Interview with the Pig

We know who is the real star of this blog.  Not Jack the baby, or Maddie the Big Girl, nor Ben the Poopie Head (Jack’s words, not mine), and sadly not Dave nor [sniff, sniff] even me.

 I am cute, and I know it.  Oh come let us adore me.

I’ve had so many requests for more Herbie, it’s actually getting a little annoying.  My kids are cute, people, and they don’t appreciate being upstaged by a rodent.  But I’m all about keeping my fans happy.  I’m a pleaser.  So I decided to interview Herbie, hoping this would calm you all the heck down.

~

Me:  So, Herbie, what do you do all day when we’re not here?

Herbie: SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

Me:  Could you be more specific?

Herbie:  SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

Me:  Alrighty, then, carrots or cantaloupe?

Herbie: SQUEAK!

Me:  I know this is a delicate subject, but the word on the street is your girlfriend, Ginger, may be expecting your child(ren).  Are you prepared to take responsibility?

Herbie:  [runs under log and hides]

Me:  Isn’t that how it always goes.  Men are pigs.  Literally, in your case.  Tee Hee!  I crack myself up!  See, because you’re a guinea PIG! 

Herbie:  [sticks nose out from under log and giggles or perhaps sneezes]

Me:  Anywho, if you could move your cage to any room in the house, where would you move it?

Herbie: SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

Me:  Dude, I’m not putting you on the piano. 

Herbie:  SQUEAK! (content censored) SQUEAK!

Me:  That was totally uncalled for.  Clean up your attitude and your mouth, mister, or I’m putting your cage in Jack’s room.

Herbie: [several moments of silence combined with cowering in fear under log]

Me:  I thought so.  Now, back to the interview.  [In baby voice:]Who loves you?  Yes!  Mama does!  Mama loves her piggie!  Who’s the cutest little fella around?  Yes!  It’s our sweet little Herbie Derbie!  Who wants a carrot?  Mwah!  Mwah! Mwah!

Herbie:  SQUEAK!

Me:  I love you too, Herbie.  Shh.  Don’t tell the kids, but I think you might be my favorite.  Although they earn definite points for taking care of their own toilet issues.  Seriously.  What’s with all of the poop?

Herbie:  SQUEAK!  SQUEAK!  A-SQUEEEEEAK!

Me:  Fine, I will omit that question from the published interview.  Work on that though, would you?

Herbie: squeak.

Me:  Well, I think that’s all we have time for.  Anything else you’d like to say to your fans?

Herbie:  SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!  SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

Me:  Well, that was certainly profound and will surely give our readers something to think about.  Thanks for sharing your time and heart with your fans, Herbie!

Herbie:  SQUEAK!

Mother Guilt

It started for me when Maddie was just a tiny little bundle of chunky baby love, maybe just a few weeks old.  I was holding her in my left arm and playing solitaire on the computer with my right.  She was snuggled in happily enough, but about a half an hour went by and I realized I hadn’t paid any attention to her sleeping little baby-self at all.  Can you imagine?  A whole half hour (mostly) to myself.  Was I excited?  Was I grateful?  No.  I felt guilty.

Do we as mothers ever hit a point of equilibrium, a point where we feel the kids are entertained, healthily fed, clean, mentally stimulated, properly transported, conversationally satisfied, exercised, safe and secure, and happy?  A point where we ourselves have  listened to something besides Barney songs on the car stereo, paid attention to our own need to pee before it’s too late, or brush our hair, or put on matching shoes, or glance through a People, or drink a cup of tea before it gets cold, or eat lunch sitting down, or cleaned the house to our personal (albeit low) level of satisfaction, or check our email before 9 p.m., or wake up when our own body is ready to wake up and not one second before that.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve sat on the edge of a sleeping child’s bed and whispered to him that I would try harder tomorrow.  Then I would break that promise and lose my temper and find myself promising again at nap time that I would worry less about getting the dishes in the dishwasher and get down and push those stupid cars around, even though I don’t like to play, but then I’d get the dishes put away and fold the laundry and grump at the child for leaving the cars all around the floor and get dinner going, and eventually find myself on the edge of the bed again, feeling guilty as can be.

Even the days that are devoted mostly to the children can leave me feeling guilty.  Guilty for not spending enough money on them, for spending too much money on them, for making them run errands on the way to the playground or for chatting with the other moms and saying Later! when they wanted me to push them on the swings, or for forgetting the water bottle for after the playground.

You know those mothers who put the rest of us to shame?  The ones who never yell , the ones who stop talking with the other moms so they can go put legos together with their child, the ones who never lose their patience with a screaming toddler in a grocery cart (heck, have their children ever screamed in a grocery cart?)

I wonder if they feel guilty for something.  Like, not putting enough ground up spinach in the pasta sauce or not using mind-sharpening color words when playing with the Legos or for never saying no and wondering where that may lead them someday.

I just wish I could be satisfied with the job I was doing.  Not stellar, not practically perfect.  Just satisfied.  Content. 

At peace with myself.

The Photo That Almost Wasn’t

Last summer Maddie picked up a flute for the first time, blew a lot of dog-bark-worthy breaths into it, then gradually became better.  And by better, I mean we don’t leave the room when she practices anymore. 

