Join Me in Snarkville

Oh, I have 1,000 things that stress me out right now.  No fewer than 900 things make me want to cry, curl up in a ball, or spend hours hiding under my bed.  But I set all of those things aside to share with you that my son is a Pick-Up Artist.

Today, it is 1 Billion degrees in Snarkville and as we all know Frankenhouse doesn’t have AC.  We were melting.  So moments after school let out today, I was rushing Duke off from one errand to another in an effort to find AC.  (To tell you how bad it was, we canceled a playdate because our house was an oven.)  So, we drove from store to store to store.  We wandered the aisles everywhere in order to stay slightly cooler.

Finally, I decided to get a library card.  It has been on my to do list for a long time, in fact I can’t remember when I had my last library card.  That admission is sad, but today, probably more because the library is a air-cooled space with free wi-fi, I got my library card.  Duke walked in and instantly spotted the children’s area.  Remember he’s never been to the library here before.  (I know I am a horrible mother.)

I got my card and then we checked out the kids library.  It was pretty cool.  They have a huge wall of books just for him — and so I told him to pick out a few books to read and we will bring them home.  (My amazing boy picked out some pretty cool books.)  Then he spotted that there were computers for the kids.

So, I logged him on (you have to have a library card) and got him his 60 minutes on the computer, while I surfed the collection on the computer next to him — which allowed me to request a few books of my own.  (I have the power of the card, now.)  We are chatting and playing and enjoying the lack of sweat.

All of a sudden this little girl walks right up to Duke and the following occurs:

Girl: Hi. (Sheepish smile.)

Duke: Hi, I’m playing on this computer.

Girl: My name is Isabella.

Duke:

Me: That’s a pretty name.  Duke, introduce yourself.

Duke: I’m Duke.  I’m wearing a green shirt.

Girl: I’m wearing a yellow shirt with pink flowers and purple butterflies.

Duke: (Smiling BIG) I really like butterflies.

The girl wanders off and draws at a table close by.  She comes back and hands David a slip of paper.  (It is all scribble.)

Duke to me: What is that? (Hands me the paper.)

Me: I think she wrote you a note.

Girl: HHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIII, Duke.

Duke: A note?  (turns to girl): I’m 5.

Girl: I’m 3, I just had a birthday.

I chat with the girl a bit and her sitter comes over to take her and her little sister home.  As they walk out of the library, Isabella says over her shoulder to Duke, “Call me.”

For Duke’s part, he’s not letting go of that note at all.  I think he’s smitten — but I fear he’s fallen for a girl who doesn’t know her phone number yet.

and there’s a reason — um, because there’s nothing special about it.

Well, this might explain why Duke could not understand why I wasn’t taking photos of him today.  As we walked out of the house this morning he says, “You forgot the camera, you gotta take pictures of me on my way to school.”  “I do? Why?”  “Because you gotta.”

I’m sorry, Duke, it appears you have missed the point we must get all excited about the first day of something and totally forget there are other days to follow.  All of those days are going to pale in comparison to the hype of the first day.  Seriously, when have you ever known there to be as much hype for the closing of the Olympics as the opening?  How many people plan weddings forgetting that after that single day there is a marriage to follow (watch a few episodes of Bridezillas, if you think I’m kidding)?  What joy is there in Opening Day for Baseball season — but who remembers game 12?

So, my dear son has just realized one of life’s little cruelities — we build up the first day, there is a party and by day 2, the fun is over and the work has begun.  There were no nametags today.  No parents even walking past the door to the classroom (thank goodness, because frankly there were FAR too many parents there yesterday — it gave me the hives). There were no special anythings — today, today the work of learning begins.

Therefore, in honor of Day 2, I bring you the short list of things I feel superior about (right this minute and freely admit that I may not be on the top of my game in oh and hour — just saying):

1. We have walked to school every day since Monday.  Yes, walked.  As in on my feet.  Yes, without being able to breathe oxygen through my nose.  I feel much superior to the mom I saw DRIVE her kid one of the two blocks to school and walk the rest of the way (I’m guessing she’s pretending that she walked the whole way).
2. I have gotten dressed in REAL clothing both of the drop off days this week.  I thought surely it would be at least a week before I saw mommies in PJ pants, nope, day two.
3. I found milk boxes.  They are just like juice boxes, but they contain milk — for those kids who prefer milk to juice.  I’m proud of this because I had to check FOUR separate spots in the store before finding them.  FWIW, they are in the juice box section.  (When we found them last night, Duke was so happy he jumped up and down and wanted to give me a high five for my accomplishment.)
4. I returned my homework to the teacher on time.  Yes, in the packet we got yesterday, I had homework from the teacher — I did it and returned it this morning.  One assignment down — a ton more to go.
5. My kindergarten teacher didn’t send home a note declaring that homework was OPTIONAL.  Ahem, have I mentioned that I really like my teacher.  (And yes, I heard the other pack of parents discussing this in the hall at pick-up.)
6. My kid didn’t suck up with flowers in a plastic cup for the teacher — though his mommy is trying to figure out if she’d like a hand knit.  I was also considering some of the 4 billion apples and peaches I have in the backyard.  Who says I can’t suck up?

