Thursday, March 28, 2013

Playing Hurt

It's been a tough week for the Piper squad, health-wise. On Monday AD took a swan dive off of some playground equipment at school and somehow landed on the side of her face, so she now has a vivid blue goose-egg on her right cheek. Considering she's spindly as hell from her spring break illness/weight loss and has the skin tone of a boiled onion, she now looks like she's been tied up in our shed for 2 years and beaten with a hose.


She's been getting a lot of pleasure out of trying to get me arrested; every time we've been in public this week she's thrown out a "Mom, I'm really sorry! I promise I'll make a better margarita next time!" or "please don't get mad at me again. I don't really HAVE to have any birthday presents". Hilarious, this kid.

The RM is unmarked but has a head cold which has given her a total party voice. It's been jarring as hell waking up to her raspy, deep-voiced bellow "MOMMY PIPER. COME OPEN THE DOOR AND TURN ON THE LIGHTS" every morning - I'm half expecting Lindsay Lohan to be sitting in her crib, chain-smoking and fiddling with her ankle monitor. Not even JHP has escaped this week - he's been in Seattle for work and in the throes of a stomach bug...I'm sure the hotel housekeeping staff thinks he's a real sweetheart.

I'm actually feeling fine physically but have sustained a pretty serious blow to my ego. AD's teachers sent out an email last week asking us to send in a picture of mother and child together for an upcoming project at school. Since I don't have a single recent picture of just AD and me (or another adult at home to help me take one), I've been trying to take one with my phone. And I am sad. I am sad and tired and have terrible roots and fat cheeks and somehow, unfairly, both wrinkles and zits. I kept telling myself that I'm just really unphotogenic and am actually totally way better looking in real life, but JHP poked a hole in that by telling me that perhaps I should instead consider I'm not as cute as I think I am (Ed. Note: he can be kind of an asshole! And is often wrong! And is getting zero buns this weekend!). 

In any case, this is, allegedly, what I look like whilst trying to get away from AD

 
But this is what I know in my heart of hearts I actually look like
 
 
It should be noted that I usually do wear a bike helmet, but I was in a hurry that day; I think I had a jazzercise class. Or had to rush off to buy a girls bike before I injured myself. Do you like my swimsuit? I just packed it because we're leaving for the beach tomorrow; hopefully we can all keep it together and make it back in one piece and without AD having me hauled off to the pokey.
 
Lindsay just woke up from her nap so I'm off to search her person for stolen goods before the 3pm carpool. 

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Fool

I am not generally a big fan of faux holidays. Cinco di Mayo irritates me, and parade watching notwithstanding I actually kind of loathe St. Patrick's Day. It annoys me when people lay to claim a nationality they have no connection to whatsoever just so they can create traffic problems and drink a lot of beer. Just drop the stupid accent and stay home already; something tells me you have plenty of beer there. The worst though, by far, has always been April Fool's Day - that's just an excuse to do mean shit all day. I grew up positively dreading April 1st. About a week out I would constantly remind myself that it was just around the corner and that letting my guard down for one second would mean certain humiliation, or perhaps worse. I'm not sure how I developed such a phobia about AFD since I can't really remember falling prey to anyone or anything in particular until 5th grade. That was the year my mother tried to convince me that it would be AWESOME to pretend that I'd lost my voice, it would just be the funniest thing EVER if I went ALL DAY without saying a SINGLE WORD. I pointed out that since she'd be in on the plan then I could still talk to her, but she very solemnly insisted that I really needed to give it my all for anyone to be convinced, so that wouldn't work, not at all. No talking, period. I considered going for it before I remembered that she and my teacher were historically united in the meritless opinion that I was somehow less entertaining that I thought I was, so I blew her off. Never, though, did I forget the slight; the ridiculous insinuation that I should actually be quiet and cede the spotlight stayed with me like a herpe.

AFD hate changed for me when we had children. I guess it's kind of like when some people talk about how when they held their child in their arms for the first time and their hearts just opened and they knew the true meaning of love bullshit bullshit bullshit; for me, having children made me see just how effective they would be as instruments with which I would unleash chaos. I don't mean I would mess with them on AFD - I screw with them constantly, every day and for no reason - I was going to use them to torture others. Specifically, my mother.

