The email I've been expecting has unfortunately arrived.
My sister had her beloved Maggie put to sleep this morning.
Gretchen and Steve have had Maggie longer than they've had their children and at times probably wish that they had just had Maggie instead of having children. (Ha ha!)
I'm sure it's been said a thousand times about a thousand different dogs, but it can't be helped. You couldn't have asked for a better dog than my Maggie Mae. She was the ultimate children's pet. Good natured and patient. Protective and obedient. Okay, so she had a problem keeping her head out of the trash, but a girl has got to have one vice, right?
You always hear the horror stories about the dog who loses its place of importance once the kids come along. How they get jealous and resent the kids or take their jealousy out on the family's shoes.
Not, Maggie.
Almost from the moment that Gretchen became pregnant, Maggie became a mother. Gretchen may have THOUGHT that she gave birth to Shelby, Carly, and Bradley, but the truth of the matter is that Maggie just let her borrow her human "puppies." She was attentive to Gretchen through the pregnancies and even when Gretchen was on bed rest with the twins, rarely left her side.
When Shelby was very young, like toddler age. Steve heard Maggie crying and whining in the livingroom. He went to investigate to see what was wrong her. He discovered the problem soon enough. There in the middle of the room lay Mags with Shelby sitting with her. It would truly have been a Kodak moment if it hadn't been for Shelby methodically poking Maggie in the eye over and over and over again as Maggie just whined and cried. She would never hurt one of her "puppies" even if it was blinding her.
Don't worry. The twins aren't without their own little "tormenting Maggie" story. One day, I showed up at my sister's to find that she had what appeared to be some sort of dog shaped fawn. Or maybe it was a fawn coated dog. In any event, Carly and Bradley had somehow located a scissors and decided to give the Mags a hair cut. They had cut small, oval spots of Maggie's darker brown, black tipped overcoat and revealed the whitey beige of her undercoat leaving her with a fawn-like spotted pattern. I fondly referred to her as Bambi until her coat grew back.
Though I would go to visit my sister and her family quite often when I lived in Pennsylvania, it was always Maggie who would greet me first. Standing on her back legs, she would wrap her front legs around my waist and give me the equivilent of a doggie hug. Though she was a good sized dog, not small by any stretch of the imagination, she always believed herself to be a lap dog. If I sat on the couch long enough, I could usually count on having her lying on top of me at some point. If you were friend or family, you always got Maggie as a hostess. She would sit next to the visitor and give them her full attention. Even if they didn't want it.
My husband, Jeff, is opposed to dogs in general principle. He finds them loud, smelly, droolly, and germy with no evident good points. That makes it a bit difficult for me sometimes as I love any kind of furry creature and my family has always been a dog family. Maggie didn't let that get in her way when we would go to visit. No matter how many times you tried to move her or order her across the room, she would always find her way to Jeff's side. She would plaster herself against his leg and lay her head in his lap, looking up at him with her dark eyes as if to say, "how can you possibly not like me?" And truly, who could not like or love Maggie Mae.
Well, besides Kate. It grieves me that Kate never really took a shine to the Magster. No matter how hard Maggie tried, she just could not get my "puppy" to accept her. I'm sure in time, Kate would have grown to love her when she had grown a bit taller. When her face was no longer at tongue level and the hard whip of a tail didn't practically knock her off her feet. Though she sure enjoyed feeding her. Put Kate on a chair and hand her some food and she would gleefully throw food to Maggie. And if Maggie and Holly were playing chase in the backyard, Kate would laugh and shriek and encourage them on. I'm sure that Maggie would have won her over in the end.
I know my sister is killing herself for having made the decision to have her put down. She feels she let Maggie down somehow when Maggie was always there for her and the family and gave so much for her. Hopefully, she'll come to feel that what she did was the kindest gift she could have given to her canine companion. She showed strength and compassion instead of weakly allowing Maggie to suffer through her remaining days. After many years of faithful service, Gretchen was able to repay her by providing her with the greatest gift that she could. Her freedom.
Maggie had a heart as big as the world and her love will beat within us long after the pain fades.
My Maggie Mae has gone away. Good bye, old girl.
Thursday 28 February 2008
Wednesday 27 February 2008
Yesterday's Blues
I knew that something had happened the moment I picked up the phone and heard my mother's voice. The only fear was not knowing what.
Strange how in just a few seconds, brief as the single beat of a butterfly's ragged wing, my heart beats out a list of the people I fear for the most. No one is sick. No one has their death sentence written in a spidery handwriting of clouds and smoke waiting for the rains to come and wash their name from the sky. It was a sudden death. Final end. No good byes. No farewells. No time for tears and guilt and what if's. Those will all come later.
She says the name. Gives voice to the sentence. My heart constricts with relief and grief mixed in broad strokes of red and black swirled together in a chaotic dance. My voice trips on the barbed wire fence that has wrapped itself around my throat and has tightened painfully around the words that squeeze from my lips.
And she changes the subject, moves it to safer shores. Gives me time to recover and regroup. Distracts my heart long enough that my brain can hammer the door of my grief shut. Gives me time to peek at my grief at intervals while allowing me to slip blades of light and life into the darkness of loss.
The name on this day was that of my cousin Bill. (Or Billy as he was forever known to my tongue.) He is the eldest of my grandmother's almost 30 grandchildren. Though you would never know it by how little I saw him or spoke of him, I have always had a soft spot for him. It's hard to explain, really.
You see, the Billy that always creeps into my mind when his name is mentioned or remembered is the Billy that I remember from my childhood. A tall, lanky, blond haired boy on the cusp of manhood. At the time he seemed decades older than me, yet the reality was much less. I was ten or eleven just on the threshold of adolescence while he was standing at the exit.
He belonged to the "class" of cousins that were "above" the age group to which I belonged. Older and wiser and definately too cool for the kids who still looked under the rocks along the river and climbed the apple trees. We rode bicycles, didn't drive cars. Didn't care about cars, really. Didn't want to know about carburetors and rims, cylinders and horse power (unless it whinneyed.) We were "kids." They were... not.
Yet with Billy, even at that awkward age when it's sometimes easier to sneer and snigger at the "little ones" and tease them and taunt them with your superiority, his true heart shone through. I'm not going to pretend that his teenage arrogance didn't sometimes get the better of him, but he seemed to have a greater patience for us who were watching, waiting, and wondering what it would be like to be "grown up."
