Return to the good old days

Okay, it's not enough that I don't have enough time to read all the blogs I want. Now there are VIDEOS to watch too?

This - I actually thought was hilarious.



I guess you have to be of a certain age.

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Cute little mailboxes v. the metal slam of a tiny flap

I lived in a series of places, for a number of years, where you had to go someplace to get your mail.

And this irritated me. Because as responsible a person as I was, I would still forget. For a week or more at a time. And then you go and get things and whoa, there’s a lot of mail there to go through.

(Even, once, there was a key in my mailbox. I had no idea what it was for. No one ever told me! I’d never lived in a place like that! So I took it home for awhile. And after awhile, I took it back. And it went away. And I never thought about it again.

Turns out, SOMEONE had sent me a package. (The key was to the shared over-sized mailbox next to the bank of smaller boxes. Who knew.) I still have no idea who sent me something, or what it was. But the imagination can run wild . . . the missed package. What WAS it?)

Anyway, then I moved to a place with mail where it is supposed to be – out in my own, single, mailbox. Even better, it was in a little classic-styled mailbox, attached to my white picket fence, at the top of a short series of stairs that bordered my flower garden. Just steps from my front porch. What could be better than that? I checked my mail regularly, because it was all just so cute.

(Come to think of it, when I lived in LA (the box described above was in Denver), I had the same set-up. Loved it.)

Now, even weirder, in some strange, throw-back, Mayberry in Sci-Fi land (have you seen XXX yet? Because that’s where we live), they put the mail IN MY HOUSE. It goes straight through a hole in the door, into a semi-large wooden box hanging there.

And it’s even more annoying than ever. Because I feel, constantly, like I’ve already gotten the mail. Because it’s in the house! But I haven’t. Because it’s just piling up and piling up in the box. I hate to say, sometimes I know how many weeks it’s been by how many The Week magazines are in there. If you get what I’m saying.

Well, you can see where this is going.

Time to go wade through my mail.

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The crimping. It's painful.

So I'm feelling it now. This whole going - back - to - work - thing, wasn't - it -easier - when - I - stayed - at - home thing.

(If you're new here (and welcome!) I was a stay at home mom for four years. We have a four year old, and a two year old. Both girls. Both handfuls, in totally different ways. Whoops, I've digressed! (Per usual.)

This summer I went back to work. For a number of reasons. First, eventually I was going to have to. If we wanted to do things like put our kids through school and do anything else, ever. Like retire.

It was a little early, but the right opportunity came up. And frankly, I was kind of ready. More like really ready.)

But I've seen it now. That stricken look on the face of my two year old when she hears mom is leaving - again. The pang in my heart when the playschool teacher says, they really shouldn't stay this long, they're too young - as I sign up my four year old for the afternoon session too.

And that feeling I have - that sinking, this isn't right, feeling I have - when I realize I haven't seen either of my children that much on a particular day, or when the sitter tells me things I never knew about my child, or when I realize I just don't have those days anymore - the ones where you hang around together all day, and have a little routine, and march through your day, and you're there all day - with the little one. And I never really had that with her. Her first year and a half were spent traipsing after Little Big Girl's day - HER gymnastics class, HER swim lesson, HER ballet class.

We never did Baby's stuff all day. And now that Little Big Girl is in play school more - even if I weren't working surely she'd be there three or four mornings a week - we could do that. But now we can't. Her day, all day (most the day), is with the sitter. And they have their routine and their day and the things they do.

It crimps my heart a little.

It crimps my heart a lot.

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It's raining! Right near my high chair!

It's been raining a lot in New Mexico lately.

Which, when you have a flat roof, and one that ponds, is not a good thing.

In the winter we're pretty good about it; it snows, we get up there and sweep the snow off the roof. Before it melts. And ponds.

So when it RAINED I don't know why it didn't occur to us to get up there and sweep the rain off.

But you can see where I'm going with this.

The other night, at like 11:00, when it had rained ALL DAY and then the water sat there ALL DAY and still we didn't think about it, Spousal and I were standing by the dining room table chatting. And Tiny Person was up because, well. She had just decided she was done for the night. But that's another story.

And then - drip. And - drip. What was that? I ask Spousal. What? he says. That drip noise, I say. And I see one flash by me, onto the dining room table.