After AD was born, JHP was traveling a good bit for work and I had a nice long maternity leave so I spent a good deal of time in Memphis. I figured out early that the best way to deal with babies is to have someone loving and capable to take care of them, and who's better at that shit than grandparents? Not me, I'll tell you that much. So it came to pass that we were in Memphis on AFD, and it was time for my revenge. I'd had a plan in mind for a while and concluded that I'd need an accomplice, so I enlisted the help of my sister (who shall be referred to from now on as Cslos - pronounced "Seeyauhs" because that's what AD calls her and it makes me happy to type such nonsense). She was only too happy to help. I'd also need the help of our large family Doberman, Rosie. Cslos, Mom and AD and I were all hanging out at the house that afternoon and I took AD to the guest room to stage a diaper change. Cslos watched the baby while I slinked away outside with a clean diaper and a big stick with one bounty in mind: Rosie poo. Rosie had been unusually discreet that day so all I could find was an old, weedy specimen roughly the size of a salad plate. Which I put it in the diaper and snuck back inside. Cslos in the meantime had stripped AD of her old diaper, so we slid the new nasty one underneath her, holding her legs up so as not to actually let the Rosie poo touch her little self. I put on my best new mom panicky voice and said "Moooooooom? Can you come here? Something's wrong with AD?"


                                                            the fall guy. Look at that maniac - she's guilty of something.

Mom wandered on back, confident that she'd have her rookie daughter taken to task in no time...then took one look at what was doing in AD's diaper and promptly went into a fugue state. She looked not unlike Jack Nicholson at the end of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"; there may have been actual drooling. It was simply not possible to process the bovine grassy mess her tiny granddaughter had allegedly produced. She kept frantically blinking and leaning closer and closer in, as if getting a better look at it would somehow change things. Just as Mom's mere inches from the poo, a tiny bug flew out of the diaper into her face; Nurse Cslos Ratched and I both lost it to the point that I think I tinkled a little bit.

Once Mom had recovered and we'd made some stiff drinks - I'm empathetic like that - I called Dad to tell him what we'd done. As I was telling him the story I figured my phone had lost coverage because there was silence on the other end of the line, but after I heard a couple of faint gasps I realized he was laughing so hard that he wasn't making any noise.


                            the perp (note: not actually Rosie. As a technically innocent party her true identity is being shielded)

I think that was the day that my heart opened and I knew the true meaning of love for AFD. It's reason enough to have kids.



Thursday, March 21, 2013

Night Night

Since the RM is now three years old we've begun the painful process of divorcing her from the greatest loves of her toddler life: her crib and pacifiers. And when I say we've begun the painful process, what I mean is that we've thought about how it's going to blow goats to actually do it. Both the crib and the pacifiers (or as she calls them her "night nights") are absolutely vital to the goal of dealing with a nighttime Menace which is that come 7:30, she is neither seen nor heard.

The crib is obviously necessary for the containment aspect; it not only calms her down but it keeps her right where we need her to be. I have a really bad feeling that this kid's going to be a night roamer once she's unfettered; my dad tells horrible stories of waking up in the middle of the night feeling like something was just a bit off, and there I am standing silently by his bed, inches from his face. Damn if that doesn't sound exactly like something she'd do. I have a hard enough time waking up without it being to the terrifying sight of a short sociopath hovering over me; I feel confident the shock would shave a good few years off of my lifespan. The only thing that makes me think that might not happen is that I simply can't imagine her being quiet long enough to be at all stealthy. And that's where the night nights come in.

The night nights are probably the single most important thing in my life when it comes to getting the RM to just shut the fuck up. As a baby she took to the pacifier like a whore to the crack pipe and has been going strong with it ever since. She has gone so far as to name all her night nights and has even established a distinct pecking order for them, like she's the dominant Silverback gorilla of the Mam Silicone pack. The favorite from way back is Cupcake, with Purple, New and Green Monsty crowding the second place podium. Among the also-rans are Cheerio, Extra, Blue Monsty, Clear, Carrot, Babybaby and Red. Horsey used to be a great love but we tied that one to her crib during a particularly irritating throwing phase, and familiarity has, predictably, bred contempt. She barely gives that guy a second look these days.