I'm sure that he was just as kind to the rest of the cousins that came after him, but he had a way of making me feel special. I don't know, maybe he felt sorry for me. He had lost his father tragically at an early age. Did he remember him? We had moved back to Pennsylvania after the breakdown of my parent's marriage. My father had stepped out of our lives. The wounds of loss were only freshly scabbed and prone to bleeding. I definately remembered mine. He and I are both the eldest children in our respective families. Maybe he understood how easy it was to feel invisible against the backdrop of the needs of the younger kids. Maybe he sympathized with the struggle between trying to be strong and mature, "not a baby," and just wanting to be a child.
Who knows? It's only in retrospect that I analyze the relationship and the why's and how's of it. I struggle to make sense of what I shouldn't really dissect. All I know is that even while he struggled with his own uncertain futurity, he managed to make my present a little more bearable. I don't remember the words he said, but only that he said them. I remember they were words of encouragement and understanding. They were kind words. Kind enough to make a young girl whose soul felt perpetually on the edge of tears to look up and admire the blond boy with the too charming, quiet smile, and sparkling eyes. At a time when the main male figure of my life had disappeared, Billy unknowingly stepped in and helped ease the void.
A word of praise for a stone well skipped. A casual tousling of my mouse brown hair in a moment of silliness. A voiced concern when an ankle was overturned, a knee skinned, an arm raked by thorns.
Eventually he became a full-fledged adult (at least age wise) and I moved into the torture of the teenage years and beyond. Life moved us into different orbits and though they crossed every now and then, we didn't see each other as often as those golden summer Sundays when the cousins would gather at my Grandmother's house and we would tumble around the landscape.
I wish so much that I could say that his life continued to shine with the promise that reflected off his golden hair, but it didn't. As I caught snippets of his life through my mother's voice, I remember never really knowing if I should be happy for him or not. Like most of society these days, he felt the pain of divorce. For many years, we rarely saw Billy because he worked on a dairy farm and though we all celebrate our Christmases and Thanksgivings, the cows don't stop giving milk or needing food simply because we want to eat a turkey dinner or spend a few hours with our extended family. In the arrogance of my education, I always felt like Billy could have done so much more with his life. But I guess the question I didn't ask myself was whether or not Billy was happy with his life.
I'm sure there were things he would change, but when our paths would cross and we would inevitably find ourselves with just a brush of time to catch up I was struck by the fact that he seemed okay with the hand that life had dealt him, almost contented. Who was I to say what he should or should not have done with his life? Yes, his job was physically very demanding, but I'm not sure I would give up the soft, grain scented breath of cattle for the braying herd of humanity. A four year degree doesn't make me any more motivated to leave behind the satisfaction I get in being a stay at home mom for the childish and unreasonable demands of the job world.
Billy. I never had the chance to thank you. Say "Hi" to Grandmom for me.
Good bye.
Strange how in just a few seconds, brief as the single beat of a butterfly's ragged wing, my heart beats out a list of the people I fear for the most. No one is sick. No one has their death sentence written in a spidery handwriting of clouds and smoke waiting for the rains to come and wash their name from the sky. It was a sudden death. Final end. No good byes. No farewells. No time for tears and guilt and what if's. Those will all come later.
She says the name. Gives voice to the sentence. My heart constricts with relief and grief mixed in broad strokes of red and black swirled together in a chaotic dance. My voice trips on the barbed wire fence that has wrapped itself around my throat and has tightened painfully around the words that squeeze from my lips.
And she changes the subject, moves it to safer shores. Gives me time to recover and regroup. Distracts my heart long enough that my brain can hammer the door of my grief shut. Gives me time to peek at my grief at intervals while allowing me to slip blades of light and life into the darkness of loss.
The name on this day was that of my cousin Bill. (Or Billy as he was forever known to my tongue.) He is the eldest of my grandmother's almost 30 grandchildren. Though you would never know it by how little I saw him or spoke of him, I have always had a soft spot for him. It's hard to explain, really.
You see, the Billy that always creeps into my mind when his name is mentioned or remembered is the Billy that I remember from my childhood. A tall, lanky, blond haired boy on the cusp of manhood. At the time he seemed decades older than me, yet the reality was much less. I was ten or eleven just on the threshold of adolescence while he was standing at the exit.
He belonged to the "class" of cousins that were "above" the age group to which I belonged. Older and wiser and definately too cool for the kids who still looked under the rocks along the river and climbed the apple trees. We rode bicycles, didn't drive cars. Didn't care about cars, really. Didn't want to know about carburetors and rims, cylinders and horse power (unless it whinneyed.) We were "kids." They were... not.
Yet with Billy, even at that awkward age when it's sometimes easier to sneer and snigger at the "little ones" and tease them and taunt them with your superiority, his true heart shone through. I'm not going to pretend that his teenage arrogance didn't sometimes get the better of him, but he seemed to have a greater patience for us who were watching, waiting, and wondering what it would be like to be "grown up."
I'm sure that he was just as kind to the rest of the cousins that came after him, but he had a way of making me feel special. I don't know, maybe he felt sorry for me. He had lost his father tragically at an early age. Did he remember him? We had moved back to Pennsylvania after the breakdown of my parent's marriage. My father had stepped out of our lives. The wounds of loss were only freshly scabbed and prone to bleeding. I definately remembered mine. He and I are both the eldest children in our respective families. Maybe he understood how easy it was to feel invisible against the backdrop of the needs of the younger kids. Maybe he sympathized with the struggle between trying to be strong and mature, "not a baby," and just wanting to be a child.
Who knows? It's only in retrospect that I analyze the relationship and the why's and how's of it. I struggle to make sense of what I shouldn't really dissect. All I know is that even while he struggled with his own uncertain futurity, he managed to make my present a little more bearable. I don't remember the words he said, but only that he said them. I remember they were words of encouragement and understanding. They were kind words. Kind enough to make a young girl whose soul felt perpetually on the edge of tears to look up and admire the blond boy with the too charming, quiet smile, and sparkling eyes. At a time when the main male figure of my life had disappeared, Billy unknowingly stepped in and helped ease the void.
A word of praise for a stone well skipped. A casual tousling of my mouse brown hair in a moment of silliness. A voiced concern when an ankle was overturned, a knee skinned, an arm raked by thorns.
Eventually he became a full-fledged adult (at least age wise) and I moved into the torture of the teenage years and beyond. Life moved us into different orbits and though they crossed every now and then, we didn't see each other as often as those golden summer Sundays when the cousins would gather at my Grandmother's house and we would tumble around the landscape.
I wish so much that I could say that his life continued to shine with the promise that reflected off his golden hair, but it didn't. As I caught snippets of his life through my mother's voice, I remember never really knowing if I should be happy for him or not. Like most of society these days, he felt the pain of divorce. For many years, we rarely saw Billy because he worked on a dairy farm and though we all celebrate our Christmases and Thanksgivings, the cows don't stop giving milk or needing food simply because we want to eat a turkey dinner or spend a few hours with our extended family. In the arrogance of my education, I always felt like Billy could have done so much more with his life. But I guess the question I didn't ask myself was whether or not Billy was happy with his life.
