The Old Man turns 38 today. Sometimes it feels like he's one of my children. Rarely, but sometimes. Last night he was mad that it takes the kids so long to fall asleep, and he was mad that they come out of their bedrooms too much after we put them to bed (water, gotta go potty, etc.) We talked about it and I finally got too tired to even think so I just went to bed. The Old Man is right, though. We spend an hour and a half putting the kids to bed and we have no time left to watch TV or to unwind. I felt like telling him that we are the adults and we don't get free time anymore and we need to suck it up, but that wouldn't have been helpful to the conversation. Plus, I didn't want to kill his crazy dream world of rainbows and unicorns and relaxing free time at night.
Next week I am working six days. Unfortunately this is semi-common for The Old Man and I, and makes life quite exhausting. My constant check is to make sure I have enough mental and physical energy set aside for my family. And enough energy set aside to recharge myself.
Right now, it's 6:55 a.m., and my little girl is playing dominoes loudly and I'm trying to write and talk to a three year old all at once.
Constant interruptions are a subtle form of torture.
The Old Man and I are going to a comedy club tonight. He's off today, and will disappear for a while to the gym and/or the knife maker show. Because he makes knives now. Talented guy with hobbies. Good for him.
Showing posts with label The Old Man. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Old Man. Show all posts
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Family Portrait
I used to wake up at five a.m. and write my guts out. This morning I woke up at five a.m. and itched to write, so here I am. The cursor is doing that blinking thing and there's an awful lot of white space to fill.
Crap, I'll just jump right in knowing it's not going to be perfect, and I don't have time to make it perfect, because my job and my family take all my time. That and sleeping and reading Game of Thrones and Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking.
The Kid is five years old now, going on six. He is not laid back. He is high strung. Change is hard for him. He has reddish-brown hair and freckles and bruises all over his legs because he randomly falls down. It's like watching the out takes at the end of the movie, the blooper roll, where the actor is standing there one minute and falls on his back the next, and the crew laughs. The Old Man and I are laughing all the time. The Kid asks insightful questions like, "Who is the boss in this house?" and "When do I get root beer with dinner? Is there a system, or are you just saying no tonight for no reason?"
I gotta say too that I totally deserve how happy he makes me. I really do. He and I go to the movies together and watch The Avengers and Cars 2. I love the movies because all the truths are universal and black and white and there's heroes and villians and no regular people who just screw up because they're human. There's no giving anyone the benefit of the doubt in movies - you might as well just shoot them with a laser and get it over with.
I used to call her The Baby, but she is now two years old. I'll call her Chica I suppose until a better term pops up. Remember from the story two years ago how I looked in her little baby one day old eyes and saw that she totally forgave me for being a messy human who desperately needed someone to give her the benefit of the doubt. Chica is incredible. She is assertive. She is wickedly funny. She is laid back. When I go to work and she is sitting on The Old Man's lap, watching Little Einsteins, she lazily waves goodbye to me with one hand, kind of a ghetto sideways wave and says "Bye Mom," never taking her eyes off Leo. I think, in fact, that she has a crush on Leo, the little red-headed ringleader, from Little Einsteins. She's kind of obsessed. She's also got the reddish-brown hair, but no freckles yet on her olive skin. She has something against shoes and socks. Her favorite outfit is a black t-shirt and a hot pink taffeta skirt fringed in bright yellow. I think she rocks.
The Old Man is still my better half, and I have to say that I absolutely deserve him too. He is patient and gives messy humans the benefit of the doubt as a default of his personality. He's not a morning person but he jumps out of bed to sit with Chica and let her play with his fingernails as she drinks juice from her sippy cup and watches cartoons. He comes home from work Sunday afternoons and sprawls on the living room floor to take a nap and lets The Kid and Chica sit on his back like a sofa. Every once in a while Chica swats at his head to make sure he's really not sleeping. I've given up suggesting he take a nap upstairs because I realized he likes the torture. The Kid has two loose teeth, so The Old Man spent yesterday morning at the bank getting shiny new one dollar coins so we can play tooth fairy the correct way. I was just going to give The Kid some nickels from the change jar. See? My better half.
There's a little pocket of magic where I live, and I'm probably the lynchpin of it all maybe, or maybe I'm just lucky. When I come home from work the first thing I do is take off my underwear because it's constricting, and then change into shorts and a t-shirt, and I get to play dodgeball and have water fights.
All I will say about work is that it's annoying right now and takes up way too much of my time, but one thing about having this particular family is that they force me to remember what is real, and what is just fluff.
Crap, I'll just jump right in knowing it's not going to be perfect, and I don't have time to make it perfect, because my job and my family take all my time. That and sleeping and reading Game of Thrones and Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking.
The Kid is five years old now, going on six. He is not laid back. He is high strung. Change is hard for him. He has reddish-brown hair and freckles and bruises all over his legs because he randomly falls down. It's like watching the out takes at the end of the movie, the blooper roll, where the actor is standing there one minute and falls on his back the next, and the crew laughs. The Old Man and I are laughing all the time. The Kid asks insightful questions like, "Who is the boss in this house?" and "When do I get root beer with dinner? Is there a system, or are you just saying no tonight for no reason?"
I gotta say too that I totally deserve how happy he makes me. I really do. He and I go to the movies together and watch The Avengers and Cars 2. I love the movies because all the truths are universal and black and white and there's heroes and villians and no regular people who just screw up because they're human. There's no giving anyone the benefit of the doubt in movies - you might as well just shoot them with a laser and get it over with.
