Okay, so yesterday was a miserable day. I mean, it was sort of miserable and sort of regular, and then , of course, it was a little bit funny. Funny because that's how it unfolds round these parts sometimes, drama and comedy are close bedfellows in this here casa.
Okay. Okay. June 8 didn't start out like most everyone else's. It was a busy night at the hospital for me, which ended with me delivering baby number kabillion of the night at 0641 in the morning. The patient was trying my patience and I just wanted the night to be o-v-e-r. Long story. Needs to be shorter. Condense, I will try. So, anyhow, there I was, sitting on the end of Lucy's bed while she was in the mind-over-matter stage of pushing her baby out. That's the stage, as many of you natural birthers are familiar with, where that sharp and pointy baby's head is crowning, ripping your poor hiney to shreds, bomb exploding in your sacrum, legs trembling, air being sucked out of your core but the baby is right there and could be born any second if you could just say "#$%^ it" and let your body finish the contraction. If you're a midwife and you're at this stage (you personally) then you have to act cool and laugh with it (remember that, Jess, old pal), but if you're an everyday type then you have a green light for screaming your ever-loving brains out until your sweet baby emerges and is plopped into your sweaty arms. Okay, those are the two options. Nowhere, I repeat, nowhere for God's sake is it at all acceptable that while in the midst of pushing your FIFTH (5th, one two three four five), yes fifth, baby out should you stop pushing after birthing the baby up to only her eyebrows, then proceed to climb up to the head of the bed, and calmly look at me and say "no puedo." Never, ever. I tried, I did. All night long I tried to be sweet and kind and midwifey to contrary Lucy. No puedo my ass, Lucy. If you no puedo, then I no puedo. I no puedo help you missy. Now push. But push she wouldn't. Heart tones on that poor little baby were less than 100. No puedo. I calmly advised her to push. I sweetly begged her to push. I caroused and cajoled. I cried out, "puuuuuuuuuush." No puedo, I can't. Then I took Lucy's head, pressed my forehead against hers and spat out (in Spanish), "if . . . you . . . do . . . not . . . push . . . now . . . your . . . baby . . . will . . . die!"
Then, her response, "no puedo." Of course you can woman! You pushed a 9-pound baby out of your 4-foot 7-inch frame 2-years ago. Golly dingbat, cheese sauce rice, oh for crying out lound -- I shouted. Baby is wilting. The nurses stared at me with fear and anger in their eyes. Things were getting out of control. We were all in disbelief. I wrapped my hands around the baby's eyebrows and I pulled. I got the rest of the head. Still no help from the world's wimpiest patient I've ever dealt with, ever (okay, well since January). I placed both my hands into her vagina and tried to cork screw the baby out (a true obstetric maneuver). A little bit of shoulder. Limp baby head drooping downward. I swept the baby's posterior arm (or down-side arm) out, and swept is simply an understatement because the word swept has a very carefree connotation. You don't "sweep" anything out of a canal that has the suction force of a lamprey, you more or less heave. Then I pulled with all the strength the good creator gave me, grunting at her with my efforts "pujale, pujale, pujale porrrrrrrrr favorrrrrrr!" Baby out. Cord clamped and cut. Baby handed to nurse. I rushed over to the warmer where we did respiratory resuscitation. Waaaaaaaaah! And, whew. Baby's arm/clavicle was broken but otherwise Little Man was right as rain.
I came home, exhausted and annoyed. Frustrated and ornery. Baby Tova and I had a long day together of me craving sleep and her denying me of it in favor of nursing and smiling at me. After I gathered the rest of my Viking crew in the afternoon, I came home and fell to the couch, confident that Tova could be off my boobs just a little bit because the rest of the Nut Squad was home to entertain her. The most regrettable thought I had all day . . .
It's always Soren who catches them in the act. Poor little Tattle Teller, never knows when the time is right to snitch, this time he waited a little long. He was the one, at the age of 2-years, to come across Petra as she cut 10-inches of hair off her head the summer she turned four. He was the one to come to me yesterday to tell me, "Mommy, Annike's cutting her hair." Sho' nuff, I ran over to Annike, kiddie scissors in hand with her pony pulled over the top of her head snipping her ends. I snatched the scissors, grabbed the crying Baby Tova and sent Annike elsewhere. All I wanted was sleep. Oh, dear sweet Sleep, how I love you. How I want to carress you in my arms. Oh dear, I fantasized about sleeping while I stroked Tova's little head. Oh dear me. Oh dear God, what is going on here?! Tova's head felt odd, bristly, buzz cutty. Oh mother of pearl. I yelled out in my most magnificent gravelly mad crazy mama voice, "Annike Maria . . . "
She began to wail.