                                 Hey, let's put a fixed string in bed with a baby! What could possibly go wrong?

All night nights must be Mam brand (we're mixing it up - AD was a Nuk girl, herself) and the naming process throws all anthropological reason out the window because it rarely has anything to do with their attributes. Carrot, for example, is pink with a polka-dotted cat, and Red is actually white so screw you.

We did try a big girl nap dry run this morning and it was a disaster. The "Howard the Duck" of naps; investors are still furious. I told the RM that she could sleep in our big bed with me but she couldn't have any night nights; she was initially quite agreeable but it quickly became apparent that this was like trying to sleep with someone who'd just checked into rehab, or a puppy with fingers. She would stay still for maybe 20 seconds and then we're veering from "I need to SEE your eyeballs Mom I need to SEE them can I TOUCH them" to "waaaaaatch meeeee, I'm putting your phooooone in my boooooottooooommmm." I folded almost immediately; just tossed her in the crib and gave her freaking Cupcake.

I can't even imagine how dreadful it's going to be once we commit to this. JHP and I have talked about possibly using a reward-based approach to ease things along, but considering how that went with potty-training it's not really a viable option. We'd initially given her an M&M every time she pooped in the potty, but she got so competitive and serious about it that she actually - steel yourself - gave herself a prolapsed rectum. Pushed so hard that she turned her little butt inside out, and I am not even kidding. My brain couldn't even process what I was seeing - all I could think was "how did a Bozo the Clown mouth get on my daughter's bottom?" So we're a little gun-shy about that kind of approach. And it's no good going with how we dealt with this issue with AD; when I told that sweet, responsible child that it was time to give up the night nights and crib, she pretty much said yes ma'am, of course, and may I please get back to brokering Mideast peace before finishing all the laundry?

It's very tempting just to let this go and just see how it plays out, but let's be honest, we need to nip any sort of oral fixation in the bud immediately. I want my child to grow up and be someone; specifically, someone who doesn't make a living with latex and a ball gag. But if the next few weeks turn out to be too painful I may be willing to risk it.

Monday, March 18, 2013

Top O' The Llama To Ya

We have children and therefore do lots of things that I didn't exactly ever plan on. For example, I never foresaw that I would need to explain to someone why you wear shoes on your feet instead of stuffing them in your panties, or come up with elaborate stories of why animals really love to sleep right next to the highway. I have played more crappy board games, touched more of the unfun bodily fluids and sat through more talent-free music recitals than a Shanghai river has dead pigs, all in the name of love for AD and the RM. This weekend I added attending the Atlanta St. Patrick's Day parade to that list of sacrifices.

I am not a big parade person in the first place, but since AD has always loved them we've hit a few here and there over the years. We've never taken the RM to one simply because we try not to take her anywhere, that child is just barely fit for public consumption, but Saturday we decided it might not be a terrible idea. The weather's been gorgeous and we had a great spot for viewing - complete with parking, food, bathrooms and alcohol - plus Duke got spanked on Friday night so suddenly our weekend schedule is wide open. We could do worse, right?

                           (On our way downtown. Everyone knows a Pinkalicious crown is the only acceptable parade headgear.)

I don't know what to tell you. This parade did not seem to be very well acquainted with St. Patrick's Day at all. It's like maybe they met in the hallway a couple of times or had a Spanish class together one semester, but they certainly wouldn't consider themselves good friends. This parade didn't even come close to touching SPD's boobs, much less have any true intimate knowledge of it. To be fair it did start off appropriately with flocks of Irish dancers fluttering down Peachtree, followed by a group of irritated looking people wrangling giant shamrock balloons. Then came about eight million fire trucks and police cars, including what we all agreed must have been the entire Sandy Springs fleet; if you had mayhem on your mind on Saturday, then Sandy Springs would have been the place to unleash it because you'd have gotten away handily. I don't exactly understand how any of that's SPD-y, but "Backdraft" had definite Irish undertones as well as a hot lesser Baldwin, so that's good enough for me. After our civil servants came the bagpipers - Scottish, technically, but I get it.

