Following The Road

If you happen to be a prolific photographer like me, eventually your kids are going to stop posing and start demanding that you put the damn camera away already.

My kids are there:

Even Little is tired of smiling for the camera:

Pretty soon, even other people’s kids start turning their back on you:

But no matter what, There is one kid who turns it on for the camera.

One kid that I can always count on. No matter what he’s doing, if I pull out the camera, Charge lights up.

He practically glows.

Ah, nephew, you are a kid after my own heart.

Mamarazzi Mondays are hosted by Household 6 Diva.

Remember WAY back when I talked about this winter being wet and dreary and miserable? No?

Let me remind you… this winter is wet, dreary and miserable. I don’t deal well with wet, dreary and miserable. It makes me irritable, angry and short-tempered. Lately, I am all of the above plus emotional, lazy and unmotivated.

I’ve decided to pretend it’s summer. I’m packing the wood-stove until it’s about to burst to make it unseasonably warm in my house. Then the girls and I will sit around the living room in shorts and tank tops sipping lemononade. We’ll turn on every light in the room and take off the lampshades. After putting on a pair of sunglasses and lighting my beach scented candles, I’ll lay back on my extra large towel with a silly summer book. Sure- it might be raining outside, but inside we are going for full blown denial.

Hello, SUMMER. I’ve missed you so.

I’ve even stretched the denial to my blog. See the pretty summer header? Can’t you just feel the heat radiating off of it?

I’m a firm believer in positive thinking. If I believe summer is here, it will arrive faster. It will.

Stop looking at me like that.

Hope.

It’s kind of a strange concept. You want something to be true, even though there is nothing to prove it’s likelihood.

This is Bright being hopeful I’ll change my mind about taking her to see Alice in Wonderland this weekend.

Her hope is slightly based in reality, since I want to see this movie. I’ve got a thing for Alice. It goes way back to my Disney days. However, that doesn’t mean I’m going to take the BFF and her to the movies. What can I say? I hate crowds. Especially opening weekend crowds. Especially-infinity opening RAINY DAY weekend crowds. Blech.

This is me being hopeful that my Shiny! New! camera will turn me into a Supah Star of photography.

And this is My sister in law, my husband, and our friend being hopeful that they are each not the person with the largest belly. Also? They are probably pretty hopeful that I won’t get it into my head to post this on the internet.

Remember what I said at the beginning about hope being a strange concept?

I am participating in You Capture Thursdays, you can see more posts or play along at I Should Be Folding Laundry.

This year I decided that I was going to start sending birthday cards to the people I love. I called all the moms I could think of and quizzed them on birthdates. I wrote them into my day planner. I went to Target and started picking cards. Then I added them up in my head and realized I was going to spend a small fortune on birthday cards this year.

HEY WAIT! I already have a small fortune. I keep it tucked into my scrapbooking dresser.

Technically, I don’t scrapbook.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I thought scrap-booking would be a good idea. I bought the little doo-dads, all the pretty papers. I purchased stickers up the hoo-ha and a half trillion sticky frames. I bought letters and sparkly, poofy cutouts. I actually scrap-booked a couple of pages. They were masterpieces of epic proportions. Two hours later, I stepped back, looked at them and realized that my ratio was about three photographs per page. I had a stack of photographs that rivaled the Eiffel Tower in height.

This was a problem.

I stopped scrap-booking and starting shoving pictures into albums with hastily scribbled captions. These days I don’t even do that much. These days I’m proud if our birthday party pictures make it off my camera’s memory card and on to the computer before the next birthday. It’s an 8G card for a reason.

Those scrap-booking aisles still called to me. I love stickers. I love doo-dads in bright colors. I LOVE sparkly, poofy cutouts. When something is on sale, or Target is clearing out their inventory for newer stock, I buy. I can’t help it. I’m a papyrus whore.

I’ve been saving all of these adorable paper goods for something special, something like… Well- I don’t actually know. Something worthy of all the money I’ve thrown into this obsession over the last ten years? That’s probably it.

