Ladies and Gentlemen, I have embarked on a new adventure. I am on a diet. Ok, maybe it's not exactly a brand new adventure, but it's one I have not seriously ventured on in quite awhile. Sure, I may have started this journey a few times in the past, but I always run out of gas before I hit the first rest stop. To be honest, I've stopped at the rest stop and they had a Cinnabon.. and well, that was the end of that.
Dieting sucks. I know, that's stating the obvious. But man... it really stinks. I don't know what I was expecting, but this is not fun. Actually, I do know what I was expecting. I would go on a few walks, drink some extra water and the excess weight would just melt away. Well, you can imagine my shock when that damn scale of mine remained stubbornly at the same number. (and no, I am not telling you that number. I won't let you go blabbing it around to all your friends. I know how you are...) I thought it was gonna be easy. I imagined I would learn to prefer ice water to iced tea and dr pepper. I assumed I would start to crave salads. I expected that I would eventually get used to skim milk in decaf coffee. I thought I would learn to love bean sprouts and lima beans, and yet, they remain my arch enemies. Dieting sucks.
So, why the torture? Why not just learn to love my growing waistline and big butt? I just can't. Don't get me wrong, I've heard how guys like "junk in the trunk" (they totally still say that, right??). My husband loves me regardless, I have no doubt of that. The biggest reason I'm doing this, is fear. That's right, I'm scared. Really scared.
I don't know if was the big 33 that got me thinking, but something has caused this overwhelming anxiety in me lately. I feel old. I don't like it. I don't like facing the facts of my mortality. (who does, right? duh.) Recently, I've come to realize that I'm aging. I am not taking care of myself. And deep down, I know that if I don't change things, I'm headed for disaster.
For years I was completely oblivious to my health, but somehow I was healthy. I ate what I wanted, but I didn't overeat. I exercised because I liked it. I don't really know when that unawareness morphed into an obsession. Now, I worry about everything I eat, but I eat it anyway. Then I feel guilty and eat again. I think all day about what I will cook for dinner. I plan on exercising. I schedule it. Then, when the time comes, I am miraculously too busy. I have become hyper aware of every mistake I am making, and yet, I still make them.
So, I'm trying something a little different this time. I am not focusing on my weight. Yea, I know.. what the hell kinda diet am I talking about? When I have dieted in the past, I focused way too much on that mystical number on the scale (you know the one, the one you will never know.). If it doesn't change in a day, I'm completely disappointed, and disappointment with this girl leads to one thing, eating. So this time around, I am focusing on a few different sets of numbers. My blood pressure/ heart rate and my pants size. My blood pressure has been high lately, which scares the hell out of me. And my heart rate has always been high because of heredity stuff and my anxiety. If I can get those two numbers down I will be elated. If my waist size dwindles along with it, well... I'll be ecstatic.
My goal this week is water. I don't drink any. Seriously. I drink iced tea all day. Granted, it's with splenda, but it full caffeine. And I've heard Splenda isn't all that great either. And coffee.... oh my delicious Pumpkin Spice Lattes... I will limit you, my dears, to one or two a week. And even then, you will be decaf-ed and splenda-fied. Oh, if you only knew how much I will miss you in all of your high fat, frothy, delicious glory.
But it's gonna be worth it, right? I'm gonna be healthier. I'm gonna be around to see my daughter grow up and get married and have kids. Hubby and I are gonna spend retirement cruising around in our camper and going on vacation with our friends.
I'm trying to keep my eye on the prize... no, not the vacations and stuff... I've got my eye on some sweet skinny jeans at Express. Maybe I should start saving for a shopping spree now, because it's gonna happen. I will be healthy (and lookin' super fab in some new outfits.)
