Month: August 2005

Ukka, bukka

I said awhile back that I hadn’t been bored since 1983, which was when I graduated from high school. I loathed high school. I thought it was a giant waste of time because I could get straight A’s, even though I never took books home. (I did my assignments sometimes while the teacher took attendance or during my lunch hour in the library.) I had more Important Things To Do, though I hadn’t figured out exactly what those things were.

As it turns out, I understated how boring my days actually are. Repeating the same mundane tasks over and over bores me silly, as do the games and shrieks of toddlers. Washing twenty-seven glasses a day and folding clothes and stepping on Cheerios in the kitchen is dull.

Great stretches of my days are boring, leaving me with nothing to write about beyond, “I woke up at 7:43 a.m.,” and “the three-month old spit up in four places on my blue shirt and I’m still wearing it now.”

But, the boredom is peppered with funny little moments, like yesterday when my husband took our 7-year old son with him to the marsh to release the three captive frogs. My blond son gently freed the frogs and said wistfully, “I’m going to miss those frogs.” Pause. “They grow up so fast.”

My husband reported to me that he couldn’t tell if our son was joking. That boy can keep a straight face and sometimes you just can’t tell.

My daughter sings all the time. The tunes are familiar, but the words are often nonsensical. She belts out these words (to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”):

Swinkle, swinkle, little star;
How I wonder what you are;
Ukka, bukka, world so high;
Like a diamond in the sky;
Swinkle, swinkle, little star;
Ukka, bukka, world so high;
Like a diamond in the sky . . .

And so on. It’s the song that never ends. My favorite part is the “ukka, bukka.”

She ambles around the house, making up words to songs, cradling her babydolls. And every morning, she greets DaycareKid’s mom or dad with the cheerful promise, “Today, I will not hit [DaycareKid].”

On the way to the store tonight, she yawned and then piped up from the back seat: “I am not tired. I did not yawn.”

And before I put her to bed she says earnestly, “Tonight I will not cry.”

Really, it’s the little things I hope I remember, the sporadic dots of vibrant color in the gray monotony of my day-to-day routine. Because soon, she’ll realize that little stars twinkle up above the world so high and the ukka-bukka will be forgotten like so much dust under the bed.

Rushing Forward

I’m standing still and the world is rushing by at an alarming rate of speed. I’m lying on the ground watching the world fast-forward and I’m not sure if I feel the clouds skittering across the sky or the earth rotating at double-speed. I’m walking steadily, but people keep passing me, rushing, rushing, like whitewater over hidden boulders.

These last few weeks of summer erode the sand right off the shore, leaving me stranded, pining for the way things were. Except I never am content with the way things are, which tomorrow will be how they “were.” My eyes are always peering ahead or lingering on the rear-view mirror. It’s so hard to just be here, still, as the globe spins on its axis and the moon shifts in tiny but sure increments from a sliver to a shimmering orb.

Nothing stays the same, except perhaps for the pile of papers on the kitchen counter which are orphaned, doomed forever to wait for a real home.

Why is it that we mostly forget to feel the sands slipping through our fingers and yet, other times, all we notice are the particles of sand, one by one, drifting, falling, gone? These days remind me of that machine at the arcade where the Birthday Boy or Girl stands inside and tries to grab tickets that blow crazily inside. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? And in the rush to grab everything, the excited child can’t quite grasp more than a few?

The twins are almost my height now. My baby boy is heading to second grade, where he insists the kids will call him “The Cool King.” My baby girl will be three in a couple of weeks and when I scold her, she retorts in a teenage tone, “No! You stop it!” My husband’s gone gray and the leaves on those bushes by my front door are starting to turn fiery red. I look at my hands and see my mother’s hands instead.

Nothing I do can stop this headlong rush forward.

And I still need to dip my toes into the Pacific Ocean before the summer ends. My kids ought to dig in the sand and feel the whip of the ocean wind at least once this year. I promised to take the boys to the waterpark. I want to stroll through Pike’s Place Market.

Only a few weekends remain before we all climb back into our school routine and buckle up, just in case. I’ll bid farewell to the summer my children were 12, 12, 7 and 2, this fortieth summer of my life. And so we speed along, faster than I ever imagined we could.

On Not Falling to the Sticky Floor in Mirth

I read this review of “The 40 Year Old Virgin,” and decided that I had to see a movie that is “that funny. . . Howl-aloud funny. Choke-on-your-popcorn funny. Convulse-on-the-floor-and-roll-around-in-the-Gummi-Bears-until-you-get stuck-and-dislocate-something funny.”

Roger Ebert gave it “thumbs up” and a great review.

So, Saturday afternoon, when the thrill of garage-saling faded, I went to see what all the hoopla was about. I was prepared to shoot Diet Coke from my nose, choke on my popcorn and fall out of my seat onto the sticky floor.

