Farmville, Part Two

One of my mom's favorite Young Amalah anecdotes is the time I very seriously announced, as if I'd just finished several years of clinical research into the subject, that I was "not an outside kid." I was an "inside kid," and planned to live my life accordingly, finally at peace with who I was. 

(Of course, I was also "not good at sports" and "dreadfully uncoordinated" and "couldn't kick/throw/catch/block a ball if my life or straight-A report card depended on it," but I guess I thought my declaration sounded a little better.)

Toward the end of yesterday's field trip to the pony farm, I turned to one of Noah's teachers and admitted that "I don't really 'do' the outdoors." Complete with inflected air quotes. I had an appointment for a haircut almost immediately after and apologized to my stylist in case I smelled like a barn. 

(She insisted I didn't. She was just being nice.)

The temperature shot up to the mid-90s just for the occasion (seriously, I was wearing a sweater on Monday, and I'm pretty sure this afternoon's Water Day at preschool is going to get canceled because it's too chilly), and there's just no way to spend a few hours in a barn in that kind of heat and humidity and leave un-stankified. I glanced down at my cleavage at one point (why? I don't know. because I'm just so into myself?) and saw that the sweat had literally formed a small pool in my bra, which I guess had already absorbed the maximum amount of moisture. 

The kids got to cool down by bathing a pony and playing with buckets of soapy water. A teacher recommended that we all join in because the water really felt nice, but I took one look at the sponges the kids were using -- sponges that were COVERED and EMBEDDED with hair from various farm animals and kind of reminded me of what a household sponge looks like after you use it to clean behind a toilet -- and opted to simply stand off to the side being miserable.

Okay, not really. I was the event photographer (self-appointed, but whatevs) and was busy taking pictures. 

 

Noah kept calling the goats "ponies." After being corrected a dozen or so times, he finally compromised and referred to them as "pony-goats."

 

Much like our waffle-crazy dog, these pony-goats would sneeze excitedly at the prospect of grain pellets.

 

Sneezing pony-goats are like, fall-off-your-stepladder funny, apparently.

(Seriously. I cannot even look at photos of those sponges without a dose of hand sanitizer.)

 

 

(Please note the YELLOW BARN, as in NOT RED. Noah took one look as we drove up and wailed "Why do you keep DOING this to me?" from the backseat of the car.)

 

On a somewhat alarmingly in-working-order tractor that I'm shocked no one figured out how to hot wire. 

 

 

These were a special breed of chickens that are special and valued and God's creatures and OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE CREEPY BALD NECK RUN AWAY

 

Everyone got a chance to take a pony for a walk around the parking lot and learn a couple basic commands ("walk on" and "HO"). 

 

Noah took this job very, very seriously, although he kept saying "stop, please" instead of "HO."

 

I took my job as a chaperone very, very seriously too, so I promise I didn't make any jokes about the "HO" thing.

 

At least not out loud. Or within earshot of the children. Okay, maybe just that one time but I don't think anyone heard me. 

PS. Book giveaway runs until Monday morning. 

PPS. New column at The Stir.

PPPS. Going to go shower. Again. Again-again. Pony-goat stank. You understand. 

Left To My Own Very Limited Devices

Jason's been away on a business trip. It has taken every ounce of restraint I have in my system to not be complaining constantly about this. 

I remind myself about the single mothers, the divorced or widowed mothers, the military mothers, the mothers with husbands that travel all the time, for weeks and months at a time. And how many of these mothers have a shitload more children than I do and no part-time babysitter to help out during the day and no webcams and Skype so their children can spend an hour or so shrieking at Daddy while Mommy makes dinner and/or single-serve cocktails in the other room.

Yes, I remind myself that my life is not very hard at all. And I even completely believe that.

AND YET

1) Jason accidentally packed my phone charger, and

2) GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHZZZPPJFFFBBT

Yesterday, after picking Noah up from school, I did that thing where I actually counted the number of hours to fill until bedtime. Four and a half. Not bad. Not bad at all. Easily achieved with the help of:

1) One episode of Yo Gabba Gabba with a Wonder Pets chaser,

2) Slipping some broccoli into the macaroni and cheese at dinner, guaranteeing that Noah would sit at the table for at least an hour and a half, carefully removing each and every individual green-looking dot from each and every noodle before actually eating anything, 

3) The aforementioned Skype-time with Daddy, where Noah asked if Daddy saw any chickens on his field trip to Jamaica and Ezra said "HI HI HI HI HI" a lot and threw broccoli at my laptop, and

3) A creative art project involving family photos, gingham fabric, some glue and oh who am I kidding they watched more TV and then went to bed. 