I used to call her The Baby, but she is now two years old. I'll call her Chica I suppose until a better term pops up. Remember from the story two years ago how I looked in her little baby one day old eyes and saw that she totally forgave me for being a messy human who desperately needed someone to give her the benefit of the doubt. Chica is incredible. She is assertive. She is wickedly funny. She is laid back. When I go to work and she is sitting on The Old Man's lap, watching Little Einsteins, she lazily waves goodbye to me with one hand, kind of a ghetto sideways wave and says "Bye Mom," never taking her eyes off Leo. I think, in fact, that she has a crush on Leo, the little red-headed ringleader, from Little Einsteins. She's kind of obsessed. She's also got the reddish-brown hair, but no freckles yet on her olive skin. She has something against shoes and socks. Her favorite outfit is a black t-shirt and a hot pink taffeta skirt fringed in bright yellow. I think she rocks.
The Old Man is still my better half, and I have to say that I absolutely deserve him too. He is patient and gives messy humans the benefit of the doubt as a default of his personality. He's not a morning person but he jumps out of bed to sit with Chica and let her play with his fingernails as she drinks juice from her sippy cup and watches cartoons. He comes home from work Sunday afternoons and sprawls on the living room floor to take a nap and lets The Kid and Chica sit on his back like a sofa. Every once in a while Chica swats at his head to make sure he's really not sleeping. I've given up suggesting he take a nap upstairs because I realized he likes the torture. The Kid has two loose teeth, so The Old Man spent yesterday morning at the bank getting shiny new one dollar coins so we can play tooth fairy the correct way. I was just going to give The Kid some nickels from the change jar. See? My better half.
There's a little pocket of magic where I live, and I'm probably the lynchpin of it all maybe, or maybe I'm just lucky. When I come home from work the first thing I do is take off my underwear because it's constricting, and then change into shorts and a t-shirt, and I get to play dodgeball and have water fights.
All I will say about work is that it's annoying right now and takes up way too much of my time, but one thing about having this particular family is that they force me to remember what is real, and what is just fluff.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Old Man
We fit together/ without a thought. You step to/ the blurred edge to breathe
This is the way it's always been, before I was born. I had your children and we lived together. I picked fights with you knowing your only reaction would be muted amusement. We're each other's wallpaper.
At times you're so delicious I want to bite you. When we hold hands I ignore you completely, I forget you as I stroke your thumb. Sometimes the most important part of you is your schedule.
You don't complete me. I don't complete you. We are whole without each other. We use each other in a most wonderful way.
This is the way it's always been, before I was born. I had your children and we lived together. I picked fights with you knowing your only reaction would be muted amusement. We're each other's wallpaper.
At times you're so delicious I want to bite you. When we hold hands I ignore you completely, I forget you as I stroke your thumb. Sometimes the most important part of you is your schedule.
You don't complete me. I don't complete you. We are whole without each other. We use each other in a most wonderful way.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Living Together
LIVING TOGETHER
COHABITATION AGREEMENT
Crazy Coppertop, Cohabitant No. 1, and The Old Man, Cohabitant No. 2, hereinafter jointly referred to as the Cohabitants, who now live together, hereby agree as follows:
1. The Cohabitants wish to establish their respective rights and responsibilities regarding each other’s emotional baggage and property and the emotional baggage and property that may be acquired, either separately or together, during the period of cohabitation.
2. The Cohabitants have made a full and complete disclosure to each other of all of their current emotional and mental liabilities.
3. Except as otherwise provided below, the Cohabitants waive the following rights:
a. To keep a list of “what he does” and “what she does” in order to bring it up at a later date.
b. To expect Holidays, birthdays and all such celebrations to be relaxing, joyous affairs.
c. To complain when Thanksgiving is celebrated at The Golden Corral buffet restaurant.
d. To any expectation of freedom from sarcastic comments when the other party is watching “their show.”
e. To waive subjection to any mental or emotional scars acquired during the course of parenthood, whether currently held or hereafter acquired.
f. To any expectation of private solitude on a regular basis or any expectation of pursuing “hobbies” that satisfy either parties’ interests and mental sanity.
g. To any expectation to “party it up” or dance at any sort of celebration unless they are stinking drunk.
4. RELEVANT EXCEPTIONS TO PARAGRAPH 3 ABOVE:
a. An unspoken running list that is emotionally suppressed may be kept by both parties.
b. Unspoken high expectations may be kept emotionally suppressed.
c. Complaints about the quality of food are acceptable; however, complaints about the physical presence of the family in a buffet restaurant on such a day are not.
d. No exceptions.
e. No exceptions.
f. Hobbies may be pursued covertly and with great shame and guilt.
g. No exceptions.
5. Cohabitant No. 1 is responsible for the following: Laundry, bathroom cleaning (except Cohabitant No. 2’s bathroom,) floor cleaning, washing sheets, pulling weeds, watering the garden, categorization and organization of household goods, remembering family birthdays and then reminding Cohabitant No. 2 that she will not in any circumstance take responsibility for gift-buying for said birthdays, scheduling doctor’s appointments for the children, completing school paperwork, suppressing her high expectations for holiday celebrations, planning meals, grocery shopping, and taking care of the emotional health of the entire family.
Cohabitant No. 2 is responsible for the following: mowing the lawn, killing the bugs that eat the lawn, standing at the window worrying about the bugs that are eating the lawn, making dinner, doing the dishes, performing repairs around the house, grilling, listening intently and quietly as Cohabitant No. 1 vents about her job five or six days a week, planning one vacation per year to ensure that both parties find immense satisfaction from being away from the kids, and understanding exactly why Cohabitant No. 1 “loses it and goes crazy” and reacting correctly. (Note: the definition of “correctly” can only be determined by Cohabitant No. 1 and will forever remain a secret.)
