Since moving to our new house, the one where I give directions by telling people “You can’t miss it, it’s the one that looks like all the others”, we have gotten to know our next door neighbors pretty well, probably because I sometimes get confused and pull into their driveway, thinking it was mine, silly me. They have 2 little kids and Delaney sits perfectly right between them in age.
Being the only child that she is, Delaney has latched onto these children like a newborn to the boob. Not a day goes by, not an HOUR goes by, that she doesn’t PLEAD for me to let her play with these kids.
Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the distraction and the play dates that occupy her time. And I’m happy to know that their parents are nice and normal, potential perfect neighbor material. We have had freakishlyinappropriateneighbors before and so this change, it is good. I am also proud of Delaney for making friends. After watching her watch the neighbor kids through the holes in the fence, longing to play with them, for weeks, I am happy it has all worked out swimmingly in her little world. By the way, the Dude next door was all “Hey, we see your daughter’s eye peering through the fence all the time, it’s pretty funny” and Mike goes “Well, sometimes, that’s me.”
And it was really quiet.
And then they laughed.
With all the sarcasm that’s flowing around the battle station here, you might be surprised to know that we do, in fact, care what people think about us, we like to keep up appearances just as much as the Jones’. So, it was important to us that we try to control our daughter and her rabid attempts to suck the faces off of the neighbor kids.
We started off small, baby steps, having the kids over for an hour at a time and then sending Delaney over for an hour at a time over the span of 6-7 days we did this. But things started getting sketchy when Delaney decided she’d had enough of the rationed-out new-BFF-interactions.
The other day, I hear her doing her usual thing, playing, pretending, tormenting the dog in the backyard when all of a sudden, I realize I haven’t heard her. For like 10 minutes I hadn’t heard her. The backyard yielded nothing but cinderella crowns and a stick collection, then I turned the corner to see the gate wide open and knew she had escaped. Sure enough she was over at the neighbors.
I don’t know what was more embarrassing, that I didn’t know my child’s whereabouts for 10 minutes or that my neighbors thought I had sent my 4 year old over, unaccompanied, without a pre-cursor phone call. A tad mortifying, to say the least.
And then?
Like a moth to the flame, she does it again, 2 mornings later. I was at work but apparently, Mike said he awoke to the doorbell and our neighbor accompanying our sleepy eyed, bed-headed child swaddled in a living room throw blanket back to our house. Which, I have to commend her for thinking ahead and shielding herself from the bitter morning dew for her long trek across the front yard, A+ for preparation Delaney, A+.
But ya, the new neighbor first impression bit couldn’t be going any better, if you ask me!
Oh Hey again! Sorry my child so desperately wants to live at your house instead of ours! And clearly you see that our word is LAW around here because that talking to she got the other day for running away and not telling us? It CLEARLY instilled the fear of God into her.
So, here we were feeling like we’ve risen to the top of our parenting game, like our neighbors must think we are total schmucks, why else would a child rise in the morning and immediately plan her escape?
But lo and behold. All’s well that ends well. The universe smiled on us, because the younger of the two neighbor kids? Totally pooped her pants at our house today.
YES!
And that, my friends, is how you become pals with your neighbors here in the Wild West. You gotta settle the score, even things out. Our neighbors, you see, want to be friends with us, wanted us to know everything was okay, so they sent over their kid to shat her pants in our playroom. That’s how it works. It’s a natural progression. So now when one of THEIR kids does something embarrassing again, we’ve already talked about it, to keep the friendship going, we’re going to send Delaney over with a picture of Mike’s nipples.
Something about my child is…. different. Different, I don’t know how to describe, but not in a creepy or scary way. Unless my suspicions of her being Mother Theresa Reincarnated are indeed accurate and in that case, that’s a little creepy, I’m not gonna lie. Being the Mother of Mother Theresa Reincarnated puts a lot of pressure on me as well, pressure I don’t necessarily feel like dealing with, you know? It’s all a bit much to handle, the creepiness and pressure of having a Saint for a child.
Sigh.
