Killing Me [Not So] Softly

What idiot in their right mind invented adolescence? I seriously am beginning to doubt that I ever should be the mother of a teen-ager. Don't they have any cheap boarding schools in this country? Preferrably in Vermont? Or Pennsylvania? Or Wyoming?

At Last

Speaking of old (weren't we just?) My daughter came home from school today with next year's high school coursebook clutched in hand and a lot of opinions about the offerings. (It seems budget cuts are really hurting a lot of extra-curricular programs. Things like football, cheerleading and basketball stay, of course, but track and swimming - you know, the sports people actually can continue to play throughout their lives - are getting cut. As well as some music, theatre and art events. But as long as we can pay for the war...)

Nothing like your six year old daughter going to high school to make you realize that you're not...the age you were when she was six...anymore.

But let's focus on the positive aspects. Like the fact that I'll get a dedicated office when she moves out in four years.

Tonight's drive time music: Eva Cassidy

Walkin' After Midnight

61 glorious degrees.
A really good jogging stroller.
A decent exercise outfit and a cleavage that's pretty cool but not something I'm hanging on to for any length of time.
An incredible need to be outside and moving.
Two and a half miles that used to seem a lot shorter.

Man, am I gonna be hurting tomorrow!

Cat Scratch Fever

My little knight doesn't creep in on cat's paws. My knight thunderously beats his feet against the floor at breakneck speed. Always. Ever.

One of the hardest parts of being separated is having to do far too many things at one time, all of them ending up half-assed. For example: after keeping the baby at my back while I scooped the cat litter - a nightly fascination for him - I then had to run his bath and put away the leftovers at the same time. (Don't worry, I washed my hands.) This requires me to leave the gate between the kitchen doorway and the two stairs to the bathroom open. While I was checking on the bath and pulling laundry out of the dryer, I listened to my son running his usual run up the mini-stairs, turn around, down the stairs, into the kitchen. For a full two minutes or more. And then I heard it. That soft little whisper of a sound that shouldn't be. What was that? Rice? Where would he get rice?

I dropped the laundry and ran to the bathroom door. Okay, I stepped quickly - it is a small bathroom. As I stood my sentinel, I noticed the change in color to part of my floor, but nothing actually registered until I heard the thunder of my little one's footsteps and turned ever so slightly to watch him run down the 'hall' to the cubby under the stairs which houses? Yes. The covered litter box. Where he ducked down to the front opening, grabbed two handfuls of cat litter, ran four or five steps and released them to the heavens so they might fall where they would.

It always seems like you stood there forever, doesn't it? When, in reality, it only took a few seconds. As opposed to the full two minutes of scattering he had achieved before.

At least I know when I bellow for the teen-ager in that particular 'death shall come to all who defy me' voice, she comes a-runnin'. (There's a reason her gym teacher was trying to get her to run cross-country.) I was going to have her grab the vacuum cleaner while I grabbed the Great Catsby, but then I remembered her housekeeping skills are somewhat on par with Koko, the Signing Gorilla. She got the job of carting Puss 'n Boots upstairs to the wipes (all sinks being temporarily out of service, of course) while I began the not as easy as you'd think task of maneuvering Mr. Electrolux into the crunchy between my toes mess. I quickly realized I hadn't been exactly thorough in my litter box cleaning. A fact noticed by the teen-ager as well as she came Ew! Ew! Ew-ing down the stairs with her little brother dangling from outstretched arms and proceeded to use the bathroom sink anyway, to hell with all rules of health and sanitation. It became clear that baby had shown her the evidence of Mommy's lack of attention to detail.

As I finished vacuuming and headed to the bathroom to begin the joys of bathtime, I told my daughter, "If you think this isn't going on the blog, you've got another thing coming."

"Are you gonna write about me," she asked.

"Of course I am," I told her. "I'm going to tell everyone about your heroic deeds."

She smiled and then thought for a moment. "And are you going to write about how I asked if you were going to write about me?"

"Of course I am. In heroic detail."

Then she laughed and thought a moment further. "And then are you gonna write about how I asked if you were going to write about me?"

"Absolutely."

"Oh, good. Now [the baby's] story is all about me."

Those Were The Days, My Friend

Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
And dreamed of all the great things we would do?

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance, forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.