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
The House That Slobs Built
I hate our house. I mean, I really hate it. If it were a person, I would punch it in the face. If I saw this house walking down the street and it waved at me, I would purposely ignore it and then, when it passed by me, I would whisper loudly to my friend “Ewwwww!! Can you believe she just tried to talk to us? Did you see the siding she was wearing? What a skank!”. I would make it’s life miserable. If I were the head cheerleader and this house was president of the student council, I would shove her into lockers and tell everyone she still wears training bras. I would publicly shun her and give her horrible self esteem. I hate this house.
So, I know what you’re thinking. Kel, how can you be so cruel? This nastiness is not like you! What did that poor little house ever do to you? Oh, dear readers, you have no idea. This house is a bitch. She is a mean little witch. She presses my buttons every chance she can get. She enjoys making my life miserable. She may look innocent enough, but she’s evil to core, people. Evil, I tell you.
This house has been a total jerk since the day we moved in. Granted, we weren’t exactly the most excited pair of new homeowners. We were kind of miserable actually. We were not carrying each other over the threshold (Craig said something about it being embarrassing if I dropped him again or something.. whatever.). We were not boasting to our friends about our new home. We did not have a housewarming party. We pretty much just threw our few scant belonging in the living room, looked at each other and said, “Meh.. it’ll do for now, I guess.”
We were not in a great position to buy a home. Hubby had just started a brand new career with great potential for growth but quite a minuscule starting salary. He was working a part time second job to help us scrape by. I, on the other hand, was home with a three year old who never slept and was in the midst of the temper tantrum phase (I liked to call it World War Three Year Old). On top of that nonsense, I was also working at home 30 hours a week and cleaning houses about 20 hours a week. We had moved in with my parents 6 months prior in order to save for a new home, and well...I love my parents, but things were not exactly copacetic. The stress was about to kill us all. We had no money and we had no place to live.
Enter in the housing boom of 2005. We called a mortgage broke to find out how much money we would need to buy a home. We wanted to start preparing. We did not expect the peppy, twenty year old girl on the other end of the phone to say, “Why, you guys can buy a house right now, silly!”. Huh? What was she smoking? WE WERE BROKE! And they want to give us a house? Craig and I looked and each other, grinning, and said, “Stupid bastards.”
There were only two houses in my hometown that were in our price range at that moment. Yep, that should tell you something right there. There were not the beautiful new model homes that had sprung up on the outskirts of town. Nor were they the handsome 5 bedroom split levels in the great school district. Hell, they weren’t even the cute little 3 bedroom cottages by the river. They were both two bedroom houses that needed a crapload of work. We picked the one that was not currently being rented by a bunch of drifters with 8 kids and 3 dogs. We chose the one that was not in the running for a upcoming spot on Hoarders.
Settlement was a disaster. Of course, this a-hole of a house decided that it needed tons of stuff done to pass inspection. So, what do we smart and savvy home buyers do? We skip the inspection of course! Duh. That was super smart.
We moved in without a cent in our pockets, let alone our bank account. We didn’t even have beds. Seriously. We slept on air mattresses. We had just enough money to buy a beat up, scratch-n-dent refrigerator. We didn’t have any food to put in it.
But, we had a house. So, yay!! Right? Nope. We were depressed. This was not our dream house. This house was, and still is, a nightmare. It needs so much work, it’s overwhelming. And we have not had the money or the expertise to fix anything. Craig does not know how to do any carpentry and besides, we don’t have the cash to pay for it. This house is in shambles. It’s embarrassing and it sucks.
We need carpeting. We can’t afford it. We would actually prefer hardwood, so imagine our excitement when we pulled up the corner of the carpets and found pretty hardwood! Then, imagine our disgust and disappointment when we pulled back a little farther and found that the other part of the floor was plywood. We quickly tucked the carpet back down and tried to forget about it until the money fairies come and leave a deposit under our pillows. (Still waiting..)