I'm sure there were things he would change, but when our paths would cross and we would inevitably find ourselves with just a brush of time to catch up I was struck by the fact that he seemed okay with the hand that life had dealt him, almost contented. Who was I to say what he should or should not have done with his life? Yes, his job was physically very demanding, but I'm not sure I would give up the soft, grain scented breath of cattle for the braying herd of humanity. A four year degree doesn't make me any more motivated to leave behind the satisfaction I get in being a stay at home mom for the childish and unreasonable demands of the job world.
Billy. I never had the chance to thank you. Say "Hi" to Grandmom for me.
Good bye.
Monday 18 February 2008
Has Anyone Seen My Weekend??
I'd really like to have it back. So, if you happen to find it lying around somewhere, please, let me know.
Saturdays are always a bit nutty. Especially in the morning. Lady Kate has a gymnastics class at 9am on the other side of town. As you may or may not know, this household does not currently have an automobile, so we are reliant on public transportation. What this means for our Saturday routine is that I have to get up at 6:30 am (if I want a shower) to get me and Kate ready for class. Normally, she hears me in the shower. This particular Saturday, she crawled into bed with Daddy and I and was sleeping like the proverbial rock. It took quite a bit of poking and prodding to get her functional.
Out the door at 7:45am to get to the top of the hill and make sure we are at the bus stop for the 7:55am bus (Kate will happily tell you that it is the S2) that will take us into St Albans. We get there early. Maybe a little too early, but I just don't trust buses. Technically, we should catch the 321 that leaves the high street at around 8:30am. Our S2 bus get us there at about 8:05am. There is a 321 that leaves at 8:15am, but that gets us to the school way too early and there is only so much you can do while waiting for the doors to open at 8:45am. There IS an S2 that gets there around 8:28am. Technically, Kate and I could get off that one and on to the 8:30am 321 and be on our merry litttle way. Like I said, I don't trust it. All it takes it for the S2 to be running a smidgen late or for the 321 to leave a smidgen too early and then we're stuck. The next 321 doesn't go until 9:15am. Too late for class.
So, we get to the center of town and do our thing for about a half an hour. It's actually nice. We stop at a news agent and get a paper and a juice. The market is just setting up for the day, so there is a scurry and bustle to the high street that normally isn't there at that hour of the morning. People chatting and yelling out to each other as they get their goods out for sale. Early morning shoppers who get there extra early to get the best produce off the fruit and veg stands.
Everyone has a kind word or a smile for Kate and she's been known to get a free clementine or satsuma just for her cuteness level. We make our way to our bus stop and I try to get her to eat something. She's notoriously bad at eating early in the morning. Her natural tendency is to eat around 9:30am, but if I don't get something in her stomach, she just can't focus and concentrate during gymnastics.
From here, the journey is uneventful. We get to gymnastics and all goes well. It's when gymnastics is over that the fun begins. The bus is supposed to get to the bus stop at 10:10am to take us from the gymnastics place back to town. So, Kate is done at 10am (usually on the nose.) We frantically struggle into shoes, socks, and coat and rush out the door and hurry to the bust stop.
Now, let me tell you about the previous weekend. We came around the corner to the bus stop at 10:05am. (The stop is maybe 10 feet from the corner.) The bus was there and getting ready to pull away. Eventhough I waved and signalled with all my might, the driver decided he didn't see us and left. Kate cried. I mentioned the buses come every half hour, right?
Well, the next bus (10:40am) didn't show up at all. The 11:10am bus was too full and didn't stop. Finally, the 11:40am bus stopped and we managed to squeeze on. An hour and a half we waited at that bus stop. If I had been in better shape (my back was still a bit sore) we would have done better to walk back to town. Well, that was last week.
Of course, this week the same thing happened. Now, I hate to waste money (since we buy a return ticket) but we had things to do and a schedule to keep. The weather was nice and I decided that we would try out this walking back to town and see how it goes. After drying the girl's tears (again) we headed off down the road. Bus drivers who make my girl cry are definately on my shit list. I'm finally understanding why my husband used to threaten to take a chainsaw to the buses when he was commuting to university.
She did just great. I thought there would be more whining since she had been up early and worked really hard at gymnastics, but there wasn't. She chatted the whole time and it really only took us about 30 minutes to get there. We got into town just as the next bus was arriving at town. So, yes... we could have waited and caught it and not lost any real time, but I just couldn't take the chance that perhaps the 10:40am would go missing again.
We had to make a quick stop at a small pharmacy that some of the people in my bible study group told me about. Jeff's cough is still hanging around and the *women in the know* told me to go to Derek's Pharmacy and ask for Derek's special black cough medicine. They swore it would do the trick. So, feeling a more than a little silly, I traipsed into Derek's with Kate in tow and went to the pharmacy counter. An elderly man stood behind the counter and greeted us warmly.
Well, if nothing else, I gave the guy a chuckle. "My husband has a nasty cough and the women from my church told me to go to Derek's pharmacy and ask for Derek's magical black cough medicine," I explained in a rush.
His eyes twinkled as he laughed. "I have some of this magical exilir right here," he said as he picked up a bottle from the shelf. "It's a fresh batch. Before I give it to you though, I must ask you a few questions."
I half expected him to ask me if I believed in the fay folk, unicorns, and the curative properties of mermaid scales. Oddly, I felt a little disappointed when he continued. "Is the cough a dry cough or a wet cough, a chesty cough."
"It's in his chest, " I answered truthfully.
"Good," he nodded as if I had correctly answered a pop quiz question. "This medicine is for a congested cough. Now, is he on any other medications? Prescription medicine?"
"No," I shook my head in the negative. "He takes nothing."
"Good," he said again. "Then you may have some of the magic, black medicine." After explaining the dosage information, he rang me up and we headed on our way once more.
Next stop was the "biscuit man." He's a man who runs a stand at the market and he sells biscuits (cookies) and crisps (chips) at a more reasonable price than the supermarket. (Plus a bunch of odds and ends like candy and jam and olive oil.) We stocked up on Kate's favorite "bear crisps" (yes, chips that are shaped like teddy bears) and her Cadbury Animal Crackers that are dipped in what else? Chocolate.
We rush off to Woolworth's next. I'm trying to get home before the poor thing runs out of steam and starts the whining routine. We need a present for her friend, Elise. Kate's been invited to her birthday party this afternoon. It's really the first non-family party that she's been invited to and she isn't very thrilled about the whole idea.