Tova's hair. No more. Cut willy nilly, here and there. Her precious downy hair cut off her head by a pair of Play-Doh encrusted kiddie scissors.
Lord help 'em all. Those poor chilluns of mine. The poor neighbors. Poor baldy Tova. Most of all poor me, the unslept mommy at the edge of the Cliff of Holy Nuttiness. I had few choices. Too few choices. The children are alive, most of all Annike is still breathing. I, myself, took a good breath shed a quick tear that came out of nowhere and then called my husband, whereupon I busted out in guffaws telling him the story of our cosmetelogically oriented preschooler. We shared a nice moment reflecting on the little aliens we brought into this world. Later that night, I was finally able to meet up with sleep in my bed. All is well, if not a little hairless.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Courtesy of yo' mama!
In preparation for Soren getting his photos taken tomorrow with the rest of his Hip Hop dance class I cut his hair in the backyard. I chose the backyard, as opposed to our usual kiddie salon, because Lars is eternally griping about the cost of a silly old haircut. Not that Lars would know about real costs of haircuts, Lars doesn't get haircuts unless GymFriendJen does them for free in our neighbor's yard. Enough! Enough about Lars! This is about Soren and the nice-right haircut his ol' Mamasita gave him today.
Such a handsome fellow, talking to his daddy about crystals.
While I was cutting his hair, he told me all about leaf fish. How those tricky leaf fish can hide from predators quite easily because they look just like a regular old leaf. Neat, huh?
Anyway, I'll say that haircut went pretty well . . . don't ya think?Monday, June 1, 2009
Grumpy Mommy Monday and Other Tales From This Viking's Ship
Oh dear, I fear I've been away a bit too long. I understand you've all been longing for some gut-busting stories. The fact of the matter is that the past 2-weeks just whizzed by and here I am, a near blogger drop-out. So very much has happened, most of it wasn't hilarious and some of it was so hilarious that I nearly had to go out and buy myself a pack of Depends . . . and yet, those were the sort of things you had to be there for.
All I've got is news, and here it is Grumpy Mommy Monday so who knows how it'll pan out (GMM occurs when I work the previous Sunday night and the go on with my day without sleep). Not even any pictures, which leads me to #1 news item of the day:
1) Camera Lars was "fixing" our perfectly functioning camera on Thursday when he broke the lens. No pictures, this is very sad because some picture worthy events were not recorded simply because my husband is unable to abandon his boyhood obsession of taking things apart just to see how they work. It reminds me of the time, while we were in undergrad, that I spent all my earthly wealth to buy him a fantastic watch for his birthday. We went to China Gate, the best nasty Chinese restaurant in A2. Upon opening the gift, he quickly set about taking it apart. Soon the springs in the watch gave way and the watch burst apart, little pieces of watch sproinging up into the atmosphere then buh-dah-boinking down on to the dirty carpet below. It was no use trying to pick up the pieces, that watch met a swift end. This time was a little different, for starters the camera was a birthday present for me and secondly Lars managed to break MY birthday present on HIS birthday. No camera, no pictures. Good thing I still have my sense of humor.
2) Tova's Eating Disorder Ocassionally, Tova will take a bottle. Our nanny, Hope, has had the most success out of anyone. Sometimes Lars has a stroke of luck, as he did last night, when she took a full 4-ounces while I was a work. These joyous events are still few and far between, but they happen often enough that we can appease Dr Pale Skinny Californian over at the Puppy Mill. Additionally, Nanny Hope and Daddy Lars have been feeding Super Nova Baby Tova oatmeal. She likes it. She likes it in her mouth, squished between her fingers where lengths of my hair are also tightly wrapped, on her eyelashes, and up her nose. And for safe keeping she likes to store some in the folds of her neck. She weighs over 16-pounds (50% at 6-months) and 27 and some odd inches (90% at 6-months). Not crawling. No teeth. She nurses as often as there is a fully-loaded boob around to latch onto, namely mine.