Let me demonstrate, a verbally illustrated picture perhaps.
The other day I took Delaney shopping downtown. In Boise, it’s tricky doing anything outdoors this time of year because often it LOOKS chirpy and cheery and sunny out but then when you step outside, it’s like stepping out into the arctic tundra and then your stuck wearing flip flops and a tank top in sub-zero degrees. People look at you like you’re an idiot when this happens and you often have to yell back at them that WHAT?! you HAPPENED TO FORGET WE LIVED IN IDAHO FOR A MINUTE OKAY?! GET OFF ME! This is especially embarrassing when not only are YOU dressed like you’re in denial but you also dress your CHILD like you’re in denial, like you made your whole family try to WILL it into spring that morning. And this being National Child Abuse Prevention Month, something Boise is taking very seriously right now, you just don’t want to find yourself in this predicament.
So being the thoughtful and ever-evolving Mother that I am, I asked Delaney before we left to put on a jacket, that I thought it might be a little cold out. Being the mature 4 year old that she is, she politely declined saying she had been in the backyard already and it wasn’t cold and she had also thought ahead and put on a long sleeved shirt. So, I was all “Really? Okay, if you say so, four year old Daughter, you would know what’s best for yourself” and we left the house without her jacket. Legendary Mom skills already playing into effect. Because the earlier described rendition of public humiliation? EVEN BETTER when the child is going without the comfort of warmth but YOU THE PARENT are nice and snug in your parka. Classic. Way to be, Mom.
Of course, as you would guess, once we get ALL the way downtown and out of the parking garage, I realize that it’s actually cold outside and my kid doesn’t have a jacket.
I mention this to myself, out loud, saying “Shoot, it’s pretty cold out, gosh dang it.” Then I continue talking mostly to myself but now also towards Delaney and say “I’m sorry Honey, I’ll buy you a little jacket at one of the stores, okay?” And we head out to brave it on our supposed-to-be-fun-and-cheap-but-now-not-so-fun-and-not-so-cheap shopping trip.
Ten minutes goes by, we are briskly walking down the sidewalks trying to find the closest children’s clothing store when Delaney looks up at me while we are stopped at a crosswalk and says “Mom, I’m so sorry, I should have brought my jacket, I should have listened to you, it’s MY fault Mom and I’m really sorry.” Then bats her eyes a few times.
(pause)
(pause)
(pausing while you realize that FOUR YEAR OLDS DON’T TALK LIKE THIS.)
What the? Whose child is this? She doesn’t get this kind of reflectiveness from me, that’s for sure. She IS Mother Theresa! This kind of stuff happens ALL THE TIME! All the time she think, ponder and reflect on situations, EMPATHIZE and convey feelings like this. It’s just beyond me. I’ll find myself, all the time, saying “Well Honey, everything’s okay, you’re a kid you know.”
She’s just so….
It’s like she carries this burden. This burden of making sure everything is right in the world.
Again, just the other day, I was making German Pancakes for breakfast and they takes 30 minutes to bake. During the span of the 30 minutes, Delaney must have asked me 5 times if she could have some fruit snacks, a fruit roll up, a bagel, some candy etc… to which I kept saying that No, the food would be done soon, I was making special pancakes and they would be delicious. Well, not 3 minutes before the timer goes off, Delaney runs in to tell me that she ate a WHOLE SLICE OF PIZZA ALL GONE MOM! I was bugged because 1. the scrumptious breakfast I was making was SO close to being done and 2. I never cook fancy breakfasts and I envisioned a round of applause once the timer went off, NOT a full-tummied kid who wasn’t interested. So I said “Oh DeeDee! I was making special pancakes, remember?”
I’m not kidding, for the next 2 hours, she must have told me 37 different times that “Next time, Mom, I won’t eat Pizza when you’re making special pancakes, Mom, I’m sorry about that Mom, I’ll wait next time for the special pancakes to be done and I won’t eat Pizza, okay Mom?” I finally had to say “Delaney. I am NOT mad. Nobody is upset here. Everything is okay. I don’t want you worrying about the pancakes anymore okay?”
