It’s A Phase, Right?

I am exhausted. Right now, every tiny thing turns into a senseless argument, even stuff that’s been part of the regular routine for the entire year. It’s a constant struggle to get things done. I don’t understand. My conversations go like this:

“Time to get up!”

“I don’t wanna!”

“Get up. Now”.

*screaming tantrum commences*

Or this:

“Here’s your lunch!”

“I’m not eating that.”

“You like carrots and broccoli. You love salad.”

“No. I want McDonald’s.”

“Forget it.”

*screaming tantrum commences*

Or even this:

“Time for walkies!”

“NO! I don’t wanna go!”

“C’mon! You love to go for walks!”

“No! I won’t!”

“Get up now!”

“NO! You can’t make me! I’m gonna sit here aaaallllll day long!”

“We’re going. Get up.”

*screaming tantrum commences*

I know logically that this phase will pass. One day, I will grow up and do the things that I know are good for me. One day.  But for now, don’t you tell me what to do!  Because I don’t wanna! You can’t make me!

I think I may need a time out, or a nap. They tell you about the Terrible Twos, but no one thinks to warn us about the Terrible Forties.

 

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: Class Time With Professor Padawan

Dear Professor,

I am a student, and I keep my nose to the grindstone during the school year, so when it’s time for a break, I want to relax as much as possible. How do I know that I have squeezed all the fun out of Spring Break that I can?

Signed,

Want My Money’s Worth

Dear Money’s Worth,

An excellent question. And also an easy one. You will know that you have properly utilized your Spring Break when at 10am on a Friday morning, you look like this:

Well done!

 

***Editor’s note: I know it looks as though he has spent his Spring Break deep in study. Rest assured he did not. Having carried all his bedding downstairs the night before for a sleepover (or a stay-up-all-night-er), he was forced to use his books as a pillow.

 

The Best April Fool’s Trick EVER.

My daughter has an evil streak. I admit I kind of like it. A couple of years ago, she perpetrated the greatest prank in the universe. I may have put her up to it, but I’m pleading the fifth.

Anyway, it all started when I got a “tween kit” from Kotex, a nifty little pamphlet that contained coupons and suggestions on how to talk to my tween about first periods. Which was weird because my only tween was the Padawan, and I always considered it his teacher’s job to teach him about punctuation, but whatever. We got the little packet, and an idea began to take shape.

Girl-child immediately found a piece of junk mail addressed to her dad. She carefully removed the address label and affixed it to the packet with a bit of glue. Then she mixed it in with the day’s mail and waited for her prey.

Yes.. I saved it. Evidence of her evil genius.

When my husband came home, he flipped casually through the mail. And then he stopped, casting furtive glances to left and right. His brow crinkled, and I heard him mutter “Why do they think I want to know this?” as he began to hyperventilate. He fell for it, believing for a moment that Kimberly-Clarke in all its wisdom had singled him out to have The Talk with his daughter, and wondering desperately how to get out of it. What a glorious day!

Was it cruel? Maybe a little. Unusual? Not for this family.

Well done, Girl-child.

 

I Hereby Call This Meeting to Order!

Come into my secret clubhouse!  Okay, I know it’s just a sheet draped over a couple of kitchen chairs, but it’s a 700 thread count. Only the best for you! But don’t get Oreo crumbs all over the place because my mom will kill me!

You want to be in my club? It’s a book club. You know what the best part is? You don’t have to read anything. Because you already did! Is that cool or what? Consider yourself cordially invited to the From the Bowels of Obscurity Children’s Book Club.

My pal sj and I were talking the other day about some of our favorite reads as kids. That no one living seems ever to have heard of. We compared notes.

My elementary school library had a tiny budget and didn’t get in a lot of new books, so the shelves were bursting with titles that these days rank fewer than 20 ratings on Goodreads.  As a voracious reader too young to drive herself to the public library, I consumed most of them. And I liked it fine. It never occurred to me that the things I was reading were not on every kid’s book shelf. My books were my friends.

And since you’re my friend, too, I thought I could introduce you guys. Here’s where the club part comes in. sj and I are going to co-host it. I’ll do a post one week, and then she’ll do one the following week.

Here’s how you play if you want to.

Write a post about a few books you loved as a kid that are kind of obscure. How obscure is up to you. If you loved Nancy Drew and there was a title in the series you adored that no one you know has ever heard of, count it! Love a book that was written by your next door neighbor on construction paper? Tell us about it! Try to limit yourself to 1-4 books per post. We don’t want the club to fizzle out too soon, right?

Age range is flexible. From story books to teen, whatever you loved before you were old enough to vote counts.

Get personal. If straight reviews are your thing, go for it. Even better, though, is sharing what the book actually meant to you. Why did you love it? Do you remember the first time you read it or how you found it in the first place? Did you leave a Doritos smudge on the page of a favorite you borrowed from the library? I suffer from incurable nosiness, and I love those kinds of stories!

