Fear Revisited

Whoa, guys. Whoa. I know we’ve talked about this before, and we’ll talk about it again, but I am freaking scared of lizards. I can trace it back to an incident where, as a child, I was mercilessly attacked by a massive gila monster with red eyes and sharpened claws. It ran at me on two legs, like a raptor. The blood and carnage seemed endless and I prayed for sweet death. At least that’s how I remember it. It might have just been a regular lizard running out from under a bush and startling me, but how can we determine the truth after all these years? Anyway, I was going to shred a box full of papers that has been sitting in the garage for an unforgiveable amount of time (best afternoon of Haley’s life, right?!) and as I moved it, a little lizard came running out from behind the box. I started having flash-backs and right before my post-traumatic stress set in, I remember saying in sort of a growl, “Whoa!” and then I ran inside and locked the door. The growl is what surprised me most. That was strange and I’m super glad that Frankie was not there to hear it. It was definitely not a turn-on.

Aside from that, all is well. The Darb is enjoying kindergarten and kicking butt (literally---she had to sit on the bench during recess for the sake of the other children’s safety). I am really proud of her. My semester is off to a slower start as my math class is self-paced, so naturally I have yet to look at it. My English class is a memoir writing class and that is fun since I can’t get enough of myself. All the essay ideas I have, though, seem to revolve around poop, underwear, or a mixture of the two (intrigued?). I am pretty immature at my ripe old age of 31. Frankie is doing great and we are just waiting for a cool down out here in mesa. I am usually pretty good with the heat (you know, I stay indoors or go swimming, so it is no big deal for this princess), but after the last few weeks of “excessive heat” warnings, I’m getting pretty sweaty.

I guess that’s it. Are you still awake?

Baptism By Fire

Actually, my most recent baptism was by water. In the pool. Performed by Darby. I figured it was okay since she doesn't hold the proper authority, but I'm going to feel really bad for all of you if when we get there we find out that she actually does hold some type of authority.

I didn't encourage it, for any reader who is feeling particularly judgey today. She just did it, with her hand in the air and said, "We love Darby." Then she dunked me. And I felt strange; powerful.

Just kidding.

I did take the opportunity to teach a lesson or two, in case anyone thinks I'm going to hell for allowing it. Then again, I've been baptized twice, so I don't really think that I can go to hell, sucka!

The Grudge

When I am finally debilitated by my multiple sclerosis, wearing a diaper and being pushed around in a wheelchair, I'm going to remind Darby of the comment she made to me today.

"Mom, that dinner was disgusting. And so are you."

For real? That hardly felt necessary.

And THAT is why I am going to lay the guilt on her as thick as I can. I'll follow that story up with the one about the 71 hours of labor that I suffered to bring her into this world. Then I might fall out of my wheelchair and fake my death for a few days, just to drive the point home.

I'm going to title my parenting manual, "Love and Logic? That's Crap." What do you think?

(for the record, i'll probably actually just cry about it later. please tell me your kids are mean to you, too!)

Pay It Forward

That's right. This is the worst movie EVER. So, the kid dies? For real? I fracking hate this movie. And YOU...why didn't you warn me?

Inalienable Rights

Happy 4th of July! We spent the day as any red-blooded American would have; swimming and eating ourselves into a hot-dog coma. Of course, we came to just in time to eat apple pie, but went right back to our comatose state for the rest of the day. It was glorious.

We all know that I don’t do hamburgers. I have a strong aversion to hamburgers (except for In and Out) and the thought of squishing that gooey, sticky flesh in my precious hands to form them into patties sends my hand-washing OCD into freaking overdrive. But hot-dogs---now THOSE are something worthy of our founding fathers' assertion to the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

What I want to point out right now is the different calibers of hot-dogs. I stick only with Ball Park and Nathan’s. Those of you who brave Bar S dogs, well, I just don’t know what to make of you. Anyway, my theory is that we eat Ball Park hot-dogs mostly because of the heart-attack risk of Nathan’s hot-dogs. Once we’ve eaten Ball Park dogs until we are so full we want to die, we then indulge in Nathan’s hot-dogs, welcoming the probability of cardiac arrest. Man, those are delicious hot-dogs. Their taste is unparalleled in the hot-dog sphere. And when you bite in and scalding grease shoots into the back of your throat, you know you’ve got a good one. And some form of bypass in your future.

