog fur and most likely inherited from her. When my hair was permed, my mother loved it.

    My housekeeping? Notice “housekeeping” and “Ha!” both start with an H. But when Mom was scheduled to visit, I became a dervish, scrubbing counters with hot water, vacuuming lampshades, polishing bathroom fixtures, arranging flowers. A friend once pointed out that it wasn’t like Queen Elizabeth was going to pop in to use my powder room. If only, I thought, if only!

    My mouth? Far too many F-bombs came out of it to please my Mom. Actually, any F-bomb was unacceptable. According to her, I swear like a longshoreman. I doubt she ever met one; I’m not convinced she even knew what they did but she was convinced that I talked like one.

    My mother didn’t swear . . .much. I think I heard her use the S-word twice. The most memorable instance was during a sewing session when she repeatedly tried to do a tricky seam. Finally, she got it right only to realize she’d sewed the thing to the shirt she was wearing.

    There were things my mother approved of, though.

    My intelligence, for one. When Geraldine Ferraro ran with Walter Mondale, my grandmother was appalled. How, in her mind, could a woman be tolerated one heartbeat away from the presidency? My mother was incensed. “I think a woman would be a wonderful president. Janice would be a wonderful president!” I might be, but there are far too many skeletons in my closet. Hell, my skeletons are out on the front lawn doing the Macarena.

    My cooking. My mother loved the beef-centered dishes I made, but she loved the Williamsburg Orange cake I made every year even more. She liked my snacks, too. When my sister and I still lived at home, we’d watch late night movies with Mom, everything from Frankenstein to It Happened One Night. During some commercial break, I’d want a snack. I’d offer one to my mother on my way to the kitchen. “No, thank you” was invariably her response. On my return, she’d take a look at my snack and say, “Oh, that looks good!” an unspoken yet undeniable request for said snack.

    My spirit. I’m honest—blunt, some would say—and pretty funny. If something strikes me as humorous, I’ll say it even if it’s highly inappropriate. My mother loved this about me. She loved it so much that she worried the meds I needed to stay alive would dampen it. They never did.

    My mother died a slow, painful, ugly death of COPD. But while her disease chipped away at her freedom and health, she adapted and kept going. When breathing became difficult at night, she used an oxygen concentrator while she slept. When climbing the stairs at her home became difficult, she got a stair lift. When she couldn’t walk around the mall, she got oxygen in a bottle and a wheeled cart to drag it around behind her. When even that became difficult, she learned how to surf the ‘Net to visit her favorite stores.

    My mother even found a reason to like Depends. Getting to the bathroom from the couch before you’ve got to go is something you likely take for granted. But when you can’t breathe, there’s no guarantee you’ll get there in time. “These Depends are great!” my mother told me. “I never have to worry if I’ll get to the potty in time.”

    We joked that Mom was the Energizer Bunny; she kept going and going. Even in the end, she didn’t give up. It was left to us to turn off the machines keeping her alive.

    I don’t need a particular day to make me aware of mental health issues; I live with them everyday. So, while yesterday may have been a mental health day for the rest of the world, I spent it with memories of my mom.

  • Did you notice?

    I didn’t post yesterday. I spent 2.5 hours in a chair at the dentist. About half-way through, I almost started crying. I am so sick of going to the dentist that I am seriously considering writing a post titled, “Why I Live at the DO.” DO standing for dentist’s office. After the DO, I came home fully intending to run; I napped.

    Working on filling my week with posts, I asked for suggestions. One reader thought it would be interesting to post a picture of the same place every week. This, I thought, had possiblities. I was considering posting pictures of either a prairie sunrise or a prairie sunset, but I’d have to get up pretty damn early for the sunrise and I’m at work when the sun sets. Still, I might decide to do it if I can get myself up early. Maybe for Sunday?

    In the meantime, I can kill two birds with one post. Every Friday (or there abouts), I’m going to post a picture of my office, beginning today. My office is a screaming mess. There are books everywhere, piles of papers on the desk, a computer on the floor, my husband’s detritus from his voice-over ventures, and a daybed that has become my daughter’s nightly bed because her room is also a screaming mess.

    Here is the current state of affairs. Don’t judge. Or maybe you should . . .that will be further incentive to get it organized.

  • My kids say funny stuff, too – 5

    My kids say funny stuff, too – 5

    from the Food Heathen Files

    Every school day morning, my daughter eats breakfast while I put together her lunch. Usually, I make her breakfast, too, but one morning, she decided to have a Gopicnic® “ready-to-eat meal.” Kind of like a Lunchable® but made with food, the meal included a turkey snack stick, fruit leather, chips and some other snacky things.

    One of the snack items was a package of “seed and fruit mix.” My daughter read the ingredients, “Mountain Mambo,” she said. “sunflower kernels, pumpkin seeds, raisins, apples, chocolate chips and cranberries. Ewwwwww!”

    “Sounds good to me,” I said. “I’ll put it in my oatmeal.”

    “Well, you can have it,” she said, tossing me the package.

    Later, she asked where the package of seeds and fruit was.

    “I ate it in my oatmeal,” I said.

    She walked past me, eyebrows up, mouth screwed in disgust and said, under her breath, “Yeah. You’re gonna be throwing up soon.”