After everyone was tucked in and asleep, I watched Glee by myself, though this isn't unusual because Jason doesn't like Glee because sometimes we have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IN COMMON OMG, and then wandered around the house, straightening up piles of clutter that I have happily ignored for months, taking advantage of the situation and throwing stuff out that I know he'd vote to keep if I asked him but will never, ever actually notice is gone. I took out the trash and cleaned up the dishes and caved to the siren call of Eating Snack Food After 7 pm for the first time in months. I wasted money on iTunes. Then I went to bed and secretly hoped that one of the boys would wake up or have a bad dream and request to spend the night with me. 

Nobody did. 

Jason comes home in just a few hours, and I am so very, very happy about that. 

(PS Tomorrow I am chaperoning a class field trip to a pony farm. I think the ponies are all really tiny ones but I will do my best to fall off one or get kicked in the head or maybe bitten by another goose so I'll have a more entertaining entry for you.) 

One Step Closer To My Dream Of One Day Thoroughly Annoying Tim Gunn In Person

On Friday night, I went to a party. A non-kid-birthday, grown-up-fancy party! And I, of course, proceeded to act like a toddler the entire time. 

Part the First: I decide to wear my new shoes. I attempt to drive a stick shift in my new shoes. Six blocks and three stall-outs later, I kick them off and drive barefoot instead. 

Part the Second: I arrive early because I am a blogger of considerable influence who is also Internet-Friends with one of the VIP guests, Laura Bennett of Project Runway/Daily Beast/Your Local Bookstore. I bump into the person who invited me in the first place, give her an awkward hug of thanks...and accidently stomp on her bare feet with -- oh my God -- those stupid fucking shoes.

Part the Third: I attempt to give Laura directions to the event via text message, belatedly realizing that my phone auto-corrected my mistyping of "Elm Street" into "Elmo Street." 

Part the Fourth: There was wine. It was free.

Part the Fifth: Socialite/Professional Fancy Party Person Tinsley Mortimer was another VIP. Laura and I decide to get our picture taken with her. She's busy holding an interview, but we don't let that stop us.

 

 

 

I put some pigs-in-a-blanket on my plate so our photobombing had a believable cover story. That was my plan, in case someone yelled at us for being obnoxious jackasses. "We're just here for the buffet, sir!" 

Part the Sixth: At some point, so embiggened and boldened by our daring photo op with The Tinz, I just straight up ask Laura to make me a dress for MamaPop's Sparklecorn party. (In less grabby, selfish news, I'm giving away autographed copies of her new book instead. Whee!) 

Part the Seventh: Some woman thinks I am Laura's assistant or PR person and tries to pitch me on...McDonald's franchises? Or something? I explain that I'm just a friend, so she says, "Oh, never mind, here, hold my book for a minute" and then pushes through to Laura directly. After a few minutes she realizes she wants her book signed and starts shrieking "WHERE'S MY BOOK? SECURITY TOOK MY BOOK!" 

Part the Eighth: I give her back her book. 

Part the Ninth: After the book signing party, there was a fashion show. I probably say "FASHION SHOW! FASHION SHOW! FASHION SHOW AT LUNCH!" to a good half-dozen people, but nobody has any clue what I am talking about. Most people would have stopped after the first or second or third time, but I am not most people. CLEARLY.

Part the Tenth: I forget my gift bag full of free hair products under my seat. I spend the next 20 minutes trying to figure out a way that this was Jason's fault, but cannot.

Part the End: I say goodbye to Laura and everybody else who tolerated my over-excited presence all night, wander around in search of some french fries, then almost leave my shoes in the cab. But I don't! So the evening ends on a high note, at least.

Building a Better Root-Vegetable-Based Mouse Trap

So about the mouse.

It continues to elude Max's completely uninterested clutches, and Max continues to not give a flying fuck. 