I mean, what child cares this much? She’s an over-carer. It makes me look like a freak-out Mom, like she’s one of those kids that has to soothe her parents because her parents can’t soothe themselves. But it’s not just us. She does it with everyone. She’s a people soother.
She tells her cousin “It’s okay Cousin, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, it was an accident, I love you.” She tells her Grammy “Grammy, I love your face and the way you sing.” She tells her Teachers “You look cute today, good job teaching.” She tells me out of nowhere ALL THE TIME “Mom, I think you’re the best Mom ever.”
Huh? Shouldn’t you be peeing on toys or something?
This clip captures a tiny bit her ways, her careful, quirky, patient ways. Is it just me, or would she not make excellent room mates with an 89 year old forensic pathologist named Beatrice?
Last night, I bugged Mike long enough that he finally gave in and took me out of the house so that we could go get ice cream as a family.
See, how it works is, when Mike is on the computer, that’s when I find I really crave and need some family time, some interaction and quality memory making moments. So, obviously, he needs to get off the computer. Family time is a special time. What deadbeat Dad chooses computer time over family time at the ice cream shop?
So since there is absolutely no arguing or follow-up to that sort of moral obligation, we attend to the family time. See how that works? It’s wonderful. And then when the memories have been made and you’re en route back to the battle station, you then mentally calculate your tactics of ensuring the computer is in your control for the remainder of the night. After the manslave puts the children to bed, of course.
What would you all do without me, I don’t know. “Fully Operational Battle Station, the things you DIDN’T learn in Marriage Prep 101 at BYU Idaho” that’s what our slogan should be. (Our, as in, all one of us here running the website).
So, back to where I was, where was I? Oh right, I WIN with my powerful and clever ways and we leave the house to go get ice cream.
We pull into the parking lot and are walking in to the joint, getting into the groove of our family adventure, when we see these two high school boys, the cool ones with the complicated hair, eyeing us from inside. They’re really obviously staring at us. When we open up the door and step inside, we aren’t sure what their deal is, when they go:
DUDE! It’s BURKE’S family!
And then they proceeded to be seen with us in public, like in our CLOSE proximity, exchanging words, eye contact, in and around our uncool circumference, by us and with us, an old married couple with a child. It was unclear exactly what was happening. But we played it cool. Because, dude, the complicated hair kids were talking to us and moments like that, you appreciate them when they happen, you don’t rush these things.
Burke is my kid brother, by the way. He looks like this:
Burkey? Don’t be angry, come on, show us your angry eyes Burke. Your tortured eyes.
I’m kidding. We treat him like a Gothy Emo kid when he acts all moody and teenagery (we love ourselves, it never gets old) but in actuality, he looks like this:
And so he’s all cute and smelly and awkward like that. Which, apparently, girls really dig cute, smelly and awkward.
Burke with some of his punk friends with their outfits and their hair that they all meticulously scrutinize to look as though they JUST DON’T CARE WHAT ANYBODY THINKS!!
The cool kids, they talk to us and leave. We are feeling really good about ourselves, like we are maybe cool again ourselves, just by briefly being in the good graces of the cool kids like that. And we order our banana split and our better batter cookie dough extra thick milkshake, still on our high of being talked to by the un-talkable-ones. We even look around the shop like, that’s right people, if you need a teenager translator, we are currently taking cases now at this time. WE HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE COMPLICATEDS.
But it gets better. Because once we get our 2,874 calories of goodness all ready and over to the cashier, we put our bowls on the counter and take out our magical make-it-all-go-away card to pay and are told by the punky cute 16 year old girl “Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to pay. I like Burke.” And then walks away.
I LIKE BURKE, she says, and gives us our ice cream for free.
The hookups and coolness have now reached an all-time high. Apparently all we have to do is mention my brothers name and our social status is elevated to that of rockstars! FREE ICE CREAM. That’s what I’m sayin. Mike thought he’d test the theory by dropping Burke’s name in a phone call to our Mortgage Company. I have a SNEAKY feeling our next payment will be waived.