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 4

    My children like to bond with me by making me watch a god-awful mutually-enjoyable television show with them. With my daughter, it’s frequently Animal Planet because she doesn’t like cooking shows or shows where people speak intelligent dialogue. I don’t like shows where the main character is a pretty but quirky and misunderstood white girl who’s best friend is a fat black girl with a  ghetto accent even though her parents are plastic surgeons and live in a mansion.

    My daughter has been taking advantage of the fact that her brother would rather IM with his friends than interact with his family. Recently, though, he noticed that his sister has had two consecutive weeks of mother-daughter bonding time. He walked in on us about halfway through “The Great Barrier Reef” and demanded to know when it was his turn. I invited him to join us, noting “It’s a really beatiful show.” He declined just as a shark devoured a sea turtle, crushing it’s shell like it was a potato chip. “Real beautiful,” he said, leaving the room.

    Later in the week, Chris Hayes appeared as a panelist on Real Time with Bill Maher. I proudly admit to having a massive nerd-girl crush on Chris Hayes. I’m into that boyish good looks and quick intellect thing. Now, I’m also into Joe Manganiello and am pretty sure Chris Hayes shirtless would cancel out his nerdly hotness.

    I invited my son to watch Real Time with me. For a few minutes we watched the debate in silence. Chris was acquitting himself nicely, defending his views with a devastating combination of wit, mastery of the facts and intelligence.

    Rapt, my son said, “Did he go to Harvard? Or did he invent Harvard?”

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 3

    I live with food heathens. While I will eat, and enjoy, pretty much anything (except liver), they are happy to subsist on chips, cheese and bacon. These are three of my favorite food groups, but I occasionally like to eat as if my heart mattered to me. Unfortunately, many of the things that only I will eat come in a package designed for a family of vegans, or, as my son might say, “A family of losers.” Hence, the following scenario is all too common.

    Me (clearing out the fridge, flinging half-eaten containers of healthful foods in the nearby trash): Agh! Why don’t they make these in smaller containers? I’m so sick of throwing away hummus!

    My husband: Oh, Bah Hummus!

    Me, after several seconds of glaring at him: Oh, my god. You didn’t just say that. Daughter, come shoot your daddy in the head.

    Daughter (whining): But then I’d have to go to juvie!

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 2

    featuring my son, 16 years old

    My son is now at the age where he leaves for hours at a time to meet up with friends and do constructive things like drive from mall to mall visiting their favorite stores. I say visiting because, between them, they have almost enough money to get a fast food meal and put half a gallon of gas in the designated driver’s car.

    I know a little bit more about the aspirations of some of my son’s cohorts than is comfortable for a woman known to worry about things like being sucked out of an airplane toilet. I know, for instance, that one of his group really, really wants to try LSD or just about any mind-altering substance.

    Recently, Son came home from one of his mall inventorying ventures along with three other young men. I was coming down the stairs just as they opened the front door so nearly collided into Son. He was smiling; he looked happy. This is not a state I am accustomed to in him. Mr. I Want To Drop Acid and See God was with him.

    I surveyed the situation and said the first thing that popped into my head.

    “Are you high?” I said. He and his friends looked at me like I was insane. Now, the minute it came out of my mouth I knew it was probably not the best way to greet my son and three young men who tower over me, but there you are.

    Later, reviewing the incident, I asked my son, “God, what on earth was I thinking!?”

    “I don’t know, Mom,” he said. “I was like ‘Hi, Mom!’ and you were like ‘Hi, Drug Addict!’”

  • Like this post if you’re like me

    Every morning, my ankle hurts. Just a little, in a spot that makes it obvious I’ve got arthritis. I’ve got the same thing going on with my wrist. I get up, though, and get moving. By the time I’ve had my second cup of tea, the pain is gone.

    My teeth are a mess, I have hot flashes, my kids are both in double digits and old enough to know when I’m full of shit. In other words, I’m getting old.

    With such abundant evidence in my real world, I don’t need it in my virtual world. But every time I get on Facebook, I see another of those dumb ass memes of some antiquated crap I’m supposed to “like” if I remember what the hell it’s for.

    I remember what they’re for. The ice cube tray made out of aluminum with the lever you pulled that broke the cubes loose, while also breaking half the cubes? I remember that. It was common before we knew that aluminum consumption contributes to Alzheimer’s. I like my ice maker ‘though I’m pretty sure we’ll discover the plastic parts it’s made of cause erectile dysfunction.

    I remember flash cubes, Captain Kangaroo, Mister Ed, and cassette tapes. I know what the relationship is between the cassette tape and a pencil.

    I am not going to “like” any of these things.

    See, I remember them and some of them even fondly. But my brain still works  the way it’s supposed to work. I can still learn new things. I can still challenge myself. I can still be part of the world evolving around me.

    My dad can’t. For brevity’s sake, let’s just say his brain is clogged with knots of protein. His cognitive function is so impaired he makes things up. He’s paranoid. He can’t remember my mother is dead, so he confuses other people with my mom and insists she’s ignoring him. I have had to tell him she’s dead three times in the last month.

    So, I won’t be “liking” anything from my childhood. It’s not that I don’t smile when I remember them, but when I’m 80, I’d like to have someone post a picture of Katy Perry that I can “like.” Maybe I’ll do it when I come in from a run.