Now, on a complete sidenote to everything, I just have to say that I wanted to smack a few dads yesterday who mocked (yes, I said mocked) the little boy who was crying when his mommy left him in school.  I was mortified for his mom and for him.  Frankly, those parents should be ashamed and have known better — but then again, I’m pretty sure they locked kids in lockers and gave out wedgies when they were in school.  Perhaps I should not be too harsh on them, since it is apparent that their lives peaked in high school football and they’ve been reliving that glory with a few too many beers since.  Ahem — that was harsh wasn’t it.

Nope, none.  (Ok, there are hundreds.)  But the reality is that today, I had a kid who literally vibrated with excitement and practically ran to school.  He is there with the most noble of goals — to get smart.

First, I got an inkling that the list might be up early, because the office staff goes home at 4pm and who in their right minds would come back at 5pm just to put it up?  So, Duke and I walked to school at 4:15pm to play on the playground and check it out.  Sure enough the class lists were up and joy of joys, Duke was *IN* a class!!

No, that is not where there were answers.  It just so happened that as we walked back, I noticed that his room was open and we popped our heads in.  Low and behold, his teacher was there and she’s WONDERFUL!!!  I already have a crush on her — which I know will make all my family happy.  But she has a few great first impressions with me:

1. She spoke to Duke like he was a person and didn’t expect me to answer though him.
2. She wasn’t plastic or overly perky.
3. She seemed thrilled that we popped by and not put out by it all (even when Duke asked if he could just stay there until tomorrow morning).
4. She declared that my son was REALLY CUTE.  (She’s so my new BFF.)
5. Her husband was putting together class furniture and he was nice (as were her two girls).
6. She said the magic words to me: “I like this to be a partnership with parents.  We work together and the kids do well.”  (I may have hugged her then — and now she’s afraid of me — kidding.)

Duke also likes her, which is good, I guess — but isn’t my love for her more important?

No seriously, gentle readers, I’m so much more at ease with tomorrow because of those few minutes.  I was quick to volunteer for room mommy status and I got the quick how to, so I could properly volunteer.  The great thing is that his teacher is also our neighbor — no seriously, she’s literally a few doors down the street.  This makes me uncommonly giddy (since she’s also my new BFF).  (Did you know that some of my family still socialize with *MY* kindergarten teacher?  Oh, yes, it has been a few years since I was in kindergarten and I think I’m forbidden to mention in social settings that she was my teacher oh, low, those many years ago.)

In other news, we have celebrated the end of summer vacation ALL.DAY.LONG.  We’ve reset the allowable times to be on the computer to not be in the mornings.  We’ve gone out and had pancakes for lunch (Prince is going to kill me that I introduced Duke to IHOP) and we went out for a special dinner.  (Yes, it was so much more a celebration of the end of summer and not at all because I had no desire to cook nor go to the grocery store, why do you ask?)

I’m ready now.  The backpack is loaded with a snack.  Duke is bathed and in bed getting good sleep for school.  I have a charged camera for the first day of school shot.  I’m going to take more cold meds and get my sleep — I have a PTA to join tomorrow!!!

In two short days I will take Duke on a walk that ends with me leaving him in the hands of teachers who will spend 3 hours and 20 minutes a day teaching my son to read, write, and keep his finger out of his nose.  I will then turn around and walk into the quad where the PTA is hosting a coffee — I’m fairly sure there will be Kleenex for parents there too. (more…)

Dear Prince:

There are so many things I hate about you.  Case in point is that at this point you are already rolling your eyes and saying something snide about how this is no way to beging a love note, or something about having seen that Julia Stiles movie more times than should be allowed by a woman my age.  Seriously, stop it — I have a point here somewhere, if only I could find it.

Oh, yes, I was mentioning that I hate you.  I think last year about this time I was threatening your life, so I think we ought to consider my hate for you a step in the right direction.  Well, as long as you think hate is a good emotion for two people who live under the same roof.  Nevermind.  Back to that point I alluded to earlier.