No one mentioned that you must find the f-word hilarious to find this movie funny. My eardrums are still bleeding from the profane battering they endured. The humor often relied on the expectation that people will find obscene language uproariously funny. At least 68 times, they invoked the f-word.

Well, call me a prude, but I find the use of the f-word offensive and stupid and distracting. I expect it from fourteen year old boys who are proving how cool and grown-up they are (though, I reserve the right to wash out my boys’ mouths with soap if I ever hear that coming from them) but to include foul language in every scene, coming from every character in the movie? I don’t think so. What is the point?

I must be living in my own special bubble because while everyone else was laughing, I was thinking that this movie was not funny.

Oh, sure, there were funny moments, but I did not howl. I did not clutch my stomach. My face did not ache from laughter, nor did I spew any carbonated beverages from my nasal passages. While I did appreciate Steve Carell’s portrayal of the 40-year old virgin–the hair-waxing scene had the potential to be a really classic laugh-out-loud funny moment–the language ruined it for me. I found his use of a string of profanity to be completely out of character for him.

I know. What did I expect from an R-rated movie? I expected to laugh a lot. I just didn’t realize that what passes for humor these days is the frequent use of profane language. I really wanted to like this movie–I like the idea of this movie. I liked the end of this movie. I did not like the fact that I saw a 6-year old boy in the front row with his family. Call me judgmental, but children do not belong in movies intended for adults. Surely I’m not the only woman in America working actively to protect my children’s innocence?

I find it irresponsible to use coarse words as a shortcut to a punchline. I think it devalues language and underestimates the audience. It’s just offensive. Using the f-word like a common adjective is a lot like using a cannon to kill a fly. Ease up. A fucking fly-swatter will do.

Unless, of course, you’re trying to make a point.

And my point? Quit using extreme words for ordinary circumstances. I shocked you when I said that word, didn’t I? But when everyone says it routinely, no one is shocked anymore–except me, and maybe–hopefully–that 6-year old in the front row. If everyone uses the f-word all the time, the word itself becomes about as pungent as an old stale lavender sachet. Save it for when you really need the firepower.

Meanwhile, while everyone else is chortling, I’ll be wondering why movies are written in the vocabulary of a fourteen year old boy (no offense to fourteen year old boys, of course) and thinking that I am a fuddy-duddy.

Now, I need to go wash my mouth out with soap and disinfect my keyboard.

Garage Sale Bargains

Here are my garage sale bargains, purchased today:

Lane recliner, same shade of green as my current recliner. Perfect condition. Overstuffed, rocks and reclines. $10

Memorex television, medium size. Works great. $10

Rubber stamps, large zip-loc bag full. $2

Chunky stamps for walls, including entire alphabet. $2

Videos (Blue’s Clues, Tigger movie), 50 cents each.

Books (Too many to list), 25 or 50 cents each.

Garden tools, bread machine (used twice), basket of real eggs (emu, rhea, peasant), leather gardening gloves, $17 total.

Cordless electric hedgetrimmer, $15.

Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy (Playskool), $1.

Brand new box containing Pledge Grab-it sweeper and 10 cloths, $1.

Spending a morning alone in the car, priceless.

(I am totally the most boring blogger on the internet tonight. My most sincere apologies.)

Long Days, Revisited

I began my day with an expired chicken. I needed to use it or freeze it by the fifteenth and somehow–how? I demand to know–it’s already the eighteenth. How time can simultaneously rush so quickly and slog so slowly is one of the great mysteries of life. (The days are long, but the years are short, that voice in my head intones solemnly, while the tune from “The Cat’s In the Cradle” plays hauntingly in the background.)

I ended my day at with a recalcitrant child who did not want to leave the pool. She cried, “But I don’t want to go home,” over and over again as she trailed behind me, climbed into the car, sat in her booster seat and rode home. I rolled all the windows down to dilute the screams and turned up the music on the Christian radio station to add to the cacophony. If you can’t beat them (and you can’t beat them), join them. I broke a major rule of motherhood (Rule Number Three: Early Bedtimes for Small Children) and allowed her to watch all of the “Heffalump” movie because I couldn’t bear to hear her cry again.

And so, my evening has been quite short, just like this post. Tomorrow–Friday! Rejoice and be glad. Only one more day until the town-wide garage sale, that glorious Saturday when books can be purchased for a quarter and my children will shriek with glee over the toys I bring home and my husband will caution me, “We already have enough stuff!”

Frogs and Intense Scrutiny

Three green frogs–tiny little things–are now hopping and swimming in their new plastic home, complete with blue rocks. Tomorrow the kids will have to catch bugs to feed their new little friends. At least they aren’t hamsters. Or gerbils.

The front tire on the 1993 Mercury Sable was completely flat this morning, so my husband spent a lot of his day fixing that. He ran a lot of errands, which made me so jealous because I like nothing more than gallivanting from place to place in the car, listening to the radio and letting my thoughts wander.

