Kangatopia

So, awhile back I took the kids to go feed the ducks that congregate on a nearby pond like teenagers at the Whataburger. I wrote up this little story about it in a spiral notebook I keep for just those rare moments of inspiration, and then somehow remembered to throw the spiral in my car so that I could type it all in sans edits on the computer at work, lacking as I am a computer at home. The spiral is gathering dust, chicken nuggets, fries and soda splatters beneath the passenger side seat. I’m just writing all this to say that even though I want to update more often, blogging is one of those fun things that gets pushed down the list of priorities when faced with the crunch time demands of work, home and family.

Maybe tomorrow for the picture of the day - which is rapidly becoming a picture of the every once in a while kind of category - I’ll post a photo of my cracked and bleeding knuckles. It’s extraordinary how no amount of hand lotion seems to phase them.

But, real quick, before I get back to work: Monkey is really getting into the whole dance thing. In a big leap of faith, I gave in the money my sister gave me to pay her tuition through the rest of the spring. I’m sure they’ll give some of it back if Monkey turns traitor to dancing, but you know, I’m totally trying to fill the gaping hole my own aborted childhood dance lessons left and so I will do everything possible to encourage her and keep her going.

Hence the biographical “by the way” you might have sensed waiting in the wings: I suspect that my sister always felt badly that because she ditched dance lessons at the tender age at which she took them, I in my “me too” kind of way did too. But, that’s not what happened. I stopped wanting to go to dance because my mother always got so stressed out about getting me there, and then no one seemed to care. It just didn’t seem worth it to anyone but me, and I didn’t exactly grow up with parents who taught me to take care of myself, including following constructive passions. This isn’t a “poor me” thing. Just simply that I realize I am trying to undo my parent’s mistakes through my parenting of my own children. Of course, I’m still repeating some of their mistakes and creating brand new ones. But, well… that’s just it. Even parents are human. We don’t know how every decision, action etc will impact our children because if we did, our children would grow up to be damn near perfect - engineered through their upbringing to grow into completely self-actualized adults - and that just isn’t possible in anyone. It’s a goal we will all probably spend our lifetimes trying to attain.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 31st, 2006 at 8:25 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

My mother always told me that if I don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all. I am really very angry and frustrated about the way things are going with my ex, my father and how all this affects the kids that it’s difficult to talk about my children without bringing all that other shit in. This morning I got yelled at by my son’s school principal for by-passing the long line of cars that had stalled mid-way through the drop-off point, and pulling up to the front. It wasn’t out of impatience - rather that I was trying to contribute some efficiency to a system that guarantees every single child who arrives at the school less than ten minutes before the bell rings will be tardy to class.

By the time I arrived at work, I had committed myself to a day of staying holed up in my office and trying to avoid as many people as possible. The bright, over-compensating cheerfulness as I said good morning to my co-workers, and especially to the one mentioned above, was a little freaky. My mood has lightened a little. It’s really hard to do this job when I’m feeling intensely misanthropic.

Winston and Monkey fell asleep during the car ride home last night. I thought I was finally going to have some time to clean our home and maybe breathe or meditate or some shit like that. As soon as I lifted Winston out of the car, she began screaming. Her skin itches. It’s pissing her off. She screamed pretty much all night, and I was just waiting for the police to knock on the door after they were called by the frustrated and angry neighbors. I have no idea how much they can hear from my apartment. I never hear anything but their music and tv, but Winston screams in short, high-pitched bursts and that’s got to work its way through someone’s subconscious.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 19th, 2006 at 10:43 am and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Bear is an amazing and wonderful little boy. I picked him up from his dad’s last night, took him to the gym and then home for a quick dinner composed of freshly broiled filet mignon, garlic and basil pasta and cranberry chutney with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. It sounds a lot more glamorous than it was.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 12th, 2006 at 11:26 am and is filed under Bear Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

I am usually really sleepy when I leave work in the evenings.  I possess a special little sensor embedded somewhere on my body that will wake me up before I rear end an 18-wheeler on the drive home.  Last night in a spastic fit of optimism, I phoned up my ex before I even left work and asked him to feed and dress the kids, and I would take them to the gym with me.  So, when I picked them up, they were ready but all I wanted was a nap.  I tried to explain this to them, but they are so concerned about my health apparently that they literally screamed and cried when I announced my plans to go home and sleep.  Just kidding.  The gym has a child care center that makes my children drool with anticipation.  So, when my attempts to negotiate another night failed, I packed them up and took them to the gym.  After depositing them in their unfathomable happiness at the child care center, I went to the dressing room, removed all of my clothes and sat in the steam room for about 5 minutes to contract a 2nd degree burn and fill my lungs with the vaporous wonder of Eucalyptus.  Then, I sat and watched tv until it was time to pick them up again.