What is your dog of choice and how did you spend your 4th? (and no disrespect to the founding fathers and all those who fought for their freedom---I am fond of and grateful for those rights.)

Blowfish

Blowfish and Guppy Love are my favorite shoe brands. Blowfish is to Guppy Love what Gap is to Old Navy. Being the cheapskate that I am, my closet is outfitted with more Guppy Love than Blowfish shoes. I am what I am. Anyway, upon my "buy one get one 1/2 off" visit to Famous Footwear, I happened upon not one, but two pairs of Blowfish boots, one in Darby's current size and one in the next size up.

I almost passed out, overwhelmed by pure joy.

I bought them both---two pairs of AWESOME boots for $30. Slap hands!

I am not sure what I did to merit this good juju, but I'll take it. Name brand, not hand-me-down shoes in Darby's rotation? Unheard of! The picture is of the pair that she can currently fit in and her next size up is grey. I have the exact same boots in black, only in my size (a splurge on a good MS news day. I deserved them).

Go ahead, tell me how ragingly cute are these boots!

You're Not The Boss of Me! (a near death experience)

Don’t tell anybody, but I actually really enjoy running. I don’t do it a whole lot because upon leaving the air-conditioned confines of our homes here in Arizona, we burst into flames. There are very few days when spontaneous combustion is less of a threat and we are in the very last hours of that whimsical week. So, in an effort to get one last chance to go running and to allow Darby to do something fun (for once), we went for an outing with her taking her scooter and me taking my chevro-legs. We only run in the neighborhood to the west of ours because if we were to mozy around in our own neighborhood, we would surely get shanked. Not really, but the other neighborhood is a mile-long rectangle and that is convenient.

So, as soon as we enter our track, we hear a little voice shout out, “Darby!” It is Darby’s nemesis. In an effort to CMA, we will call him Sweet Baby James. Darby and Sweet Baby James love and hate one another. It is a very complicated 4 year old relationship. They are in preschool and primary together and while they have to sit together and talk to each other, it usually results in insult-slinging and eventually comes to blows. But, in this moment, they were friends and super pumped to hang out together. I didn’t want to keep her from getting to play with a friend and I didn’t want to hover, so I sat on the sidewalk on the other side of the street and just watched them run around together. To an outsider, I just looked super creepy. They played and chased each other with a humongous stick (can you believe I allowed that? I’m growing as a parent!) and when they started playing in the neighbors’ yards and sprinklers, I decided it was time for us to go. They had been playing for probably 45 minutes and we had a pretty busy day ahead of us. So, we moved on and finished our outing.

On the way home, Darby said, “Mom, Sweet Baby James told me to stay there, but I didn’t want to.” I replied, “Well Honey, you don’t have to do what Sweet Baby James tells you to do.” And she said, “Yes I do, because he’s the boss.” I thought that maybe that was part of their game and I asked, “Well, why is he the boss?” She responded with “Because he is a boy, and boys are the boss.”

I stopped cold and a little part of me died inside.

“Darby, listen to me. Boys are not the boss of girls. Boys are not better than girls. Sweet Baby James is not your boss.” She said, “Boys ARE the boss, like Daddy. He’s the boss and he’s a boy.”

I see the underdeveloped logic. I do. My poor, sweet baby. I explained that our Daddies and Mommies are our bosses, but not because they are boys or girls, but because they are our parents and that Sweet Baby James’ dad was his boss, but not Darby’s boss and that boys are not the bosses of girls. She seemed greatly relieved and I dare say enlightened. No, empowered! We’ll make a feminist of her yet!

Crisis narrowly averted.