Like Father, Like Daughter

I always knew that Quincy Boo-Bear was going to be the one we had to watch out for. She's just so crazy, and knows no fear. She thinks it's hilarious... I do not.

So, I was joking the other day about how Quincy would totally make it to the ER before the summer was out, and sure enough, one day into summer, off she went. In her defense, it wasn't anything she did, which wasn't how I would've pictured it, with as freakin' fearless as she is and all. I swear she'd touch an electric fence forty times before she realized that it hurt. She's nuts, and she laughs in the face of pain (ha-ha-ha!) Maybe she really is a ninja, like Jarrod says, and that Chuck Norris is slowly grooming her to take over the world. Chuck Norris knows no pain, and neither does Quincy Boo-Bear.

Anyway, so this is how it all went down. We had torrential rains on Monday night/Tuesday morning, which meant that our driveway would remain flooded until I kicked the pump on for it to drain. Wahoo. So yesterday afternoon, I went out front to switch the pump on, and specifically told the boys to stay in the house. I believe my exact words were, "Do not open that door because I don't want Quincy getting out here." Of course they're four years-old and have selective hearing, so that didn't work out quite as I had hoped.

Sure enough, within seconds of me being outside, the boys were on the porch, getting into things they shouldn't, while I waited to make sure the water was draining. In the meantime, Quincy was inside, standing at the storm door, screaming her fool head off and banging on it, wanting to come outside. Great, boys, this is exactly why I told you to stay inside. Ah, you gotta love how they listen! So, after a couple of minutes, the pump was draining good, so I started to herd the boys back inside, while Quincy was still standing there howling. As I went to open the storm door, I realized that her finger was pinched in the hinge-side of the door, and apparently had been since the boys came outside! I think I probably turned green as I opened the door, and she pulled her newly-mangled finger out.

Had she not been in horrible pain (and who wouldn't be after that?), I would've taken a picture of her finger to show how gnarled-up it was. It looked like finger road-kill, complete with tire tracks. Her pinky was completely flat, and that is no exaggeration. It doesn't help matters that Quincy's pinkies have a natural bend in towards her ring finger, which only made her finger look more deformed. It felt like rubber as I slowly bent it back and forth, but seeing as how it was so little, it was hard to feel if it was broken or not.

After screaming for all of five minutes, Quincy got quiet and was trying to play with the faucet on the sink as I examined her finger. It just looked like a mangled piece of hamburger as I was on the phone with the doctor's office, who told me to take her to the ER to have it x-rayed. So, I called my parents, so that someone could come watch the boys, and tried to get ahold of Eric, which is always easier said than done. In the meantime, Quincy was walking around with a floppy finger, trying to eat out of her snack cup, which just amazed me, but whatever.

So, my dad arrived, and then Eric arrived too, and he ended up taking her to get her x-ray. By that time, a lot of the "flatness" had gone away, but her finger was about eight shades of purple and red. According to the doctor, baby bones are really flexible, and there is a lot of room between their finger bones, which allow them to get squished, twisted, you name it, and still come out okay. The doctor was also pretty impressed that Quincy didn't fuss when he was bending her finger every which way. Eric explained to him that it is more of a curse than a blessing, since she laughs when she she gets a swat on her hand, and at that point, we had the doctor's sympathy.

This morning, her finger was just red and puffy, with bruises here and there, but she doesn't seem to mind too much. Crazy kid. Hey, if this is all I have to deal with all summer, I'll be thrilled.

What The Hail?

Hail is my mortal enemy.

As some of you know, we were hit with a massive hail storm nearly two months ago, which completely wrecked my car and our house. Between the car and the house, we sustained over $20,000 in damage-- wahoo. Thank goodness for insurance, because golf ball-sized hail is a real bitch.

So you can imagine my reaction at 6:20 this morning when I started to hear hail coming down amidst the torrential down-pour that was also taking place. No joke-- I only heard about three pieces of hail hit the window before I was literally flying down the stairs, disabling the alarm, and opening the garage door to bring Eric's truck inside. This is not my idea of fun early in the morning, let me be clear.

