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Cat Video Saturday

A cop out? Maybe. But this one made me laugh.

Fiends for love

Two days ago, the kids were bothering me so much that I quietly walked upstairs to my room, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. And now today. Today! I'm in love with them again. Just like that. Parenting is the weirdest.

Slate recently published an article contending that parents are, essentially, junkies. That we endure the horrific parts of parenting (whining, begging for candy, and refusal to engage in perfectly reasonable behavior like listening and sleeping) because of the small, euphoric hits of a child throwing his arms around us in a heartfelt hug. According to Slate, these random squeezes and words of love are like crystal meth to us suckers, otherwise known as moms and dads.

Eh. I'm not sure about that.

The rewards I get from Max and Claire are wonderful, sure. But one little, smooth hand in mine, as sweet as that is, doesn't necessarily make up for the fighting and screeching and demanding.

There's a much bigger picture. There's the satisfaction of raising two people who are decent more often than awful. Who are loving beings, who generally pick up their own trash, clear their own dishes, and pack their own backpacks in the morning. It's the knowing that you're getting there. That you've kept alive, potty trained, and fed kids who you are guiding toward being self-sufficient, hopefully productive and somewhat content adults.

Believe me, I have plenty of terrible parenting moments.

But I've gotta believe that, overall, this endeavor is going to be worth it long term. It's not just about the next high.

Toasty

I went and knit myself some legwarmers. I've even worn them out in public. Now I'm sans a knitting project. Which is sad. Knitting is meditative. I love it.

Granola bars for everyone!

You know the angst I have about passing hard-up people asking for help? The ones who beg while attempting to infiltrate my psyche through my eyeballs (which, despite popular theory, are not windows to the soul, but just squishy, swimming spots of color and nerves.)? I think I know what to do about those pleading people now. Granola bars! This morning I gave one to a guy asking for breakfast money. He said, "Better than a pint, right?". Then tore off the wrapper and crammed the bar into his mouth.

So now I'm just going to keep a stash of them, and when the guilt gets to me, I'll know that at least I'm nourishing homeless people with whole grains and chocolate chips rather than just a fiver that'll end up being spent on who knows what.

Twenty-five word fiction

The most fun I've had in days! Thanks to her for the idea.

 

She clipped his fingernail, nicking too low.

"Ouch," he said.

"Oh, so now you're talking to me again?"

***

He handed her the flower: Queen Anne's Lace.

She turned her head away. She sneezed.

"You're too late," she said.

***

Lights winked out all over the city. 

They climbed into bed together.

He wished it wasn't their last night in the same apartment.

Tangible

These are two pictures I took that are now hanging in the common area of the office where I work. I've never seen my photos that large before, on wrapped canvas, and it's kinda cool.

See Claire read. Oh. Oh. Cute, cute Claire.

This is pretty much what I've been up to lately. Listening to Claire work her way through a massively huge collection of Dick and Jane stories. My sister gave it to us a bunch of years ago and Claire recently picked it up. She loves this book.

I love listening to her sound out words. It's the sweetest spot in my life right now.

Weakness

I can be a real snarky, feisty bitch sometimes. I know I come off as basically nice and laid back. And, normally, I am those things. But there are moments...

This afternoon for instance, J. scored free tickets to take the kids to the Seattle Children's Theatre (for what turned out to be a fairly dorky show--maybe it's just me, but watching a grown man imitate a newborn baby, complete with thumb-sucking and bowel movements, deeply disturbs me). Anyway, we didn't yet know what, theatrically, was in store.

But, Max was whining about going, refusing to cooperate, and {redacted because J. is having a stressful weekend and I cannot complain about that since he works his ass off and makes us financially comfortable and manages to be a good human, too}.

A few events transpired and I almost fucking lost it. As I was climbing into the car, I came close to pivoting, announcing that I was staying home, and striding back inside. Instead, I got in and proceeded to list my grievances while J., who's really just trying to please everyone, tried to placate me, too. Still, as we drove downtown, I had an egg-yolk sized lump in my throat and wished I could lock myself in a bathroom to sob for a while.