But, if I used one small fortune to fund another small fortune, it would justify years of The Crazy. My obsession wouldn’t be a dirty little secret. It would be useful. It would almost be like I was planning on doing this all along. Hallelujah! Do you hear the angels singing?

Today I made birthday cards. At first I tried to make cards that looked like they could have been purchased at a store. Then I decided those were boring. So, I started making cards that I thought were fun. They aren’t professional. They’re unique.

Star decided to get in on the card-making extravaganza too. That yellow card with the bear is hers.

I filled the inside with random blabbering about whatever popped into my head. See this? This is where I try to justify a smiling sun and cuddly bear on a Man’s card.

Fish are totally manly.

Here’s where I encourage Bud’s girlfriend to go get drunk. I’m classy like that.

When did my hands become so wrinkled? No, really- when? Send lotion.

Personally, I’d rather get a card filled with the ramblings of a friend than another generic sentiment from Hallmark. But hey- maybe that’s just me. Either way, I don’t care. This year everyone is getting a wee bit of The Crazy in their mailbox.

*Send your address to jen at followingtheroad dot com and I’ll do my best to add you to the list. That is- until my list gets so long that I start to get stabby. Then you’re SOL.

Much like those lame frogs that are too stupid to jump from a pot of slowly heated water, I am being driven insane by the force of Star.

It’s one of those days where she isn’t doing any thing technically bad, just slightly less than good. She isn’t yelling or throwing tantrums. She’s just pouting me into insanity. She’s sitting on the couch, complaining about being bored.

Then she’s picking up toys (’cause if I’m going to give you something to do, it’s going to be chores) in the Half-Wilted Tulip pose. She’s doing it, she just wants to make sure I realize she’s doing it unwillingly.

She’s mopey. She’s whiny. She’s THERE. Behind me. Every second of the day. We’re thisclose today. THISCLOSE.

I’d jump but I’m pretty sure she would follow me.

Yeah yeah blah blah parenthood is like this. I know. But wouldn’t it be nice if parenthood had a pause button? Like a pause until it gets warmer and less depressing around here button.

Pause until it stops raining and I can send her outside for half an hour button.

Pause until I can stop pulling my hair out button.

Let’s work on that, shall we?

Every year about this time my local country radio station does a St.Jude telethon. They spend a week raising money by telling heart breaking stories about kids with cancer and parents who deal with the worst of the worst. They talk for hours about giving money and hope and helping to find a cure. This lasts not for a day but for an entire WEEK.

Every year at the beginning of the week, I go online, donate what ever couple of bucks I can afford and then turn off my radio. I go silent for the week. Because I don’t want to hear about kids with cancer. I don’t want to think about kids with cancer. I don’t want to hear stories of hopeful parents or parents that have dealt with the worst of the worst. I want to be happily oblivious. I want to go about my day, singing along to Cowboy Casanova without ever once hearing about St. Jude’s or their patients. I’m afraid this makes me a terrible person.

But I do it anyway.

***

Two weeks ago, Bright came home from school with a baseball sign up flyer. She announced that for the first time ever, she really, absolutely, must play baseball. I said okay. Then I forgot about it until today. Today, in Walmart (where all the cool kids hang) I stumbled across my neighbor who proudly announced that her husband would be coaching their 4 year old’s T-ball team. Sign ups were yesterday.

I missed them.
Crap.

Luckily these are neighbors that don’t shoot at us. These are neighbors that actually like us and our children. They offered to give Bright a spot on their T-ball team. They even picked another 7 year old so she wouldn’t be the oldest kid on the team.

She wanted baseball- she’s getting t-ball. As the perfect parent that I am, I convinced her this was a good opportunity for her to learn to play the game before jumping into the minor leagues. Ummm… Yeah. It was meant to be.

FAIL.

