Got kids?

This evening has not gone well. When I took Elle to gymnastics, I actually had to stay outside in the cool air so the chill would lessen my desire to projectile vomit (Got kids? You know the morning sickness tricks! and NO I'M NOT PREGNANT JUSTNOTFEELINGWELL!!!!) and ended up missing my daughter being singled out as the best straddle-handstander in the class. But as my mother was checking me for lice tonight (Got kids? Don't judge! You'll end up getting pinworms if you judge me!), my mini-me threw this little gem in front of me:

"Dear Mom,
I am sorry you are feeling ill and having a bad day but something is hidden in my haert and it's called love and care. I love you.
Love,
Elle"

Please, oh please, tell me that she'll always be my biggest, most adoring fan! No? Okay, then lie to me. Seriously, folks. When does this stop? Not that I want it to. I simply want to know when to expect these less and less frequently. Because at our current rate, I'm getting two letters a week. It's become easier to organize her paper-gifts since she no longer draws me one thousand pictures a week and orders me to hang them on the refrigerator and then store them in the "pretty box" for all of eternity. Or until she deems them too ugly to keep as mementos. No, no, no more of that. We've graduated to real letters. With WORDS!

Ever wanted to know how to make love like a porn star AND be the boss of lunch?

My daughter and I go to the public library alot. She has her own library bag and library card and everything. Apparently, her card (for an minor, obviously) was incorrectly entered into the public library's system and allowed someone (read as not us) to check out a book with the word "PORN" in the title.

After I found this renewal ticket in Elle's library bag, I laughed so hard I hurt myself. Then I showed everyone I know and we all laughed some more. Then I worried about what if someone/not us didn't return the book on time. Did I incur late fees? So I called the library and asked the assistant to look up my daughter's ticket.

"Magic Tree House....blahblahblah...Junie B. Jones...blahblahblah (all, I might add, completely appropriate for her age group)...that's all."

There was no sign of the porn star book. Someone/not us had been a responsible patron and returned the book on time. So I explained to the assistant what had happened and I could tell she was stifling a laugh, probably on the other end of the line shaking her head and thinking, "Oh, lord..." and trying to stay professional. I, on the other hand, was at work and whispering the words "porn star" into the telephone because those two words are not on my list of words to shout out randomly while at work. But, in the end, we just couldn't help ourselves.

Honestly, I haven't looked it up yet. This book. Some coworkers and I were trying to figure out if it is a memoir, a how-to instruction guide, or a lame story about a guy who once banged a porn star and is trying to get rich by selling dirt on her. I'll go look it up now, but before I go - thank you, Jacksonville Public Library, for brightening my day (and, more than likely, somebody else's day, too!).

700 miles

Last weekend, I packed the kid and two suitcases into my little Hyundai Accent and prayed that she could maintain a speed of at least 50 mph while climbing a hill. Between Jacksonville and Rock Hill, South Carolina, there are alot of hills. Personally, I like to call them mountains but I know that real mountain people would laugh at me. To my surprise, Ramona handled the mountains quite well.

(Ramona is my car. Of course, I name them. My last one was Carmen Elantra. Her mileage was running pretty high and she was on the verge of being dragged into the woods and shot but, because I'm a decent person, I decided to trade her in for loyalty points with the local Hyundai dealer.)

When I left Jacksonville on Saturday the 23rd, most of Florida had already endured 10 straight days of rain. And while the majority of the year is devoted to hurricane survival and fire prevention, nobody quite knew how to handle the 10+ inches of rain that inundated the city without a break in the weather. No sunshine, no blue skies. Just a constant cloud of depression and mood-altering grayness and the self-realization that one could never live in the Pacific Northwest. We are Floridians, for cryin' out loud!!! We need our sunshine! So I, along with my favorite roadtripping co-pilot (the Kid), gassed up the Little Engine That Could and got the hell outta Dodge.

I was greeted with a 3-minute display of sunshine in Walterboro, South Carolina. That's it. And by the time I arrived in Rock Hill, it was decided that I was the bearer of bad weather. Never in my three visits to Rock Hill (so far) has the weather been enjoyable. It's either warm and rainy or 40 degrees and rainy. My best friend declared, "I'm starting to think it's you."

After spending the weekend with my best friend, my brother, and the only guy I could possibly get a date with within 350 miles, I packed up the kid again and we said our goodbyes. With the entire day all to ourselves and three interstate changes in our future, there was no telling where we'd decide to park the car and explore the treasures of some unknown small town. My XM Radio trial period had ended that morning and I was suddenly the Trivia Master to my daughter's Quiz Machine.

"Mommy, tell me about China."
"Mommy, tell me about Texas."
"Mommy, tell me about Abrahan Lincoln."
"Mommy, tell me about Hitler."

What? Well, okay. I decided she was old enough to know the basics of world history and how tyrannical leaders have been found hiding in poorly dug holes with bags of Doritos and their bodies sore from trembling at the thought of being confronted by The American Soldier. Yes, she asked about Saddam Hussein. Or, specifically, Saddamassan, but I knew who she was talking about.