I was pretty astounded at how quickly she helped pick out a gift. I was flabbergasted really. I thought for sure that she'd be all for getting a gift as long as it was for herself. However, we had barely gotten to the toy aisle when she quickly picked out a "My Little Pony" and handed it to me. "This is for Elise," she said. Obviously, she had gotten the idea behind the whole gift giving thing. Yet, there was something not quite right about how quickly and willingly she completed this task.
She looked at me hopefully. Her expression was one that begged choirs of angels to hover nearby and forbid butter to melt. "And this squirrel is for me." My child is the queen of manipulation and being her mother, I can see how her schemes work. She had quickly chosen the "My Little Pony" in hopes that I would fail to spot the "Littlest Pet Shop" chinchilla toy and decide that would be a suitable present for her little friend. The speed in which this exhange happened led me to believe that as soon as she had laid eyes on the chinchilla, she decided that she MUST have it even if she didn't really know what it was.
Yes, being her mother I know how she works. But being her mother also means that I can choose to let her get her way every now and then. She had been a very good child all morning and even with the extra walking and the extra stops and missing the bus she hadn't complained one bit. It has been ages since I actually let her have a little something special. It wasn't going to totally kill the budget.
"You know what?" I said as I took it from her hands and looked it over. It was the strangest chinchilla I had ever seen. I could see why she called it a squirrel. "You've been such a great kid today and a big help. You can have this, but it's a chinchilla."
"Oh, yeah," she answered as if she knew it all along and had just momentarily forgotten. "It IS a chinchilla."
She helped me pick out a card (ladybird on it) and wrapping paper (cupcakes) and off we went. After making sure that I had put her new toy safely in my backpack, we skipped off to find the S2 to take us home. She didn't even glance at the little bakery where we always stop to get a cookie for her to eat after lunch. She had her chinchilla and she certainly wasn't going to push her luck.
Thankfully, the bus came rather quickly and we motored on home. She ate a quick lunch while I packed her clothes for Gran's house and Daddy wrapped the birthday present. Before we knew it, it was time to leave for the party. Elise's mom had rented out one of the halls at the church, so no transportation worries. It was within walking distance.
When we got there, I could tell that Kate was starting to feel the length of her day. As soon as we got in the front door and she heard the music from upstairs she simply collapsed in a heap on the floor. "I don't want to go to a party, Mummy," she sniffled with the hint of a whinge.
Basically, I ended up carrying her upstairs. A dead weight, sack of potatoes carry while I juggled her penguin backpack that contained her clothes and a small owl backpack that her Gran had brought back from Scotland for her which carried the chinchilla and two tigers. Now, keep in mind, when I got this invitation for the party it said VERY clearly that it was a craft party and that the kids would be doing crafts. So, imagine my surprise when the majority of the little girls were in proper party dresses. We're talking taffetta and satin. Sparkles and lace. Velvet and bows. And Kate in her pink fleece with pink pants and her hair looking like I had combed it with a blender. (Can I help it that hats do horrible things to her hair?)
Not that Kate noticed. She was too busy whimpering at my feet like I had just set her in a pit of acid. "Come on," I hissed. "Get up. Elise is here. You'll have fun." At that moment, I looked up to see one of the little girls that had been in Kate's nursery class in the fall (she has since moved up to the reception class with the January intakes). Grace is one of those absolutely adorable little girls who look more like a doll than an actual child. She has the biggest eyes I have ever seen ... well, on anyone actually. Her hair was perfectly braided in two french braids down either side of her head and she was wearing a very girly teal print dress made out of some sort of chiffon with a matching sweater over top of it.
Her little face lit up when she saw Kate from across the room. With dainty, ladylike steps she came to her and like a little fairy princess, she held out her hand as if she would lead her to some magical world where they eat nothing but fancy sweets and cakes. I'd like to say that Kate was so happy to see her "old" friend that she jumped up and took Grace by the hand and went to play. Not my child. She sobbed and buried her face into my leg. Poor Grace looked disappointed.
"Hello, Grace!" I said brightly. (Maybe a little TOO brightly.) "It's nice to see you again! How is school?"
"School is very nice. Thank you for asking," she said sweetly as she smiled at me. Whose kid has manners that are THAT impeccable??? Luckily the woman who was running the craft portion of the party announced that it was time to put on aprons (little plastic disposable ones that she provided) and get crafting. I managed to get Kate into an apron and seated at the table and soon the tears and the fears were forgotten.
She spent the next two hours using markers on a little tote bag, painting a giant toadstool to put in the garden, and making a clay pot and sticking "gems" into it. She had a great time. She managed to cover her ears and not make a fuss when they sang "Happy Birthday" to Elise and ate most of the small snacky-lunch that was provided while stuffing as many chocolate treats, cupcakes, and cookies into her tummy as she could. Before we knew it, it was 3 pm and Daddy had arrived to take Kate to Gran's.
Since he has a season ticket for the train, it is cheaper for him to take her by train to Borehamwood and then by bus to Barnet. However, today Gran was meeting them in Borehamwood and taking Kate from there. (Reports have it that even though Gran said it wouldn't be a double decker bus, it most definately was and Kate was absolutely thrilled. She loves sitting on the top deck at the front and looking out over the land.)
I returned home and from there... well, I don't know where the rest of the weekend went. I know I rousted my husband out of bed and made him go to the 9am church service with me on Sunday. (Our dear friend Liz was preaching the sermon.) And I vaguely remember nagging him for hours on end to work on the rabbit hutch that I was promised months ago. (I still have two rabbits living in my kitchen.) Oh, I made New England Clam Chowder and added a bit of other seafood to the recipe for a bit of a change.
Other than that.... I'm not sure where it all went. So, if you see any of it lying around. A bit here or a piece there. I'd love to have it back.
Saturdays are always a bit nutty. Especially in the morning. Lady Kate has a gymnastics class at 9am on the other side of town. As you may or may not know, this household does not currently have an automobile, so we are reliant on public transportation. What this means for our Saturday routine is that I have to get up at 6:30 am (if I want a shower) to get me and Kate ready for class. Normally, she hears me in the shower. This particular Saturday, she crawled into bed with Daddy and I and was sleeping like the proverbial rock. It took quite a bit of poking and prodding to get her functional.