3) Annike the Champ Annike has moved up the ladder in the elite world of toddler gymnastics to fall into the coveted rank of Baby Team. Okay, it's not really called Baby Team and she's not a toddler anymore but the thing is is that I pretend she's still a tiny widdle baby and thusly, rename all her activities accordingly (Baby Soccer, Baby Ballet, Baby Team, Baby Pee Pee and so on). Today was Annike's first day of Baby Team. Petra led her out to the floor where she got to warm-up with the big girls, including with Petra. Her new coach introduced her to the other girls, all 5 and 6-year olds, and then they started their Baby Workout. There are a few things in this world that Annike fears like no other. What are these things, you ask? In no specific order, they are: George Bush, brussel sprouts, swimming in the big pool without DJ or Daddy, dinner without dessert, and the Big Trampoline at gymnastics. Coach Jill led Annike's troupe over to Big Trampoline, where she gave the girls instructions and then had them wait in line to do their skill. Next thing I know, zoom! A flash of black and purple and blonde goes streaking across the length of the gym, underneath the uneven bars where big girls are practicing mill circles, through the straightaway where the team girls are running to the vault, leaping over low beam after low beam, then artfully ducking under the high beams as she sprinted over the spring floor through the double doors into the lobby of the gym. But she didn't stop there! She kept running through the busy lobby, where several parents saw the ado and spread their arms out to catch her in Little Gingerbread Boy fashion. She raced through their legs straight for the door to the outside. She kept running! She was out the door in 3-seconds flat. Tova, who was quietly nursing, was tossed into the hands of Gym Friend Jen, I followed in hot pursuit my bra flaps unhooked, my button down cardigan open and flapping about. Annike, up ahead, was scrambling down the stairs as fast as her fluffy little legs would go. Sobbing! I heard sobbing, almost shrieking. She gathered speed at the bottom of the steps where she darted across the corner of the parking lot, heading straight for the ocean just beyond the Coaster tracks. I ran, I ran with my flip-flops spanking my heels with each step, calling to my baby, "Annabeaner! Mommy is right be-gasp-hind gasp you!" She stops dead in her tracks, pivoting on her tiny heel, pumps her sweet arms at her sides and throws herself into me. "De go-ols (girls), "she sobs, hysterically "de go-ols on Baby Team aw too bigger dan me. Dey beat me up de wope. Dey beat me up de Big Twampoline. Dey beat me up." Her little lip quivered, tears gushed down her cheeks and onto her neck all the while snot from her nose dripped into her mouth. I carried her back in the gym, I held her to me, and we watched those big girls with all their fancy big girl moves. We don't let our children quit. Our children are instructed, above all else, we expect them to be a positive participant and to do their best. They don't have to be good, but they have to be positive. Well, that, and I bribed her with a Slurpee for tomorrow after school if she gave it her best. That cheered her right up. I transferred her back to Coach Jill, who is not loving and cuddly like her old coaches Heather and Rebecca. She stomped over to the center of Big Trampoline, put on a smile, gave me two thumbs up and then shouted "Mommy, I can see your booby."
4) Kelly Gets Drunk It's true. Friday night. I drank a full Tecate, then a glass of red wine. Then I think I drank a full Corona Light. The next morning, though, I found a Corona Light opened sitting next the catsup in the door of the fridge with the top off, the neck of the beer gone but the rest was there. A suspiciously familiar placement. But I'm sticking to my story, I drank two beers and one glass of wine. With no fewer than 27-guests, I had a killer birthday party in honor of Lars turning 32-years old. I made 2-pies with my GF. All my friends joined me in jolly and resplendent glee. Our collective children played in our basement on the gym mats, in the trampoline, and out on our newly contructed swing-set. I was dancing to Run DMC and Sir Mix-a-Lot, egging my husband on to do the worm on our 'wood' floor (bruising came later) and lettin' loose. Our house boom-boom-boomed from the end of the Lakers game until the wee hours of the next morn.
5) The Issue of Thorne Wednesday night, 5/27/09, we took the kids to a horse show seeing as how Petra plans to be a farming cowgirl. Petra was enthralled, though was disappointed that there was no wrangling of things or lassos or barrells to speak of. On our way back up the coast, in the quiet car that had 1-sleeping baby and 3-drowsy cowkids Annike's little voice squeaks out, "when is Thowne gonna be hewe?" Petra and Soren shush her, coaxing her back toward the peace and tranquility of star gazing along the ocean in a perfectly silent car. We arrived home, kids shuffled off to bed with flossed teeth and jammied feet. I tied up a few loose ends and the threw myself into bed, where I lay nervously. Listening . . . Bam! Bam! Bam! My husband's voice erupts as the door puffs open, "what the faruncle!" Har, har, hars fill the house as mens' voices boom. I raced to the foyer, Thorne was standing on the tile, dressed in his Red Wings jersey, arms open to Lars' leap toward him. Beautiful Breck beside him, I welcome them to our home and breathe a sigh of relief that I no longer have to keep that surprise from my husband. Elation sets in. 2,300-miles Thorne and Breck traveled to surprise Lars for his birthday. Annike drowsily trips out of her bedroom, blinking into the light of the family room where she sets her eyes on 'Bubba Don' and shyily smiles at him, huggin him and then scuffles back to bed. Later that night, as Lars and I lay in bed with Thorne and Breck just down the hall in the Grandma Room, Lars whispers to me that he is not only surprised but overjoyed. Sparks shoot from his happy eyes and he falls asleep with a smile on his face. All is well with the world.