Several weeks ago, I had spent my evening cleaning one side of the garage, so that we wouldn't be faced with another Hail vs. Car disaster. I cleared more than enough space for one of our massive vehicles to fit inside, and I was completely happy with myself. Of course, it would've been better if I had done this before the first hail storm, but hindsight is 20/20. For over a week now, I have had to drive Eric's truck, because the Dent-Mobile has been in the shop, having the hail damage repaired. Any of you that know Eric know that he loves his truck, and it pains him to have to let me drive it. Any of you that know me also knows that I hate driving the truck, because it's huge, noisy, and has hunting-related decals all over the back window.

So, when the hail began to rain down this morning (albeit pea/marble-sized), I knew I was in a position of life or death-- either leave the truck outside, and hope for the best, or brave the monsoon and try to get it into the garage, in order to spare myself Eric's wrath. I know this seems like a no-brainer, and it would've been-- I would've just gotten soaked in my pj's and brought the truck inside, especially since the garage would now be able to accomodate it, right? Wrong. No, Eric had stored his lawn-mowing equipment on that clean side of the garage, and I didn't think there was any way to squeeze the truck in. Well shit, now what do I do?

I called Eric at 6:30 a.m., that's what I did. I felt terrible for doing it, especially since it was a holiday, and he actually got to sleep in, but better to be safe than sorry. I had to double-check with him to see if he thought the truck would fit, even with the lawn mowers. He said no, but that I could pull the front end inside. Gee, thanks. So, I sprinted outside, through ankle-deep water (yes, my driveway floods, bad), got completely soaked, and pulled the cab of the truck into the garage. Then I just sat there, because I really had nowhere to go, since the truck was wedged in so tight that I couldn't open the driver's door. Good times.

Once the rain and hail began to subside (quite awhile later, I might add), I pulled the truck back out of the garage and went inside. Naturally, after doing sprints and being soaked to the bone, I was completely wide-awake at this point, which pissed me off, because I was sleeping so good before the hail thing happened. So what did I do? I rotated the laundry, and went outside to take a picture of the hail (for this blog, of course). I stormed around the house, completely aggravated that my once-peaceful morning had been ruined, and stewed over the fact that this would be such nice sleeping weather. What a way to start my week. Then, every time I would hear Quincy's overall clasps banging around in the dryer, I would panic that the hail had started again, which got really, really old. So finally I went back upstairs and basically forced myself to try to go back to sleep for an hour and a half, which of course didn't happen because the boys decided to start the morning off fighting. Yes, on top of my hail freak-out, I had to deal with Gabe ripping the head off of Josh's baby (for the n-teenth time), and had to get out of bed to sew it back on.

I have pretty much been able to maintain that same pissed-off state for the rest of the day. Happy Monday.

Some People Shouldn't Procreate

Okay, normally I would never criticize someone else's parenting techniques, but what I witnessed tonight while I was out shopping nearly prompted me to confront a fellow shopper.

I quite value my free time away from the kids. It's "quiet" time, even if it isn't completely quiet where I'm going, so I don't really appreciate it when I go out for "quiet" time, and there are screaming children present. If I had wanted to subject myself to the wild, unruly behavior of small children, I would have just chosen to stay home. So, there I was, attempting to clothes-shop (my therapy), and there are two young boys who are racing toy cars down the shopping aisles, screaming, "I win again," over and over and over. All I could think was, Where the hell are your parents and why can't you just shut the fuck up? If I hear, "Ha-ha, I win again!" one more time, I'm going to come over there and stomp on your cars and make you cry. Okay, so I wouldn't really do that, but I was totally thinking it. Of course, their mother was practically across the store, shopping for herself, seemingly oblivious to her sons' behavior. C'mon lady, get a freakin' clue.

It only got worse when I went to the dressing room. Miss Mother Of The Year actually had four small children with her-- two boys, probably ages 7 and 5, and two girls, around 3 and under 1 year of age. Why would you even try to shop with four kids? I mean, I give people props who can successfully shop with that many kids in tow, but this lady was not succeeding, seeing as how her kids were running amuck in the store. So there I was, waiting to get my dressing room number, and I witnessed her tell her oldest boy to watch his baby sister while she went to try clothes on. Um, what?!?! This kid was maybe seven years-old, like I said, so why on Earth would she leave the younger three children with him of all people?-- Especially when he was far more interested in racing cars down the clothing aisles with his brother? My jaw literally hit the floor, but I held back my urge to say something to her. She was a bigger woman and probably could've kicked my ass.