6. The Cohabitants have separate income and assets to independently provide for their own respective financial needs and materials that support any “hobbies” that may be attempted.
9. This agreement constitutes the entire agreement of the parties and may be modified only in a writing executed by both Cohabitants.
10. In the event Cohabitant No. 1 is unable to abide by this agreement and "loses it" she will refer to a "love letter" written by Cohabitant No. 2 addressed to her in October of 2008 in which he states fairly clearly why he loves her. If Cohabitant No. 2 fails to produce another love letter in three to five years Cohabitant No. 1 may request a re-drafting of the above agreement.
I HAVE READ THE ABOVE AGREEMENT, I HAVE TAKEN TIME TO CONSIDER ITS IMPLICATIONS IN LIGHT OF THE FACT THAT FOREVER IS A LONG TIME, I FULLY UNDERSTAND ITS CONTENTS, I AGREE TO ITS TERMS, AND I VOLUNTARILY SUBMIT TO ITS EXECUTION.
____________________________________ ______________________________
Cohabitant No. 1 Cohabitant No. 2
COHABITATION AGREEMENT
Crazy Coppertop, Cohabitant No. 1, and The Old Man, Cohabitant No. 2, hereinafter jointly referred to as the Cohabitants, who now live together, hereby agree as follows:
1. The Cohabitants wish to establish their respective rights and responsibilities regarding each other’s emotional baggage and property and the emotional baggage and property that may be acquired, either separately or together, during the period of cohabitation.
2. The Cohabitants have made a full and complete disclosure to each other of all of their current emotional and mental liabilities.
3. Except as otherwise provided below, the Cohabitants waive the following rights:
a. To keep a list of “what he does” and “what she does” in order to bring it up at a later date.
b. To expect Holidays, birthdays and all such celebrations to be relaxing, joyous affairs.
c. To complain when Thanksgiving is celebrated at The Golden Corral buffet restaurant.
d. To any expectation of freedom from sarcastic comments when the other party is watching “their show.”
e. To waive subjection to any mental or emotional scars acquired during the course of parenthood, whether currently held or hereafter acquired.
f. To any expectation of private solitude on a regular basis or any expectation of pursuing “hobbies” that satisfy either parties’ interests and mental sanity.
g. To any expectation to “party it up” or dance at any sort of celebration unless they are stinking drunk.
4. RELEVANT EXCEPTIONS TO PARAGRAPH 3 ABOVE:
a. An unspoken running list that is emotionally suppressed may be kept by both parties.
b. Unspoken high expectations may be kept emotionally suppressed.
c. Complaints about the quality of food are acceptable; however, complaints about the physical presence of the family in a buffet restaurant on such a day are not.
d. No exceptions.
e. No exceptions.
f. Hobbies may be pursued covertly and with great shame and guilt.
g. No exceptions.
5. Cohabitant No. 1 is responsible for the following: Laundry, bathroom cleaning (except Cohabitant No. 2’s bathroom,) floor cleaning, washing sheets, pulling weeds, watering the garden, categorization and organization of household goods, remembering family birthdays and then reminding Cohabitant No. 2 that she will not in any circumstance take responsibility for gift-buying for said birthdays, scheduling doctor’s appointments for the children, completing school paperwork, suppressing her high expectations for holiday celebrations, planning meals, grocery shopping, and taking care of the emotional health of the entire family.
Cohabitant No. 2 is responsible for the following: mowing the lawn, killing the bugs that eat the lawn, standing at the window worrying about the bugs that are eating the lawn, making dinner, doing the dishes, performing repairs around the house, grilling, listening intently and quietly as Cohabitant No. 1 vents about her job five or six days a week, planning one vacation per year to ensure that both parties find immense satisfaction from being away from the kids, and understanding exactly why Cohabitant No. 1 “loses it and goes crazy” and reacting correctly. (Note: the definition of “correctly” can only be determined by Cohabitant No. 1 and will forever remain a secret.)
6. The Cohabitants have separate income and assets to independently provide for their own respective financial needs and materials that support any “hobbies” that may be attempted.
9. This agreement constitutes the entire agreement of the parties and may be modified only in a writing executed by both Cohabitants.
10. In the event Cohabitant No. 1 is unable to abide by this agreement and "loses it" she will refer to a "love letter" written by Cohabitant No. 2 addressed to her in October of 2008 in which he states fairly clearly why he loves her. If Cohabitant No. 2 fails to produce another love letter in three to five years Cohabitant No. 1 may request a re-drafting of the above agreement.
I HAVE READ THE ABOVE AGREEMENT, I HAVE TAKEN TIME TO CONSIDER ITS IMPLICATIONS IN LIGHT OF THE FACT THAT FOREVER IS A LONG TIME, I FULLY UNDERSTAND ITS CONTENTS, I AGREE TO ITS TERMS, AND I VOLUNTARILY SUBMIT TO ITS EXECUTION.
