Friday, May 28, 2004
My cute kid
It's been a while since I told any "Emma, the Creative Genius" stories, which of course means I have hundreds built up. But two is plenty.
In the bath a week or so ago, Emma announced, "I curse you!" We'd read a few witch/magic books recently, so I knew she wasn't cursing at me, which is good.
"How do you curse me?"
"I curse you into the pages of that apple magazine," pointing to an issue of Wired about organic foods.
And then it got fun. When I protested that I'd get hungry in there, she told me I could go to the eating section. When I asked about a bed, she said there was a sleeping section. Lonely? Cured. All my "work friends" would join me in the "chitchat section." Luckily for me, there's a bathroom section, a reading section, a TV section and a bike-ride section. Any activity I could think up, she immediately assigned a section to.
About once a day, she reminds me, "You're still in the magazine. This is the cuddle (or play or music or outdoor or whatever we're currently doing) section."
What a damn cool magazine.
---
Every couple of weeks, and sometimes much more often, Emma makes a pronouncement about what she wants to be when she grows up. (And she asked me last week what I want to be. It was refreshing that she didn't think I was finished growing up yet, but a little depressing that she protested when I said "This is pretty much it.")
Her future plans run the gamut: a doctor, a ballerina, a pilot, a vet, a "bulldozer girl." Lately, though, she's been intent on only one career -- a hunter.
At first, we couldn't figure out where she got it. And we were a little dismayed that she'd want to kill animals. But as we watched her act it out, time and again, we realized she doesn't have the traditional definition of hunter in mind. She finds animals and hauls them to the zoo. Or takes care of them. Or studies them. We've tried giving her a number of other titles for this job, but she likes hunter. So she stalks around, shushing us and pointing out the nest of baby pigs (don't ask), the lion hiding in the grass, the hippo behind the sofa, waving her newspaper rolled into a map or a flashlight, depending on the moment.
Emma, Animal Hunter. Have to say, it's kind of catchy.
In the bath a week or so ago, Emma announced, "I curse you!" We'd read a few witch/magic books recently, so I knew she wasn't cursing at me, which is good.
"How do you curse me?"
"I curse you into the pages of that apple magazine," pointing to an issue of Wired about organic foods.
And then it got fun. When I protested that I'd get hungry in there, she told me I could go to the eating section. When I asked about a bed, she said there was a sleeping section. Lonely? Cured. All my "work friends" would join me in the "chitchat section." Luckily for me, there's a bathroom section, a reading section, a TV section and a bike-ride section. Any activity I could think up, she immediately assigned a section to.
About once a day, she reminds me, "You're still in the magazine. This is the cuddle (or play or music or outdoor or whatever we're currently doing) section."
What a damn cool magazine.
---
Every couple of weeks, and sometimes much more often, Emma makes a pronouncement about what she wants to be when she grows up. (And she asked me last week what I want to be. It was refreshing that she didn't think I was finished growing up yet, but a little depressing that she protested when I said "This is pretty much it.")
Her future plans run the gamut: a doctor, a ballerina, a pilot, a vet, a "bulldozer girl." Lately, though, she's been intent on only one career -- a hunter.
At first, we couldn't figure out where she got it. And we were a little dismayed that she'd want to kill animals. But as we watched her act it out, time and again, we realized she doesn't have the traditional definition of hunter in mind. She finds animals and hauls them to the zoo. Or takes care of them. Or studies them. We've tried giving her a number of other titles for this job, but she likes hunter. So she stalks around, shushing us and pointing out the nest of baby pigs (don't ask), the lion hiding in the grass, the hippo behind the sofa, waving her newspaper rolled into a map or a flashlight, depending on the moment.
Emma, Animal Hunter. Have to say, it's kind of catchy.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Motherload
With Mother's Day this month and my mom's 50th birthday this week, it's no wonder my subconscious won't stop dragging her up. We haven't talked in a couple months now (so she still has no idea of my decision), and I'm good with that. Despite the advice of some of you -- that I should just confront her and get it over with -- everything is going according to plan.
Some days, of course, I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. And this month, it's worse. It's not even that I want to talk to her or feel like I should call, it's just I've never been the bad kid before. Even in the midst of sneaking out of windows or, years later, refusing to bail her out of yet another crisis, I was the good one. And not calling on Mother's Day or her biggest birthday yet (though we haven't exchanged gifts in years and years and she's sporadic, at best, remembering mine or Emma's) makes me feel like she's telling someone how her selfish daughter forgot.
Yes, I'm selfish. No, I didn't forget.
Even if I can rationalize that while awake, though, it seems like my sleeping mind disagrees. I've been dreaming about her nonstop, the kind of dreams I used to have when embroiled in constant conflict with her. I'm usually packing -- a house, a hotel room, a dingy apartment -- to try to escape. I fight with her about little details, I'm running out of time, I can't find anywhere to hide. And lots of her family members, dead or alive, have starring roles, too. David is waiting in the truck, screaming and threatening at Mom and me. My Uncle Ricky is boozily patting my back. Jesse is young again, needing my protection.