Anyway, so I thought that maybe, for a few moments, I could escape the insanity of her children's behavior, long enough to indulge myself with new fashions, when I hear her toddler daughter stroll in and ask, "Mommy, so-n-so (whatever the oldest son's name was) left (baby's name)-- what should I do?" Miss Should Be Incarcerated For Child Neglect replied in a huff, "Ugh! I'll be right out, just stay with the baby!" Excuse me? What did you just tell your three year-old daughter to do? Baby-sit your infant in a crowded department store until you can get your clothes back on? Are you fucking serious? Had I been in her position (and let me emphasize that it would never ever happen), I would've flown out of that dressing room half-naked if I knew that my children were unattended. So naturally I expected to hear her whip out of the dressing room in a flash, so I could go on about my dressing room experience in silent bliss, but no. She continued to try on clothes for another ten minutes until (are you ready for this?), the dressing room attendant wheeled her baby, shopping cart and all, into the dressing room area, and said, "Ma'am? Your other daughter left, so I thought I would just bring the baby in to you." I damn near choked. Wonderful, I thought. Now three of her young children are running around the store unsupervised, either getting into trouble, or being abducted, while she is no doubt, by the looks of her, making horrible fashion decisions.

So, what does the idiot do next? She continues to try on clothes, with her baby with her (thank goodness), and finally goes back out into the store to seek out her other offspring. I so badly wanted to shout out over the top of the dressing room door, "You better hope they're all still out there and some random lunatic hasn't run off with them!" Actually, what I really wanted to say was, "Ever heard of an Amber Alert?" Seriously, what could she have possibly been thinking? I don't even let my shopping cart full of contained children out of arm's reach at the grocery store.

At least the store manager finally approached her and told her that she needed to keep her children with her at all times. It was a good thing, or I may very well be at the hospital for having the crap beaten out of me.

So, the moral of the story is: If you ever feel like you are a bad parent... If you are ever having one of those days when you feel as though you have quite possibly scarred your children for life... If you ever feel guilty because you were just too tired and decided to skip your kids' bath-time... Remember that you could've left all of your kids in the hands of a dressing room attendant and actually thought it was a perfectly fine idea!

Ah, To Be Nineteen Again...

As my thirtieth (choke) birthday fast approaches, (or as I like to call it-- "Twenty-Nine: Part Two), I have been having trouble swallowing the idea of growing older. I know, I know-- it isn't as if thirty is really all that old, because it's not, but it's been this horrible, dreaded birthday in my mind since I was just a youngster. Why?- you ask? Well, the thing is that I can remember my own mother turning thirty, and the way I see it, if I am actually embarking on an age that I can remember my mom being, then I am now officially an adult.

Of course, being an adult sucks-- we all know that.

I've never really viewed myself as anything other than young, although I'm really not terribly sure why. Let's face it, being a kid is always a lot more fun than being an adult, and I guess I just never thought I'd reach the point where I actually would have adult responsibilities. I can recall watching my mom go through the checkbook, paying bills, calling the insurance company, etc, and thinking to myself, "Ew, I never want to do that-- EVER." Well yeah, only adults do that, and clearly, being an adult sucked. There was stress and obligations, and it was something I feared I suppose.

So, why did I go off and get married and pop out a handful of kids if I was frightened of responsibility? Well, maybe that's because I knew I could handle it, and at some point, we all have to grow up to some extent. Since then, I've tried to find that happy balance between "responsible adult" and "free as a bird". I haven't always succeeded, but I've put out a good effort, because I really believe it is possible to be both, as long as you manage yourself properly. Perhaps one day I'll figure out that balance, because so far, I've failed miserably.

So as I inch closer to Doomsday, I think my mind is playing tricks on me, making me feel older than I am. Most days I feel about seventy-nine, not twenty-nine. Is my hip going out? Am I starting to lose my hearing? Needless to say it made me quite happy this weekend when someone pegged me for a twenty year-old! Thank you-- thank you so much for knocking nine years off my life! Wahoo! Tonight, I was even given an extra year of my long-lost youth back when I was told that in fact I gave off more of a nineteen year-old vibe. Oh please, stop... you're killing me! Yes, I'd like to thank the Academy, and my parents, who gave me really good genes...