6) The Daily Grinds I've been working a combo of Old Job and New Job, kind of hoping New Job will grow and Old Job will shrink. Things are good. The awkwardness of working with Mr. Doctor OB is subsiding. Besides, I have a job, unlike dear friends at Visteon, Chrysler and GM. For all the 14-year old mamas at Old Job and all the 53-year old cougars at New Job, the daily grind is fun and interesting which is far more than most can say.
All I've got is news, and here it is Grumpy Mommy Monday so who knows how it'll pan out (GMM occurs when I work the previous Sunday night and the go on with my day without sleep). Not even any pictures, which leads me to #1 news item of the day:
1) Camera Lars was "fixing" our perfectly functioning camera on Thursday when he broke the lens. No pictures, this is very sad because some picture worthy events were not recorded simply because my husband is unable to abandon his boyhood obsession of taking things apart just to see how they work. It reminds me of the time, while we were in undergrad, that I spent all my earthly wealth to buy him a fantastic watch for his birthday. We went to China Gate, the best nasty Chinese restaurant in A2. Upon opening the gift, he quickly set about taking it apart. Soon the springs in the watch gave way and the watch burst apart, little pieces of watch sproinging up into the atmosphere then buh-dah-boinking down on to the dirty carpet below. It was no use trying to pick up the pieces, that watch met a swift end. This time was a little different, for starters the camera was a birthday present for me and secondly Lars managed to break MY birthday present on HIS birthday. No camera, no pictures. Good thing I still have my sense of humor.
2) Tova's Eating Disorder Ocassionally, Tova will take a bottle. Our nanny, Hope, has had the most success out of anyone. Sometimes Lars has a stroke of luck, as he did last night, when she took a full 4-ounces while I was a work. These joyous events are still few and far between, but they happen often enough that we can appease Dr Pale Skinny Californian over at the Puppy Mill. Additionally, Nanny Hope and Daddy Lars have been feeding Super Nova Baby Tova oatmeal. She likes it. She likes it in her mouth, squished between her fingers where lengths of my hair are also tightly wrapped, on her eyelashes, and up her nose. And for safe keeping she likes to store some in the folds of her neck. She weighs over 16-pounds (50% at 6-months) and 27 and some odd inches (90% at 6-months). Not crawling. No teeth. She nurses as often as there is a fully-loaded boob around to latch onto, namely mine.
3) Annike the Champ Annike has moved up the ladder in the elite world of toddler gymnastics to fall into the coveted rank of Baby Team. Okay, it's not really called Baby Team and she's not a toddler anymore but the thing is is that I pretend she's still a tiny widdle baby and thusly, rename all her activities accordingly (Baby Soccer, Baby Ballet, Baby Team, Baby Pee Pee and so on). Today was Annike's first day of Baby Team. Petra led her out to the floor where she got to warm-up with the big girls, including with Petra. Her new coach introduced her to the other girls, all 5 and 6-year olds, and then they started their Baby Workout. There are a few things in this world that Annike fears like no other. What are these things, you ask? In no specific order, they are: George Bush, brussel sprouts, swimming in the big pool without DJ or Daddy, dinner without dessert, and the Big Trampoline at gymnastics. Coach Jill led Annike's troupe over to Big Trampoline, where she gave the girls instructions and then had them wait in line to do their skill. Next thing I know, zoom! A flash of black and purple and blonde goes streaking across the length of the gym, underneath the uneven bars where big girls are practicing mill circles, through the straightaway where the team girls are running to the vault, leaping over low beam after low beam, then artfully ducking under the high beams as she sprinted over the spring floor through the double doors into the lobby of the gym. But she didn't stop there! She kept running through the busy lobby, where several parents saw the ado and spread their arms out to catch her in Little Gingerbread Boy fashion. She raced through their legs straight for the door to the outside. She kept running! She was out the door in 3-seconds flat. Tova, who was quietly nursing, was tossed into the hands of Gym Friend Jen, I followed in hot pursuit my bra flaps unhooked, my button down cardigan open and flapping about. Annike, up ahead, was scrambling down the stairs as fast as her fluffy little legs would go. Sobbing! I heard sobbing, almost shrieking. She gathered speed at the bottom of the steps where she darted across the corner of the parking lot, heading straight for the ocean just beyond the Coaster tracks. I ran, I ran with my flip-flops spanking my heels with each step, calling to my baby, "Annabeaner! Mommy is right be-gasp-hind gasp you!" She stops dead in her tracks, pivoting on her tiny heel, pumps her sweet arms at her sides and throws herself into me. "De go-ols (girls), "she sobs, hysterically "de go-ols on Baby Team aw too bigger dan me. Dey beat me up de wope. Dey beat me up de Big Twampoline. Dey beat me up." Her little lip quivered, tears gushed down her cheeks and onto her neck all the while snot from her nose dripped into her mouth. I carried her back in the gym, I held her to me, and we watched those big girls with all their fancy big girl moves. We don't let our children quit. Our children are instructed, above all else, we expect them to be a positive participant and to do their best. They don't have to be good, but they have to be positive. Well, that, and I bribed her with a Slurpee for tomorrow after school if she gave it her best. That cheered her right up. I transferred her back to Coach Jill, who is not loving and cuddly like her old coaches Heather and Rebecca. She stomped over to the center of Big Trampoline, put on a smile, gave me two thumbs up and then shouted "Mommy, I can see your booby."