Because it was Memorial Day, we decided to stop in Pooler, Georgia, to visit the Mighty 8th Air Force Museum. I can't begin to describe the atmosphere in that building, even though, at the time, I was completely unaware that my grandfather was a part of this. Military veterans from every branch volunteer their time and knowledge (and, if you're lucky, a story of their own personal war experience) to guide visitors through what has been called one of the "most powerful museum experiences" in the country. I will agree with that as I had to offer a tissue to the crying woman who sat next to me in what was known as the simulator. She thanked me for my kindness and introduced herself to me as "a widow".

It's hard to complain about anything after meeting someone who lost her everything.


(Mighty 8th Air Force Memorial Gardens - Pooler, Georgia)

Pool. Eat. Sleep. Hug. Cry. Drive home.

A sad event brought a friend of mine down to Jacksonville this weekend. A friend whom I've known for sixteen years, as she reminded me around midnight on Night 1 of our weekend of slack. We didn't completely engage in slack. She has a baby to care for and I have a seven-year-old to care for. And I did come home while DeAnna and Delilah went to the funeral so I could get the oil changed in my car and finish a few loads of laundry. So, no...there probably was no slacking going on. But with all of our time in the pool and hanging out with cute kids and enjoying the company of my ever-elusive friend, Carolina, it is hard to remember that I did anything remotely productive this weekend.


Delilah & Elle



Elle & Delilah


Carolina, DeAnna, Delilah, and me (Elle was the photographer!)

Juice

For the first three years of my daughter's life, she was nearly deaf. She'd never had an ear infection so her ears were never checked for fluid. And because of my impatience, I'd finish her sentences for her so that the next 12 minutes of my life were not taken hostage by a toddler who was still learning how to put four words together, like "I want juice, please". Nope, my daughter could never get past word #2. So my brilliant solution? I would just give her what I knew she wanted and be done with it. Little did I know that she wasn't the lazy-tongued devil's spawn who would scream and break lamps (yes!) out of the frustration only known to her - my wonderful child who couldn't hear the words correctly in order to speak the words correctly and be propelled into the world of modern verbal communication.

Kevin Hart - I feel your pain. And for the record, my daughter was 80% deaf at the age of three due to a misdiagnosis of fluid buildup in the ears. Four hours after tubes were surgically placed to drain the fluid, she spoke her first full sentence and hasn't stopped talking since.

Explorer

This kid loves adventures on I-95. Elle loves the scenery that flies by her window in a blur and gets excited when the highway dips up and down. Her right arm starts flailing when we pass a trucker who probably has a doozy of a horn. Oh, you should see her face when that 18-wheeler belches out a special one just for her! You'd think it was Christmas. She practices her addition and subtraction on the road by reading out the mile markers and reporting to me how far we are from our destination. She reads the signs that give the names of upcoming cities and decides, on the spot, if it's a pretty enough name to make her want to live there. Pooler, Georgia? Nope. How about Dumfries, Virginia? Mommy, that name sounds dumb. Well, how does Rocky Mount, North Carolina, sound? Oooh, that's pretty. This is how Elle thinks. It's actually kind of fun to be in her head for awhile, I might add.

My poor child hasn't been outside the state of Florida in over two months. The saddest part about that is we only live 18 miles south of the Georgia state line! So, after I took my car in for a $34 oil change and walked out after having paid for a $286 coolant leak repair, I'm almost afraid to take her anywhere. For now, at least. But we have some traveling to do. And we're not gonna let some mishap on the road stop us from getting the hell out of here whenever we feel the desperate need. (This desperate need arises often since we currently live with my parents.)

We didn't get to do much traveling in 2008 so we made sure that the trips we took were worth taking! A few jaunts northward to Charlotte, North Carolina and York, South Carolina, another northbound trip to Byron, Georgia. We also had the unfortunate task of heading to Fort Myers, Florida to say our final goodbyes to one of the most awesomest grandmothers ever. But Elle and I are ready for some new adventures, in new cities...

On the list for 2009:

Key West, Florida (for the six-toed cats - I have one, pictured above! - and, of course, Hemingway.)
Helen, Georgia (because I like mountains and cheesy tourist traps, especially when they're a package deal!)
Washington, D.C. (I used to live there and never took advantage of that. Dammit. Plus, Elle wants to see the "Big Lincoln" and O'Rock's new house.)
Charlotte, North Carolina (my brother's wedding reception following the Carribbean wedding itself.)
Lexington, Kentucky (Horsies. And grass.)

So - there it is. I figure only two of those will actually happen and only after I know for sure that my car is in tip-top shape. I am in no hurry to have a state trooper escort me off the highway after a massive tire blowout. AGAIN. And I'm pretty sure Elle is in no hurry to be blown over face-first into the median after an 18-wheeler flies by her for the umpteenth time. AGAIN. Without blowing his horn especially for her.