The basement is musty and it floods. The kitchen needs new flooring. The stove is old and barely works. The cabinets are falling apart. The heater is a temperamental jerk-off that only works when it feels like making the effort. The central air is filthy slut that strains our electric bill and costs us hundreds a month in the summer. The windows all need to be relpaced. The back deck is decaying at an alarming rate and the driveway needs to be paved. There is no landscaping and a humongous tree in the backyard looms over the back porch menacingly during every windy storm.
So, you’d think this jackass of a house would eventually give us a break, right? Nope, I told you, she’s a total asshole. Now, it’s the roof. We have a leak. Or we thought we had a leak. Turns out we need a new roof. I mean, I’m not shocked or anything. We knew we were gonna need a roof soon. Just not this soon. We were planning on waiting until we refinanced or got some extra money somehow. Well, those freakin’ money fairies must have relocated to the overpriced McMansions on the other side of town, because I haven’t seen those flying morons in years.
We, simply put, don’t have the money to fix it. We are trying to rig it until we can afford to get an entire new roof. I don’t see that happening until at least the spring. At least. And even then, it will be crazy tight. And neither one of us want to put any money into this crapshoot, hell hole of a house. This is not the house we wanted. This not were we wanted to be.
And before you say it, yes, I know... we are lucky just to have a roof over our heads. But it’s leaking on our heads right now and it’s slowly disintegrating before our eyes.
Yes, I’m happy we have a place to live, but I still want to give this house a swift roundhouse kick right in the back porch. And I totally would, if I wasn't so sure it would completely collapse.
So, I know what you’re thinking. Kel, how can you be so cruel? This nastiness is not like you! What did that poor little house ever do to you? Oh, dear readers, you have no idea. This house is a bitch. She is a mean little witch. She presses my buttons every chance she can get. She enjoys making my life miserable. She may look innocent enough, but she’s evil to core, people. Evil, I tell you.
This house has been a total jerk since the day we moved in. Granted, we weren’t exactly the most excited pair of new homeowners. We were kind of miserable actually. We were not carrying each other over the threshold (Craig said something about it being embarrassing if I dropped him again or something.. whatever.). We were not boasting to our friends about our new home. We did not have a housewarming party. We pretty much just threw our few scant belonging in the living room, looked at each other and said, “Meh.. it’ll do for now, I guess.”
We were not in a great position to buy a home. Hubby had just started a brand new career with great potential for growth but quite a minuscule starting salary. He was working a part time second job to help us scrape by. I, on the other hand, was home with a three year old who never slept and was in the midst of the temper tantrum phase (I liked to call it World War Three Year Old). On top of that nonsense, I was also working at home 30 hours a week and cleaning houses about 20 hours a week. We had moved in with my parents 6 months prior in order to save for a new home, and well...I love my parents, but things were not exactly copacetic. The stress was about to kill us all. We had no money and we had no place to live.
Enter in the housing boom of 2005. We called a mortgage broke to find out how much money we would need to buy a home. We wanted to start preparing. We did not expect the peppy, twenty year old girl on the other end of the phone to say, “Why, you guys can buy a house right now, silly!”. Huh? What was she smoking? WE WERE BROKE! And they want to give us a house? Craig and I looked and each other, grinning, and said, “Stupid bastards.”
There were only two houses in my hometown that were in our price range at that moment. Yep, that should tell you something right there. There were not the beautiful new model homes that had sprung up on the outskirts of town. Nor were they the handsome 5 bedroom split levels in the great school district. Hell, they weren’t even the cute little 3 bedroom cottages by the river. They were both two bedroom houses that needed a crapload of work. We picked the one that was not currently being rented by a bunch of drifters with 8 kids and 3 dogs. We chose the one that was not in the running for a upcoming spot on Hoarders.
Settlement was a disaster. Of course, this a-hole of a house decided that it needed tons of stuff done to pass inspection. So, what do we smart and savvy home buyers do? We skip the inspection of course! Duh. That was super smart.
We moved in without a cent in our pockets, let alone our bank account. We didn’t even have beds. Seriously. We slept on air mattresses. We had just enough money to buy a beat up, scratch-n-dent refrigerator. We didn’t have any food to put in it.