Last night Jason and I heard something crunching on kibble in the kitchen, along with a metallic clang -- like one of the pets pushed the food and water bowls together while eating. 

Except that -- you guessed it -- both of the pets were sitting on the couch, with us. Jason jumped up and cautiously peeked around the doorway, but the intruder was already gone. I proceeded to have a full-body attack of the itching creepy crawlies while Jason checked the humane traps (I KNOW, OKAY) that he'd placed behind the stove at the assumed point of entry.

The good news is that a mouse had gone into the trap. At one point or another. The bad news is that he'd clearly had no trouble CHEWING HIS WAY OUT.

"So, that's that." I said. "We'll get some nice toxic traps that break their backs or fry their brains or something, right?"

He mumbled something while opening cabinets and pulling out casserole dishes or whatever and I went back to the living room. 

Turns out? Jason had a plan.

Behold. This was his plan:

For those of you who have no idea what you're looking at (which I imagine is EVERYBODY), you are looking at the cat food dish, hidden under a mixing bowl that has been propped up with a wine cork and weighted down with a sweet potato.

I'm just...gonna sit here for a minute and let you re-read that last sentence a couple more times.

I swear. I SWEAR TO GOD. This actually fucking happened.  

After laughing my fool head off and taking some pictures, I opted to go to bed. I mean, the evening could ONLY go downhill at this point, right?

At 4:30 in the morning, we heard -- OH YES WE DID -- yet another metallic clang. A more...forceful sounding one.

I poked my husband. "Did you hear that?"

He had. I poked him again. It was a congratulatory, high-five kind of poke. 

At first he said he'd deal with it in the morning, but I worried that perhaps the whole SWEET POTATO thing was maybe not entirely fail-safe, like what if the potato rolled off the bowl and the mouse can like, MOVE the bowl around like a little hamster-wheel and we go down there tomorrow morning and can't find it? 

(4:30 in the morning, you guys. And I'm fretting over the mental image of a POSSESSED MIXING BOWL skittering all over my house.)

Jason got up and went downstairs to check his trap. He returned a few minutes later.

"It wasn't the mouse," he reported. "It was Max. He was just sitting there, staring at the bowl, like, what the hell?" 

"I'm sorry," I said. "That would have been pretty awesome if it worked."

"Yeah."

"But seriously, you've got to let me nuke the bastards next, okay?"

"Okay."

 

(Sweet Potato Helmet Army Man Says Hold Your Ground! Fire When Ready!) 
 

Boys Boys Boys

Sometimes I still wonder what it would be like to have a daughter. Usually while passing through the girls' clothing section -- the dresses! the tights! the...oh, just the EVERYTHING! -- on my way to buy generic truck t-shirt version number 437 off the sale rack. 

Sometimes it's while watching Jason gleefully rip open the packaging of Noah's first Transformer or win an eBay auction on the exact same Star Wars playset he had as a kid. That's when I remember that I still have a full and complete set of the original Strawberry Shortcake figurines in my parents' attic, and that my Rainbow Brite was still in remarkably good shape the last time I went through the boxes. 

Not that our toys are all so strictly, intentionally gendered. We have baby dolls and a tea set and Noah's a huge, huge fan of both The Little Mermaid and Princess and the Frog and owns quite a few toys from both, most recently the Princess Tiana beach towel that he chose over the Cars and Toy Story versions. Ezra's favorite toys are his doll stroller and a set of plastic pots and pans.

But still. They are SUCH BOYS. Noah asked for a dollhouse for Christmas and I saw the opportunity to FINALLY get something of mine out of the attic: my old wooden dollhouse, built by my mom when I was little. Oh! That dollhouse! Two minutes after the boys spotted it I realized I'd made a HUGE mistake, but it was too late. The front door was bashed in, a huge chunk of the roof ripped off and multiple windows were popping out their frames. I looked through the second box of furniture and laughed at how small and delicate everything was. I remembered meticulously setting the table with teensy plates and teacups and miniature flower arrangements; meanwhile Noah was trying to drive a car up the staircase and Ezra had his head and shoulders stuck in the living room.

(The dollhouse is currently sitting in the corner of our living room, hidden oh-so-cleverly by a blanket. Jason promised to move it up to OUR attic and...well. You know how he is.)