I spent my day with kids, kids, kids. Nobody slept as expected. CuteBaby woke up at 9:20 a.m., rather than 10:30 a.m., as usual. Three-month old BabyBaby slept from the time she arrived at 12:15 p.m. until 3:00 p.m. She was supposed to wake up at 1:00 p.m. CuteBaby’s afternoon nap was out of kilter, too. I put him in the crib at 1:00 p.m., then checked him at 1:30 (crying), and 2:00 (poopy diaper) and finally at 2:30 p.m. (sleeping). The older kids were so noisy–if I’d given them each had a megaphone, it wouldn’t have been any louder. They talk loudly, they fight loudly, they laugh loudly, and the last couple of days, they cough loudly–which makes me think that I would be a terrible nurse because that coughing annoys me. STOP COUGHING!

My daughter and her almost-three year old playmate can not seem to get along. For one thing, she keeps turning on the hose outside and then spraying him. Then, she throws sand at him. Last, but not least, she hits him.

I’m raising a hellion.

The funny thing is that she scolds herself. “Do not hit!” she’ll say. And then she’ll say, “I will be nice!” When she hits, I put her in her bed and she’ll actually suggest it, if I am distracted. “Do not put me in my bed!” she’ll say with a mischievous look in her eye and then when I swoop her up, she starts kicking and screaming. (The other day, she wet her pants in the family room–she’s been totally potty-trained for almost a year–and we didn’t say anything. She, however, gave herself the riot act: “Do not pee in your pants!” “Pee in the potty!” “That is bad! Do not pee in your pants!” “I will not pee in my pants!” And on and on.)

By 10:00 a.m., I was ready for vodka. Only I don’t drink.

I daydreamed about leaving my house and going for a long walk and I knew that could never happen. I fantasized about baking and eating enough chocolate chip cookies to make myself sick. Again, no. I said to my boys, “STOP MAKING NOISE! STOP!” And then, when they asked, I agreed to let them invite their twin-friends over, because I AM INSANE AND MUST USE CAPITAL LETTERS TO SHOW YOU THE DEGREE OF THAT INSANITY! (And apparently I’m channeling Dooce, aka Heather B. Armstrong.)

So, it was a long day. And then, my youngest son went to a friend’s house to play. Then my husband took our twins to run errands and the other twins home. And one by one, the little ones I babysit left, leaving only me and my daughter for a moment. It was sort of quiet, if you didn’t notice her babbling.

I reminded myself tonight as I drove away from my loud house that these days won’t last forever. In a few weeks, my daughter will be three. One day she won’t insist that I hold her and she won’t follow me so closely that I bump into her when I turn around suddenly. She will not holler out my name first thing in the morning and she will not hug my neck and tell me, “You are my best friend!” She won’t compliment my clothes and stand on the counter in the hope that she can use my eye shadow.

So, I’m trying to enjoy her constant company. But I feel like I’m under surveillance and I hate people staring at me, even if they are only three years old.

As Long As I Don’t Have to Kiss Them

Because I don’t have enough living creatures to keep alive each day, my twin boys brought home three frogs today.

And it’s my job to figure out how to care for them.

Have I mentioned I’m a little squeamish about creatures that have the potential to hop and land in my hair?

Actually, only one of the frogs is ours. (Lucky us.) The other two belong to the other kids who helped catch them in the marsh. I’m not sure why we are now babysitting frogs.

In other news . . . well, there is no other news.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Yesterday, I took the kids to the church picnic at a local beach. The start-time of the picnic coincided with my daughter’s naptime, but we threw caution to the wind and partied on.

She ran from the slide to the swings, then detoured to the shore to throw rocks into the Puget Sound. Then a quick trip to the bathroom, where she refused to use the potty, though I knew she needed to go. Back to the swings, the slides, the shore and then, the bathroom again. This time, she did the deed.

While I stood in line for lunch–a good old-fashioned potluck–she crouched near two moms with young babies who sat on the kelly-green grass. My daughter adores babies and risked being distant from me just to linger in the presence of drooly, crawling little ones. (One of them is CuteBaby, the 9-month old we watch every day.)

We ate lunch and by then, I noticed one of the other 3-year old girl asleep on the ground. Asleep. On the ground. They had to do a three-legged race around her. Later, I saw yet another 3-year old girl sleeping peacefully on the ground. My almost-three year old girl was running, jumping, splashing rocks into the water, climbing, swinging . . . we were there for four hours. (The boys went on boat rides and had a water balloon fight and drank pop from the cans. Good times!)

Last night, I washed her hair in the tub. She hates to have her sparse curls washed, but she held a hand-towel across her face and told me, “I will not cry!” And she didn’t.

Afterward, she told me, “I did not cry!” Then, she thought a second and said, “But I will cry later!”

That about sums it up, I guess. Always reserve the right to cry later. Not a bad policy to have.