I can't even remember life at nineteen. Seriously, I'm sitting here in the tub, really trying to remember, and I can't. I was in college, yes. Probably dating one of many science geeks from one of my classes (yikes). Working at the library (make the geek revelations stop, please). Wow, so at nineteen I was apparently a real nerd-- that's what I've surmised so far. Hmmm, so not much has changed-- lovely. Good times. I was at least probably in better shape than I am now-- boxing and mountain biking, like ALL the time. Oh yeah, and sleeping a lot more--definitely. Most likely drinking coffee like it was water, and consuming more crappy food than should be allowed by law.

Wow, life at nineteen sounds rather dull. I think I'll stick with life at twenty-nine. I only hope that I'm still saying this at thirty-nine, but I really can't possibly begin to even think about thirty-nine right now. Gotta pace myself.

Scabs

Okay, if someone would have given me a job interview for parenting, and they would've asked me, "In what ways do you think you're not qualified for this position?" I would've said, "I can't handle scab-picking or removal of any kind." I really just can't. It makes me sick when people pick at their scabs, and while I realize that it is all part of being a little boy, it doesn't make it any easier for this mommy to handle.

This morning, the boys were climbing on the fence, as usual, only this time it was the chain link fence that divides the yard. They were essentially just goofing off, but they couldn't hold themselves up on the fence for very long, since they didn't have a real great foot-hold. Well, last week, Josh skinned the crap out of his elbow at Grammi and Papi's house, and it had one honkin' scab on it, which was by no means ready to come off yet. So, when Josh slid off the fence, he scraped that gigantic scab right off, and immediately started screaming. It was a good thing I hadn't eaten breakfast yet, or I would've launched it all over the gate-- no lie. Of course, it was bleeding all over, and he was screaming, so I took him to get cleaned-up, and convinced him that a Band-Aid was probably a good idea at this point. Luckily, we had some huge flexible ones in Eric's old bicycle crash kit. Who would've thought that would come in handy with our own kids?

It's not even the blood that gets me-- it's the picking or ripping off. It's just nasty. Yes, I have performed surgery on people's pets, done autopsies, given stitches, shots, and loads of other stuff, but none of that ever bothered me. It's those pesky scabs that bother me. No thank you. So now I know the boys have reached the age when this will be a regular occurence, which is frightening. I guess I should start getting used to it!

The Irony Of Mother's Day

Here it is, Mother's Day, and what am I doing (besides blogging)? I am doing laundry, cleaning up the house, and wrangling the kids. I was going to mow the grass, but it just seemed wrong to slave in the yard on Mother's Day, so I said 'screw it'.

I think it's funny how on days like Mother's Day, moms everywhere are being "celebrated", but they're still having to deal with the all the crap that they don't like to deal with as moms. No mom wants to do laundry on Mother's Day-- c'mon! While I was at the grocery store yesterday, the cashier told me that so many moms were there, buying food for their Mother's Day dinners. That's just sad! I mean, nobody in their right mind enjoys going to Walmart on a Saturday, but families everywhere were sending out the poor moms to buy the goods for their own Mother's Day celebration. Sick, I tell you, sick.

Of course, this is sort of a bummer Mother's Day for me this year (as some of you know), but I'm still making the most of it. The kids got me a new bicycle helmet, which they proceeded to wear around the house this morning. I really needed one, considering I have had my old one since 1997, so that was cool (and the new one is really pretty). Unfortunately, Josh sort of ruined the surprise last night, by pointing to the wrapped gift on my desk, and telling me that they got me a helmet. Oh well-- the laugh I got from the spoiled surprise was worth it!

So, once the kids are up from their nap (no time soon, I hope), we are going over to my parents' house for the usual barbecue. I swear, no family grills as much as my family does. Any and all family get-togethers must involve the grill, or so it seems. Anyway, that'll be nice to go over there and be good and distracted until I take the kids home to bed.

On another "mommy" note, the boys are nearly potty-trained! If they can make it through tonight without any accidents, I am going to make it official, I think. They've been doing so well at night, having only a couple of accidents since Tuesday night. I will say, however, that it is a little bittersweet not having to diaper them anymore. I know, I know, you're thinking, "What the hell is the matter with you?" but the whole "no diapers" thing just makes it sink in even more that they are no longer babies. It's so unfair! Nevertheless, I am really proud of how quickly they potty-trained (once they finally caught on, anyway), and they seem pretty happy with themselves, too. I guess they have to grow up sometime, right?