***

A few months ago my brother in law, Cobain, sent this link around to every one we know. It’s a video of a lizard, or a gecko type thing, saying some pretty incoherent junk. It’s not  funny unless you’ve visited the beer fridge one too many times. Not at all. The language is absolutely not safe for work and is possibly mildly offensive to just about everyone. And yet? It’s the video that has spawned a thousand catchphrases among our usual group of friends. We don’t say no around here any more, we say “No way, Nevah.” When you do something amazing? You’re going bosanova. If someone is tying their shoes? They are Captain Tying Knots. Dancing kid? He’s going Craa-aazy.

Seriously. Not a day goes by when someone I know doesn’t reference this video.

This includes my kids. They haven’t seen the video. They’ve just heard the grown-ups talking about the damn seah0rse parties. And they want in on it. So, it’s no way, nevah for them too. Someday, my kids are going to watch one of the eleventy billion videos I’ve made of them and wonder what all this Seahorse Party crap is about.Why exactly can’t we lead anyone to the door and who is Mr. Balloonhands?

I am going to have to explain Drinking Out of Cups to them.

Something about this scenario makes me uncomfortable.

When I started this blog three years ago, I posted about a crazy idea I had. I wanted to tear apart the entire backside of our house and rearrange the walls, move the bathroom, and rebuild it all.

A small project.

I drew some plans on a piece of notebook paper and showed the husband. He laughed at me.

I persisted. I whined. I nagged. Then I got out a hammer and started beating on walls. That got his attention. It’s been two years since we started tearing out walls. Star lost her room. We lived with a floating toilet for a while.

The girls were shuffled from room to room. 2×4 chic became the norm. I forgot what it was like to live in a house without exposed pipes. That little scrap of notebook paper traveled through out the house with us- a shining light of possibility.

There were moments when I thought we would never be able to walk through our house without tennis shoes to protect our feet from splinters and stray nails. When Little came into the picture, we rethought our plans. The notebook paper got a couple of adjustments to make one kid room big enough for the two girls.

A week ago, we set a deadline. We would need to finish the drywall, paint the walls and level the floor before Carpet Day. I’ve been painting non-stop since.

We have done every step of this project ourselves.

We’ve demoed every wall in the back of the house and rebuilt them where we wanted. We’ve learned to drywall and texture. I’ve learned how to wire a plug and install lights.

Today is the culmination* of two years worth of work. Today is Carpet Day.

Today** is the day when I can walk through my house and say, “It’s finally done.”

*Okay. It’s not REALLY done. There are still baseboards to install and shelves to hang in the closets. But the big stuff? The really-terrible-it’s-never-getting-finished stuff? DONE. Wheeeeeee!

**Tomorrow is the day I start painting baseboards and curse myself for thinking any project is ever finished.

So…

I’m not really up on Gaytiquette and I have some hypothetical questions.

Let’s assume you are a gay man. A gay man who is in the closet. And by “In the closet,” I mean everybody assumes you are gay but you have never confirmed it. You have also never brought a woman to a family dinner. You’re thirty-something, the lack of girlfriend thing is no longer attributed to being a late bloomer.

In addition to an In the Closet Gay Man, you are also an actor. In your last television appearance, you played an ITCGM who comes out. Does this translate to real life? Can I now set you up with my friend from highschool? Or do I still have to wait for the official announcement? Can I start asking you if my shoes go with my purse? When can I bring my paint swatches over for an opinion? Please don’t tell me we have to keep pretending you are straight. Please.

Okay. Now let’s assume you are a lesbian- an In The Closet Lesbian. The kind of ITCL like Jodie Foster or Oprah. Everyone KNOWS, everybody mentions it to each other, but nobody is willing to confront you. If you bring your pretend significant other over for dinner, do I have to pretend that I like him? Even though I know he is only a decoy? And he’s kind of a douche? Can I brush him and his balding at 25 head aside or do I have to go along with the charade? And for the record- saying you’re saving yourself for marriage doesn’t apply to kissing. Nobody saves that much. At least nobody over the age of sixteen.