Add a trackback to the host post for the week. If you’re new to WordPress, that may sound complicated. It’s not. All you have to do is include a link to the host post somewhere in your post. Then the link to yours will appear in a neat little list of links at the bottom of the host post, and we can all find one another’s posts.

Participate at your own pace. Life got you too busy next week? Feel free to jump in any time. You’ll be able to find trackbacks to the latest post at the bottom of this one. And if you don’t want to do an entire blog post, share your obscure favorites in the comments section.

Read the posts of the other participants. You never know what treasure you’ll find!

If you’re on Goodreads, why not rate the book over there? You don’t have to review it, but if you loved it, throw it some stars! Who knows? Maybe you’ll get a buzz going and bring new life to your old favorite!

That’s all there is to it. You are free to read any book that piques your curiosity, but you don’t have to. And you can even blog about your discovery. But you don’t have to. The real name of the game here is sharing. Because sharing is nice. Except when it’s my MoonPies. Hands off.

 

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: Ode to Joy

Joy is the mountains on the first warm weekend of the year.

Mountain stream, how I’ve missed you!

Joy is a big sister who is happy to piggy back you when you get too tired.

Love my sis

Joy is when she RUNS!

WHEEEEE!

Good morning. What brings you joy today?

 

Tiny Misunderstanding

It’s February! For such a short little month, it sure is packed with holidays, and Squish has been learning about them all in preschool. He’s super excited about tomorrow, and he’s been telling me all about the wonder that is February 2nd.

He’s going to be watching the news on the morrow with great interest. He tells me that if she sees her shadow, she’s going to pop back into her hole, and it’s six more weeks of winter for us. That’s right! It’s that time of year again. Squish wants me to remind everyone that tomorrow is Grandma’s Day!

He may have missed a little something in the translation.

Don’t be scared, Granny!

If Groundhog’s Day brings this kind of confusion, Ash Wednesday will be interesting.

 

If Wishes Were Horses, They’d Poop On Your Floor.

I wasn’t going to blog today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe even the next day. But here I am. I don’t usually follow the Daily Prompt, either, primarily due to the recessive you’re-not-the-boss-of-me gene. But here I am. Today’s prompt asked if there was a gift I wanted as a child but never received. You know this story doesn’t end well.

Don’t ask me where I saw it. I don’t know. I was seven. At that age, I perceived that everything in the world came from Woolworth’s, Saturday morning commercials or Tupperware parties (is my 70′s showing? Let me tuck it back in…). But saw it I did, and I wanted it; coveted it secretly. Well, maybe secretly is the wrong word considering I told Santa, my mom, and pulling out all the stops, my grandmother. And maybe Jesus. I forget. Anyway, I asked for it. And asked for it. And what did I get for my troubles? Matching “What the heck are you talking about?” expressions. Because, indeed, they had no idea.

It wasn’t a Barbie for whom I burned with longing. Puh-leeze. My one concession to that franchise was a Malibu Ken, who had a scandalous tan when I took off his swim trunks. And no Strawberry Shortcake for me. Well, not until the following year. Nor did the delicious saltiness of Play Doh hold appeal (have I said too much?). The only thing on my Christmas wish list that year was a sandwich.

It was a thing of beauty this sandwich, the very height of cleverness, for you see, it wasn’t a real sandwich! It was a set of bath sponges made to look like one! I’ll let that sink in for a moment. A sandwich whose bread was a sponge! And whose cheese was a sponge! And whose pastrami…wait for it…was a sponge! What magic was this? And I haven’t even mentioned the best part. This sandwich was merely a stack of adorable absorbency without its crowning glory; a pickle! Made out of soap! A sweet little soapy gherkin just ripe for the scrubbing. It was a thing of beauty, so realistic I could have eaten it. And I wanted it. Badly.

All through the long weeks leading up to Christmas, I begged asked for this bath set. From anyone who would listen. To my mom’s credit ,I’m sure she wanted to encourage my sudden and new found interest in bathing and probably did ask me for details.

“Did you see it at Woolworth’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it on TV?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it at a department store?”

“Maybe. Yes! I think so!”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know.

I should have known it was a lost cause, but I didn’t. I hoped. And wished. Christmas morning came, and I did get a sponge. It was in the shape of a large key and came with bubble bath. I tried to find an image online to show you, but all I come up with is information regarding bubble bath and urinary tract infections. Once again, I am disappointed by bath sponges.

So there you have it. My heart was broken by a bath sponge and a soapy little pickle all those Christmases ago. I have never seen that set again, and my heart has never recovered.

Merry Christmas and stuff.

What did you wish for but never got? Just me, then?

 

An Unexpected Something

The Padawan and I have been reading The Hobbit together in anticipation of the movie’s release. Is there anything better than curling up on the couch under a blanket and sharing a delicious adventure with someone you love? I think not. We went last night to see the movie.