The funny thing is that we’re still old farts. We sat down to eat our totally free ice cream and felt bad. We now relate more with the ice cream shop Owner who inadvertently hired 16 year olds who hand out free ice cream to whoever they feel like deserves it.
Sorry Ice Cream Shop Owner. But your ice cream was amazing.
What happened last week was, I wrote this really whiny disgusting adoption post where I said things like “WHY are all my FRIENDS getting THEIR referrals and NOT ME!” “When is it MY TURN?!” “ALL THESE BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN ARE FINDING THEIR FOREVER HOMES!” “WHAAAAAAA”…. like that.
And then the Internet Gods reached out from the computer and slapped me across the face with my Scottish Man-Bum-in-a-Kilt Mousepad and then proceeded to delete my blog post, never to be seen again.
Well, those of you on Googlereader and Bloglines can see it again, it’s still on there. But EVERYONE ELSE has been spared.
I believe this to be a good thing since I’m feeling much better now, I’m sorry about that. I basically drunk dialed the internet. I blogged in a state of emotional distress. It was not one of my finer moments and I apologize to those of you, the Designated Drivers, who talked me through it and cleaned up my vomit, my verbal vomit, through emails.
I was considering switching agencies in order to potentially get kids faster. And just typing that made me want to reach up and slap my own face again because the sound of my own voice was resembling one of those raging psychotic woman-on-a-mission Adoptive Moms who only see babies in their eyes. I always told myself I would never become like that and then I was. Just like that. On a mission to get kids no matter what, no matter the agency, no matter the timing, no matter the process, no matter my gut feelings that keep bubbling up like acid reflux that say “JUST SHUT IT AND LET IT HAPPEN AS IT HAPPENS! YOU’RE SUCH AN OBSESSIVE CONTROL FREAK JAMIE!” which I thought was borderline rude. But my acid reflux (a non-religious person’s way of saying “spirit”) made a good point, I needed to chill out.
My pal Katy, who attends OCFA (Obsessive Control Freaks Anonymous) with me, reminded me that there is no way to control adoption and to stop trying. So, I was all, Okay! I guess I’ll just stop this very minute then! And I picked up my basket full of posies and skipped along my way!
So, I’m working on that.
And that’s what happened with the blog post that never lived it’s life as a blog post. In actuality, my hosting company switched servers and the switch caused some problems here and there. Which made me look like MY problems were even bigger problems since ya’ll thought I deleted that post myself and that’s not UNLIKE me to do something like that, but this time, this one time, the craziness was only PARTLY due to me.
I finally had my appointment with the blasted lights people. The evil techie trolls that they are.
I don’t know why I put things like this off for so long. I have no explanation. Sometimes, I am a champion of efficiency, a can decimate a to-do list like a frickin SPARTAN when I want to. And then other times, I don’t know, it’s like I turn into a child again. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and my Mom would ask me things like “Did you get gas in your car yet?” or “Did you wash your outfit for tomorrow yet?” or “Did you brush your teeth yet?” and I’d sit there in my bathrobe and sigh. No Mom, I’m waiting to do all those things, okay? I want to be mad about them later, and then blame it on you, alright?
And the really funny thing is that it’s still happening. My Mom would come over here and be all “So, your lights are still crazy” and I’d be all “Ya” and then she’d say something like “Don’t you have the number for the people who can fix it?” Yes. But you still haven’t fixed it? No Mom, I’m waiting to fix the lights, okay? It gives me something to direct my anger towards. If I FIX the lights, MOM, I might be forced to evaluate what I’m REALLY mad about. And that’s annoying, to talk about feelings. I don’t do feelings, Mom.
Have I mentioned I’m the daughter of a Psychologist?
So aaaaaanyway. After enough time had elapsed that I felt my marriage and family life had suffered a substantial and significant amount of time due to the motion controlled rave lights I refused to fix, I called and made the appointment with the techie trolls. The ghastly incompetent tech bots that they are.