Yikes, my foot is falling asleep big time, so I'd better get this computer out of my lap and go do something else-- like get ready to go to my mom's, especially since I can now hear the boys fighting. Gee, that nap was short-lived.

Re-Growth

Okay, so I've decided to grow my hair out. There, I said it-- so it must make it true. Oh boy.

Anyone that knows me knows that I have just about as many hairstyles as Madonna. It's kind of strange, when I think about it-- why couldn't I ever find one style/color that I was happy with for more than a few months? Maybe it's a sickness. I guess I should consider adding it to my list of things that I need to discuss with my therapist-- ha-ha. Anyway, I've been wanting a change for awhile now, even though I loved the faux-hawk. I think I got more compliments on that style than any other, which I find completely odd, but whatever. So, I will be a bit sad to see it go, but truth be told, I've never chosen a hairstyle for the compliments. If that was the case, I would've kept my hair long and curly, and endured random strangers feeling the need to touch it all the time. I get the heebie-jeebies just thinking about that.

Regardless of what my therapist would even have to say on the subject, I think I know where my sick hair-obsession comes from. As a kid, I was a walking Chia Pet, and that is no exaggeration. This was before the days of Styling Products On Steroids-- which was what I needed to "tame the beast", especially after I went through puberty. I never could have my hair look the way I wanted it to look. I couldn't loosen the curl, ditch the frizz, or find a style to compliment my face-- it was just long, heavy, thick, and freakishly curly, and I was stuck with it. So, as I got older, made my own money, and styling products got better, I started to discover all the fun options I had in terms of my hair. Fun color, better textures, easier cuts, you name it. I guess I just got addicted to the idea of "endless possibilities", and just went wild, trying on color after cut, after color, etc. The rest is sort of history.

I don't want people to think that I'm necessarily so stuck on my hair that I think it's fabulous, because really, that's not the case. If I was convinced that it was fabulous, I wouldn't always be changing it and I'd finally just leave it be for awhile. Instead, I feel like I'm sort of making up for lost time, since I didn't get to do this kind of stuff when I was younger. Am I picky about my hair? Absolutely. Is there something conceited and wrong with that? I don't think so. Why shouldn't you always want to look your best? I remember reading a story about Halle Berry, a long, long time ago, and she talked about how she got off a red-eye flight one time, and when she got off the plane, there were paparazzi everywhere, and there she was, dog-tired, lazy hair, and no make-up. She said that since then, she realized that it's always beneficial to put an effort into your appearance, because you never know who you might run into or what you might be doing. I completely agree with that-- not because I'm full of myself, but because you could be at the grocery store and run into someone you admire career-wise, and you know what? Had you not been wearing old pajama pants, a t-shirt, a ball-cap, and no make-up, that person might have thought you were "together" enough to offer you a job. I know it may seem far-fetched, but seriously, you just never know, and how you present yourself to the rest of the world is important.

Okay, I didn't mean to go off on that sort of weird tangent there, but that's what blogs are for. So, you might be wondering (or not), "Just how long are you going to grow it?" Well, let me start off by saying, "Don't kid yourselves-- it's not going anywhere past my chin." Let's face it; I'm a short-hair girl, plain and simple. I can't handle all the muss and fuss of long hair, plus, it typically makes me look twelve. So, I thought it would be fun to document my hair-growth-- if for no other reason than to provide you all with hilarious "transition" photos. As we all know, nobody looks good while they are growing their hair out, especially when they have uncooperative hair like mine, so I plan to look like a total freak for the next several months. I have added a picture of where I stand right now, at the beginning of May, and I'll add a photo every month, I think. I figure it will take me until about the end of the summer to reach my desired "hair goal" (see Meg Ryan photos).

Now, I make no promises regarding hair color during this time of transition. I finally decided to lighten it up a bit again, after going back to my natural espresso-brown-ness. Summer is fast approaching, and that darker shade just wasn't going to fly, so now I'm a golden brown with a hint of auburn? That's the best I can do to describe it. It looks nice, though-- very rich and warm, but not red. I loved being red, but the maintenance-level is just more than I can stand, when I'm also having to deal with straightening it all the time, and it fades so fast, too. No thanks. Maybe I'll consider some red highlights, instead. Who knows.

Anyway, I realize that was just a riveting blog, but I thought it would at least provide a few laughs!