4) Kelly Gets Drunk It's true. Friday night. I drank a full Tecate, then a glass of red wine. Then I think I drank a full Corona Light. The next morning, though, I found a Corona Light opened sitting next the catsup in the door of the fridge with the top off, the neck of the beer gone but the rest was there. A suspiciously familiar placement. But I'm sticking to my story, I drank two beers and one glass of wine. With no fewer than 27-guests, I had a killer birthday party in honor of Lars turning 32-years old. I made 2-pies with my GF. All my friends joined me in jolly and resplendent glee. Our collective children played in our basement on the gym mats, in the trampoline, and out on our newly contructed swing-set. I was dancing to Run DMC and Sir Mix-a-Lot, egging my husband on to do the worm on our 'wood' floor (bruising came later) and lettin' loose. Our house boom-boom-boomed from the end of the Lakers game until the wee hours of the next morn.
5) The Issue of Thorne Wednesday night, 5/27/09, we took the kids to a horse show seeing as how Petra plans to be a farming cowgirl. Petra was enthralled, though was disappointed that there was no wrangling of things or lassos or barrells to speak of. On our way back up the coast, in the quiet car that had 1-sleeping baby and 3-drowsy cowkids Annike's little voice squeaks out, "when is Thowne gonna be hewe?" Petra and Soren shush her, coaxing her back toward the peace and tranquility of star gazing along the ocean in a perfectly silent car. We arrived home, kids shuffled off to bed with flossed teeth and jammied feet. I tied up a few loose ends and the threw myself into bed, where I lay nervously. Listening . . . Bam! Bam! Bam! My husband's voice erupts as the door puffs open, "what the faruncle!" Har, har, hars fill the house as mens' voices boom. I raced to the foyer, Thorne was standing on the tile, dressed in his Red Wings jersey, arms open to Lars' leap toward him. Beautiful Breck beside him, I welcome them to our home and breathe a sigh of relief that I no longer have to keep that surprise from my husband. Elation sets in. 2,300-miles Thorne and Breck traveled to surprise Lars for his birthday. Annike drowsily trips out of her bedroom, blinking into the light of the family room where she sets her eyes on 'Bubba Don' and shyily smiles at him, huggin him and then scuffles back to bed. Later that night, as Lars and I lay in bed with Thorne and Breck just down the hall in the Grandma Room, Lars whispers to me that he is not only surprised but overjoyed. Sparks shoot from his happy eyes and he falls asleep with a smile on his face. All is well with the world.
6) The Daily Grinds I've been working a combo of Old Job and New Job, kind of hoping New Job will grow and Old Job will shrink. Things are good. The awkwardness of working with Mr. Doctor OB is subsiding. Besides, I have a job, unlike dear friends at Visteon, Chrysler and GM. For all the 14-year old mamas at Old Job and all the 53-year old cougars at New Job, the daily grind is fun and interesting which is far more than most can say.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Bussin'
Yesterday Lars took the day off of work so that we could go car shopping. The night before we found the perfect 10-passenger Sprinter on-line. So perfect because if would fit our current family of 6 plus four more, you know, just in case my uterus was ever revived from the un-living to one day carry quads.
Alack, alas, it was not to be. The Sprinter didn't work out, so we went with Plan B.
Plan B had historically been Plan A for most of our lives, and unlike my uterus it WAS revived yesterday.
On our way up to LA to look at the three cars that we had picked out, Lars and I discussed our negotiating plans, our bottom lines and our upper limits. We went to the first lot, test drove the car with a moon roof, I did the talking per Lars' request and then went to the next lot. (The first lot was a for-sale-by-owner lot, so the guy that owned the place was not the salesman he simply acted as intermediary).