The Receptionist that made the appointment for me asked “And what are we going to be doing for you at this appointment?” and by the end of my incessant rambling response in which I probably offered WAY too much information, she wrote three words down on the work order. Make. It. Stop. And probably made a little side note for the Employee to take along the company tranquilizer.
A couple days go by and every time the lights go on or off by themselves, it’s mixed response of either elation of soon-to-come revenge upon the lights and at the same time, sadness. Sadness, knowing that they would be dead soon at my expense. I didn’t necessarily want them dead, I just maybe wanted them to go live in a different house. That’s all.
Nevertheless, the Techie Troll came. The senseless and incompetent Hitman that he was. I knew it would be a long, drawn out appointment when the guy asked me to sit down so he could go over all the endless possibilities that his company offers. Even after reading his note that all I wanted were normal lights, he still felt I needed to know all about what I was missing out on. And apparently, this lights company, they’re serious about lights. They are a home automation company. Smart lights that aren’t really smart, if you will.
This guy from the home automation company, I had to offer him a glass of water half way through. He was appearing parched after 30 minutes, and counting, of detailing the endless possibilities. It wasn’t just lights, people, it was programs to benefit and protect your life. Lights that dim during a candlelight dinner? Simply press 367! Lights that stay on for 2 minutes? 10 minutes? Excellent! Simply enter 429! Want a beep when the garage door is open? Want a beep when the power goes out? Want the front porch lights to turn themselves on and off with the longitudes and latitudes of the earth’s sunsets and sunrise? Want to call in to your house and open the garage? Or turn off your lights? Want your house to call YOU if the lights are on? Want your house to call you on an anniversary? Want your house to dump buckets of formaldehyde on the Missionaries at your door? No problem!
That was mean. My husband was a Missionary once. He would have had to pedal his little bicycle home in formaldehyde while listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on his walkman.
After repeatedly telling this Dude, no, all I wanted were perfectly normal, average, run of the mill lights and that I didn’t want a robot running my house, he nearly accepted defeat. But after seeing his pitiful face all gloomy and grim like that, I caved and told him “Fine, WHATEVER, give me auto porch lights, alright?” He happily programmed our fancy porch lights to come on at sunset and turn off a couple hours later and seemed content knowing that his time and glorified techie powers were not COMPLETELY wasted on me and my useless nincompoop self.
And as he was leaving, he asked one more time. Am I SURE I don’t want to add multitudes of thousands of dollars to the value of my home by programming the robot to run our lives? And I finally had to be all, Listen Man, it’s just not for me, okay? Nothing personal. (I was thinking to myself, Seriously, this guy takes his job WAY too seriously) and I kicked him out of my house. TWO HOURS after he arrived.
What is WITH people, right?
Then as he was walking out to his techie transmitter van, I glanced at the card he left me on the counter. It said “Techie Troll Man” and below that it said “Owner - Techie Troll Company”.
Aw, man! He was the OWNER!
How sad is that? I felt terrible. I felt like running after him, giving him a big hug and saying “Keep your chin up, Troll. There are lots of people out there who like this crap, okay? You win some, you lose some. I’m sorry, I could have programmed the lights to come on when the Fridge opened or something. That was rude.”
And then I would have said, “Okay but SERIOUSLY, you have got to send some of your techie spawn next time! YOU don’t get come! YOU are the OWNER!”
How dare they guilt me like this? I’m not supposed to do feelings.
You’ll be THRILLED to know that I have been to the all knowing and wise American Idol Guru again.
I know. Be still. I come to pass on his wisdom.
BAAAAAASICALLY, we all can’t wrap our big internet arms around the cute Irish girl with the rockin pipes because the Guru says Scary Blue Eyes gives off a yellowish-green aura which indicates that she feels as though she deserves to win the show. And nobody likes a deservy-show-winner.
Elaborate?
Let’s.
It’s not as fun to watch someone accept praise by going “I WAS JUST ABOUT TO SAY THE SAME THING!!!” than watching, say, David Archuletta or Jason Castro who nearly stutter themselves off the stage with all their goofy, awkward likeable-ness. Watching one makes you cheer and watching the other makes you feel like you don’t need to cheer, the contestant already loves themself some self enough, they don’t need your cheers. Cheers are way more fun to give to someone who will blink excessively and make squampous facial expressions in front of 130 million people.