Things started getting a little off topic when the Shriners and their itty bitty cars showed up (when AD saw them she yelled "Mom, those are the people who BURN CHILDREN!" which made me very sad because she really shouldn't believe everything I tell her) and went south quickly from there.


Unless I'm badly misinformed, the llama has traditionally had nothing at all to do with Ireland. Neither have the fake Blues Brothers, Wonder Woman, that bald Six Flags pederast or the random unmarked Jeep that had two canoes strapped to it that came after them. After Baby New Year and a group of Storm Troopers marched by, JHP said "they need to give up the St. Patrick's Day pretense and just call this the 'Let's Day Drink and Watch Random Shit' parade. They'd probably get bigger crowds." What in the hell? Has the modern parade lost all sense of discipline? I can accept the incongruity of an Uncle Sam at the Dragon Con parade because that's random by design, but stay away from my SPD. You already have your own day, sir, stop being such an attention hog. To add insult to injury we didn't even get any candy, not one damn piece. The total haul from the day was a mini Frisbee AD immediately bit a hole in, green beads that we had to confiscate because the RM kept putting them in her butt, a drunken JHP and this thing


It's not even Newcastle (which would have been nicely on point) it's from some industrial materials supplier that I shall, given the chance, boycott the shit out of for their encroachment. Next time I build an office tower y'all are in some dookey, son.

The good news is that the girls actually had a fantastic time. AD was all about hanging out with her friends and taking advantage of the hot chocolate machine and the RM loved that she could be disruptive. She's also somehow decided that the Oldcastle mini-cone keeps monsters out of her room so that's a plus...I'll have to tell AD it will protect her from those firebug Shriners, too.

I hope everyone else had such an entertaining weekend. May the St. force be with you.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

The Things She Carried

There are many ways to describe my mother. Because she knows how to read I will not elaborate upon some of them here, but I will say that one quality everyone loves about her is her generosity. She is giving in all the best ways - with her time, love, attention, and everything else it takes to healthily sustain a family - and also, I must be honest, in one really annoying way. She is very giving when it comes to crap. If "generous" was a pejorative term it would perfectly describe how Joanna reacts to dealing with things she does not want. The woman is a world-class philanthropist of detritus; a regular Chuck Feeney of Nutcracker butter knives and high-waisted jeans. You will take them, you will take them gratefully, and you will take them now. When I was younger and poor as shit I would sometimes find things that were maaaaaaybe marginally worth keeping within the boxes of stuff she'd give me - sort of a precursor to "Storage Wars", if every episode was held in her bedroom - but after I was no longer making $18,000 a year (got a big bump to $21k...who wants an orange whip?) I realized I probably could live without that lint roller that's 3/4 used and covered in fur. After she tried to gift my old roommate John Stamos and me with a rusted cookie sheet and a dead electric blanket (among many, many other things) I put my foot down about the big boxes. In more recent years she's had to force stuff upon me in small doses. For a while she was mailing things - one particular FedEx delivery that consisted of a melted spatula, a terracotta "Acapulco!" ashtray and a very hairy used hairbrush stands out for my sister and me mostly because Joanna's never been to Acapulco, and she swears she didn't know whose hairbrush it was (yikes on both counts) - but I suppose that was cost-ineffective because it ended shortly thereafter. She now comes to Atlanta and seeds my home with barely noticeable amounts of used shit, like Tim Robbins casually dusting the prison yard in "Shawshank". Her latest visit yielded, among other things, a miniature spun glass sailboat that I found inside the guest room dresser and this guy, who was hiding in my laundry room:


(It's really no wonder the RM is terrified of Santa Claus, is it? Talk about sneaky hands. And you shouldn't trust anyone who overbleaches their teeth to such a degree.)