It was the Padawan’s first Opening Weekend, and we were both so excited! We’ve been looking forward to it for months. MONTHS! I’m a cheapskate by nature, but for this event I loosened the purse strings and bought the popcorn and the candy. And let the kid stay up hours past his bedtime. We were so ready to love this movie!

And we didn’t.

Howard Shore worked his magic with the score. Themes, both new and familiar, were exquisite. In this movie, we are treated to Shore’s interpretations of the songs that were so integral to Tolkien’s work. The soundtrack is a must-have. The deluxe edition, if you please.

The cinematography was simply gorgeous. Some shots were even more dramatic and lovely than the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

The acting was stellar, the cast spot-on.

But without the story, all of the above are worthless. Peter Jackson took a beloved tale of high adventure and turned it into a bar-room brawl.

The characters were unrecognizable. The Bilbo Baggins I grew up with charmed me with his delightful manners, no matter how absurd the situation. I loved him so because, though a party of ravenous dwarves appeared on his doorstep and proceeded to empty his larder, he was ever so polite. Though confused by their demands for cakes and ale, he complied. These simple acts set the tone for the story, both courtly and romantic.

The character on screen last night was rude and selfish, a hobbit from the 21st century. In his heart, Tolkien’s Bilbo wanted the dwarves to leave him to his peace (and his food), but he would not dishonor his guests or his heritage by saying so. The 21st century Bilbo told them to give him back his tomatoes.

Jackson’s rough treatment wasn’t limited to Bilbo. Radagast the Brown was a wizard in my mind akin to St. Francis of Assisi. The person we were subjected to last night was a buffoon with bird turds plastering his hair.

The script was toyed with until it was no longer the story I love. Where there wasn’t enough excitement, Jackson interjected some trumped up drama, twisting the tale and its inhabitants into caricatures of themselves. And there’s falling. Entirely too much falling.

There is no room for graphic violence in Tolkien’s story, but Jackson fixes that. Where the book depicts clean kills, Jackson creates torture and brutality, a goblin king eviscerated in front of the audience, a pale goblin’s arm severed and spurting blood, later replaced by a claw skewered through the flesh of his upper arm.

This movie should never have been rated PG-13. I’d have given it a solid R, and I never would have taken my son. By comparison, many of the Harry Potter movies were rated PG-13. I let the Padawan watch them after he had read the books because those, at least, were fairly true to their original source. I no longer trust Peter Jackson.

My joy for today is the sweet innocence I rediscovered in my Padawan. I think of him as nearly a pre-teen. Last night, my little boy was returned to me, bouncing in his seat with childish enthusiasm and anticipation, reaching for my hand to cover his eyes in the scary parts, delighting in the enormous container of candy in his possession. I treasure last night, regardless of the quality of the movie.

Happy weekend!

 

My Hope

Squish’s eyes grew big as he watched.

“I’ve never seen that before! How do you do that?” he breathed in open admiration. “Do it again?”

How could I say no? His giggles turned to guffaws.

“Show me how again!” he begged. “I want to do that! “

And my heart smiled.

We never know which of our skills and abilities and innate desires our kids will inherit.My great-grandmother quilted, but neither of her daughters were ever as passionate. My grandmother knitted and sewed, but none of us got that gene.I am a writer, but the Padawan would rather stick forks in his eyes than complete a creative writing assignment. And don’t get him started on grammar.

I have tried to pique the big kids’ curiosity before. They smiled, feigning interest to make me happy, but they never showed a desire to follow in my footsteps. I’m learning that I can’t force things like this.

But now there’s my Squish, who seems so excited about it that I could just hug him. Seeing his enthusiasm about what I do fills me with joy and hope. Maybe it won’t die with me. Maybe, just maybe, if his interest holds and I don’t burn him out, there will be one other person in this family that can put the toilet paper on the spindle. The future looks bright, indeed.

The Hope For The Future

 

Post-Holiday Blues

Holidays can be a bit of a mixed bag. While it’s great to get together with family that we maybe don’t see as often as we like, there’s also that bit of awkwardness. Maybe it’s just in my family, or maybe you can relate.

It’s a wonderful blessing to be together, but after a little, you realize that nothing has changed. You see them living in the same mistakes year after year. Every year you hope it will be different, that they will have learned a new way of doing things, that you won’t have to experience the pain of the sameness, hurting and wishing they could see the mistakes they are making as clearly as you do.

Every year you wonder if this will be the year that you get up the courage to say something, but then in the end you retreat like a whipped dog, afraid to be the big bad guy, of being rejected. You feel like a coward because someone needs to be brave and take that first step.

This year, it is going to be me. I am being courageous.

Mom, the coffee was kind of weak. Can we have French Roast at Christmas? There. I feel so much better now!

We’ll pretend that this is a photo of my mom. She doesn’t like her pic on the interwebs, and Squish looks so much like her that it’s like he didn’t even need me as the middle man.