And then came the sixty-something clown mispronouncing his R's and pretending to learn to walk.

I was tense and clenched and trying to see the good, or at least the humor, in the situation. But I just couldn't. I hate being that person. The one others are tiptoeing around, trying not to piss off further. I was, though, today. I just was.

 

WTF Cats

Apparently there's a new genre of cat video that has come about since my short foray into Cat Video Friday a couple years back. It's called WTF cats. Since cats are always thinking either, Hey, give me some food or What the fuck? I'm sure the category is rich with great snippets.

This poor cat is me every time I dwell on the fact that some day I will die.

Except for maybe at 2:00 every afternoon, when I feel like this. Whether or not I'm thinking some day I will die.

What it's like to go to lunch with us

I knew I had chosen a bad restaurant for my son's dairy allergy: an italian dump that makes Olive Garden look gourmet. But it has memories attached. Sometimes, after picking Claire up from preschool, she (a cheese freak) and I walked across the street and gorged ourselves on pasta.

Since Claire wanted to visit her old teachers who were working today, and we were in the neighborhood, I took both Max and Claire to the Italian place, thinking Max could eat pasta with meatballs and garlic bread sans butter. It'd all be good.

I asked the waitress (who is going to look exactly like Donatella Versace in 20 years and speaks, at best, broken English) about the meatballs, telling her that Max is allergic to eggs, nuts, and dairy. "No, no eggs in meatballs," she insisted, making a face like, who the hell would put in eggs in meatballs? Nevermind that most every meatball recipe I've seen or used calls for egg.

Claire and I had had this waitress several times in the past and I didn't trust her knowledge of food allergies, so I nixed the meatballs and ordered Max spaghetti with meat sauce.

Very politely and quietly, Max said, "But I don't want the meat sauce."

"I'm sorry, hon, but I think that's the only thing safe for you here," I said, maintaining a neutral expression. All while resisting the pulls of my heart against the crusty Scotch tape holding it together.

He surrendered with a meek, "Okay."

Spaghetti with meat sauce and bread without butter. I ordered spaghetti too, and since I am also, for the most part, dairy free, requested no cheese be scattered across the top.

Quickly, she brought out bread. Soaked with garlicky butter. "We need bread with no butter," I said.

"Plain bread?!?"

"Yes, please. Plain bread."

Next came my salad, an anemic iceberg lettuce affair that I forgot was always buried under a mountain of mozzarella. It would've been nice if Donatella had been a little proactive and thought, Hm, the customer requested no cheese on her pasta, so maybe I should ask if she wants it on her salad? But, whatever. I was the one who hadn't mentioned it specifically.

Next came Max's spaghetti. Sprinkled with cheese. Shit.

As fast as I could, before the little strands melted into the pasta completely, I started picking it off.

Max said, "I don't think I should eat that."

"No, it's okay," I said. "Look, look. I'll scrape off the whole top layer of spaghetti."

He still wasn't satisfied. And part of raising a kid with food allergies means honoring his instincts and not forcing him to eat something he doesn't feel is safe for his own body. I agreed that we'd just put his whole meal in a box and take it home for J.

Finally, my spaghetti came. Cheeseless! At first Max was wary of it, but finally agreed to take a few bites. So, we shared it, me shoveling food into his mouth like a toddler.

Despite it all, I left the waitress a decent tip and had fun with the kids. Next time it's all three of us though, I think we'll just go home and gnaw on celery sticks.

Caveat: Max's dairy allergies are relatively mild and, though enough milk could cause him to go anaphylactic, I'm comfortable with the level of dairy exposure he sustained today. Many other kids with dairy allergies have it much worse and would still have a reaction if you simply picked the cheese off their meal. Also, we would never do this with nuts.