On our way up to the next lot, in a not so nice area of LA, we reviewed our bottom line and steadfastly agreed how the deal would go down. Our terms or walk away. Our terms.
So, we trot over to the car where, Juan, the slippery salesman lecherously eyes us. He pops open the trunk end, the engine, shows us the seats and then sends us on our way for the test drive. Lars and I review our plan again, our set-in-stone plan. I slapped Lars on the back and gave him a you-can-do-it smile. He weakly smiled back at me as the color drained from his face, we pulled into the lot and then he turned to me and frantically whispered, "I can't do it, you do it."
Ugh.
Now here is the moment in my life where I can choose to pass it back to my strapping man-of-a-husband and tell him all about gender theory. I could be a weenie, too. Or, I could show the world how it's done, write the manual and make millions. This would be the first time I've bought a car without calling my dad first, but we just bought our first California house without his input (always had it with the other houses) and I was feeling like I could DO it! I'm choosing millions! No weenies for me!
I hopped out of that cute little ol' car, strutted over to the engine where I opened up the hood, hands on my hips I said things like "hmmm, err, pwwwshh," and all those manly noises that go with car buying. I kicked all the tires with my flipped-flopped feet and didn't even flinch. Then I walked over to Juan, crossed my arms in front of my ginormous ta-tas, looked him in the eye and said, "Juan, we'll take it. And, Juan, my amigo, I will pay you the full price that you have listed on the front of that vehicle."
Juan smiles at me.
"But, Juan," I say "that's out-the-door. I'm talking tax, I'm talking title and I'm talking licensing."
His face falls, he throws his hands up in the air. We go back and forth, back and forth. He comes down a scooch, I come up a scooch. We get to our upper limit, I use the Hail Mary of, "Juan, see, here's the deal. I've got a husband and four kids to support. I know you don't want them going shoeless. My little girl wants to take ballet, Juan. See Juan, if I pay you that price, then basically what you're asking me is to tell my little girl that she's never gonna be Maria Tallchief. Now Juan, I appreciate what you're telling me. I can see that it's a nice car. I really can. She's drives real good, Juan. But this is my bottom line."
Juan stutters. He tells me he can't go any lower. I pick up baby Tova and I walk outta there, the superhero that I am. But wait, something is not right. My husband is still standing there, mouth agape, staring at Juan and the vehicle beside him. I get in the car, I yell to Juan/Lars,"you have our number Juan, so you just go ahead and call us when you change your mind. WE'RE LEAVING NOW!"
Lars slowly walks over. He gets in the car and shuts the door. Then he turns to me, and in the voice of a mother deeply disappointed in her child he says, "Kelly."
Wh-wh-what?!
'Scuse me?
Super-hero-money-saving-million-dolla-momma say what?
We start driving back to the southbound highway. I demand Lars for an explanation of his "Kelly," comment. He says, we shoulda bought it. Water filled his eyes.
We agreed! We agreed ahead of time. We said we wouldn't go over our limit, not for nothin', not for one dollar and not for one penny. No way! No how! I did what HE was supposed to do and then got the "Kelly" for it.
I nearly ripped his eyeballs out, 'cept I had just trimmed my nails so I didn't have any leverage.
Next thing I know, that man of mine is screeching around the median in a u-turn, fire in his once damp eyes. "We're going back. We're buying it."
"Oh noooooo we are not dear husband!"
"Kelly, I want THAT car."
And before I knew it, we were back in that hot and sticky used car lot. I told him I was NOT getting out of the car. We agreed! We were not gonna buy it!
He said, "I'll talk him down. I'll get him to do it."
See, that's the funny thing about it (and all you ladies out there know what I'm about to say) . . . see folks, you send a man in to do a woman's job and the next thing you know, you're paying full-price for the vehicle outta your very own check-book with your very own signature. Weenies. Lars and I are a bunch of VW lovin' weenies.
But, we are also the refined and barely-speaking husband and wife MicroBus owning duo . . .
Alack, alas, it was not to be. The Sprinter didn't work out, so we went with Plan B.
Plan B had historically been Plan A for most of our lives, and unlike my uterus it WAS revived yesterday.
On our way up to LA to look at the three cars that we had picked out, Lars and I discussed our negotiating plans, our bottom lines and our upper limits. We went to the first lot, test drove the car with a moon roof, I did the talking per Lars' request and then went to the next lot. (The first lot was a for-sale-by-owner lot, so the guy that owned the place was not the salesman he simply acted as intermediary).