I hate that you leave your socks in a pile, no where near the laundry bin.  I also hate that this charming trait seems to be passing on to your son, who while he can track down his hamper for 90% of his clothes has the habit of leaving his socks exactly where he takes them off.

I hate that you are so completely male that you can not seem to be moved by even the sappiest of movies.  I am thrown how you can roll your eyes at the improbableness of the average romantic comedy.  I also hate how you are not capable of suspending your disbelief when it comes to any movie or TV show set in a town that you have lived or regards a subject you know actual facts about.  I scream that you suck the fun out of movie and there are few truer words.  (If anyone out there needs a fine example, at the end of the movie The Guardian, I have no idea what happened as Ashton Kutcher walks down the hall to the classroom because Prince had to examine the uniform — which is ALL wrong, doesn’t exist, and is *SO* over the top bad, I was able to point out the whole lack of pockets all on my own.)

I hate how you completely ignore what I tell you that I need most at that very moment, like a beer/dessert/a clean kitchen, and give me what I really need most, a hug or better permission to go close the door in our room for a bit.  While I’m on this one, I hate that you seem to know when I’m completely at the end of my rope and can not handle one more thing and you sweep in and fix it.  I hate how you relish in my sputering as I had wound myself up into a reaction that doesn’t fit with your action — more likely than not, that I was expecting you to be a jerk and you were sweet.

I hate how completely pesimestic you are.  I said it this past weekend, but you have this horrible knack of having 1,000 good experiences can be colored by one bad one.  The dog hasn’t thrown up in the car for years, and yet you worry about it every time we go out with him.  Yet, I find it funny how you will stress over Duke’s and my comfort on twisty roads — hardly getting mad when I keep screaming that you are surely going to run into that rock over there.  I also hate how mad it makes you that I use that passenger side brake pedal every time I think we come up behind a car too fast.  (And yes, I realize that I’m in the only driver in our house that has had an accident.)

Finally, I hate that even after nine years with you, I don’t have you figured out yet.  I hate that I’m pretty sure you have me figured out, thus I rarely throw you a curve ball, but you do it to me all the time.  I’m certain that just as I think I have you figured out, you change just to keep me guessing.  And this is something you delight in.

There are thousands of ways we are different, opposites in so many things.  We both hate things about each other.  Hate things that we’ve long accepted as the way things are and moved along.  While I’d love it if you weren’t so cynical, literal, and maybe had fewer socks; I know that you wish I wasn’t so uptight, learn to keep my mouth shut, and perhaps washed your shirts weekly.

So, there you have it.  I hate things about you.  So many things frustrate and upset me.  But then you do something amazing and make me realize I don’t hate you, I love you.  You smile that odd little grin like you know some secret that I don’t.  You worry about me being happy and when I’m upset you never try to just pat me on the head and placate me, because you know I’d hate that it wasn’t geniune.  And you love me.

I put aside all the little things that I hate about you.  I put that aside and I chose to love you.  I chose to love the unlovable parts of you, the parts of you that are rough around the edges and not perfect.  I chose to spend my life with someone who can hurt me with a word, but would bite his own tongue off if he knew that would protect me from pain.  I love that you are s snarky as me and that you laugh.  But more than anything, I love that you love me too — even with my rough edges and the things you hate about me.

Here’s to 9 more years of loving and hating,

Your Wife.

…perhaps you might want to avoid my campsite.

Oh sure, I have the super duper cool, tree room tent, with a screened gazebo.  I have chairs, marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers.  I also seem to be completely amusing my husband with my dislike of dirt.

In my defense, I wasn’t ready for the fact that since I live in the world of no rain that the camp ground would be so dusty — I mean clouds of dust springing up when you walk.  That dust that sucks the little moisture out of your skin and makes you want to constantly wash your hands.  Yes, that level of dust.

But back to my story.  Apparently when faced with a single night of camping (read: hardest work on the planet), I turn into a raving lunatic.  Seriously, worse than normal.  Here’s proof:

1. I packed the car all by myself.  It was a masterful puzzle of pieces that got everything in the car, tight and perfect.  I did this while the boys were at class.
2. I was annoyed that Prince complimented my car packing skills.  You see he’s always the one who packs the car.  I decided I could do it and I did it and frankly I was good at it.  I have no idea why his compliment annoyed me — though I suspect it was a deep fear that I’d have to keep loading the car.
3. Driving to the campground, we drove by some beautiful valleys (think twisty roads, sharp drop offs, intense road grades, and rock faces really close to the road.  To add fun, this already narrow two lane road would occasionally NARROW more.)  I added to the fun by alternatively sucking in air and oohing over the glorious beauty and declaring that Prince isn’t allowed to look — sorry no, you must focus on not hitting that rock that I’m sure you will hit — WILL.YOU.PLEASE.SLOW.DOWN.  (Also, he got the thrill of worrying about us getting car sick — all of us, Duke, Me and the Dog.)
4. We get to the campsite.  We set-up camp.  I’m all helpful by putting up the tent.  Prince unpacks my perfectly packed car.
5. Prince leads the charge to find firewood.  I sweat and complain about dirt.  Prince is amused and also a wee bit scared.
6. Duke is having a blast making dust clouds and chasing the dog.
7. We get back to camp and I begin to make dinner, discovering in the process that though I packed dog food — it never made it into the tote of food.  (Also, realizing that we didn’t leave more food down for the cats –all animals are fine, the cats were a wee bit more anger that we left them though.)
8. Duke declares he doesn’t like what I made.  No worries, since I completely overpacked food, we made THREE total meals for dinner — think of it like a sampler platter.
9. We roast marshmallows.   I make exactly ONE s’more.  I eat it.  I offered it to Duke who declared he didn’t want a graham cracker — but he’d accept the s’more if I’d make it without the graham cracker (um, dude, I’m not giving you marshmallows and chocolate and sending you to bed — how insane do you think I am.  Also, stop getting dirty.)
10. Duke went to bed.
11. I have no idea what happened to Duke between going to bed and sleeping — but when we checked on him about 10pm, he was sound asleep, not in his sleeping bag, and though he only had a sleeping bag, air mattress, and his clothes in his tent — his tent was a MESS.
12. Prince and I read for a bit by lantern light.
13. I listened to my iPod and went to sleep.  Prince complained about our talkative neighbors.  I couldn’t get comfortable — a feeling that was echo’d by the dog who couldn’t decide where/with whom/if he was going to sleep.
14. Dawn thought about cracking and Duke awoke.
15. Duke and I snuggled for a bit in the cool morning and then we got up to make breakfast.
16. I made the single best pot of coffee ever — on my campstove.
17. We broke camp.
18. Tired and cranky, I’m sure I was a delight as I pulled down the tent, packed it away, and such.
19. Prince tried to recreate the perfection of my packing.  Somehow it not only wasn’t happening, even though we threw out a trash bag of stuff while there, we had somehow expanded enough to be a tighter fit.  I even had trouble packing it up and thus it became a group effort.
20. We got on the road, chose a different WAY twisty/dangerous route home.  Duke slept.
21. I declared that if we were going to do this again, we had to do it better next time.

Then I stopped.  Then I retold the story of the trip again and remembered the single best thing.  On Sunday Morning I woke up and asked Duke, “So, what’s the best thing about being five thus far?”  “Roasting Mashmallows, that’s my favorite.”  He’s also been asking to go camping again since arriving home yesterday.  Maybe he didn’t notice that I wasn’t much fun.

Home again, bathed and tired.  I feel better.  I have declared that I will not do this one night camping trip again.  That’s too much work not to get at least two days out of it.  And I think two days might be my limit for dirt.  I fear my idea of roughing it is more like a 3 star hotel, than a tent in the woods.

This is the time of year that we pause our normal snark to reflect on one of my crowning achievements in my life — raising a small human another year without harm, injury, jail, or duct taping him to a wall.  For this single achievement we should all celebrate; oh wait, we are celebrating.

Proving once again that my son is his own person, he is barely interested in his birthday.  I’m rather sure that it is not possible that this is my child — but I waved a cupcake under his nose and he came to and got excited once again.

The problem is simple, bumper cars.  Last week we took him to an amusment park and he was tall enough to ride so very many rides (many totally on his own).  [Sidenote:  I totally teared up when he rode the kiddy rollercoaster all by himself -- the same coaster he's ridden for the past three years, but this year could ride alone.  Oh, yes, I'm going to be a mess for the first day of school.]  But the one ride he wanted to ride more than anything was the bumper cars.  The problem is that for reasons I can’t understand, even with an adult, you had to be 48″ tall to ride.  Seriously?  Well, Duke heard me say “he needs to grow about 6 more inches” and turned that in his mind that he needs to be six years old.  Oh, yes, now we merely see five as the beginning of the count down to six.

Now, this brings us full circle to how I know he’s my kid.  While he may not be birthday crazed, he is always looking forward at the next thing he could do.  I spent my life not being happy I was 12 because 13 was just around the corner; or enjoying being 15 because 16 was coming up…you get the point.  Now I’m watching my son miss being 5, because he thinks he gets the bumper cars at 6.