But, we had a house. So, yay!! Right? Nope. We were depressed. This was not our dream house. This house was, and still is, a nightmare. It needs so much work, it’s overwhelming. And we have not had the money or the expertise to fix anything. Craig does not know how to do any carpentry and besides, we don’t have the cash to pay for it. This house is in shambles. It’s embarrassing and it sucks.
We need carpeting. We can’t afford it. We would actually prefer hardwood, so imagine our excitement when we pulled up the corner of the carpets and found pretty hardwood! Then, imagine our disgust and disappointment when we pulled back a little farther and found that the other part of the floor was plywood. We quickly tucked the carpet back down and tried to forget about it until the money fairies come and leave a deposit under our pillows. (Still waiting..)
The basement is musty and it floods. The kitchen needs new flooring. The stove is old and barely works. The cabinets are falling apart. The heater is a temperamental jerk-off that only works when it feels like making the effort. The central air is filthy slut that strains our electric bill and costs us hundreds a month in the summer. The windows all need to be relpaced. The back deck is decaying at an alarming rate and the driveway needs to be paved. There is no landscaping and a humongous tree in the backyard looms over the back porch menacingly during every windy storm.
So, you’d think this jackass of a house would eventually give us a break, right? Nope, I told you, she’s a total asshole. Now, it’s the roof. We have a leak. Or we thought we had a leak. Turns out we need a new roof. I mean, I’m not shocked or anything. We knew we were gonna need a roof soon. Just not this soon. We were planning on waiting until we refinanced or got some extra money somehow. Well, those freakin’ money fairies must have relocated to the overpriced McMansions on the other side of town, because I haven’t seen those flying morons in years.
We, simply put, don’t have the money to fix it. We are trying to rig it until we can afford to get an entire new roof. I don’t see that happening until at least the spring. At least. And even then, it will be crazy tight. And neither one of us want to put any money into this crapshoot, hell hole of a house. This is not the house we wanted. This not were we wanted to be.
And before you say it, yes, I know... we are lucky just to have a roof over our heads. But it’s leaking on our heads right now and it’s slowly disintegrating before our eyes.
Yes, I’m happy we have a place to live, but I still want to give this house a swift roundhouse kick right in the back porch. And I totally would, if I wasn't so sure it would completely collapse.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Random Tuesday .... because I'm nothing if not random..
Yep, it's Random Tuesday over at The UnMom, and I was thinking.. "Hey, I may be a really horrible blogger lately and I totally can't bother myself to put the effort into an actual coherent and articulate blog post. (You remember those, don't you, Kel? Those rare ones where you actually had a point to make and eventually got around to making it? Yea.. I didn't think so.) Why not give Random Tuesday another go? You can be as aimless and rambling as your cold little heart desires!". So, here goes, people... all the mindless crap you've been dying to hear.
I love Jimmy Fallon. Seriously, could he be more freakin' adorable?
I have not missed one single episode of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. Yes, even the one that my husband inadvertently - on - purpose deleted from the DVR. Hmmm... is someone jealous there, dear husband? Well, you should be. Because if Jimmy knocked on the door right now, I'd be humpin' his leg like a golden retriever on your Great Aunt Tillie.
I am ashamed to say that I have not read Harry Potter, or actually sat through one of the movies to completion. This could turn out to be an issue, since my daughter has decided that she wants to be Hermione Granger (??) for Halloween this year. Good luck, kid. I'll give you a wand and a bathrobe.. hope that qualifies for wizard wear.
Pumpkin Spice lattes are laced with crack cocaine. Or, well, maybe not cocaine. (Chill out, Strabucks' legal team.. it was a joke. Dag.)But they are definitely pumping those things full of something addictive, because I am downing them like water. If I drank water like I should, which I don't. Because there are pumpkin lattes to drink instead. Duh.