It's a bit more of a challenge for Joanna to foist things upon me when the roles are reversed and I'm in her home - I long ago learned to check my luggage and car for any interlopers before leaving her house - but that doesn't stop her from doing her damnedest. This most recent trip to Memphis she fed me wine and somehow hustled me into accepting an empty cardboard cupcake box, a 1989 University Club Membership Directory, three pieces to a puzzle that I do not, nor ever have, own and a set of place card holders shaped like tiny chairs that she tried to tell me were for the RM (since she throws so many dinner parties, and all). By the time she came at me with a stack of 1997 Sotheby's auction catalogues I'd regained my senses and shut her shit down, but the damage had been done.

Over the years JHP has retaliated by bringing his own crap to my parents' house. He has two strategies; he will either outright give it to her, as if he's done her a great kindness by remembering to bring this particular Blanton's bourbon box all the way to Memphis just for her enrichment, or he'll also employ the Shawshank method and just leave it around the house for her to find later. The last time I was there I counted three sticks of old deodorant, two neckties and a huge stack of old newspapers hidden in various areas of the house, courtesy of my husband. My sister and I both take a different approach; we pick the worst of her offerings and give them back to my parents for Christmas. If it's awful enough she will gracefully concede and likely gift it right back to us at the next holiday. Items that have breathed this rarefied air over the years have included a particularly unfunny porcelain clown, a broken ship in a bottle and an oil portrait of Jesus that would have been most unpleasing in His (heavily crossed) eyes indeed.

I think she'll be getting a set of these for Christmas this year. After all, she does throw a lot of dinner parties.






Sunday, March 10, 2013

Spring Break

Spring break was last week. Since it's been kind of a crazy year we decided to go low-key and drive to Memphis to see my family.  Both my parents and the RM have birthdays that fall during that week so we thought it would also be fun to have a big birthday party, plus we wanted to celebrate the fact that my mother is cancer-free. Sounds potentially festive, yes? It turns out that our plan was inherently flawed in that it included bringing the children.

The trip was snakebit 2 hours in. Just as we're passing through the most fearsome part of Alabama, AD starts talking about how she thinks she's going to barf. Really, seriously Mom, like now, I am not even kidding. So we pull up to the first gas station we can find and I hustle the girls inside while JHP soaks in the atmosphere. Whoever decorated the place has an obvious zeal for both the Confederacy and Big Johnson apparel; there was something to appeal to the racist vulgarian around every corner. The bathroom was a filthy one-holer, and since the RM has recently declared herself the Quality Control Officer for all public toilets in the tri-state area she immediately hops up on there, leaving AD's barf options limited to a very suspect trash can. I'm holding AD's hair back with one hand, willing the chlamydia to stay in the garbage and not jump up on her face, and trying to keep the RM from getting sucked into the potty with the other hand. The RM is tiny and wiggly and somehow activates the automatic flush so it's on an endless loop which is bad for two reasons: one, her personal dogma requires that she vigorously protest loud noises, and two, she's mad because she can't see the poop she's so competently produced. She's wailing and yelling "bye bye poopies!" each time the toilet flushes, AD's moaning and gagging, and I am trying to remember why exactly I didn't have my tubes tied. Business finally complete, we head out to get AD a Sprite and there's JHP, hiding between the Krispy Kremes and the hillbilly humor souvenirs, eyeballing a terrifying group of blood-soaked hunters (I hope. I need to believe they were hunters.) while mouthing "I AM NOT COMFORTABLE." We beat it on out of there, and upon our exit the portal to hell closed and that gas station disappeared forever in a cloud of sulfur. Roughly 74 potty puke breaks later we roll into town.

Readers Digest version of the rest of our break:


Fortunately we managed to keep the illness confined to the four of us; AD's since recovered, but I still have stuff coming out of my head that looks like Halloween. The upside is that we provided endless vindication for Mom, who we had steadily mocked over Christmas for being so tired and boring because of course that's what you do to someone who's getting chemo. Lazy ass woman.

Next year I'm going skiing by myself.