(The boys completely ignore it, though the last time we had a little girl playmate over, she instinctively found it and quickly had our Woody and Buzz Lightyear figurines set up a nice little household together, setting up a nursery and drinking imaginary juice boxes.) 

Ezra still calls every woman he sees "Mommy" but can correctly identify the difference between a Cah and a Tuck and Bus and a Chugga Chugga. On walks outside they have no interest in flowers or plants but lose their minds over bugs and worms and OMG A TRUCK JUST DROVE BY DID YOU SEE THAT TRUCK OMG. 

They wrestle and tumble and argue endlessly over the same single plastic dump truck, even though they collectively own several dozen plastic dump trucks. Noah simply has to walk by Ezra and he immediately clutches whatever he's playing with to his chest and shrieks "MINE!" at his brother. 

And yet, they give each other goodbye kisses every morning before Noah gets on the school bus, and then Ezra watches the bus drive away with a mixture of insane jealousy and intense admiration. They'll casually hold hands while watching TV on the couch, or in the car. Noah helpfully encourages Ezra to eat all his food so "you can be a big strong boy, like me!" and has already promised him his little scooter once he's old enough for a bigger one. Ezra calls his brother "Nona" and taps his nose when he first sees him in the morning, or right after school. Sometimes they just laugh and laugh and laugh at each other and I have no idea why. 

I'm so happy I have two boys, two brothers, and I'm grateful for all the times they let me join in the fun. 

 

PS. New @ TheStir: Also grateful that I no longer have to share my iPhone. 

The Tail of the Cat

I really struggled with yesterday's post. I almost abandoned it completely several times, thinking that maybe I should just publish some "before" photos from the party and keep my trap shut about the dropped bunny and turtle bit -- my big trap in which I keep my COPIOUS ANGST -- instead of putting that story out there. I didn't want to paint Noah as some kind of heartless monster, or make it sound like I thought he was, OR make it sound like I didn't get that his behavior was unacceptable and that petting zoo guy was SO WRONG about my preshus snowflake who is allowed drop-kick any animal he wants because: snowflake, my preshus. 

But honestly, I knew I wasn't going to stop obsessing about it until I wrote it out. So I did. Also related the story to his teachers after school, who could not have been more nonplussed about it. This just in: Four-year-olds are just impulsive little shits sometimes.

Jason, oddly, remained unconvinced and thoroughly concerned. 

"He's shouldn't have laughed," he said. "He should be able to empathize."

"Not until age six," I said.

Jason didn't respond, but waited for me to cite my sources.

"according to all my commenters on my blog okay?" I mumbled. "they all said kids don't truly empathize until around six years old and even after that some kids put frogs in lunch boxes and stepped on bugs and killed their fish and still grew up to be totally normal vegans and stuff."

Jason nodded. Then: "Wait. Back up to the frogs in lunch boxes part? What?"

Weirdly enough, though, neither of us had any personal memories to share about childhood "experiments" with animals -- pets or otherwise. I remember crying and tattling on my next-door neighbor when he stepped on anthills, and Jason swore he never so much as pulled his dog's tail. So perhaps that's why Noah's behavior struck as so foreign and OMG This Is A Terribly Big Deal. 

(Also, I GOT YELLED AT. IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE. I DON'T DO SO WELL WITH THAT.)

Later, the phone rang, right when we were finishing dinner. (Or, more accurately, as Jason and I finished up all the mashed sweet potatoes that our children refused to eat -- DELICIOUS mashed sweet potatoes, if I do say so myself, YOU UNGRATEFUL WEIRDOS -- and the boys sat on the couch and rocked their heads Night-at-the-Roxbury style to a Yo Gabba Gabba rap about bugs.) 

"I bet that's my mom," I said. "She read my post and wants to tell me to chill the fuck out."

(That's kind of her thing. Only she can get a point across without potty words. I didn't learn how to curse until I got a summer job at Sesame Place.)

She actually wanted to tell me a story. I was older than Noah when it happened -- probably more like five or six. I was playing in the backyard and she pushed the kitchen window curtain aside, about to call me inside for lunch, when she hesitated for a second. I was standing on our back patio with a strange look on my face. I was looking back and forth, like I was getting ready to cross the street. I didn't see her watching me.