I'm so happy Fall is finally here! I had a fantastic summer, but my swimsuits were screaming for mercy. Honestly, there is only so much stretching that spandex can take. It's time for my comfy sweater, jeans and hoodies to take their share of the abuse. I'm not ordering the Fat Free Pumpkin Lattes, people.. there is a serious need for maximum body coverage at this point.
And that's all I got.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
I'm How Old???
I turned 33 years old on Wednesday. Yes, double threes! I just can't accept it. But, I've done the math, there is no changing it. You take a 50 year old woman and subtract 17 years and you get me. No matter how many times I try to take the year 2010 and deduct 1977 from it, I still end up with the same result. I am a 33 year old woman. Holy Sh*t.. HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN?
There is no denying it, I am in my thirties. My thirties!! That's, like, my parents age! Oh, wait a minute..not any more it isn't. That's how old they were when I was ten. And when I was ten, I thought 33 was ancient. Seriously though, aren't people in their thirties supposed to wear chinos and pastel colored polo shirts, drink sparkling water and discuss their 401k's? Aren't thirty three year old women supposed to spend their afternoons plucking gray hairs and chatting with their doctors about their fiber intake? Aren't thirty somethings supposed to be lame??
I don't feel lame. Heck, I don't even feel like a grown up yet. When's that whole part kick in? I mean, technically, I'm a full fledged grown up. I've got the paperwork to prove it. So, why is it that I still feel the need to hide the fact that I occasionally enjoy an alcoholic beverage from my mom? Why do I still find myself laughing uncontrollably at fart jokes? Why do I still prefer Lucky Charms for breakfast instead of Grape Nuts? How come I still can't quite figure out the exact amount of time to cook popcorn in the microwave without it catching fire? Why am I still planning things to do "when I grow up"?
I realize that 33 is not "OLD"... but, it's older than I feel. I still wonder what happened to my twenties! I should have paid more attention! Why didn't I spend more time learning how to properly fold a fitted sheet? Shouldn't I know how to use the barbecue grill by now? Why am I still petrified of the lawnmower? Thunderstorms still scare the bejesus out of me. And don't you dare ask me how to cook a turkey, because I still have to call my mom and ask her every time I try.
I don't know why, but being 33 bothers me. I don't like it. The other night we were at a restaurant with our friends. They told the waiter it was my birthday. He said "Hey! 21 again, huh?" The bastard. How dare he? That's the same joke people used to say to my mom when she was....well, when she was in her thirties. Everyone laughed to be polite to the overly friendly and uber-touchy douchebag waiter. Meanwhile, I was fuming. That son of a bitch. Is he saying I can't pass for 21 anymore? I can totally pass for 21, right? RIGHT? I mean, it was dark in there.. He totally could not see the 14 gray hairs I had been hiding amongst my curls. And I was relatively positive he could not get a good view of my granny panties considering I was trying really hard to keep my bunion affected feet under the table. Maybe he heard me moaning about my "aching back" as I attempted to reach down in my purse for some Gas-X. I mean, really, the guy was just way too presumptuous. I'm sure there are plenty of 21 year olds who fall asleep at the table because they only got one nap that day. It's not uncommon. Young and feisty ladies totally get tired too, ya know.
Urgh, who am I kidding? I guess it's time I faced the facts. I am a grown up. I'm officially well into adulthood. Actually, I am pretty sure I hit the whole "adulthood" milestone a while back. I just never noticed. Maybe that's what's different this birthday. I'm actually paying attention. Crap, I'm pretty sure that's another sign I'm getting older. Dang, there really is no denying it, huh? I'm gonna go drown my sorrows in ice cream. (and then some Pepto Bismol because I just can't handle dairy like I used to)
There is no denying it, I am in my thirties. My thirties!! That's, like, my parents age! Oh, wait a minute..not any more it isn't. That's how old they were when I was ten. And when I was ten, I thought 33 was ancient. Seriously though, aren't people in their thirties supposed to wear chinos and pastel colored polo shirts, drink sparkling water and discuss their 401k's? Aren't thirty three year old women supposed to spend their afternoons plucking gray hairs and chatting with their doctors about their fiber intake? Aren't thirty somethings supposed to be lame??