Today I took a 10 minute nap in the restroom stall.  Kind of gross, right?  But it was better than trying to nap on my office floor beneath my desk - which I would do if I weren’t so chicken about getting caught.

I have no picture of the day for today or yesterday.  I tend to forget about it until the kids are in the bath or asleep, so there’s a danger that all of these pics will be of naked or sleeping babies and the story I don’t want to tell is how Mommy tends to forget everything until the last minute.

Finally, I’m officially in training.  In May I am planning on going on a fairly long bike ride, so I have started to work on my cardiovascular health, strength and everything else I’ll need to enjoy the ride and not wear myself down into a writhing mass of jelly.

Tonight I have a date with my son.  The plan is that I’ll pick him up at his dad’s, take him to the gym (they really, really love the childcare center) and then home for some one on one time.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 11th, 2006 at 3:10 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

My sister asked me what the kids would like for Christmas and I was all - well, you know, I’ve already bought all the crap there is to buy for them but if you want to get them something they can use, then you could help pay for Bear’s trip to see the King Tut exhibit, dance classes for Monkey, and clothes or something for the mostly forgotten baby. (Just kidding, she’s not really forgotten but man, she does get the shit sometimes.) My sister declined on the King Tut thing, but she did go for the dance classes. You know how much I’ve shelled out on that so far? $168 dollars, that’s how much! And that’s just on a recital costume, leotard, tights, tap and ballet shoes and a cute little bag with a ballet dancing bear on the front. That’s a lot of freaking money for somebody who won’t even turn on her goddamned heat at night out of fear of TXU Energy and their evil gauge readings. Working in science only pays if you’re actually a scientist, and as I discovered recently - at least an MD/PhD kind of scientist. They make way more moolah than the lowly PhDs.

So, anyway, I left work early yesterday to go meet with the lady who owns the studio where my best friend’s kid has been going for years. I go in and the lady was very nice, but then she told me she needed the costume money right then. And if Monkey was going to sign up, she had to be ready to join that night’s class. ‘Holy shit’ were the words that went through my head, and probably would have also come out of my mouth if it weren’t for that I am so goddamned paranoid about cursing freely in front of adults who might judge my parenting manners and find them lacking. Anyway, this big rush meant I was going to have to rush to Monkey pick-up, possibly go through the excruciating hell of bathing, dressing and brushing Monkey hair, and then rush her off to a place that sells clothes, shoes and cute little bags for cute little performing Monkeys.

I left the lady with almost all the money I had left in my bank account and drove maniacally towards Monkey’s current lodging. Luck was with us all yesterday. Monkey was pretty clean. She was dressed and her clothes, even splattered with a little bit of grape jelly, didn’t have to be changed. Her father graciously did his bit to get her ready while I frantically called my sister to tell her about the hideously expensive nature of dancing, and then off we went to the tutu shop.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I had a list. The nice lady running the shop picked out the shoes. I gave Monkey a choice of the four cheapest leotards, and she chose one. The nice lady gave us tights for Monkey’s legs. Monkey picked out her bag. We were done. I dressed Monkey in the dressing room, she showed off for the nice lady and then every other nice lady we encountered between the shop door and the car, and then she even went inside 7-11 with me while I stocked up on Diet Coke and showed off her extraordinary cuteness for the customers lining up for cigarettes and lottery tickets within.

Finally at the studio I, for the apparent amusement of all the other parents, showed Monkey how to change her shoes and then I took a picture. Monkey even chose her pose. I have no idea where she got the idea that this is the proper stance of a ballerina, but she felt strongly on this point.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 10th, 2006 at 10:50 am and is filed under Monkey Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.