____________________________________ ______________________________
Cohabitant No. 1 Cohabitant No. 2
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Slow It On Down, Baby
Shave your beard and moustache
Move your truck over so I can get by on the driveway, would ya
Don't forget the papers
You'll have to look in the filing cabinet all by yourself
Be there at one or else
You punk-ass husband
Through the rain
I heard singing
And the croak of frogs
And then
silence
And I no longer wanted to put vodka in my Orange Julius
Maybe we can knock boots instead
Move your truck over so I can get by on the driveway, would ya
Don't forget the papers
You'll have to look in the filing cabinet all by yourself
Be there at one or else
You punk-ass husband
Through the rain
I heard singing
And the croak of frogs
And then
silence
And I no longer wanted to put vodka in my Orange Julius
Maybe we can knock boots instead
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Mush
http://crazycoppertop.blogspot.com/2010/02/love-letter-to-old-man.html
This Valentine's Day, I am proving my love to you with
green tea
burnt pancakes (damn it, I can never make breakfast, which is probably why i dream that you are in love with the blonde who makes french toast)
maple sausage
mexican lasagne
rice krispie treats smothered in pink icing
a card to tell you that when you get rid of your cold i'm going to jump your bones.
This Valentine's Day, I am proving my love to you with
green tea
burnt pancakes (damn it, I can never make breakfast, which is probably why i dream that you are in love with the blonde who makes french toast)
maple sausage
mexican lasagne
rice krispie treats smothered in pink icing
a card to tell you that when you get rid of your cold i'm going to jump your bones.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Senryu Times Three: No French Toast for Thee
yes, dreams do matter
you put your hand on her hip
and stroked her blonde hair
her french toast smelled sweet
sick the way you whispered sex
and slurped the syrup
bad news, you Old Man
I beat up bedtime betty
no more french toast dreams
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I Like Pie
Hi out there. I've got a new job that is kicking my butt, so I'm tired a lot and haven't had the small hot spark of writing inspiration lately. It'll come back, I'm sure. I can do forty-three things at once, but adding the forty-fourth makes it all fall apart.
I proposed buying pies at Village Inn for Thanksgiving. The Old Man turned on the puppy dog eyes and looked as hurt as if I had just announced I was having an affair. "The crust," he said. "The crust. And we must have whip cream. Let's not repeat the whip cream disaster of 2006."
OK, so I'm paraphrasing him a bit, although if you want to see The Old Man get overly dramatic, bring up sub-par food.
Would it be wrong to take the whole family to the fabulous Golden Corral buffet for turkey day? How long will The Old Man, cringing from a mortally wounded palate, take to recover?
I proposed buying pies at Village Inn for Thanksgiving. The Old Man turned on the puppy dog eyes and looked as hurt as if I had just announced I was having an affair. "The crust," he said. "The crust. And we must have whip cream. Let's not repeat the whip cream disaster of 2006."
OK, so I'm paraphrasing him a bit, although if you want to see The Old Man get overly dramatic, bring up sub-par food.
Would it be wrong to take the whole family to the fabulous Golden Corral buffet for turkey day? How long will The Old Man, cringing from a mortally wounded palate, take to recover?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Back Porch Sittin'
The Old Man and I sat on the back porch watching the sun set over the Rockies and drinking Miller High Life cans. His hand found mine - the touch of his skin always goes deep - and we talked about how this crazy family schedule wouldn't have to last forever. The sprinkler rhythm was low and sweet and it smelled like Russian Sage and fresh cut grass.
"I'm sorry I'm so fat and emotional," I said.
The Old Man smacked a mosquito on his neck. "You're not fat," he said.
"I'm sorry I'm so fat and emotional," I said.
The Old Man smacked a mosquito on his neck. "You're not fat," he said.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Melancholy, Where Are You?
I suspect that I am deliriously happy, which, as any writer knows, is a death sentence for creativity. I'm lucky I dreamed up a severed toe a while ago, but for now I'm just contented.
As any woman who has endured unspeakable pain giving birth to two children knows, it is excruciatingly difficult to be sympathetic to her husband who has just gotten a vasectomy. I am so contented that I did not remind The Old Man that if he thinks getting snipped is bad, he could never handle what I've been through.
I've managed to keep the kids happy and the house running smoothly while he's laid up watching Sports Center. Baby Girl is 10 weeks old and on a sleep schedule. Things are going so well that I can't even summon angst when she pukes on me.
So, I apologize for my lack of posts. Maybe I'll try something crazy and write about happy stuff.
As any woman who has endured unspeakable pain giving birth to two children knows, it is excruciatingly difficult to be sympathetic to her husband who has just gotten a vasectomy. I am so contented that I did not remind The Old Man that if he thinks getting snipped is bad, he could never handle what I've been through.
I've managed to keep the kids happy and the house running smoothly while he's laid up watching Sports Center. Baby Girl is 10 weeks old and on a sleep schedule. Things are going so well that I can't even summon angst when she pukes on me.
So, I apologize for my lack of posts. Maybe I'll try something crazy and write about happy stuff.
Monday, May 31, 2010
How To Wrestle a Baby
I was told that with a baby and a toddler and a full-time job I would be in "survival-mode" for the first year, at least. I shouldn't expect to get much accomplished at work, or at home for that matter.
The Happiest Baby on the Block author Dr. Karp says that babies are increasingly fussy from age two weeks to six weeks, and then the crying spells go away by three months. Today is Baby Girl's 6 week birthday. Ever heard sharp nails on a chalkboard, a cat mating, an emergency alert system over the T.V? A wailing baby is like all those in one sound. It's like someone has a screwdriver and is tightening my nerves with each cry, tighter, tighter, until every muscle is clenched.
I'm generally a positive person. I must admit I want to slip into survival mode around 7:00 pm, when I'm trying to calm my three year old to get him to bed at the peak of the baby wailing hours.
The thing about survival mode is that it's all about defense, about cutting everything else out - all joy, laughter, hobbies, thoughts - and lowering my head and plowing through. It's about doing the bare minimum just to make it to the end. That's not my style. I'm an overachiever. Plus, I have The Old Man. It's two against two now, but we're bigger than they are. We go on the offense. For everything.