So, this morning, when he bounced into bed this morning and I sleepily kissed him and said “Happy Birthday, Buddy.” Prince looked over and said, “You know what today is?” Duke grunted. “Today you are a whole handful.  Look, for the next year you can hold up you hand whenever someone asks how old you are.”

Duke grins and smiles.  He checks out his hand and declares, “I am five and five is a lot.”

Yes, Buddy, five is a lot and you are indeed a handful.  My handful and I’m thrilled.  This shall be a good year.

Ok, so, I make a ton of hot breakfasts in my house.  It seems Duke does not do cold breakfast, like cereal.  Now, I’ll grant that I’m not a huge fan of Cheerios (unless covered in yummy, yummy sugar or honey or both), but my son never, no never, was a Cheerios eater.  In fact, when other parents began to chat about getting their kids to make their own breakfasts of cereal and milk, I was wondering if I’d still be making pancakes daily when I send him to college.

So, Summer Quest 2008 began (more…)

I wanted to write this morning about how I’d finished this big project I’d been working on with just enough yarn.  I’ve been working on my thoughts about how stressful it was at the very end knowing that it would be really close and then sighing with relief as I had a simple foot or so of yarn left.

I’ve also lived in denial for the past few days.  Serious denial.

So, around the time of Mother’s Day, I was stressed beyond belief and couldn’t pull it together to get something ahead of time for the Queen Mum.  I wagged a book of patterns across the country and handed it to her and said, you may have anything in this book you want.  We went page by page, we looked over all the patterns.  She liked this one or that one, but not this piece of it.  Then she saw it.  I knew she’d love it — but the yarn requirements were daunting.

Seriously, this is done in Sport/Sock Weight yarn (for the non-knitter, think about a fine gauge sweater) and it calls for 2205 yards of yarn.  The largest shawl I’d done to date wasn’t over 1000 yards.  I was afraid.

Now, the Queen Mum also wanted something soft and not as lacey as a 100% wool.  She mentioned cotton thinking it would be cooler or lighter than wool (common misconception of the non-knitter, cotton in a heavy fiber and has a nasty habit of just stretching and stretching).  I thought silk (though the cost was more daunting than the yardage.

Then I hit a sale, a really good sale, and happened upon a basket of the right yarn.  An Alpaca/Silk Blend from Jo Sharp.  (Let me stop to announce I’m a sucker for Jo Sharp lately — I’m in love with this yarn.)  I found a Pearl color that I think will be perfect, though it is a blue/gray/silver and ma be a touch too light.  However, the deal was right and I am confident I could dye it once knit, if needed.  I bought all the balls there were — 13 balls of yarn.

I cast on and knit.  I knit like a fiend.  I wanted to get this done and I loved knitting with the yarn.  The shawl grew and grew.  The rows closed in on 600 and 700 stitches.  It was a dream.  I looked into my bag of yarn and saw the balls dwindle and I was undaunted.  I used a special join to make sure I used every inch of the precious yarn, because I knew it would be close.  I was not doing the colorwork nor the beads (again, beads add weight) and figured that had to save yarn too, right?

With 4 balls in my left, I finally did the math.  The total yardage on the shawl in the book was 117 yards more than what I had (less than a ball).  I reasoned that with my joins, lack of color, and lack of beads, I’d surely have saved that much, but accepted it would be close.

I got to the second to the last ball a little before I’d wanted to.  I joined and it seemed that I knit that ball gone quickly.  I joined the last ball and hoped a little that I was right.  I knit and knit the last ball, then it happened.  I saw the lat bit of the ball, you know the stage where the ball only slightly still looks like a ball but there are still two or three rows left.  I made plans to cut the border short, to look up a different bind-off that uses no yarn.  Anything to make the last of this last to the end.

Yesterday I woke up and faced facts, I’m going to need ONE.MORE.BALL.  I’ve called every shop near me, no go.  I searched on the internet and found one shop that has my yarn (though probably no hope of the dye lot) and I put the ball in m cart and knitted on.  I begged the yarn to last, I begged it to make it through to the end so I wouldn’t have to spend full price plus shipping on ONE.MORE.BALL.

As I went to bed, I thought about it and finally accepted my defeat.  I tossed and turned all night thinking of possible edgings that could be in another yarn, but seriously, it was just one ball.  I woke and ordered the ball.

Then I wrote this, I redid my math and realized that had I only done the math on the yarn from the book in yards and not meters, I’d have seen clearly that trying to make 13 balls do 16 balls worth of duty was a fool’s errand.  I do however, firmly believe that I will be able to do this with 14 balls.  My denial is never ending, but seriously, I’m 7 rows from the end — so I think I’m right.