Out the door at 7:45am to get to the top of the hill and make sure we are at the bus stop for the 7:55am bus (Kate will happily tell you that it is the S2) that will take us into St Albans. We get there early. Maybe a little too early, but I just don't trust buses. Technically, we should catch the 321 that leaves the high street at around 8:30am. Our S2 bus get us there at about 8:05am. There is a 321 that leaves at 8:15am, but that gets us to the school way too early and there is only so much you can do while waiting for the doors to open at 8:45am. There IS an S2 that gets there around 8:28am. Technically, Kate and I could get off that one and on to the 8:30am 321 and be on our merry litttle way. Like I said, I don't trust it. All it takes it for the S2 to be running a smidgen late or for the 321 to leave a smidgen too early and then we're stuck. The next 321 doesn't go until 9:15am. Too late for class.
So, we get to the center of town and do our thing for about a half an hour. It's actually nice. We stop at a news agent and get a paper and a juice. The market is just setting up for the day, so there is a scurry and bustle to the high street that normally isn't there at that hour of the morning. People chatting and yelling out to each other as they get their goods out for sale. Early morning shoppers who get there extra early to get the best produce off the fruit and veg stands.
Everyone has a kind word or a smile for Kate and she's been known to get a free clementine or satsuma just for her cuteness level. We make our way to our bus stop and I try to get her to eat something. She's notoriously bad at eating early in the morning. Her natural tendency is to eat around 9:30am, but if I don't get something in her stomach, she just can't focus and concentrate during gymnastics.
From here, the journey is uneventful. We get to gymnastics and all goes well. It's when gymnastics is over that the fun begins. The bus is supposed to get to the bus stop at 10:10am to take us from the gymnastics place back to town. So, Kate is done at 10am (usually on the nose.) We frantically struggle into shoes, socks, and coat and rush out the door and hurry to the bust stop.
Now, let me tell you about the previous weekend. We came around the corner to the bus stop at 10:05am. (The stop is maybe 10 feet from the corner.) The bus was there and getting ready to pull away. Eventhough I waved and signalled with all my might, the driver decided he didn't see us and left. Kate cried. I mentioned the buses come every half hour, right?
Well, the next bus (10:40am) didn't show up at all. The 11:10am bus was too full and didn't stop. Finally, the 11:40am bus stopped and we managed to squeeze on. An hour and a half we waited at that bus stop. If I had been in better shape (my back was still a bit sore) we would have done better to walk back to town. Well, that was last week.
Of course, this week the same thing happened. Now, I hate to waste money (since we buy a return ticket) but we had things to do and a schedule to keep. The weather was nice and I decided that we would try out this walking back to town and see how it goes. After drying the girl's tears (again) we headed off down the road. Bus drivers who make my girl cry are definately on my shit list. I'm finally understanding why my husband used to threaten to take a chainsaw to the buses when he was commuting to university.
She did just great. I thought there would be more whining since she had been up early and worked really hard at gymnastics, but there wasn't. She chatted the whole time and it really only took us about 30 minutes to get there. We got into town just as the next bus was arriving at town. So, yes... we could have waited and caught it and not lost any real time, but I just couldn't take the chance that perhaps the 10:40am would go missing again.
We had to make a quick stop at a small pharmacy that some of the people in my bible study group told me about. Jeff's cough is still hanging around and the *women in the know* told me to go to Derek's Pharmacy and ask for Derek's special black cough medicine. They swore it would do the trick. So, feeling a more than a little silly, I traipsed into Derek's with Kate in tow and went to the pharmacy counter. An elderly man stood behind the counter and greeted us warmly.
Well, if nothing else, I gave the guy a chuckle. "My husband has a nasty cough and the women from my church told me to go to Derek's pharmacy and ask for Derek's magical black cough medicine," I explained in a rush.
His eyes twinkled as he laughed. "I have some of this magical exilir right here," he said as he picked up a bottle from the shelf. "It's a fresh batch. Before I give it to you though, I must ask you a few questions."
I half expected him to ask me if I believed in the fay folk, unicorns, and the curative properties of mermaid scales. Oddly, I felt a little disappointed when he continued. "Is the cough a dry cough or a wet cough, a chesty cough."
"It's in his chest, " I answered truthfully.
"Good," he nodded as if I had correctly answered a pop quiz question. "This medicine is for a congested cough. Now, is he on any other medications? Prescription medicine?"
"No," I shook my head in the negative. "He takes nothing."
"Good," he said again. "Then you may have some of the magic, black medicine." After explaining the dosage information, he rang me up and we headed on our way once more.
Next stop was the "biscuit man." He's a man who runs a stand at the market and he sells biscuits (cookies) and crisps (chips) at a more reasonable price than the supermarket. (Plus a bunch of odds and ends like candy and jam and olive oil.) We stocked up on Kate's favorite "bear crisps" (yes, chips that are shaped like teddy bears) and her Cadbury Animal Crackers that are dipped in what else? Chocolate.
We rush off to Woolworth's next. I'm trying to get home before the poor thing runs out of steam and starts the whining routine. We need a present for her friend, Elise. Kate's been invited to her birthday party this afternoon. It's really the first non-family party that she's been invited to and she isn't very thrilled about the whole idea.
I was pretty astounded at how quickly she helped pick out a gift. I was flabbergasted really. I thought for sure that she'd be all for getting a gift as long as it was for herself. However, we had barely gotten to the toy aisle when she quickly picked out a "My Little Pony" and handed it to me. "This is for Elise," she said. Obviously, she had gotten the idea behind the whole gift giving thing. Yet, there was something not quite right about how quickly and willingly she completed this task.
She looked at me hopefully. Her expression was one that begged choirs of angels to hover nearby and forbid butter to melt. "And this squirrel is for me." My child is the queen of manipulation and being her mother, I can see how her schemes work. She had quickly chosen the "My Little Pony" in hopes that I would fail to spot the "Littlest Pet Shop" chinchilla toy and decide that would be a suitable present for her little friend. The speed in which this exhange happened led me to believe that as soon as she had laid eyes on the chinchilla, she decided that she MUST have it even if she didn't really know what it was.
Yes, being her mother I know how she works. But being her mother also means that I can choose to let her get her way every now and then. She had been a very good child all morning and even with the extra walking and the extra stops and missing the bus she hadn't complained one bit. It has been ages since I actually let her have a little something special. It wasn't going to totally kill the budget.
"You know what?" I said as I took it from her hands and looked it over. It was the strangest chinchilla I had ever seen. I could see why she called it a squirrel. "You've been such a great kid today and a big help. You can have this, but it's a chinchilla."
"Oh, yeah," she answered as if she knew it all along and had just momentarily forgotten. "It IS a chinchilla."
She helped me pick out a card (ladybird on it) and wrapping paper (cupcakes) and off we went. After making sure that I had put her new toy safely in my backpack, we skipped off to find the S2 to take us home. She didn't even glance at the little bakery where we always stop to get a cookie for her to eat after lunch. She had her chinchilla and she certainly wasn't going to push her luck.