Mostly.

I couldn’t wait for her Christmas concert, which was held on a weekday at her school.  I got there early, but was beat by all of the parents of 5th graders who thought they were early last year, and this year knew better.  And since we were seated on a gym floor way behind the kindergarten through 5th grade classes I wasn’t hopeful about getting a good picture of her.  When the band took the stage, I couldn’t even see her (and this is crazy since she plays the flute and therefore always sits in one of the first two rows of the band).  Here she is front row, 4th from the left, hidden behind a music stand.
  
So I became one of those annoying parents who gets up and bothers other non-camera toting parents to stand on the side of the gym to get a better shot.  But I still didn’t.  That’s her behind the microphone…

Then, in early May, I got to see Maddie play one of her practice concerts for the three elementary schools.  I’m teaching second grade now, so this time I was going to be way up near the front of the gym!  I brought my camera to school and…

I mostly couldn’t see her (3rd from the end) except for this song.  She leaned forward for some reason and I snapped it!  I do love this picture though.

The night of the concert, smack dab in the middle of a very frazzled week,  I was ready.  Since she had been sitting on the left side of the band for the practice concert, I sat on the right side of the auditorium, thinking I’d have a great view straight across.

But this time she sat on the right and I couldn’t see any part of her for most of the concert.  In the shot below, Mr. H. had the students stand up for a bow and she looked back around the girls in her row.  That’s it!  My one and only picture!

[Then we left the auditorium and I fell down etc. etc., blah, blah, blah].
It was kind of unsatisfying.  Until…

Thanks to my friend Terri who was seated in the balcony I’ve got this terrific shot!  (Maddie is in blue, 5th from the end).  And I absolutely love the picture below, because Terri shot it at the same time I shot my picture above!  See Maddie  (just above Mr. H.’s head) looking around the line of girls at her Mama??  

And now I know where to sit next year!

P.S.  We are sad to announce the death of Dorothy Cutie Pie Wolfe,  who died in her sleep last night.  She was buried today under the sandbox and will be greatly missed by all, particularly Jack who has wrangled a new goldfish out of us, or possibly a new pack of SillyBandz...he's not sure yet.

Have a good trip…see you next Fall!

This past week was a week for the history books.  Well, my history book, anyway.  I am going to rank this one right up there with the week of Maddie’s fall, the weeks following the birth of Jack (WORST NEWBORN EVER), and the week my future husband dumped me to pursue other interests.  Have I mentioned it was over the phone?

Anyway.

I won't bore you with the details, just know that it was a long and stressful week, many things went wrong, many things were forgotten, I endured a small personal crisis, and Dave was gone for three days in Pittsburgh, so I had the added task of finding childcare for Jack for three days (then getting him there).  Many, many, many thanks to Julie, Sue, and Carolyn for happily taking Jack into their homes for those days, and greatly easing my stress and guilt levels.  I also had a house to clean/groceries to buy/food to prepare for this fella’s First Holy Communion, (a very bright spot in the week), and on top of it all, I developed a sore throat and what felt like a sinus infection.  So even if my brain wasn’t running constantly all night long, the sore throat and sinus pressure were doing their best to keep me awake. I was exhausted.*

Maddie’s band concert was one of these nights, and my mom forgot she needed to babysit the boys for me.  I scrambled around and figured things out, got us to the middle school, then sank blissfully into a seat.  The next hour and a half were nice.  Stress-free.  Simple.

And then it was all over and Maddie and I left  the building and headed for the parking lot. 

Now if you know me, then you know that I LOVE it when people fall.  I don’t want them to get hurt, but as soon as I ascertain their well-being, I get a big kick out of it.  I laugh on the inside like crazy!  My gosh, the way their arms flail out, the way they hit the pavement and look around sheepishly, hoping no one saw…dear Lord, it is truly a favorite of mine.

I’m sorry.  Otherwise, I’m really quite nice.  Really.

So.  As Maddie and I head for the parking lot, my ankle twists in a hole in the lawn, I shoot forward, my arms flailing so much that I throw my purse about 10 feet away from me where it lands in the line of traffic and almost gets run over.  A very embarrassed Maddie says, “Moooom!”  I get sheepishly up off the ground, glance around to see if the 500 other parents and children filing out of the auditorium noticed (uh, yeah, they did), collected my purse, and headed for the car as gracefully as I could. 

I had a good cry once I got the children into bed.

But now it’s the end of the week, a week I never want to see or think about again, and I just got out of the tub, clutching my glass of First Communion wine (left over from the party, not actual First Communion wine), and I feel better.

And oh, am I going to sleep tonight.


*By the way, I'm well aware of all the other people in the world with real problems:  people undergoing cancer treatment; those dealing with the death of a child; single mothers working full-time, taking classes, yet giving their kids a loving, patient home life; battered women shielding their children from an angry dad...mine are pretty small potatoes, that's for sure.

Popsicle

Is there anything better than a grape popsicle on a hot day?

Especially when you’re hot and dirty because you’ve been helping to do this…

Oh, yeah, that hits the spot.

Until the inevitable happens…

 

But that’s totally okay.  Just pull off the extra grass and get back to business.

This sure beats those icicles last February.