Granted, they are better than my old dreams in one significant way -- they don't end in violence. I've killed my mom in my sleep more ways than I could ever share here. I've pushed her off mountains, ran over her with cars, shot her, stabbed her, choked her. Hell, I even cut her up with a garden hoe once. Really. So the dreams of late are a major improvement. And if I can't help but dwell on them most mornings, that's understandable.
The thing I don't get, however, is why the hell it took me so long to do this. Adam supports me, of course; he'd been quietly encouraging me to cut myself off from the pain from the beginning. But that's been dwindling the last few years, as the calls came less frequently and the chaos quieted down. So why do it now, when she's only an occasional nuisance? When I only have to see her once a year and talk to her every couple of months?
Because I'm finally strong enough. Because Emma is growing up. Because I can.
Dreams be damned.
Some days, of course, I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. And this month, it's worse. It's not even that I want to talk to her or feel like I should call, it's just I've never been the bad kid before. Even in the midst of sneaking out of windows or, years later, refusing to bail her out of yet another crisis, I was the good one. And not calling on Mother's Day or her biggest birthday yet (though we haven't exchanged gifts in years and years and she's sporadic, at best, remembering mine or Emma's) makes me feel like she's telling someone how her selfish daughter forgot.
Yes, I'm selfish. No, I didn't forget.
Even if I can rationalize that while awake, though, it seems like my sleeping mind disagrees. I've been dreaming about her nonstop, the kind of dreams I used to have when embroiled in constant conflict with her. I'm usually packing -- a house, a hotel room, a dingy apartment -- to try to escape. I fight with her about little details, I'm running out of time, I can't find anywhere to hide. And lots of her family members, dead or alive, have starring roles, too. David is waiting in the truck, screaming and threatening at Mom and me. My Uncle Ricky is boozily patting my back. Jesse is young again, needing my protection.
Granted, they are better than my old dreams in one significant way -- they don't end in violence. I've killed my mom in my sleep more ways than I could ever share here. I've pushed her off mountains, ran over her with cars, shot her, stabbed her, choked her. Hell, I even cut her up with a garden hoe once. Really. So the dreams of late are a major improvement. And if I can't help but dwell on them most mornings, that's understandable.
The thing I don't get, however, is why the hell it took me so long to do this. Adam supports me, of course; he'd been quietly encouraging me to cut myself off from the pain from the beginning. But that's been dwindling the last few years, as the calls came less frequently and the chaos quieted down. So why do it now, when she's only an occasional nuisance? When I only have to see her once a year and talk to her every couple of months?
Because I'm finally strong enough. Because Emma is growing up. Because I can.
Dreams be damned.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Thunder
Out for dinner with friends last night, the whole restaurant was watching a weather broadcast (one of those "We're sorry to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming, but this is Oklahoma, so there's a chance of death and destruction with this storm" updates). As it started to look like the storm was headed our way, we went home and turned on the TV there.
Now, this is highly unusual. Except for the occasional soccer or OU football game, we don't have the TV on in the background. We sit down and watch Dora or Peep or whatever, and then it's off. So Emma was understandably quite interested. She asked some questions about tornadoes, and we talked a little about reading The Wizard of Oz and how, no, it wasn't likely that our house would be carried off. (Adam rolled his eyes at my downplaying of Oklahoma tornadoes: "They sometimes tear up trees or fences and damage roofs.")
By the time we had Emma in the bath, it looked like the worst was going to miss us. No big.
But in the middle of the night, the storms started again. And for the first time in her life, they woke Emma. Normally, as Adam and I are listening to the thunder crash or wondering if the hail might damage our car, Em is snoozing. But the same flash of lightning that woke us woke her. And we had to make multiple trips to her room, with her begging to cuddle in our bed, before she went back to sleep.
Adam says he doesn't think she was scared, but I disagree. She wasn't crying or anything, but she was clearly worried. I started to make a joke about the Cloud-Men in James and the Giant Peach, but then realized that might make it worse. They maliciously hurl hailstones and TRY to harm the peach riders, so that might not be the best middle-of-the-night reference. Plus, they're just kind of creepy.
One of my greatest pleasures is sleeping through a thunderstorm. There's something about that constant drum of heavy rain that lulls me. I don't want Emma to worry about the weather. And we had talked to her about what would happen if we were worried about a tornado -- where we would go, what we would do with the animals, how we would be safe and sound. Maybe we should've waited on that. I don't want to ruin her excitement about a storm.
Whatever we did, let's hope last night was just a momentary glitch. Otherwise, we'll all be awake all summer.
Now, this is highly unusual. Except for the occasional soccer or OU football game, we don't have the TV on in the background. We sit down and watch Dora or Peep or whatever, and then it's off. So Emma was understandably quite interested. She asked some questions about tornadoes, and we talked a little about reading The Wizard of Oz and how, no, it wasn't likely that our house would be carried off. (Adam rolled his eyes at my downplaying of Oklahoma tornadoes: "They sometimes tear up trees or fences and damage roofs.")