Thankfully, the bus came rather quickly and we motored on home. She ate a quick lunch while I packed her clothes for Gran's house and Daddy wrapped the birthday present. Before we knew it, it was time to leave for the party. Elise's mom had rented out one of the halls at the church, so no transportation worries. It was within walking distance.
When we got there, I could tell that Kate was starting to feel the length of her day. As soon as we got in the front door and she heard the music from upstairs she simply collapsed in a heap on the floor. "I don't want to go to a party, Mummy," she sniffled with the hint of a whinge.
Basically, I ended up carrying her upstairs. A dead weight, sack of potatoes carry while I juggled her penguin backpack that contained her clothes and a small owl backpack that her Gran had brought back from Scotland for her which carried the chinchilla and two tigers. Now, keep in mind, when I got this invitation for the party it said VERY clearly that it was a craft party and that the kids would be doing crafts. So, imagine my surprise when the majority of the little girls were in proper party dresses. We're talking taffetta and satin. Sparkles and lace. Velvet and bows. And Kate in her pink fleece with pink pants and her hair looking like I had combed it with a blender. (Can I help it that hats do horrible things to her hair?)
Not that Kate noticed. She was too busy whimpering at my feet like I had just set her in a pit of acid. "Come on," I hissed. "Get up. Elise is here. You'll have fun." At that moment, I looked up to see one of the little girls that had been in Kate's nursery class in the fall (she has since moved up to the reception class with the January intakes). Grace is one of those absolutely adorable little girls who look more like a doll than an actual child. She has the biggest eyes I have ever seen ... well, on anyone actually. Her hair was perfectly braided in two french braids down either side of her head and she was wearing a very girly teal print dress made out of some sort of chiffon with a matching sweater over top of it.
Her little face lit up when she saw Kate from across the room. With dainty, ladylike steps she came to her and like a little fairy princess, she held out her hand as if she would lead her to some magical world where they eat nothing but fancy sweets and cakes. I'd like to say that Kate was so happy to see her "old" friend that she jumped up and took Grace by the hand and went to play. Not my child. She sobbed and buried her face into my leg. Poor Grace looked disappointed.
"Hello, Grace!" I said brightly. (Maybe a little TOO brightly.) "It's nice to see you again! How is school?"
"School is very nice. Thank you for asking," she said sweetly as she smiled at me. Whose kid has manners that are THAT impeccable??? Luckily the woman who was running the craft portion of the party announced that it was time to put on aprons (little plastic disposable ones that she provided) and get crafting. I managed to get Kate into an apron and seated at the table and soon the tears and the fears were forgotten.
She spent the next two hours using markers on a little tote bag, painting a giant toadstool to put in the garden, and making a clay pot and sticking "gems" into it. She had a great time. She managed to cover her ears and not make a fuss when they sang "Happy Birthday" to Elise and ate most of the small snacky-lunch that was provided while stuffing as many chocolate treats, cupcakes, and cookies into her tummy as she could. Before we knew it, it was 3 pm and Daddy had arrived to take Kate to Gran's.
Since he has a season ticket for the train, it is cheaper for him to take her by train to Borehamwood and then by bus to Barnet. However, today Gran was meeting them in Borehamwood and taking Kate from there. (Reports have it that even though Gran said it wouldn't be a double decker bus, it most definately was and Kate was absolutely thrilled. She loves sitting on the top deck at the front and looking out over the land.)
I returned home and from there... well, I don't know where the rest of the weekend went. I know I rousted my husband out of bed and made him go to the 9am church service with me on Sunday. (Our dear friend Liz was preaching the sermon.) And I vaguely remember nagging him for hours on end to work on the rabbit hutch that I was promised months ago. (I still have two rabbits living in my kitchen.) Oh, I made New England Clam Chowder and added a bit of other seafood to the recipe for a bit of a change.
Other than that.... I'm not sure where it all went. So, if you see any of it lying around. A bit here or a piece there. I'd love to have it back.
Monday 11 February 2008
I Need Better Benefits.....
Yes, I'm a stay at home mom. Yes, I enjoy it.
But, MAN!
I sure miss things like sick days and vacation time!
Take this weekend for example.
The whole family has been suffering for what feels like weeks. Gran included. We've had this horrible nose and chest illness that just grabs ahold of you like a terrier with a bone, locks its mucus dripping jaws, and does not let go of you.
I'm assuming that it's because of all the coughing and hacking, but both Jeff and I have managed to throw our backs out of whack to various degrees. His was first and was odd. It was his shoulder then it moved to his neck and then to his general back. Mine was more recent and just grabbed my entire back area. It's as if there is a giant boa constrictor wound around my torso and every now and then it squeezes and sends an electric current through various muscles groups making them contract and expand and cause me no end of pain.
I find it really difficult to find a position that gives me any sort of comfort level with the exception of my computer chair. (Even then, I have to be reclined in it, not sitting up.) In fact, I got up at about 3 am Friday morning and after stumbling downstairs to heat up my lovely lavendar scented, squishy thingy to put on my back, I ended up sleeping in my chair.
Fast forward to Sunday.
Jeff has suitably recovered and I'm in more pain that I had been in for the previous two days. After spending most of the day either taking care of people (I know, I should have let the man starve, but then I'd have to listen to him whine about it.) or sitting as still as possible on the couch trying to burn my muscles into submission, I decide that I'm going to try to lie down and get a little rest.
I manage to find a comfortable position in the bed, but somehow, my brain doesn't disconnect. I'm aware of everything that is happening in the house. Well, I can't really help it. I get a constant news cast from the two people that I happen to love most in the world.
I sense a presence next to the bed. It is small. I open one eye.
"Mummy, I want a snack." She pauses a moment, waiting to see if I respond. "Please?" She adds hopefully, remembering that I've been nagging her lately about her please and thank you's.
"Go tell your Daddy," I croak in my best Marlon Brando impersonation. "Tell him that you can have one pack of animal cookies, two packs of snacks (her favorite Dora fruit snacks that her Grammy sends her from America) and an orange in a bowl." I can feel pleasure radiate from what must be a smile that I can't see. "And some juice."
I make her this special little snack mix when she is feeling peckish and is having a bad day. She has been really good even though I've been an absolute grump and a half. She deserves a little treat. I hear her traipse downstairs and start telling her Dad what "Mummy said" and I kind of fog out into semi-oblivion. (I fully expect for there to be some sort of misunderstanding about my orders and her coming to me in tears. Let's face it. Most mornings I can't even take a shower without the two of them having a "misunderstanding.")