I still like her. And when she hits those big notes, it really does give me chills. The Ladies just aren’t doing it for me this season.
A little lady who DOES do it for me, is this one:
I give you: The after-cut.
It’s not nearly as scary in these pictures as it was in real life.
But see how she puts her fist up by her mouth like that when she is embarrassed or shy? It’s quite possibly the cutest thing ever to happen on earth. Cuter than that baby Panda. Cuter, even, than Justin Timberlake in the Mickey Mouse Club.
She’s doing it again here. She was, quite visibly, disturbed about the whole thing. Especially since she was, like, totally stoked about her chop until her psycho, lame MOM came in to ruin everything.
So, there you are. Once again, the two most important things in my life wrapped into one post. My kid and tv. Another valuable discussion here at the Battle Station. Class adjourned. You’re welcome.
edited to add: So now I feel bad because Irish was in the bottom three. And so now I like her again. Not that I didn’t like her before. But I kind of didn’t. But now I do, more so than the little I did. Damn you American Idol. You musn’t play with my emotions this way!
Things are looking up, people. It’s a new day, a new era in the Battle Station household. It’s sunny out, we went to the River today on a walk, our dog (sloth) actually walked for 1/3 of the time, our kid rode her new bike, we are back on the adoption list and we have a corrective appointment scheduled with the home automation people who CURSED our house with motion controlled INDOOR lights. Yes, things are looking up.
And yes we can. Yes we can.
I love saying the Barack slogan just intermittently throughout the day. It’s my thing right now.
Delaney’s thing right now is to say FOR REAL after everything she says. Example: I just farted, FOR REAL Mom! So between the two of us and our fancy new idioms, it’s certain to be a good time around the battle station. And that’s why Mike has decided he really really wants to organize the garage tonight on his one night off.
As he was walking off to garage he yelled: Okay! I’ll really miss you girls while I’m organizing my tools in the silence of the garage! To which Delaney yelled: You’re not even the boss Dad, FOR REAL! And just to drive it home, I yelled out a final YES WE CAN, YES WE CAN right before he shut the door. It was magical. I recommend being a part of the majority within your household. Multiply and replenish your home with girls. You will not regret the decision and your counterparts will have nothing to do but be outnumbered all the time.
Mike is sooooooooo close to finishing this blasted last semester. It’s so unbelievable that we have decided to not talk about it. It’s the unspeakable thing. We must not speak of it, for fear of disrupting the Murse (male nurse) God. The Murse God is testy, unpredictable and apparently friends with President Bush because the whole crazy long deployment thing halfway through the nursing program? Murse God COULD have exercised some Murse God Powers there and instead chose to use the opportunity to vacay in the Caribbean somewhere.
Bummer about David H going home, eh? (That was a segue into an American Idol discussion) I think the whole male stripper thing didn’t bode too well for the chap. Which, I found it curious that he didn’t mention that tidbit in his little bio video before his song, did you not as well? I was an airport screener, I was a waitress, I was a nurse… I rocked a male thong! Vote for me America! Poor lass.
Good news though! I think I finally figured out why I can’t love on some David Cook! Mike said it perfectly. He passed the tele while running around the house JUST as David Cook was doing his little bio thing, Mike stops and watches, five seconds go by and he says (sarcastically, as David) “No matter what is happening at the moment, I feel it deeper than you”. I dropped my jaw and was all, THAT’S IT! THAT’S why there’s no love emittance from me for David! I couldn’t pinpoint it!
And then he left. Just when I need him most, he appears, answers life’s riddles for me and then leaves me deep in thought at his abounding wisdom. His American Idol wisdom.
If any of you are having this problem, this inability to pinpoint why a contestant bothers you problem, please send all inquiries to Mike at AI Energy Expert dot com. Botherless tv can be right around the corner for YOU too.