Oh, man! I said. Oh, man! says Tiny Person.

Oh. Man. says Spousal.

And we all looked up at . . . the ceiling. We can see this little line of water running down the side of the beam that is there, gathering at the bottom to make another drip.

Although the roof ponds, it had never actually leaked before.

Of course, we were so good about shoveling the snow, weren't we. It never had the chance. But this rain! This sneaky, it - already - lands - as - water, rain! It faked us out!

And while we debated what to do next (eventual conclusion: someone (me) gets to go on roof and shovel the water off. At midnight! Whee!) Tiny Person arrived at her own solution.

As we looked down from the beam to the drip on the table, she burst into song.

With all her two-year old voice, she sang:

rayn, rayn, go a A
Come again a ud der ay
uh uh, uh uh, uh uh, uh
Mmmm mmmm mmmm mmm mm mm mm

It was such a cool perspective. It IS rain! In the house! It's raining in the house!

Okay, it's not a GREAT thing. It just was a cool perspective.

(And I wish the song was a little more effective. The sweeping was completely effective. And actually kind of peaceful and zen-like in the mountain air, once I got used to being on the roof at that hour.)

(For the record, and for the worry-warts amongst us, we had lights, and the edge was clearly delineated, and I don't think it was any more unsafe than being up there in the day. Just a little weirder. I even had a neighbor stop by in their car to watch the goings-on. This being a small town, eventually I will find out who that was.)

(And the sweeping sweepstakes was not won on gender. Spousal was just getting over a strained back. My choice: let him sweep, or go another two weeks without anyone else besides me picking up the floor. Sweeping at midnight it is!)

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Those crazy gals

Wow. So the Mommybloggers keep threatening to interview me.

And they did! So, wow! Maybe it will be up today. Maybe if I didn't send them the answers too late tonight (this morning.)

If you were inspired to visit, Welcome! I am thrilled you stopped by.

Crib Ceiling isn't really about Cribs or Ceilings. Hope you like it anyway.

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Foible-full like any other

So I'm having this problem with the blog. Really. (And right in time for my Mommyblogger interview!)

One of the best things about blogs - reading them, writing this one - is admitting human foibles. Man, isn't it great to know it takes Amalah four hours on the bus to get to Gymboree, or more to the point, that they haven't gotten their car fixed yet? Or that Heather . . . sat on her porch when Leta was little and thought about walking to that end of the block, or down the other way to that end of the block, either way to a whole other life? Gawd, yes. That's the best part. Because at what point haven't we been there? At either of those places.

And my problem is . . . I don't feel like I can admit my foibles here any more. And not because of my Shiney Interneters, or some fake image I'm trying to put up now.

But because of people I actually know. A couple people in my life, who live for those foibles. Who hoist them up, and see, say! Our view of the world is right! You are foible-full! More than any other! And certainly more than us!

It may not be what they think. But it feels like what they think.

And it makes it hard to write this blog.

That sucks.

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And one from Little Big Girl

And here's the other kiddo tidbit:

Little Big Girl (age 4) LOVES to read catalogues. And by reading we mean, stays in her bed at night before lights out, perusing all the pictures of toys. Perusing until the shiny crisp catalogue pages revert to their soft raggedy clothness.

(Background note: she may be a little confused on the actual ordering process.)

The other day LBG saw an ad for something, and said - Oh yeah! I ordered that.

Me: Really? When did you order it?

LBG: When I was three. Also, when I was two.

(Pause. Looks at me with a straight face.)

LBG: It's a little slow getting here.

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Thanks. At least she's honest.

I do have a couple little tidbits from the munchkins that just cracked me up. Er, something like that.

First, from Tiny Person. (That is her new name here. "Toddler" isn't exactly the right phrase or phase any more. We missed that for purposes of the blog.)

Anyway, the other day I was holding her and I said (and excuse me ahead of time): I have to go potty. Do you want to stay here or come with me?
Tiny Person: Go wif you.
Me: Okay. (Walks towards restroom. Conversation continues.)
Tiny Person: I want to see Mommy's naken bommum.
Me: Oh, you do, do you?
Tiny Person: Yeaaaaaaah. Is so HUGE!

Great.

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Enough of that. Already.