And then I raised my foot. And then. STOMPBLAMSMASH, I brought it down as hard as I could on our cat's tail. 

I have absolutely no memory of this, even though the aftermath included PLENTY of yelling and scolding and go-to-your-rooming. 

My mom, of course, remembers it like it was yesterday. 

(Also the time my brother had his school portraits taken with visible teeth marks on his forehead, after he'd been bitten by my other brother. She told me this story after I had to pause the conversation to tell Noah to STOP SITTING ON YOUR BROTHER'S NECK. HE DOESN'T LIKE IT.)

Note to self: Call Jason's mother. I bet she's got the dirt. 

It's Not Him, It's Me

Birthday parties. What in the world is it about the stupid BIRTHDAY PARTIES?

We've gone to a few very successful birthday parties since, well, the very unsuccessful ones. I've gotten selective about which ones we attend -- if it seems like a low-key affair at your house, yes. If it sounds like something with a lot of structure and set activities, I usually decline. 

We went to a party this weekend. At someone's house. It was big yet fun and low-key and full of general mayhem, in a good way. There was also...a petting zoo. 

It was so cute! So fun! Delightful! Some ducks and chickens and bunnies and a pony whose head barely reached my knee (but whose penis practically touched the ground and I'm sorry I can't help but notice it I mean look it's right there and it's huge OMG). Noah initially resisted the call to round up around the enclosure and meet all the animals, but by the end of the handler's introductions he was begging to have a turn inside. 

He stepped in and accepted a lap-mat of some old carpet and the tiniest baby bunny ever. He held it gently and giggled and declared his love for it over and over again. Jason and I beamed from the other side of the fence and I wondered how much this sort of thing cost, like I do at every party we attend because I guess a successful party turns me into Liz Lemon in Cleveland. This is a great party! ! I want to have this party! I want to live at this party!

And that's about what I was thinking around the time Noah suddenly decided he was done holding the bunny. And...I don't know what happened, except that...one second the bunny was on his lap and then...oh my God...the bunny was on the ground. He dropped the bunny. 

There was a collective gasp from every adult in the vicinity and Jason and I kind of screeched in unison at him and the handler scooped up the bunny and...oh my God...Noah was LAUGHING. 

The handler scolded him. "That's not funny," he said. Jason took Noah inside for a Serious Talking To while I just sort of stood there in the mob of parents and kids, hoping maybe the ground would open up and swallow me up. Oh hi, yeah. I'm the mother of the kid who dropped a baby bunny on its head and then laughed about it. Parenting win! Wanna playdate? 

Noah spent a few minutes in time out and then rejoined the party. Just in time for the animal handler to bring out one last friend: a tortoise. He plopped it outside the enclosure in front of a crowd of mostly unsupervised toddlers and preschoolers and instructed them to only pet its shell, and NOT to touch its head. 

I crouched down with Noah and repeated these instructions. He patted the shell and then tried to get a better look at the turtle's face. I pulled him back slightly because I just had a really bad feeling about this -- there were easily a dozen kids crowding around the turtle and I felt the level of impulse control was collectively dropping.

And then, for reasons I simply cannot fathom, Noah raised his foot and moved it slowly in the direction of that turtle's head, like he was going to kick it.

I had my hands on him again within a millisecond and yanked him completely away from the crowd and the turtle. I looked up and there was a finger in my face. It was the animal handler.

"KEEP HIM," he said, moving his finger from me to Noah, putting much emphasis on the word him, "AWAY FROM THE ANIMAL."

***

When I was in first grade our teacher attempted a slightly too ambitious art project involving covering cardboard stars with aluminum foil. I guess she bought the wrong foil or something, because we all had a terrible time with it. The foil kept ripping and puckering and nobody -- not even The Kids Who Were Good At Art (of which I was one of) -- could get their star looking remotely decent.

The teacher kept giving out new pieces of foil whenever we tore ours, and after having my hand raised for awhile, I approached her in the aisle and requested a new one. 

Instead of giving me the foil, she spun around and yelled at me. She used my full name and told me to go sit down at my desk that instant and use the foil I already had.

I went back to my desk and cried. I remember the sight of that shredded foil and my ugly star blurring up under my tears. I did the best I could to fix it but it still looked terrible -- doubly terrible, now that I was one of The Kids Who Get Yelled At (of which I'd never, ever been). 