For a crying baby, we do the five "S's" from Dr. Karp: Swaddling, Shushing, Stomach, Sucking, Swinging. Roll that baby up tight, swing her up and down on her stomach, pop a pacifier in there. She's out like a light. Bring it.
Warfare with a three year old is trickier. He could be a great lawyer. He's great with the questions and stories, also known as procrastination, right around bedtime. Even more powerful now that The Old Man and I can't tag-team him. It's verbal sparring.
Brush your teeth. My favorite color is blue. Brush your teeth. Oh really, you saw a red-kneed tarantula at school yesterday? Fascinating. Brush your teeth. Thank you for saying my shirt is pretty. That's nice of you. Brush your teeth.
We haven't lost a battle yet, though right before bed it often feels hopeless. The Old Man and I even played poker and made out a little - with tongue - the other night. We managed to stay awake until eleven o'clock.
In the words of the Captain of the Axiom from Wall-E, "I don't want to survive. I want to live."
The Happiest Baby on the Block author Dr. Karp says that babies are increasingly fussy from age two weeks to six weeks, and then the crying spells go away by three months. Today is Baby Girl's 6 week birthday. Ever heard sharp nails on a chalkboard, a cat mating, an emergency alert system over the T.V? A wailing baby is like all those in one sound. It's like someone has a screwdriver and is tightening my nerves with each cry, tighter, tighter, until every muscle is clenched.
I'm generally a positive person. I must admit I want to slip into survival mode around 7:00 pm, when I'm trying to calm my three year old to get him to bed at the peak of the baby wailing hours.
The thing about survival mode is that it's all about defense, about cutting everything else out - all joy, laughter, hobbies, thoughts - and lowering my head and plowing through. It's about doing the bare minimum just to make it to the end. That's not my style. I'm an overachiever. Plus, I have The Old Man. It's two against two now, but we're bigger than they are. We go on the offense. For everything.
For a crying baby, we do the five "S's" from Dr. Karp: Swaddling, Shushing, Stomach, Sucking, Swinging. Roll that baby up tight, swing her up and down on her stomach, pop a pacifier in there. She's out like a light. Bring it.
Warfare with a three year old is trickier. He could be a great lawyer. He's great with the questions and stories, also known as procrastination, right around bedtime. Even more powerful now that The Old Man and I can't tag-team him. It's verbal sparring.
Brush your teeth. My favorite color is blue. Brush your teeth. Oh really, you saw a red-kneed tarantula at school yesterday? Fascinating. Brush your teeth. Thank you for saying my shirt is pretty. That's nice of you. Brush your teeth.
We haven't lost a battle yet, though right before bed it often feels hopeless. The Old Man and I even played poker and made out a little - with tongue - the other night. We managed to stay awake until eleven o'clock.
In the words of the Captain of the Axiom from Wall-E, "I don't want to survive. I want to live."
Friday, April 9, 2010
Insomnia
His hand is tangled in my hair
his thumb strokes my forehead
I am afraid to move
if I move we'll lose the connection
his thumb strokes my forehead
I am afraid to move
if I move we'll lose the connection
Monday, March 22, 2010
Level Playing Field: A Pantoum
every day always I am too little
except when Dad makes snowballs
wet snow and wood chips - our battleground -
under the slides and swingsets
except when Dad makes snowballs
the smalls do what the bigs say
under the slides and swingsets
in snowball fights I get to kill Dad dead
the smalls do what the bigs say
we have to follow the rules
in snowball fights I get to kill Dad dead
and he rolls and falls and screams and I pounce
we have to follow the rules
no rules in war
and he rolls and falls and screams and I pounce
he's the small and I'm the big
no rules in war
wet snow and wood chips - our battleground -
he's the small and i'm the big
every day always I am too little
except when Dad makes snowballs
wet snow and wood chips - our battleground -
under the slides and swingsets
except when Dad makes snowballs
the smalls do what the bigs say
under the slides and swingsets
in snowball fights I get to kill Dad dead
the smalls do what the bigs say
we have to follow the rules
in snowball fights I get to kill Dad dead
and he rolls and falls and screams and I pounce
we have to follow the rules
no rules in war
and he rolls and falls and screams and I pounce
he's the small and I'm the big
no rules in war
wet snow and wood chips - our battleground -
he's the small and i'm the big
every day always I am too little
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
My Senryu on "Handful of Stones" blog
http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/2010/02/senryu-times-two-no-beer-for-you.html
It's 3 AM and I'm eating - because there's a baby in my belly and apparently little missy can't wait for 5:30 AM to roll around - and also writing about this senryu I wrote a couple of months ago. A senryu is a haiku about human foibles. As much as I love haikus, which traditionally are nature-themed, I wanted to take this form and apply it to my tendencies to make outrageous threats like, "I'm gonna leave you and go to Mexico."
Enjoy. My tummy is full and I'm going back to bed.
It's 3 AM and I'm eating - because there's a baby in my belly and apparently little missy can't wait for 5:30 AM to roll around - and also writing about this senryu I wrote a couple of months ago. A senryu is a haiku about human foibles. As much as I love haikus, which traditionally are nature-themed, I wanted to take this form and apply it to my tendencies to make outrageous threats like, "I'm gonna leave you and go to Mexico."
Enjoy. My tummy is full and I'm going back to bed.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Love Letter to The Old Man
Dear The Old Man,
I've been thinking lots about how to write a love letter to you. It is especially challenging because:
A: You aren't impressed with mushy sentiments, and
B: You don't read my blog.