Seriously? Why do I know so many ITC gay people? I thought gay was the new black. Straight people are pretending to be gay these days (See: Lindsay Lohan). Why are you still pretending? I’m not very good at this game. My Gadar is far to acute. I worked at the Home Depot for goodness sakes. It’s like Mecca for lesbians. I know when a woman is checking out my ass and when a man is checking out the Husbands. I can’t pretend I don’t.

Today’s Lesson: Either come out of the closet or start doing a better job at pretending. Maintaining pretenses requires effort on both our parts.

Carry on.

A few years ago I read a story about an Olympic athlete. I think he was a skier of some sort. When he was a kid, his parents found him jumping off of the roof. Instead of sending the kid to his room, they padded him up and gave him a couple of old mattresses for a soft landing.

I always thought those parents were insane.

If course, that was before I had one of THOSE kids. Bright is athletic. She likes to run and play soccer. She is going to start baseball in a couple of weeks. But she isn’t one of THOSE kids. She never has been.

Star is a completely different matter.

She’s the kind of kid that acts first, thinks later. She has no fear. None. She will run full throttle down a hill side. She’ll be the first to throw herself down the side of a mountain on a sled. She’ll climb anything. Last year, she decided that riding a plastic tractor down the side of our mountain was a good idea. We live in the Sierra’s, yo. These aren’t small mountains. Her face proved the folly in that logic:

Please notice that she is still smiling. ‘Cause one little face plant doesn’t take away the joy of flying down a hillside on a plastic tractor.

You would think this would her curb her enthusiasm for doing crazy things. You would think wrong.

All of the other kids know she’s THAT kid. They send her first to do the really scary things. If she lives, they try it. If she crashes, they don’t. She makes a good crash test dummy.

Now I’m trying to walk that line between supportive parent and having the neighbors call CPS on me. I finally understand why those parents didn’t try to talk their kid out of jumping off the roof. I could try to talk Star out of doing back flips on the trampoline, but it will just lead to her walking the six foot high banister along the porch. If I try to stop her from doing one crazy thing, she finds something crazier to do.

She is a wonder- a constant amazement to me.

Late Sunday night I had the girls in my bedroom watching a movie. Within minutes Star was jumping on the bed. I told her to stop. Ten minutes later, she was jumping again. I turned off the movie and made her stop. Ten minutes after that, she had blood pouring from her mouth and I was trying not to freak out. The crazy kid had knocked her front teeth loose because she was jumping from the dresser to the bed.

You see? She wasn’t jumping on the bed. She was jumping from the DRESSER to the BED. Do you see the distinction? Completely different. Of course.

Two seconds later? She’s laughing about her bruised gums.

The dentist says the outcome is eerily similar to what would have happened if she had just kept jumping on the bed: her teeth will either fall out on their own or have to be pulled. The roots aren’t really attached to anything any more. Unfortunately, she has an undiagnosed heart murmur that we need to figure out before he can do anything.

So- what should I have done differently? I could have locked her out of the room. I could have sent her to bed for disobeying me the first time. I could have done a lot of things. What I should have done? I should have moved the extra mattress out from under the bed and let her jump safely.

I should have given her some padding and a mattress and let her jump from the roof.

Because now I am THAT mom.

Don’t be fooled by the innocent look. She’s a heathen.

It’s You Capture time!

My brother in law’s girlfriend is a funny woman. On Valentines morning she came over to our house and decorated our table with hearts and candy kisses and candles. It looked like Valentine’s Day threw up all over my house.

But it was cute and sweet and involved chocolate- of which I am always a fan. She didn’t leave the flowers. They were a gift from Jeremy last week. Just because. I think he must have done something very bad but I’m not questioning him because I love tulips.

And you know- kisses. The perfect candy. I am of the belief that chocolate is best when it comes in small portions, uninterupted by nuts or caramel or other things that don’t belong in my candy. Also, colorful packaging is appreciated.

I also believe that this isn’t what the Kisses theme is supposed to be about.

But I don’t care because I really love chocolate.