I'm not sure how long I was dozing. It could have been a few minutes, it could have been an hour. All I know is that a voice penetrated the fog in my head and it sounded so far away and yet so near. There it was again. A child's voice, plaintive and on the edge of panic. "Mummy," the siren calls. "Mummy!"
"I'm in the bedroom, honey," I groan as I wonder what could be the problem. "Come in here to me." I think I hear a gurgling sound as the not quite light footfalls of my daughter approach the haze of my room. "No," I think with a growing panic. "Please don't let her get that horrible stomach flu now. Please, not now."
"What's wrong, honey?" I am wondering if I can actually move fast enough to get her to the bathroom in time or if it is already too late and there is a trail of vomit leading into my room.
"Mummy," she gags briefly before continuing. "Orange *gag* seed."
I am almost giddy with relief. Ever since Kate had accidently bitten into an orange seed many months ago, the slightest hint of their taste was enough to send her into spasms. Dad wouldn't have realized this and he certainly wouldn't have thought to check each slice of her clementine for seeds. That's a mother's job.
With a practiced sweep of my finger, I fish out the broken seed from behind her bottom teeth. The spasms continue. "Alright, spit it out," I sigh and cup my hand in front of her mouth.
The soggy, fleshy fruit, lukewarm from her body temperature and oozing with juice and spit splat onto the palm of my hand. I can feel the air shimmer as she shudders in the shadows of my room, glad to be rid of the offensive taste. "Thanks, Mum," she chirps as she starts to leave me.
"Hey," I grumble from the bed. "Get back here."
"What?" She is almost defensive as she returns to me. She fears I will ban her from whatever activity is occupying her attention. She is probably on the computer, playing games on the Nick Jr. website. I have a horrible premonition of what my life would be like in less than ten years.
"Throw this in the trash, please," I sigh. I really don't expect her to do it. She really is a very helpful kid, but taking a gross, slimy piece of underchewed orange from my hand is possibly asking a bit too much.
"Oh," she says chirpily, relieved that she will be able to continue playing with Dora, Diego, Wubzy..... whatever a Wubzy is. "Okay!" She puts her hand out and waits for the transfer. As I wipe my hand on whatever tissue I can find next to the bed, she calls back to me. ""Mummy! Where is the trash?"
Oh, she is so much like her father sometimes I fear for my sanity. I know for a fact that there are no less than four trash receptacles within five feet of her. "In the bathroom, Kate," I croak to her. "Put it in the bathroom trash."
"Okay, Mum!" She calls a few moments later. "I did it!" She reports happily.
I've always known that being a mom was hard work. I've seen my Mom do it. It's a never ending, thankless job filled with ungrateful kids and husbands that take you for granted. I just must have temporarily forgotten what I had signed up for. With Kate in school a few hours a day, the view of my job description must have gotten a bit hazy. The startling clarity of the reality of what my job entailed came lasering back into focus. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, twenty-four hours a day. No sick days or vacations.
And I'd sign that contract again in a second.
But maybe I'd negotiate some better benefits.
Maybe.
But, MAN!
I sure miss things like sick days and vacation time!
Take this weekend for example.
The whole family has been suffering for what feels like weeks. Gran included. We've had this horrible nose and chest illness that just grabs ahold of you like a terrier with a bone, locks its mucus dripping jaws, and does not let go of you.
I'm assuming that it's because of all the coughing and hacking, but both Jeff and I have managed to throw our backs out of whack to various degrees. His was first and was odd. It was his shoulder then it moved to his neck and then to his general back. Mine was more recent and just grabbed my entire back area. It's as if there is a giant boa constrictor wound around my torso and every now and then it squeezes and sends an electric current through various muscles groups making them contract and expand and cause me no end of pain.
I find it really difficult to find a position that gives me any sort of comfort level with the exception of my computer chair. (Even then, I have to be reclined in it, not sitting up.) In fact, I got up at about 3 am Friday morning and after stumbling downstairs to heat up my lovely lavendar scented, squishy thingy to put on my back, I ended up sleeping in my chair.
Fast forward to Sunday.
Jeff has suitably recovered and I'm in more pain that I had been in for the previous two days. After spending most of the day either taking care of people (I know, I should have let the man starve, but then I'd have to listen to him whine about it.) or sitting as still as possible on the couch trying to burn my muscles into submission, I decide that I'm going to try to lie down and get a little rest.
I manage to find a comfortable position in the bed, but somehow, my brain doesn't disconnect. I'm aware of everything that is happening in the house. Well, I can't really help it. I get a constant news cast from the two people that I happen to love most in the world.
I sense a presence next to the bed. It is small. I open one eye.
"Mummy, I want a snack." She pauses a moment, waiting to see if I respond. "Please?" She adds hopefully, remembering that I've been nagging her lately about her please and thank you's.
"Go tell your Daddy," I croak in my best Marlon Brando impersonation. "Tell him that you can have one pack of animal cookies, two packs of snacks (her favorite Dora fruit snacks that her Grammy sends her from America) and an orange in a bowl." I can feel pleasure radiate from what must be a smile that I can't see. "And some juice."
I make her this special little snack mix when she is feeling peckish and is having a bad day. She has been really good even though I've been an absolute grump and a half. She deserves a little treat. I hear her traipse downstairs and start telling her Dad what "Mummy said" and I kind of fog out into semi-oblivion. (I fully expect for there to be some sort of misunderstanding about my orders and her coming to me in tears. Let's face it. Most mornings I can't even take a shower without the two of them having a "misunderstanding.")
I'm not sure how long I was dozing. It could have been a few minutes, it could have been an hour. All I know is that a voice penetrated the fog in my head and it sounded so far away and yet so near. There it was again. A child's voice, plaintive and on the edge of panic. "Mummy," the siren calls. "Mummy!"
"I'm in the bedroom, honey," I groan as I wonder what could be the problem. "Come in here to me." I think I hear a gurgling sound as the not quite light footfalls of my daughter approach the haze of my room. "No," I think with a growing panic. "Please don't let her get that horrible stomach flu now. Please, not now."
"What's wrong, honey?" I am wondering if I can actually move fast enough to get her to the bathroom in time or if it is already too late and there is a trail of vomit leading into my room.
"Mummy," she gags briefly before continuing. "Orange *gag* seed."
I am almost giddy with relief. Ever since Kate had accidently bitten into an orange seed many months ago, the slightest hint of their taste was enough to send her into spasms. Dad wouldn't have realized this and he certainly wouldn't have thought to check each slice of her clementine for seeds. That's a mother's job.
With a practiced sweep of my finger, I fish out the broken seed from behind her bottom teeth. The spasms continue. "Alright, spit it out," I sigh and cup my hand in front of her mouth.
