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Showing posts from March, 2010

Trucks, Dogs and Green Houses

This post has nothing to do with country music. Instead, my subject is, again, my three year old daughter.

Tallulah loves trucks. She especially loves garbage trucks, but lately has been exhibiting just as much passion for tanker trucks, tow trucks, 18-wheelers of any variety, and delivery trucks. Next time you are on a freeway, take a minute to notice how many trucks you see. Then, imagine that every truck is greeted with a shriek of excitement bordering on ecstasy by a maniacal three year old in the backseat.

Lately, she has also been shrieking at all dogs -- because her truck obsession is mirrored by her dog obsession -- and all green houses -- because green is my favorite color and she sweetly wants to point out all green houses for my benefit. If I miss a dog or a green house, the tearful pleading sets in: "Go back, mama, go back; you missed the doggie, mama, go back! You have to see the doggie, mama!" (For some reason, she lets the trucks go, maybe because she r…

Impressive, Really

I spent most of my day taking advantage of a unique opportunity to see our court system in action. Translation: I had to go to court to take care of some traffic violations. Yes, "some." Apparently, there was this little matter of a roll through a stop sign THREE YEARS AGO that I never properly took care of. (In my feeble defense, I thought I had.)

Then there was the matter of the two fix-it tickets I got recently, which I also neglected to take care of until uncomfortably late. Apparently, ignoring those perforated envelopes that come from traffic court is a costly little mistake. Yes, I am the last person in the country to realize this.

I will not bore you, or fascinate you, as the case may be, with the gory details or the gorier fines I must now pay. I will just say this: I am an idiot.

But then, exhaustion and overwhelm are the stuff idiots are born of, and I experience both in spades. The fact that I manage to have a day here and there in which I do NOT exhibit i…

O. M. G.

My three year old is soaking up the language and mannerisms of her older siblings.

The other day, she and I spent most of the day around the house, working in the yard and whatnot; I wore my usual work around the house clothes: jeans and a big bulky sweatshirt.

When it came time to go get the kids from school, we headed to the van, where I realized it was really quite warm out. I peeled off my sweatshirt. Underneath, I was wearing a black t-shirt with three-quarter sleeves and a rather dramatic v-neck. Not a fancy shirt, you understand, but certainly more attractive than a hoodie.

The three year old actually did a doubletake. And I'll try to get the timing right, in my punctuation and structure here. She took a step backward, put her hands out at her sides, flat and slighty raised, and said:

"O.

M.

G.

You.

are SO.

PRETTY!"

Score one for the grungy moms of the world! This little affirmation moment came at a good time (but then again, don't they all?), as I was in the …

Don't Be a Butt

The other day, my son noticed a sign posted near a flower box: Please, no cigarette butts.

In one of those beautiful and telling misinterpretations of childhood, he took this to mean: No idiots who smoke may be near these pretty flowers. We had a great laugh over that and decided his take on it was much more accurate -- and entertaining -- than the intended meaning.

We turned a corner and about 20 feet in front of us stood a guy taking a smoking break from a nearby restaurant. "Look mom, it's a Cigarette Butt!"

So fun. I think he's brilliant.

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I Venture Back With a Question

It's been too long, dear blog.

But, I am working again today (no deadline, though, just everything that got neglected for my deadline), so I haven't much time to write. I would, however, like to pose a multi-part question.

Why do other people's clean and shiny wood floors seem like evidence of my personal character flaws? Why, when I look at these beautiful floors in other people's houses, do I hear a mean little voice saying "What the hell is wrong with you, why can't you keep your floors clean like this Uber-Capable-Mom?" Why is it that we can know something with our heads and yet feel every fiber of our being reacting in an entirely opposite fashion?

I know a clean floor does not--cannot--chastise me. And yet, I feel chastised.

And finally, is there anyone out there who would like to come and, for a fee, shine my dingy floors? I do believe that money would be just as well spent as any therapy costs I could otherwise incur.

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