Well, my little charity event / garage sale / sociological phenomenom is over, and although there was the good and the bad, I am a little too steeped in it - or should I say, weary of thinking about, which I had been doing on and off for months and was living and breathing it for the last few weeks not to mention non-stop for the two days prior and two days of the event - I just can't say any more about it now. Clearly, this was already too much.

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I volunteer because I care. Also, I get to be the Boss.

One of my volunteer activities is upon us.

It's going to be a busy couple of days but it's going to be fun!

By popular request - okay, there were at least two of you : ) - I will post a picture of my new tattoo next week.

Because let's get real. You may have forgotten all about it by then - but it will still be on my face. (Although I would remember such a thing on your blog. Oh yeah! That ink thing on her (his) face! Pierced through by a two year old!)

See you on the other side.

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I've got a new look

I got a tattoo this evening.

I wasn’t even planning to,

We were sitting in the lobby of a restaurant waiting our turn to be seated. Toddler was in my lap, Little Big Girl next to me. The girls were sweetly passing the page box the hostess had given us back and forth, thrilled with the idea it would light up when it was our turn. (Yes, we live in a small town. No restaurant here needs such a thing.) In between holding the box, they were coloring, using the Glo and Gel and Psychedelic pens I keep in my purse for such occasions. Everything was pleasant. (You can see where this is going, right?)(Or can you?)

I noticed Toddler had set the cap to her pen on the seat next to us. I picked it up and suggested she could put it on the back of the pen. As I made a motion to show her that, she let out a blood-curdeling “NOOOOOOOO!” and swung the pen straight up, away from my hand, with all her might.

Right into my face.

Deep into my face.

I knew two things right away. This was a sharp, stabbing pain – literally – and she hadn’t hit my eyeball. She was immediately below it, but still.

“Ow!” I shouted, grabbing my face. Spousal - who’d been off randomly looking at things – I thought it was wall things – Gawd I love chains – but in retrospect I suppose it was the football game he could see through the glassed wall into the bar (a little symbolism there?) – was quickly at my side, surmised what had happened, and asked if she’d hit my eye.

All I could get out was: I – have – to – put – her – down –so I – don’t - - - slap – her.

Slap her, hell. I was ready to throw her across the room. I had to put her down NOW. And so I did, in an actually gentle manner. But still. Being evicted from The Seat Of Choice, with a clearly pissed off mom barely spitting out words – Toddler lost it. She started wailing full scale at the top of her lungs. Spousal scooped her up and took her outside.

I stand up to go assess the damage – and realized – Spousal’s outside – but Little Big Girl is sitting here, contentedly drawing, apparently oblivious to my crisis – the hostess shows up to seat us – the light thing is blinking – I didn’t know which way to turn. I popped my head out the door – face still in hand – said something like “uhhhhhh” – and the next thing I knew we were all marching down the hall after the chain employee. Little Big Girl leading the way, dancing down the hall, waving the madly blinking box over her head, me holding my face, Spousal carrying a still screaming Toddler.

The employee stops at the back of the store and starts working on a computer screen. We gather around her – me with the face, Spousal with the screamer, Little Big Girl still dancing. The employee looks up at us, a blank and somewhat frightened look on her face. “Uh . . . hostess?” I manage to get out. She just shook her head.

Apparently Little Big Girl saw the lights go off on our pager, hopped up, and followed the next uniformed employee who wandered by.

We trooped back to the front, where the actual hostess was entering our page number again.

We somehow got to our table and I left to finally assess the damage.

It was impossible to get the ink out. It’s way down in there, like a quarter of an inch. Even with the harsh chain restaurant sink soap, it wasn’t budging.

It could be, like, one of those Marilyn Monroe moles. Except it’s in that area around the eye the cosmetics people call “the fragile area”, rather than near my mouth. So it doesn’t really look like a sexy mole. It looks like my toddler stabbed me with a pen.

By the time I sat back down, after scrubbing it and what not, I was calmed down and resigned. Apparently Josh, our waiter, had already been by and introduced himself. We were just having a serious family discussion with Toddler – both parents back and forth, Toddler sitting across the table with huge, huge eyes looking at us - now honey, sometimes parents have to take things from you – or help you with things – you can’t just scream and move things away – you really hurt Ma – Hi! And what would YOU like to drink tonight? Uh…. I - I - I’m just not ready to decide that right now – a crestfallen and slightly confused Josh wandered off – uh, yeah. So that really hurt Mommy, honey. What do you say? (delayed pause – eyes even bigger) I sowwy Mommy. Me: That’s okay, honey.