First, let's just get this out of the way: you are my eye candy. I can't help it. I think you are secretly getting hotter every year. Much of the allure comes from the fact that you've never owned a pair of cuff links, you've never had a manicure - except for that one time in high school when you were trying to impress a girl - and you don't moisturize. Yesterday when you were digging in the backyard, covered in dirt, measuring tape slung low across your hips... well, I just want to jump your bones.
Your scrumptiliciousness coupled with the fact that you don't talk much - well, that's every girl's dream. I remember the first gift you gave me. We were sitting in the pickup truck working on a mule deer study, watching the deer gather under the capture net. Too many bucks - we wanted does and fawns to collar. I found a quartz rock in the passenger seat. I held it up to you and you said, "Oh, yeah. I picked that up for you because I thought you'd like it." Then you went back to your sleepy arms-folded quiet pose. I still have that rock - it comes with the memory of the first full sentence you ever uttered to me.
I remember our honeymoon in San Francisco. You were raised on an alfalfa farm in Western Colorado and grew up hunting, fishing and smashing mailboxes for fun on the backroads because there wasn't anything else to do. It was only your third time on an airplane. I took you to the Castro to visit my gay friend at two AM in a bar that played Boy George. You had a great time. Your only comment the whole night: "So this is where all the gyms are."
And when I went back to work after The Kid was born, you were the one who taught him how to use a bottle. You were the one who said no to work obligations to take him to the doctor's office for fevers and colds and skin rashes and eye infections.
And every night, no matter how tired you are, you play with The Kid before he goes to bed. You invent whole worlds and games - the latest, origami mouths who eat origami frogs - to keep The Kid's imagination going.
The dog likes you better.
Feelings aren't your forte, but from day one you have listened to mine. I've never felt, like I have with past ex's, that my words weren't important.
Here we enter the realm of the intangible, and why love is so hard to describe. My guts, the viscera, my nerves and my brain all relax when you're near. I don't freak out. Someone once described me as "strung tighter than a piano wire." When I'm around you I'm unstrung.
I have loved deeply in the past. I don't believe that there is one person for whom all eternity is reserved. I know much of why we're together is based on practicality: we have the same interests, we were at the same point in our lives where we both wanted a family when we met. I've had more spiritual romances, relationships with more sexual sparks, jealous loves, more exciting romances. I would describe our love as steady, dependable. Our love is not a roller coaster of giddy highs and tearful lows. Maybe it's because we have both matured to the point where we look at our lives as a whole, rather than two points of view struggling against each other for dominance.
(At this point you're saying, "Our love is not a roller coaster? What??!!" Well, let me tell you honey, seriously, that compared to how it's been in the past, I am truly less crazy with you. For you, I think before I speak.)
I don't have the rock n' roll ride with you. Instead, I have a feeling of coming home, both body and soul, of looking forward to seeing you after work. Of comfort, of being able to act like me in my own skin.
I think you're a real man.
Real men get their hands dirty.
Real men give rocks.
Real men go to gay bars.
Real men take their kids to the doctor.
Real men do origami.
I love you.
I've been thinking lots about how to write a love letter to you. It is especially challenging because:
A: You aren't impressed with mushy sentiments, and
B: You don't read my blog.
First, let's just get this out of the way: you are my eye candy. I can't help it. I think you are secretly getting hotter every year. Much of the allure comes from the fact that you've never owned a pair of cuff links, you've never had a manicure - except for that one time in high school when you were trying to impress a girl - and you don't moisturize. Yesterday when you were digging in the backyard, covered in dirt, measuring tape slung low across your hips... well, I just want to jump your bones.
Your scrumptiliciousness coupled with the fact that you don't talk much - well, that's every girl's dream. I remember the first gift you gave me. We were sitting in the pickup truck working on a mule deer study, watching the deer gather under the capture net. Too many bucks - we wanted does and fawns to collar. I found a quartz rock in the passenger seat. I held it up to you and you said, "Oh, yeah. I picked that up for you because I thought you'd like it." Then you went back to your sleepy arms-folded quiet pose. I still have that rock - it comes with the memory of the first full sentence you ever uttered to me.
I remember our honeymoon in San Francisco. You were raised on an alfalfa farm in Western Colorado and grew up hunting, fishing and smashing mailboxes for fun on the backroads because there wasn't anything else to do. It was only your third time on an airplane. I took you to the Castro to visit my gay friend at two AM in a bar that played Boy George. You had a great time. Your only comment the whole night: "So this is where all the gyms are."
And when I went back to work after The Kid was born, you were the one who taught him how to use a bottle. You were the one who said no to work obligations to take him to the doctor's office for fevers and colds and skin rashes and eye infections.
And every night, no matter how tired you are, you play with The Kid before he goes to bed. You invent whole worlds and games - the latest, origami mouths who eat origami frogs - to keep The Kid's imagination going.
The dog likes you better.
Feelings aren't your forte, but from day one you have listened to mine. I've never felt, like I have with past ex's, that my words weren't important.
Here we enter the realm of the intangible, and why love is so hard to describe. My guts, the viscera, my nerves and my brain all relax when you're near. I don't freak out. Someone once described me as "strung tighter than a piano wire." When I'm around you I'm unstrung.
I have loved deeply in the past. I don't believe that there is one person for whom all eternity is reserved. I know much of why we're together is based on practicality: we have the same interests, we were at the same point in our lives where we both wanted a family when we met. I've had more spiritual romances, relationships with more sexual sparks, jealous loves, more exciting romances. I would describe our love as steady, dependable. Our love is not a roller coaster of giddy highs and tearful lows. Maybe it's because we have both matured to the point where we look at our lives as a whole, rather than two points of view struggling against each other for dominance.