I get that my teacher was probably stressed out and thoroughly annoyed, and that my request for a third or fourth or fifth piece of foil simply came at the absolute wrong moment, and I wasn't supposed to step away from my desk in the first place, but oh, to this day I remember everything about that moment -- the tone of her voice and the look on her face. 

She hung everybody's star over their desks anyway, Mine was not a Good Star. I hated it and hated looking at it and when they finally came down I tore it into little pieces before tossing it in the trash. 

***

I guess you can add "birthday party petting zoo animal handler guy" to the list of people I never expected to get yelled at by. But even now, many many hours later, I can still remember everything about THAT moment. The way he instantly singled Noah out as the troublemaker, the way his voice changed from the enthusiastic party entertainer to General Serious Angry Person, and the way he turned the word "him" into something more like "your out-of-control sociopathic kid."

My chest deflated like I'd been punched. I nodded meekly and grabbed Noah's hand and walked quickly and wordlessly back inside the house, where I proceeded to give Noah a verbal dressing down of epic proportions.

Jason -- who hadn't witnessed any of it -- came in and tried to find out what happened. He thought, from the way I was talking to Noah, that he'd actually kicked the turtle. Which...he hadn't. And...I don't think he was really going to. I think maybe he thought he could get around the "no touching" rule if he didn't use his hands? Maybe he was just overwhelmed and weirdly impulsive? Or maybe he wanted to scare the turtle? Oh God, why would he want to scare the turtle? WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Another father overheard my shaky-voiced explanation about what happened and declared it all to be bullshit, there's a good 50-plus kids here under the age of five (many of whom are, BY THE WAY, considered special needs), the turtle shouldn't have been outside the enclosure in the first place. 

And I agreed with that to a point, but still. I looked back at Noah and his mostly oblivious face and got whacked with a huge secondary wave of emotion. He didn't care that I was upset, he didn't care that he might have hurt or scared the animals, he only cared that I was making him sit in time-out. I felt kind of woozy at all the implications of the situation. Where's his empathy? Is this normal? This isn't normal. What have we done wrong? We have pets, we love our pets, his father can't even bring himself to kill a mouse. He laughed that time I accidentally stepped on Ceiba's paw and she yelped, I'm always reminding him to be more gentle. How did I miss this?  I'm a good mother. I work so hard. I love him so much. How did I end up being the mother of That Child at the birthday party?

Or, conversely: How did I end up being the mother who allows six words from a complete stranger to send her into an absolute tailspin of parenting confidence?

I told Jason I wanted to leave, but he insisted we stay. We swapped kid duties so I could watch Ezra and have a break from Noah and my face-melting anger and embarrassment. Ezra watched the ducks inside the pen and tried to imitate the quacking. The handler asked if I wanted to bring him inside. I politely declined, saying I thought he was a bit too young. 

(Fuck you, I also thought.) 

(I'm sorry, I also thought, immediately after.)

We came home and had several more talks about what happened. Noah was able to correctly parrot back what he had done wrong, though I couldn't help but feel that he still wasn't getting the why. Jason Googled some books on being nice to animals. I went through our DVD collection and plucked out anything that presented people or animals getting hurt as "funny." 

And I calmed down. I dialed back the terrible fears that This Was All So Indicative Of Something. Noah is not going to grow up to be a serial killer because he may have almost maybe thought about kicking a turtle at a four-year-old's birthday party. It was not my proudest parenting moment but I must be doing okay if it actually does end up being one of my worst.  I thought about what happened in first grade and laughed at myself, a little bit. Deep breaths, moving on, sack up, ho. 

He's still a Good Star. 

Dear Cat

We need to talk.

 
Oh, don't look at me like that. You know. YOU KNOW EXACTLY.

Look. Cat. You've been a fine cat. For almost...wow...12 years now, you've been a very fine cat. Very affectionate and cozy and face-nuzzly and such. And I can't tell you how happy I am that you remain so healthy and spry and feisty after almost 12 whole years. 

Like the other night? When you were rolling around on the bed being all adorable and I decided to record a little movie of your adorableness but the dog felt all left out and whimper-y on the floor so I picked her up and put her on the bed and you were immediately all OH HELLLLLZ NO BITCH THIS BED AND TUMMY RUBBIN IS MINE and proceeded to lunge at her head like a cheetah in a nature documentary? 