(Will Josh come back and take our order? asked Little Big Girl . She loves to use people’s actual names and always remembers them. She called Josh Josh throughout our entire meal – Thanks Josh! – These are good apples Josh! - and even on the way home when she was talking about him. “That Josh sure was a nice waiter, wasn’t he, Mommy?”)

I don’t know if the lesson sunk in with Toddler or not. I do know she made a big effort to make amends.

Half-way through dinner she wanted to come across the table and sit with Mommy. Between bites she kept hanging from the back of the booth, her face in front of me, looking up lovingly at me. And towards the end of the meal, she sidled up next to me, standing on the bench seat, and said, “I love you, Cuckoohead.”

I love you too, Sweetie. Tattoo and all, I love you too.

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Speaking Toddler

I wan a pink dah sanech.

What?

A pink dah sanech.

A, what?

A PINK DAH SANECH!!

Oh, a peanut butter sandwich. Why didn't you say so?

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And all because I can't concentrate at work (I wrote this long post this evening...)

A little Friday - weekend - Monday - because - Shiney - Interneters - seem - to - disappear - over - the - weekend (except for you renee! Hi!!) - wrap up (because that's when you'll read it):

First - Scrubs. Oh my god, Scrubs. How did I miss it all these years? Through some weird temporal - television coincidence deal, I've turned the tv on the last few nights right when it was on. To the right channel and everything. Weird. Really weird because all we watch is through Tivo and I'm too lazy to find out right now what we record (and never watch) that sets me up to watch Scrubs when I finally get the baby to bed. (Baby! Ha! Did you see I said that? TWO YEAR OLD, I mean.) Anyway, a very long setup to say, Damn - that's a funny show!

(The way this post was written in my head was: Scrubs. Hilarious! Somehow I edited it LONGER.)

2 - We went to Santa Fe yesterday to see the kid's Giigii. No one knows how to spell it. She spells it "Gigi", which I tell her is prounounced, you know - geegee - like the French Poodle - but she carries on with that anyway. (You really say it more like: hard G - ee, hard G - ee.) (I told the kids on the way down - Hey, kids! Call her Grandma today! - just because I thought it would be funny. But the kids were non-participants in my little joke. No! They retorted. She's our Gigi! Yeah, I said. But wouldn't that be funny? No! they said. Gigi! Gigi! Gigi! Etc. on down the mountain for an hour.)

3 - Mom was in town - well, in state - to promote her latest book. It's a big seller! Hot off the presses! NY Times Bestseller list even! So go buy it quick. She was in Albuquerque for the day to promote it, and up in Santa Fe to sign books in bookstores (all sold out! oops!) and luckily have lunch with her Grandbabies. It was fun. Plus the kids got these amazing shoes out of the deal:

(Thanks Gigi! They love them!)

(Four - yes, two and three refer to the same person / event.)

Five - I can't seem to find a happy place to sit at work. It's not like it's my choice; they pretty much put you where there's a seat available - but still. First I was over in the corner - nice, could see the light, but near "the gang". (Yes, it is a cube farm. More like cube garden, but still. Not like those offices I left behind in The Law.) Then I was moved up front to accomodate a new "team" that needed seats together, one being my old corner seat. (I sound bitter, but not really. I understand the need for team closeness.)

(WARNING RRR RRRR RRRRR WARNING: Total side note story!! When I worked in software as a product manager, I remember when a new boss came in and insisted I sit near him. Upstairs. With management. The entire team I worked with, including the Development Manager, System Architect - who I negotiated with DAILY to decide which features would be included in each deliverable - and the entire team of developers - who, trust me, will build whatever they damn well please despite what the Product Manager, Development Manager, or Architect decide if no one's around to clarify when they have a question - were all downstairs.

I'm sure in theory it sounds like a good move - that's it! sit by senior management! blend with the upper muckymucks! - it was totally unworkable. Plus I saw them as - and they were - totally ephemeral. The senior management in that place switched out every six months. So why bond when they'd be gone in a few? Plus it was us middle managment / workhorse - programmer types that kept that place together. (Or so we thought. Of course, we did design, build and deliver the only work that brought in the money that kept the doors open . . . blah blah blah ancient history.)