I don't feel lame. Heck, I don't even feel like a grown up yet. When's that whole part kick in? I mean, technically, I'm a full fledged grown up. I've got the paperwork to prove it. So, why is it that I still feel the need to hide the fact that I occasionally enjoy an alcoholic beverage from my mom? Why do I still find myself laughing uncontrollably at fart jokes? Why do I still prefer Lucky Charms for breakfast instead of Grape Nuts? How come I still can't quite figure out the exact amount of time to cook popcorn in the microwave without it catching fire? Why am I still planning things to do "when I grow up"?
I realize that 33 is not "OLD"... but, it's older than I feel. I still wonder what happened to my twenties! I should have paid more attention! Why didn't I spend more time learning how to properly fold a fitted sheet? Shouldn't I know how to use the barbecue grill by now? Why am I still petrified of the lawnmower? Thunderstorms still scare the bejesus out of me. And don't you dare ask me how to cook a turkey, because I still have to call my mom and ask her every time I try.
I don't know why, but being 33 bothers me. I don't like it. The other night we were at a restaurant with our friends. They told the waiter it was my birthday. He said "Hey! 21 again, huh?" The bastard. How dare he? That's the same joke people used to say to my mom when she was....well, when she was in her thirties. Everyone laughed to be polite to the overly friendly and uber-touchy douchebag waiter. Meanwhile, I was fuming. That son of a bitch. Is he saying I can't pass for 21 anymore? I can totally pass for 21, right? RIGHT? I mean, it was dark in there.. He totally could not see the 14 gray hairs I had been hiding amongst my curls. And I was relatively positive he could not get a good view of my granny panties considering I was trying really hard to keep my bunion affected feet under the table. Maybe he heard me moaning about my "aching back" as I attempted to reach down in my purse for some Gas-X. I mean, really, the guy was just way too presumptuous. I'm sure there are plenty of 21 year olds who fall asleep at the table because they only got one nap that day. It's not uncommon. Young and feisty ladies totally get tired too, ya know.
Urgh, who am I kidding? I guess it's time I faced the facts. I am a grown up. I'm officially well into adulthood. Actually, I am pretty sure I hit the whole "adulthood" milestone a while back. I just never noticed. Maybe that's what's different this birthday. I'm actually paying attention. Crap, I'm pretty sure that's another sign I'm getting older. Dang, there really is no denying it, huh? I'm gonna go drown my sorrows in ice cream. (and then some Pepto Bismol because I just can't handle dairy like I used to)
Monday, August 2, 2010
Mom of the Year
Mom of the Year. It’s a phrase we’ve all heard. Moms tend to throw around this expression. Usually, it’s a sarcastic comment. You feed your kids cereal for dinner and say “Well, I guess I won’t be getting the Mom of The Year award”. Your son shoves a marble up his nose and you're muttering to yourself on the way to the ER, “There goes Mom of the Year again”. I have yet to see anyone actually declare themselves the Genuine Mom of the Year. We moms are way too self critical to ever claim that distinction. There is always someone else out there doing better, accomplishing more and flat out making us all feel insignificant.
With that said though, I don’t think I am a bad mom. Not at all. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty dang good at it. My daughter is socially accepted, well fed, happy and an all around great kid. I am quite proud of the work I’ve done so far. However, there are many, many moments that I question my abilities. There have been several times when I have hung my head in shame because I have failed. Luckily for me, those big mistakes are few and far between. It’s the small blunders that are way too common in my life. And lucky for me, we can usually find the humor in them. I want to share with you some of those moments, when I knew I was out of the running for that Mom of the Year contest, but still found myself laughing.