Exhibit A:

Yeah, that. While not the adorable pet video I originally had in mind, I was still pleased to see you can still get all aggressive and feline-like, when you feel like it. 

Which brings me to my point: If you're still obviously so up for a good tussle, why the fuck do we have a MOUSE, a mouse in our KITCHEN, a mouse that comes OUT OF THE CABINET at night and sits NEXT TO YOUR BOWL and EATS YOUR FOOD and OH MY GOD, it's a goddamned RODENT.

(IN OUR HOUSE!)

Look, Cat. This isn't even the first mouse. We had one last year. Something I discovered when I pulled a baking sheet out the drawer under our stove and oh look, MOUSE TURDS. Do you remember that? You were at least vaguely helpful that time, what with all the INTENSE STARING you did that signaled to us that one of the sticky traps we set out had captured the mouse, the mouse that my husband (YOUR FATHER!) then refused to kill and kept trying to get me to LOOK AT IT and then he spent 20 minutes carefully removing the stupid thing from the trap before putting it in MY GOOD TUPPERWARE and being all, "Noah! Look! It's Ratatouille! Let's go get in the car and set him free somewhere so he can go back to his family!" 

And then we got in the car and he asked me to hold the container in my LAP and I yelled at him to put that thing in the TRUNK because NO, I wanted NOTHING TO DO WITH ANY OF THIS. And then we drove to a goddamned field and he set the goddamned thing free and you know, I bet this is the same goddamned mouse, not that I'm going to check its little foot pads for signs of past sticky-trap trauma or anything. 

Look, Cat. I gave you a pass last year because I thought the mouse was staying in non-cat-accessible places in the house. But now it has been brought to my attention that the mouse has been spotted OUT AND ABOUT, AT NIGHT. (Spotted by my husband [YOUR FATHER!], who again, did not respond to the sighting by like, throwing a fucking shoe at the thing or doing anything USEFUL, but instead just came upstairs and woke me up and was all, "HEY. GUESS WHAT I JUST SAW.")

Seriously. The thing comes out and eats your food. From your bowl. A bowl that we have since moved the fuck off the floor, and I can tell that pisses you right off from all the plaintive yowling you do every morning because meoooooooooowwwww I'm too old and lazy to jump up on a chaaaaaaair to get my fooooooood meeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwww halp meeeeee somebodeeeeeeee rooowwwlllll.

You know what, Cat? Tough freaking love. Do your job and get rid of the mouse and you can have your stupid bowl back on the stupid floor. What? I sound angry? I am. Almost 12 years, Cat. That's how long I've been feeding you and paying for shots and letting you sleep in my armpit and I didn't even TELL the Internet what you did to us while we were in Jamaica, going on a three-day hunger strike at the fancy expensive Pet Hotel, causing us and our emergency contact much stress and panic while we tried to find a pet sitter to go get you on goddamned SKYPE because we didn't even have a PHONE down there and then you were FINE and were just being a DIVA and after all of that, you're telling me you won't even TRY to kill ONE LITTLE MOUSE that is, for the record, EATING YOUR FOOD? 

You're kind of a disgrace, Cat. 12 years of face scritches and unlimited catnip have made you soft. I'm guessing there's not much to be done about that at this point. Except maybe this:

 
Love,

Person With Opposable Thumbs Who Knows Where The Treats Are Kept, Bizzitch

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Life of Glamour, Grace & Class Out the Wazoo

FOR SALE: 

One (1) Wii Nunchuk, gently used. Mostly as a fishing pole. Don't ask. Asking: $1, handful of Clorox Wipes, OBO.

(New post up at The Stir, all about our battle with Noah over forks and spoons and the next fancy bit of electronics that will likely end up in our toilet. It is just our way.)

What I Have Done Today To Make Me Feel Proud

Since there was a small handful of requests, I bought these shoes on Mother's Day.

 
I also bought...a pair of running shoes. 

Last year, after Blogher, I kept seeing pictures of myself crop up on Flickr and Facebook that made me cringe, a little bit. My chin, my face, my arms...everything was a bit rounder and softer, at least compared with the photos from previous years that occasionally popped up out of order, for side-by-side comparisons. I told myself that I was simply not photogenic, and holding on to 10 pounds or so because I was breastfeeding. 