On our way up to the next lot, in a not so nice area of LA, we reviewed our bottom line and steadfastly agreed how the deal would go down. Our terms or walk away. Our terms.
So, we trot over to the car where, Juan, the slippery salesman lecherously eyes us. He pops open the trunk end, the engine, shows us the seats and then sends us on our way for the test drive. Lars and I review our plan again, our set-in-stone plan. I slapped Lars on the back and gave him a you-can-do-it smile. He weakly smiled back at me as the color drained from his face, we pulled into the lot and then he turned to me and frantically whispered, "I can't do it, you do it."
Ugh.
Now here is the moment in my life where I can choose to pass it back to my strapping man-of-a-husband and tell him all about gender theory. I could be a weenie, too. Or, I could show the world how it's done, write the manual and make millions. This would be the first time I've bought a car without calling my dad first, but we just bought our first California house without his input (always had it with the other houses) and I was feeling like I could DO it! I'm choosing millions! No weenies for me!
I hopped out of that cute little ol' car, strutted over to the engine where I opened up the hood, hands on my hips I said things like "hmmm, err, pwwwshh," and all those manly noises that go with car buying. I kicked all the tires with my flipped-flopped feet and didn't even flinch. Then I walked over to Juan, crossed my arms in front of my ginormous ta-tas, looked him in the eye and said, "Juan, we'll take it. And, Juan, my amigo, I will pay you the full price that you have listed on the front of that vehicle."
Juan smiles at me.
"But, Juan," I say "that's out-the-door. I'm talking tax, I'm talking title and I'm talking licensing."
His face falls, he throws his hands up in the air. We go back and forth, back and forth. He comes down a scooch, I come up a scooch. We get to our upper limit, I use the Hail Mary of, "Juan, see, here's the deal. I've got a husband and four kids to support. I know you don't want them going shoeless. My little girl wants to take ballet, Juan. See Juan, if I pay you that price, then basically what you're asking me is to tell my little girl that she's never gonna be Maria Tallchief. Now Juan, I appreciate what you're telling me. I can see that it's a nice car. I really can. She's drives real good, Juan. But this is my bottom line."
Juan stutters. He tells me he can't go any lower. I pick up baby Tova and I walk outta there, the superhero that I am. But wait, something is not right. My husband is still standing there, mouth agape, staring at Juan and the vehicle beside him. I get in the car, I yell to Juan/Lars,"you have our number Juan, so you just go ahead and call us when you change your mind. WE'RE LEAVING NOW!"
Lars slowly walks over. He gets in the car and shuts the door. Then he turns to me, and in the voice of a mother deeply disappointed in her child he says, "Kelly."
Wh-wh-what?!
'Scuse me?
Super-hero-money-saving-million-dolla-momma say what?
We start driving back to the southbound highway. I demand Lars for an explanation of his "Kelly," comment. He says, we shoulda bought it. Water filled his eyes.
We agreed! We agreed ahead of time. We said we wouldn't go over our limit, not for nothin', not for one dollar and not for one penny. No way! No how! I did what HE was supposed to do and then got the "Kelly" for it.
I nearly ripped his eyeballs out, 'cept I had just trimmed my nails so I didn't have any leverage.
Next thing I know, that man of mine is screeching around the median in a u-turn, fire in his once damp eyes. "We're going back. We're buying it."
"Oh noooooo we are not dear husband!"
"Kelly, I want THAT car."
And before I knew it, we were back in that hot and sticky used car lot. I told him I was NOT getting out of the car. We agreed! We were not gonna buy it!
He said, "I'll talk him down. I'll get him to do it."
See, that's the funny thing about it (and all you ladies out there know what I'm about to say) . . . see folks, you send a man in to do a woman's job and the next thing you know, you're paying full-price for the vehicle outta your very own check-book with your very own signature. Weenies. Lars and I are a bunch of VW lovin' weenies.
But, we are also the refined and barely-speaking husband and wife MicroBus owning duo . . .
Welcome to our nutty little Viking family, you fine specimen of German hippy engineering. May the force be with you for another 100K miles, my brother.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
My baby! My baby! She was here just last night. I kissed her in her bed, tucked her in and checked on her twice. My baby! Someone took my baby! Just yesterday she was a bright, beautiful 3-year old in my arms. Ohhhh, ohh, ohhh, my little tiny Annike.
Then overnight, my darling 3-year old Annike disappeared. Just vanished. How could this happen?
Then overnight, my darling 3-year old Annike disappeared. Just vanished. How could this happen?
Have you seen this beautiful 3-year old child anywhere? She's gone. Never to come back, forever changed.
My 3-year old Shmooshykins is gone forever. Thoughtfully, the Toddler Monster left a 4-year old Annike instead.