*When Roslyn was about three years old, she used to go to work with me. Occasionally we would get stuck in traffic. I am not the most patient driver. I learned that I was raising a rather inpatient back seat driver when I heard Roslyn say, “What the heck is this? An idiot parade?”
*I used to babysit occasionally for a friend of mine. She had a daughter named Mikayla. Our girls were the same age, about 2 years old. Roslyn used to call her “Mack”. For months we thought that Roslyn had made up a cute nickname for her friend. It was so adorable! One day, I said something to that effect to Roslyn. She said “No! She’s Mack! Cause I want to MACK her”.. she then went up to Mikayla and smacked her in the face.
*Roslyn can recite this entire scene from the movie Tommy Boy...
*Roslyn was about 4 and half years old. She was playing at a local park. She and a few other girls were bouncing up and down on a suspension bridge thing. All the girls were singing songs like "I'm a Little Teapot" and "The Wheels on the Bus". There was a long moment of silence while the girls were trying to think of another song to sing. My child happily starts bouncing again and starts to sing at the top of her lungs, "THE FREAKS COME OUT AT NIGHT! THE FREAKS COME OUT AT NIIIIIGHT! FREAKS COME OUT AT NIGHT (the freaks come out!)" I could literally feel the heat of the other playground moms staring at me.
So, I will not be Mother of the Year this year or in any year to come. I'm doing a good job and so is my husband. But the fact is, we mess up. She hears things we don't want her to hear. She occasionally sees things she probably should not. She has her Momma's temper. I am not a perfect mother. I'm a work in progress, just like my daughter. We are extremely lucky that things are not worse. I mean really, she could have been singing "Superfreak". That would have just been scandalous.
With that said though, I don’t think I am a bad mom. Not at all. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty dang good at it. My daughter is socially accepted, well fed, happy and an all around great kid. I am quite proud of the work I’ve done so far. However, there are many, many moments that I question my abilities. There have been several times when I have hung my head in shame because I have failed. Luckily for me, those big mistakes are few and far between. It’s the small blunders that are way too common in my life. And lucky for me, we can usually find the humor in them. I want to share with you some of those moments, when I knew I was out of the running for that Mom of the Year contest, but still found myself laughing.
*When Roslyn was about three years old, she used to go to work with me. Occasionally we would get stuck in traffic. I am not the most patient driver. I learned that I was raising a rather inpatient back seat driver when I heard Roslyn say, “What the heck is this? An idiot parade?”
*I used to babysit occasionally for a friend of mine. She had a daughter named Mikayla. Our girls were the same age, about 2 years old. Roslyn used to call her “Mack”. For months we thought that Roslyn had made up a cute nickname for her friend. It was so adorable! One day, I said something to that effect to Roslyn. She said “No! She’s Mack! Cause I want to MACK her”.. she then went up to Mikayla and smacked her in the face.
*Roslyn can recite this entire scene from the movie Tommy Boy...
*Roslyn was about 4 and half years old. She was playing at a local park. She and a few other girls were bouncing up and down on a suspension bridge thing. All the girls were singing songs like "I'm a Little Teapot" and "The Wheels on the Bus". There was a long moment of silence while the girls were trying to think of another song to sing. My child happily starts bouncing again and starts to sing at the top of her lungs, "THE FREAKS COME OUT AT NIGHT! THE FREAKS COME OUT AT NIIIIIGHT! FREAKS COME OUT AT NIGHT (the freaks come out!)" I could literally feel the heat of the other playground moms staring at me.
So, I will not be Mother of the Year this year or in any year to come. I'm doing a good job and so is my husband. But the fact is, we mess up. She hears things we don't want her to hear. She occasionally sees things she probably should not. She has her Momma's temper. I am not a perfect mother. I'm a work in progress, just like my daughter. We are extremely lucky that things are not worse. I mean really, she could have been singing "Superfreak". That would have just been scandalous.
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