(At this point you're saying, "Our love is not a roller coaster? What??!!" Well, let me tell you honey, seriously, that compared to how it's been in the past, I am truly less crazy with you. For you, I think before I speak.)
I don't have the rock n' roll ride with you. Instead, I have a feeling of coming home, both body and soul, of looking forward to seeing you after work. Of comfort, of being able to act like me in my own skin.
I think you're a real man.
Real men get their hands dirty.
Real men give rocks.
Real men go to gay bars.
Real men take their kids to the doctor.
Real men do origami.
I love you.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Scrapbooking is good???
This may be the only time I ever say anything nice about scrapbooking.
We are cleaning and reorganizing to fit the next little monkey in the house, and I had the idea that maybe I could rip some pictures out of photo albums, put them in envelopes, and save some space.
But I found the scrapbook - a very amateur attempt unlike those scrapbooker gurus I know - I made of The Kid's first six months. I'm preggers so I'm predisposed to tears anyway, but by the end of the album I was crying.
The page that sent me over the edge:
Four photos. The Old Man holds The Baby Kid in each. The Old Man looks tired, depressed. I had written "Daddy Loves You!!" in the middle. With two exclamation points. As if by pasting evidence that The Old Man held The Kid during this time, and by writing that line, I could make it true.
Of course The Old Man loves The Kid. But for the first year, The Old Man was grumpy, withdrawn. Not happy. I'm desperate that this pattern isn't repeated with the new one. I don't have the emotional armory to prop The Old Man up, plus The Kid, plus the New One. I want The Old Man to be happy with me, to show his excitement. I don't want to wait a year for The Old Man to be happy again.
Being the take-charge kind of gal I am, I've already talked a lot to The Old Man about this. He is aware of what might happen, and is right there along with me, going to try everything to make sure it doesn't happen again.
Needless to say, I couldn't rip a single picture out of anywhere. Maybe I'll make space by giving my old ballet slippers and karate uniforms to charity...
We are cleaning and reorganizing to fit the next little monkey in the house, and I had the idea that maybe I could rip some pictures out of photo albums, put them in envelopes, and save some space.
But I found the scrapbook - a very amateur attempt unlike those scrapbooker gurus I know - I made of The Kid's first six months. I'm preggers so I'm predisposed to tears anyway, but by the end of the album I was crying.
The page that sent me over the edge:
Four photos. The Old Man holds The Baby Kid in each. The Old Man looks tired, depressed. I had written "Daddy Loves You!!" in the middle. With two exclamation points. As if by pasting evidence that The Old Man held The Kid during this time, and by writing that line, I could make it true.
Of course The Old Man loves The Kid. But for the first year, The Old Man was grumpy, withdrawn. Not happy. I'm desperate that this pattern isn't repeated with the new one. I don't have the emotional armory to prop The Old Man up, plus The Kid, plus the New One. I want The Old Man to be happy with me, to show his excitement. I don't want to wait a year for The Old Man to be happy again.
Being the take-charge kind of gal I am, I've already talked a lot to The Old Man about this. He is aware of what might happen, and is right there along with me, going to try everything to make sure it doesn't happen again.
Needless to say, I couldn't rip a single picture out of anywhere. Maybe I'll make space by giving my old ballet slippers and karate uniforms to charity...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Senryu Times Two: No Beer For You
my love means High Life
and a note on the doorstep
"Mexico. Good luck."
after last week's fight
I could head south and leave you
with two kids, no beer
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Small Miracles
Thanks to Margaret for writing about the goddess Devi for me, and for putting her own sense of humor and spin on the lessons Devi presents. http://margaretfinnegan.blogspot.com/2009/11/goddess-of-week-devi.html
The "minor gods" she mentions are very relevant to my situation right now. I hate asking for help, or admitting I need anyone, especially my husband, The Old Man. I have this vision of myself as an independent woman, forgetting that everyone needs someone.
I was thinking today that I really want to write, and want time to write. As much as I love spending time with The Kid - taking him to the pool, or the movies, walking with him, and especially the early morning 5:00 am quiet time we get together, while he is holding my big hand in his little one - I need silence and time to myself. And the writing itch is scratching long red marks in the back of my brain.
So The Old Man called, and said, "I was thinking that since I'm going to be working late nights next week you would need some time to yourself. Why don't I take The Kid tomorrow morning?"
So this "minor god" is thinking ahead, anticipating my emotional needs. Granted, I play a big role in this because I made it clear my needs were not being met, but I did not expect him to be attuned to what I needed so soon, or so accurately.
It is acceptable to depend on others. It's still so strange that I am actually afraid of doing this with a man I've known for seven years.
The "minor gods" she mentions are very relevant to my situation right now. I hate asking for help, or admitting I need anyone, especially my husband, The Old Man. I have this vision of myself as an independent woman, forgetting that everyone needs someone.
I was thinking today that I really want to write, and want time to write. As much as I love spending time with The Kid - taking him to the pool, or the movies, walking with him, and especially the early morning 5:00 am quiet time we get together, while he is holding my big hand in his little one - I need silence and time to myself. And the writing itch is scratching long red marks in the back of my brain.
So The Old Man called, and said, "I was thinking that since I'm going to be working late nights next week you would need some time to yourself. Why don't I take The Kid tomorrow morning?"