Glue

On this night of studying for my final final (at least, until I can afford to continue studying at UNF), I'm battling a migraine, growing out of my "fat pants", and mourning the loss of my once-upon-a-time overflowing savings account (this affects me now because I'm so freakin' sick of eating pasta but it's all I can afford). I am arguing with my lawyer via email because I can't afford to call her to tell her she takes too long to answer my questions. I have a feeling I'm going to get thrown under the bus at my monthly staff meeting tomorrow. My dryer is full of dress pants from my skinny days when nothing fit me. Now they do. Thanks to all that pasta.

Basically, I'm exhausted. In every way - physically, emotionally, financially. So when Elle climbed out of the shower tonight with shampoo bubbles still glistening in her hair, I went over the edge. I didn't yell - I just quit. Elle went back into the tub, underwear still on, and I rinsed her hair clean. She knew I needed quiet time, apparently, because a few minutes after she got out of the shower for the second time, I found her in the living room watching Charlie Wilson's War with her grandparents. In the dark. Being quiet. Very quiet.

I invited her into my bedroom to watch cartoons until bedtime and she happily accepted. When Elle walked in, she asked me to close my eyes because she had a very special present to give to me. All of a sudden, I felt this crushing squeeze around my stomach and I heard my daughter say...

"Mommy, I'm gonna put glue all over my hands so you'll be stuck to me when I hug you and you won't be able to go away."

Migraine? ALL GONE.

Mmm...spiderjuice!

First of all, I should have never doubted my daughter's abilities to plan a party. And I'm not just talking about the theme here. I'm talking about a detailed agenda. Right down to the kiddie beverages, the awesome cupcakes, and outdoor playtime (conveniently fitting into the last hour of this shindig during which I could have collapsed from exhaustion - but that wasn't on the detailed agenda so I had to scrap that idea and pretend like I still had the energy to keep up with five little pre-tweens).

Candy Corn Cupcakes

1 box Duncan Hines cake mix (follow directions on the box - duh!)

1 can vanilla whipped frosting

1 can milk chocolate whipped frosting

lots of yellow and red food coloring

3/4 of the vanilla frosting needs to be split making one bowl yellow and one bowl orange. Just layer the frosting on with chocolate covering the entire top of the cupcake, then keep stacking in smaller portions with yellow, then orange, then white - you can top it off with a candy corn if you'd like, but it's not necessary.

Then, the spiderjuice...

This was fun - Elle and I went the old school route and tin-foiled an ice-cube tray after filling it up with Kiwi Strawberry fruit juice and adding some spider-flag toothpicks through the center. After they were frozen, we added the ice cubes to the Sprite we were giving all the kids. The ice cubes floated and the Sprite changed colors. 'Twas a huge hit.

I called SHOTGUN!

It's almost time for my next road trip. I love road trips. Almost everyone I know loves road trips. My daughter is such an explorer, an adventurer of sorts, and I couldn't ask for a better companion. It makes me think about those road trips I took with my family when I was a kid.

Like that time when my family lived in Italy and my dad drove us all to the border of Yugoslavia. I remember we had a small car (all European cars are small), it was orange and ugly and rusted and you could spot it from a mile away. Anyway, the mountainside next to my window had the word "TITO" spelled out in white flowers. I never knew the significance of that name until many years later (and if you don't know it either, look it up!). One of my most vivid memories is seeing the hang-gliders jump off the top of the mountain and float all the way down. Another one of my most vivid memories is how carsick I got. I think I puked a trail from Aviano, Italy to the Yugoslav checkpoint.

Then there was that one time my parents thought it would be a good idea to drive from Upper Michigan to South Florida in a Yugo. No, silly! It wasn't just them in the Yugo. It was all of us! The entire family of five + large shepherd/collie dog. We camped out in somewhere in Kentucky or Tennessee and I remember being fascinated by the fact that a school bus picked up the students who LIVED at the campground! What kid didn't want to be at camp all the time? Anyway, we packed up and hit the road again when the dog (the very LARGE dog) suddenly started drooling heavily and slopping her slobber all over the backs of our heads (she was in the "hatchback" seat). Finally, we all heard her go "blaaaaaaaaagh" and all of us little kids were screaming,"eeeeeewwww!". The dog puked.

Or that one trip we took to my uncle's farmhouse in Slinger, Wisconsin. It was a five-hour drive from Gwinn, Michigan. My mom packed some sandwiches in a cooler, a few suitcases of clothing, and our entire family of five + large shepherd/collie dog into a BRAND NEW Ford Taurus station wagon. Brian and I sat near the windows in the backseat and Nick straddled the middle hump in his car seat (this was my mother's idea and eliminated the need for "drawing an invisible line" between Brian and me). Nick had been sucking down a few cherry Hi-C juice drinks and "looking at me" for about an hour when he started complaining that his stomach hurt. We knew what that meant. Brian pushed him closer to my side so I retaliated and push him closer to Brian's side. Nick just wanted someone to make him feel better. He felt better after he puked all over the inside of my dad's brand new car. We eventually got to Uncle Larry's farmhouse where my Aunt Janice promptly offered Nick something to drink: a cherry Hi-C.

So, I'm very observant and noticed that all of these "accidents" happened in the back seat – or the hatchback, however you want to look at it. And I'm so happy it's just the two of us, Elle and me, riding up front.