The soggy, fleshy fruit, lukewarm from her body temperature and oozing with juice and spit splat onto the palm of my hand. I can feel the air shimmer as she shudders in the shadows of my room, glad to be rid of the offensive taste. "Thanks, Mum," she chirps as she starts to leave me.
"Hey," I grumble from the bed. "Get back here."
"What?" She is almost defensive as she returns to me. She fears I will ban her from whatever activity is occupying her attention. She is probably on the computer, playing games on the Nick Jr. website. I have a horrible premonition of what my life would be like in less than ten years.
"Throw this in the trash, please," I sigh. I really don't expect her to do it. She really is a very helpful kid, but taking a gross, slimy piece of underchewed orange from my hand is possibly asking a bit too much.
"Oh," she says chirpily, relieved that she will be able to continue playing with Dora, Diego, Wubzy..... whatever a Wubzy is. "Okay!" She puts her hand out and waits for the transfer. As I wipe my hand on whatever tissue I can find next to the bed, she calls back to me. ""Mummy! Where is the trash?"
Oh, she is so much like her father sometimes I fear for my sanity. I know for a fact that there are no less than four trash receptacles within five feet of her. "In the bathroom, Kate," I croak to her. "Put it in the bathroom trash."
"Okay, Mum!" She calls a few moments later. "I did it!" She reports happily.
I've always known that being a mom was hard work. I've seen my Mom do it. It's a never ending, thankless job filled with ungrateful kids and husbands that take you for granted. I just must have temporarily forgotten what I had signed up for. With Kate in school a few hours a day, the view of my job description must have gotten a bit hazy. The startling clarity of the reality of what my job entailed came lasering back into focus. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, twenty-four hours a day. No sick days or vacations.
And I'd sign that contract again in a second.
But maybe I'd negotiate some better benefits.
Maybe.
Sunday 3 February 2008
Time Passed
Almost a whole year has passed to be exact.
Well, so much for the "I'm a writer and I'm going to write every day and keep a nice blog" idea.
I suppose I should do something though. I mean really. Kate is away at school most mornings and I REALLY don't have anything to do other than do household chores (HAHAHAHA! I'm so funny!) and play on my silly horse racing sites. Or play Lord of the Rings Online.
My sister (I talk about her a lot) would say that I should spend more time writing to her or posting her pictures of Kate. I wonder if every stay at home mom wishes that she could just stay in their pajamas all day and drink tea (or coffee)? I was wondering if I could build some sort of tube system like they have at the drive through banks in the US. (I don't know if they have them in the UK because I don't have a car to drive through them.) Something I could just pop Kate into and then send her off to school.
It would be a big help.
You see Kate hates weather. If it is anything other than sunny and bright, she is profoundly unhappy. If it is rainy and windy... well, forget it. I have to drag a crying, whimpering child either to or from school. Last week when we left school, she was begging me. "Mummy. Let's get in a car, pleeeeeease." She didn't care that we don't own a car. She would have gotten into any car that wasn't locked as far as she was concerned.
I've managed to convince her that the wind's main purpose for existing is to blow the clouds away. That helps a bit. And rain happens so that things like dog poop get washed away.
Right now she is in her room having a crying fit. It's quite funny when you listen to it. She forces this "wah waaaah waaaaah" sound out and she sounds like a really cheap, crying baby doll. Why is she crying, you ask? Well, it's because Mummy told her that she had to stop playing Lord of the Rings Online.
Yes, my 4 year old is addicted to an online computer game. I seriously monitor her play time and she doesn't get to play it often. Well, not as often as her mom and dad play it. However, the times we do let her play... it's a real struggle getting her to stop. She does really well, actually. She navigates the landscape very well and has a pet bear that helps her in her adventures. (Normally, Mom or Dad follow along to help out.) She is learning to make her character cast spells and do the little special skills, and she is really good at getting the *treasure* off the corpses of the dead animals.
Which explains why her Gran was a bit puzzled when during a session of Kate's more imaginative play involving some of her animals having a big fight.... one fell over and Kate said, "Oops. He's dead. Time to get the treasure."
Ah, well. With the parents that she has, she really has little chance at being something other than a geek.
Well, we'll see what time brings next. I'm not going to make any crazy promises or set any goals regarding ... well, anything really.
Well, so much for the "I'm a writer and I'm going to write every day and keep a nice blog" idea.
I suppose I should do something though. I mean really. Kate is away at school most mornings and I REALLY don't have anything to do other than do household chores (HAHAHAHA! I'm so funny!) and play on my silly horse racing sites. Or play Lord of the Rings Online.
My sister (I talk about her a lot) would say that I should spend more time writing to her or posting her pictures of Kate. I wonder if every stay at home mom wishes that she could just stay in their pajamas all day and drink tea (or coffee)? I was wondering if I could build some sort of tube system like they have at the drive through banks in the US. (I don't know if they have them in the UK because I don't have a car to drive through them.) Something I could just pop Kate into and then send her off to school.
It would be a big help.
You see Kate hates weather. If it is anything other than sunny and bright, she is profoundly unhappy. If it is rainy and windy... well, forget it. I have to drag a crying, whimpering child either to or from school. Last week when we left school, she was begging me. "Mummy. Let's get in a car, pleeeeeease." She didn't care that we don't own a car. She would have gotten into any car that wasn't locked as far as she was concerned.
I've managed to convince her that the wind's main purpose for existing is to blow the clouds away. That helps a bit. And rain happens so that things like dog poop get washed away.
Right now she is in her room having a crying fit. It's quite funny when you listen to it. She forces this "wah waaaah waaaaah" sound out and she sounds like a really cheap, crying baby doll. Why is she crying, you ask? Well, it's because Mummy told her that she had to stop playing Lord of the Rings Online.
Yes, my 4 year old is addicted to an online computer game. I seriously monitor her play time and she doesn't get to play it often. Well, not as often as her mom and dad play it. However, the times we do let her play... it's a real struggle getting her to stop. She does really well, actually. She navigates the landscape very well and has a pet bear that helps her in her adventures. (Normally, Mom or Dad follow along to help out.) She is learning to make her character cast spells and do the little special skills, and she is really good at getting the *treasure* off the corpses of the dead animals.
Which explains why her Gran was a bit puzzled when during a session of Kate's more imaginative play involving some of her animals having a big fight.... one fell over and Kate said, "Oops. He's dead. Time to get the treasure."
Ah, well. With the parents that she has, she really has little chance at being something other than a geek.
Well, we'll see what time brings next. I'm not going to make any crazy promises or set any goals regarding ... well, anything really.
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