What I do know is that I literallly never sat down in the chair in my space upstairs. My little potted flowers the boss before had bequethed me died. I never unpacked a single box. I had my crap there, and took only my computer downstairs and camped out at various workstations. Yeah, that was effective. Even when the boss later - after several succesful deliverables! - insisted I actually move into the office he arranged for me - down the way from his - I still would only leave a sweater there, turn on the lights, and go downstairs to work. Retrieve my sweater at the end of the day. (I think we had one deliverable where I spent most my time there. The features in that one...who knows what those programmer boys and girls were thinking but clearly they couldn't find me for a question or two...)

Anyway. Eventuallly that boss was gone too and I moved back downstairs via squatter's rights (we had a classic start-up oversized, under-utilized, find furniture where you can, type building) before the next manager showed up. And every deliverable was beautiful if I do say so myself.)

Well. After that long diversion . . . the point is, I can't concentrate where I am. I think I need to take my computer and my phone and my notebook some days and move to the conference room. (I can hear the rest the office now - Who does she think she is? Some ex-lawyer or something?) Yeah. They don't know about my software seat shenanigans. I am *serious * about sitting where I can get some work done.

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At least now we know

Baby-Toddler was demanding something in the back seat today.

Little Big Girl: You're not the boss, Baby-Toddler.

Baby-Toddler (without skipping a beat): I AM TA BOSS!!!

(Poor Baby-Toddler. Big sister and I started laughing so hard - neither one of us expected that response, I guess. Then sister kept asking her, Who is the boss, Baby-Toddler? Are you the boss? Because she really wanted to hear her say it again. Baby-Toddler just got kind of pouty and red-faced and wouldn't answer the question again. I guess she showed us - she really is the boss.

But if you've been around here, even a little bit, you knew that already.)

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Prada purses make me existential

I love a new purse.

Love love love.

But part of what I love – okay, almost all of it – is the chance to Start Over.

I love putting in, to a totally empty purse, just what I need – my wallet, my lipstick, my keys. My phone. I even clean out my old receipts from my wallet before I put it in the new purse.

It’s not about a purse. I know that. It’s completely existential. The perpetual chance to start anew. To start fresh.

(And it’s not that I leave the old purse messy. Oh no. I never do that. I take the opportunity to clean it out too. Because someday, soon, it will be called back into service. And it has to start clean.)

It’s also why I like – I think – moving. Starting over in a new house, empty shelves and closets and whole rooms just waiting for me to put- just put - only the things we need, and nothing more. The chance to jettison everything else.

(That’s the dream of moving, anyway. It doesn't always work that way. Okay - it never actually works that way.)

It explains why I fall in love with every other vacant home I see.

None of the lived-in ones, no matter how nice. They don't have that same appeal.

It's good I go back for a second look, to these vacant homes. Either by happenstance with work, or, for some, by bringing my family with me. Because I've fallen in love and they have to see the beauty that could be in the new home. And then I see the house - a flaw here, something that won't work, for us, there. The fact it is vacant becomes less appealing.

And, we’re not in the market to move, anyway. Not really.

So I console myself with getting rid of things here. Taking the time, in the evenings, and all of last weekend, to pull out the contents of closets, and pile up what we no longer need, and prepare to get rid of them. This to sell at the Resale, this to be given away to charity, this to go to our cleaning lady, who needs clothes and blankets for relatives far away.

It’s not as good as a Huge Clean Purse aka New Home. But it helps.

And in the meantime I get a new actual Clean Purse.

(And to prove this is not just an existential ramble, here’s the purse I bought recently:



Oh, and - can't see the label? Let me clear it up for you.



I'm sure the Prada label will help me feel even better about having a new purse.

And let’s be really clear - I bought it at the New Mexico State Fair. For $25.

I guess the label police haven't really made their way out west yet. The booths were everywhere. Lucky me! I mean - I'm sure they're legit.)


(The acquisition was just like this. Except, you know. Not hats. Purses. And me. And Spousal. And two kids. And I don't own a blue checked shirt. Oh and also? Spousal corraled the girls while I perused the knockoffs selection. Otherwise - just.)

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