By the time we had Emma in the bath, it looked like the worst was going to miss us. No big.
But in the middle of the night, the storms started again. And for the first time in her life, they woke Emma. Normally, as Adam and I are listening to the thunder crash or wondering if the hail might damage our car, Em is snoozing. But the same flash of lightning that woke us woke her. And we had to make multiple trips to her room, with her begging to cuddle in our bed, before she went back to sleep.
Adam says he doesn't think she was scared, but I disagree. She wasn't crying or anything, but she was clearly worried. I started to make a joke about the Cloud-Men in James and the Giant Peach, but then realized that might make it worse. They maliciously hurl hailstones and TRY to harm the peach riders, so that might not be the best middle-of-the-night reference. Plus, they're just kind of creepy.
One of my greatest pleasures is sleeping through a thunderstorm. There's something about that constant drum of heavy rain that lulls me. I don't want Emma to worry about the weather. And we had talked to her about what would happen if we were worried about a tornado -- where we would go, what we would do with the animals, how we would be safe and sound. Maybe we should've waited on that. I don't want to ruin her excitement about a storm.
Whatever we did, let's hope last night was just a momentary glitch. Otherwise, we'll all be awake all summer.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Cleaning frenzy
I'm methodically making my way through my house, cleaning out drawers and rummaging through cabinets. OK, on some days it's not so methodical. I'll open a cabinet door and the first three things I find that we don't regularly use get immediately tossed into the charity bag.
Between thumbing through copies of Real Simple that make me feel like my home is a disaster and having Em's new day care provider in the house every day, I feel like I should be constantly arranging dresser drawers by color or wielding a broom. So I'm doing both.
I'm sure I'll be less worried about the state of my floors when I'm more used to having a non-family member in the house so often. (And it'll get easier next week, when preschool starts. Day care will only be one day a week, so the frantic cleaning won't be a daily necessity.) But the truth is, it's probably a good thing that we have an impetus to make the beds every day. And instead of just bemoaning the state of my kitchen tile, I'm taking care of it. Sometimes two or three times a day, but still. That's not anal, right?
And I needed to wash out the container that holds our silverware. I'd just never had much reason. Truly, though, I wonder if she even noticed the sawdust piled in the corner of the drawer. I did, every single time I opened it. I just hadn't found the energy to take care of it. And we do have a lot of junk we don't use, so it's good that Real Simple is inspiring me to get rid of it.
I'm driving my family a little crazy, though. We asked Emma to put a book on her shelf the other night at bedtime. "I can't find its place!" she kept saying. I kept telling her to put it wherever; that where she stuck it would be its place. She started pulling books from a shelf to make room for it. When I got frustrated with the mess she was making, Adam pointed out, "She's been watching you for the last two hours!"
Every time I'm headed into the garage with another pile, Em surreptitiously eyes my arms, making sure I'm not carting any of her toys away. Somehow, she's not finding this as fun as sorting out what goes in which recycle bin. But when I can find our garlic press without digging through a stack of plastic pie servers, rusted bottle openers and half-melted spatulas, I'm happy. If only I could keep all the animals off my clean floors ...
Between thumbing through copies of Real Simple that make me feel like my home is a disaster and having Em's new day care provider in the house every day, I feel like I should be constantly arranging dresser drawers by color or wielding a broom. So I'm doing both.
I'm sure I'll be less worried about the state of my floors when I'm more used to having a non-family member in the house so often. (And it'll get easier next week, when preschool starts. Day care will only be one day a week, so the frantic cleaning won't be a daily necessity.) But the truth is, it's probably a good thing that we have an impetus to make the beds every day. And instead of just bemoaning the state of my kitchen tile, I'm taking care of it. Sometimes two or three times a day, but still. That's not anal, right?
And I needed to wash out the container that holds our silverware. I'd just never had much reason. Truly, though, I wonder if she even noticed the sawdust piled in the corner of the drawer. I did, every single time I opened it. I just hadn't found the energy to take care of it. And we do have a lot of junk we don't use, so it's good that Real Simple is inspiring me to get rid of it.
I'm driving my family a little crazy, though. We asked Emma to put a book on her shelf the other night at bedtime. "I can't find its place!" she kept saying. I kept telling her to put it wherever; that where she stuck it would be its place. She started pulling books from a shelf to make room for it. When I got frustrated with the mess she was making, Adam pointed out, "She's been watching you for the last two hours!"
Every time I'm headed into the garage with another pile, Em surreptitiously eyes my arms, making sure I'm not carting any of her toys away. Somehow, she's not finding this as fun as sorting out what goes in which recycle bin. But when I can find our garlic press without digging through a stack of plastic pie servers, rusted bottle openers and half-melted spatulas, I'm happy. If only I could keep all the animals off my clean floors ...