Little Annike Beaner turned 4-years old at 5:49 a.m. PST. We did what we could. We crossed off her birthday on all of our calendars, we put books on her head to stunt her growth, we swaddled her and cradled her in our arms to make her small again. That little punk had other plans, and now here we are with a 4-year old. Lord have mercy on my poor mama-heart. Cause I very nearly believe that it was just yesterday when I was screaming at my husband to drive the damn car to the hospital a might bit speedier or else our baby's birth certificate would have read Place of Birth: I-94. Well that about does it. I crammed 3-babies into the tight space of 3-weeks over the span of 4-years and every ding birthday that goes by just breaks my heart.
My 3-year old Shmooshykins is gone forever. Thoughtfully, the Toddler Monster left a 4-year old Annike instead.
Little Annike Beaner turned 4-years old at 5:49 a.m. PST. We did what we could. We crossed off her birthday on all of our calendars, we put books on her head to stunt her growth, we swaddled her and cradled her in our arms to make her small again. That little punk had other plans, and now here we are with a 4-year old. Lord have mercy on my poor mama-heart. Cause I very nearly believe that it was just yesterday when I was screaming at my husband to drive the damn car to the hospital a might bit speedier or else our baby's birth certificate would have read Place of Birth: I-94. Well that about does it. I crammed 3-babies into the tight space of 3-weeks over the span of 4-years and every ding birthday that goes by just breaks my heart.
From now on, they're all grounded from growing. Except Tova. She can grow a bit more cause my ta-tas are a little sore.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Have You Ever?
Have you ever tried to get four of your own children to friggin' cooperate for one puny little picture?
With all the changes going on around here with the kids having their birthdays and teeth pulled and hair growing and sitting up, and the like, I felt that a cute picture of them was due to commemorate all their advancements.
Seems like I was the only one on board.
Didn't start out well when Maggie fled the scene before I even took the first picture.
With all the changes going on around here with the kids having their birthdays and teeth pulled and hair growing and sitting up, and the like, I felt that a cute picture of them was due to commemorate all their advancements.
Seems like I was the only one on board.
Didn't start out well when Maggie fled the scene before I even took the first picture.
Take One: Petra and Annike as my two bookends looking cute, but Soren looked like he had just spent that last few days in a Soviet bread line whilst Tova was apparently getting her guts squeezed outta her eyeballs.
Take Two: 3 for 4, but I wouldn't be smiling either if old Mr Pokey Cheeks had my face in a vice grip.
Take Three: Soren (I'm yelling), for crap's sake, leggo uvver cheeks!
Take Four: Petra is hissing at Soren through her clenched, smiley teeth (always one to follow the 'structions, ya know) to let go of Tova's face all the while it's all going down hill for Annike.
Take Three: Soren (I'm yelling), for crap's sake, leggo uvver cheeks!
Take Four: Petra is hissing at Soren through her clenched, smiley teeth (always one to follow the 'structions, ya know) to let go of Tova's face all the while it's all going down hill for Annike.
Take Five: Yeah, we lost Annike about 7-frames ago.
Take Six: But see now, I musta had the sense that I was getting there because I couldn't stop snapping away, screeching at them all to smile like pretty people.
Take Six: But see now, I musta had the sense that I was getting there because I couldn't stop snapping away, screeching at them all to smile like pretty people.
Take Seven: At this point, Annike began praying to the Baby Jesus asking about what she could have possibly done to deserve this.
Take Eight: Almost! You know, except for the perma-smile on Petra's face.
Take Nine: And then Soren started with the, er, 'bathroom noises' which worked for Annike, got Tova looking down at her dipey and got Petra near an emotional cliff.
Take Ten: I tried switching them around, see if that could get 'em good and perfect, but the writing was on the wall and I just weren't readin' it.
Take Eleven: If I could just get Annike . . .
Take Twelve: to cooperate . . .
Take Thirteen: then all I would have to do is get Soren to be perfect . . .
Take Fourteen: and then I could submit it to Baby Gap for their next perfectly, cute kid catalog.
Take Fifteen: So, anyway, I know yer all dying to get yer hands on one of the delights, I'm charging $73.99 for copies -- send the money then I'll send you the print.
Take Twelve: to cooperate . . .
Take Thirteen: then all I would have to do is get Soren to be perfect . . .
Take Fourteen: and then I could submit it to Baby Gap for their next perfectly, cute kid catalog.
Take Fifteen: So, anyway, I know yer all dying to get yer hands on one of the delights, I'm charging $73.99 for copies -- send the money then I'll send you the print.
Monday, May 4, 2009
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