By January, when we went to Jamaica, I was most definitely not breastfeeding any more. But the pictures looked worse, not better. I deleted most of them: practically erasing my presence from the greatest family vacation we've ever taken, save for a small handful of pictures that happened to be taken at more flattering angles.  Or from far away.

There was no way around it: I'd been slowly but steadily gaining weight since Ezra's birth, instead of the other way around. Not a lot, oh, not really a whole lot. But enough. Enough to make me delete myself from the memory card, to glare at myself in the mirror while I struggled with zippers and pinched extra skin around waistbands and bra straps, to walk around in public in forgiving work-out wear that I certainly didn't work out in, to go from having sex on kitchen counters to under covers with the lights off, getting uptight about OH GOD, don't grab me THERE, it's SQUISHY. 

I had an eating disorder in high school -- I starved myself non-stop. I didn't hit 100 pounds until college. I'm five-foot-five. And a half. 

I don't want to ever be that skinny again -- photos of myself at a senior-year pool party were a reverse wake-up call, when I saw just how vile my protruding ribs and hip bones were, at least compared to my curvy, healthy friends. Who were smiling and laughing while I mostly looked sort of dazed and miserable. 

I didn't look dazed in any of the Jamaica photos, and I was smiling and laughing. But I was still a little bit miserable.

Not like, oppressively so: Most of the time I was able to push my feelings aside, or under a baggy sweater or the aforementioned fake work-out wear. Or under a plate of cheese fries. 

Jason noticed, though -- not ever mentioning the actual weight gain but the fact that I never, ever bought clothes for myself anymore.

"Not true!" I'd protest. "I got a couple new dresses for Jamaica!"

"I bought you those," he'd point out, and then he'd say that all those tees and yoga pants from Target didn't count either. And then something like:

"When was the last time you even bought shoes? Your feet haven't changed. You love shoes. I know you get easily wigged out about spending money but seriously, you can buy yourself some shoes, if you want."

The truth was? I didn't want to. I'd just...kind of stopped caring. I watched other bloggers get up and get moving and train for marathons, and instead of feeling inspired, I cheered for them while sinking deeper into the ass-groove on my couch. That pesky 10 pounds of "baby weight" was turning into something closer to 20, and I didn't have the first clue how to reverse course. I was afraid of falling back into disordered thinking about food while totally using that fear as an excuse to do absolutely nothing instead. 

Over at MamaPop, BHJ posed a challenge: we'd all set weight-loss goals and do weekly honor-system weigh-ins, for the duration of one season of The Biggest Loser. 13 weeks. We'd be the MamaPopLosers, and it was an awesome idea. I pledged 10 pounds, mostly because I was afraid of completely embarrassing myself if I promised more and failed. 

I planned to give up my Coca-Cola habit.. I threw out the remaining Halloween candy. I made some vague noises about less snacking and eating better and exercising. 

My progress was slow -- a pound here, a pound there, a big gain in Jamaica, etc. 

But I was making progress. I was eating better. Eating less, feeling full sooner. No processed foods, no HFCS or anything hydrogenated or artificial or "diet." (Basically: the way I feed my kids, but didn't realize how often I cheated on those standards myself until I started paying freaking attention.)  I caved and picked up some fast food at the drive-thru on one super-rushed crazy day and couldn't even choke half of it down -- it was so gross! Ew! This isn't even food! I drank water. I stopped missing Coke. I hated the way junk food made me feel. I still splurged on nice dinners out with Jason and the occasional REALLY GOOD WORTH-IT DESSERT, but had no problem turning down mediocre crap food eaten out of boredom or convenience. I started wanting to maybe wear some cute clothes. I started wanting to exercise. 

And I lost that 10 pounds. I've lost another five since the weigh-ins ended, though I've decided to stop weighing myself and instead focus on getting in really good shape.  I've started the Couch to 5K training program (I have never run in my entire life). I can't believe that the small changes I made had such an impact -- small changes that I put off making for God knows how long for God knows what reason. I'm ready to see what else I can do...off the scale, away from Wii Sports, outside in real life. 

And so I bought myself some shoes.