So this "minor god" is thinking ahead, anticipating my emotional needs. Granted, I play a big role in this because I made it clear my needs were not being met, but I did not expect him to be attuned to what I needed so soon, or so accurately.
It is acceptable to depend on others. It's still so strange that I am actually afraid of doing this with a man I've known for seven years.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Music Mondays
I know it's kind of sickening to read sweet stuff from a redhead writing about her husband, so if you feel like you're already gonna hurl, don't read this.
The Old Man and I have the kind of relationship where all emotion is expressed through action: he handles the daycare trips to drop off and pick up The Kid way more than I do; we'll share making dinner and doing the dishes, even though both of us are about ready to fall on our butts from exhaustion; he touches my hair and my face when he comes downstairs in the morning; and he washes my car. Even waxes it. I will refrain from describing the emotional actions in the bedroom, thank you very much.
We rarely talk about anything. We definitely don't talk about feelings. Let me rephrase that: he definitely doesn't talk about feelings. I might ramble on about someone at work and how I'm totally better than they are and I can't believe they said that to me, etcetera, but we don't ever get into the nitty gritty of How are you?
Well, actually, I've been experiencing a general malaise, and I find myself not caring about anything lately.
These conversations do not happen. And so, because these deep conversations do not happen, The Old Man has a tendency to surprise me. Always pleasantly.
This is where the music comes in. I was driving his truck, because he had taken my car to get new tires, and I listened to the CD he made for himself from i-tunes. The same Black-Eyed Peas song I like. The same Norah Jones tunes. Same Michael Jackson songs I downloaded this summer. I almost wrecked, I was so shocked. Here I thought I was married to a 2Pac, Rage Against the Machine, two-band man, and I find that he grooves to (some) of the same stuff I do.
Thanks Old Man for all the pleasant surprises you give me. All of them.
The Old Man and I have the kind of relationship where all emotion is expressed through action: he handles the daycare trips to drop off and pick up The Kid way more than I do; we'll share making dinner and doing the dishes, even though both of us are about ready to fall on our butts from exhaustion; he touches my hair and my face when he comes downstairs in the morning; and he washes my car. Even waxes it. I will refrain from describing the emotional actions in the bedroom, thank you very much.
We rarely talk about anything. We definitely don't talk about feelings. Let me rephrase that: he definitely doesn't talk about feelings. I might ramble on about someone at work and how I'm totally better than they are and I can't believe they said that to me, etcetera, but we don't ever get into the nitty gritty of How are you?
Well, actually, I've been experiencing a general malaise, and I find myself not caring about anything lately.
These conversations do not happen. And so, because these deep conversations do not happen, The Old Man has a tendency to surprise me. Always pleasantly.
This is where the music comes in. I was driving his truck, because he had taken my car to get new tires, and I listened to the CD he made for himself from i-tunes. The same Black-Eyed Peas song I like. The same Norah Jones tunes. Same Michael Jackson songs I downloaded this summer. I almost wrecked, I was so shocked. Here I thought I was married to a 2Pac, Rage Against the Machine, two-band man, and I find that he grooves to (some) of the same stuff I do.
Thanks Old Man for all the pleasant surprises you give me. All of them.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Husband
So, I've been struggling with a name for THE HUSBAND, the man who encourages me to take my wine and diary and books upstairs when I need a break, the man who uses his sick leave to take The Kid to the doc without complaint, the man who holds me every night. The man who expects nothing less than full-fledged partnership in return for his constant calm and presence. And I have no mystical, mysterious name for him because, frankly, he think mystical, mysterious things are voodoo. He's a down-to-earth kind of guy. The kind of guy who never, ever speaks unless he's thought it through. Try it sometime. Don't say a word until you have analyzed every infinitesimal meaning of what you're about to say, until you have dissected the situation you are in and have thought about your proposed solution from every possible angle. Only after you have let it sit in your brain awhile, then speak.
You will be right EVERY SINGLE TIME.
This is weird in a relationship, annoying, but also very, very comforting. There's no name to do him justice. He doesn't believe in true love - or so he says - but he's the guy who's loved me more than any other man. Since he doesn't believe in true love, I can't call him Angel (Buffy the Vampire Slayer's True Love), or Edward (Bella's). Or Aragorn or Sam (my perfect ideal man) or Heathcliff. The drama those characters intone is too mushy-mushy. It has to be simple, unassuming. It's the kind of love that will stick for fifty or so years, like a really good metaphorical oatmeal sticks to the metaphorical ribs. You don't get hungry again after metaphorical oatmeal. I think I'll call him Old Man Yaga, as in my ball and chain, the one who keeps me from flying off the broom handle, the one who keeps me grounded.
The one who giggles at me when I get all worked up. Old Man Yaga is no longer ______.
You will be right EVERY SINGLE TIME.
This is weird in a relationship, annoying, but also very, very comforting. There's no name to do him justice. He doesn't believe in true love - or so he says - but he's the guy who's loved me more than any other man. Since he doesn't believe in true love, I can't call him Angel (Buffy the Vampire Slayer's True Love), or Edward (Bella's). Or Aragorn or Sam (my perfect ideal man) or Heathcliff. The drama those characters intone is too mushy-mushy. It has to be simple, unassuming. It's the kind of love that will stick for fifty or so years, like a really good metaphorical oatmeal sticks to the metaphorical ribs. You don't get hungry again after metaphorical oatmeal. I think I'll call him Old Man Yaga, as in my ball and chain, the one who keeps me from flying off the broom handle, the one who keeps me grounded.
The one who giggles at me when I get all worked up. Old Man Yaga is no longer ______.
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