The Witch

A few days ago, I was down in the kitchen referee-ing breakfast, when my sweet little Em padded into the kitchen. Dave usually gets her up before he leaves, and they have a little talk and snuggle, but she had slept a little long, and was just getting up. I scooped her up and started to inquire about her night. She reported sleeping well............ except for the Witch.

"What Witch, Em?"

"The Witch that sits on the end of my bed and watches me sleep."

"Oh........" At this point all the hairs on the back of my neck are freaking out.

"Is she a nice Witch, or a scary Witch?"

It doesn't really matter, I wouldn't care if it was Glenda the Sweetest Freaking Witch ever to come from the East, but I do need to know when to break out the Holy Water.

"A scary Witch. I was cwyin' cause kept trying to talk to her and she was just wookin' at me."

"Um, hmm. Eat your yogurt, and stay here, I will be right back."

Unfortunately, I am very impressionable. I don't watch very many supernatural movies, because I absolutely believe in ghosts, and I never open my eyes to go to the bathroom at night, just in case. I can easily feel my way to the toilet, and feel right through a ghost, but if I were ever to see one, they would have to commit me.

I can't even watch the stupid movie trailers, even as I am backing away from Emma, the cordless phone clutched in one hand and a bottle of minced garlic in the other, I am thinking about the advertisement for 'The Orphan' and shizzing my chaps.

Safely locked in the bathroom, I called Dave. "Um, can you come home right now?"

"Why are you whispering?"

"Emma is really freaking me out right now."

"Oh, is she talking about the Witch that sits on her bed and watches her sleep?"

"......!@$%@!#*^%&!. How long has she been talking about it, and why didn't you tell me?"

"Two weeks, and because you are a freak."

Clearly I am not "a freak", that was very apparent as I sat crouched in the locked bathroom with my minced garlic and the toothbrushes arranged in a cross.

"This is why we build new houses, and not buy old ones, so no dead spirits can haunt us until we find out who killed them, dammit!"

"Well, maybe we built on an ancient Indian burial ground. Have a good day."

And then he was gone, and so was my prospect of ever being able to take a nap in my own haunted house. It took me a few minutes to gather myself, and then I went out to see if Em was holding a seance, communing with the dead, or hopefully just finishing her yogurt.

Luckily, I had a hair appointment, and who better to be a rational sounding board, than your trusted hair dresser. In between foils, she suggested that I gather some photos of our dead relatives, and flash at Em, to see if she recognized the Witch. Sound advice. At least by the time we got home, I was convinced it was a deceased great Aunt or some other loving relative, just wanting to bask in Emma's peaceful beauty sleep. I was relaxed enough to put the garlic back in the fridge, and enjoy a lovely little nap.

That night as I was tucking in Em, I closed her closet door, and it seemed to close a little harder than I thought, and then I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye, so I hyper-tucked and got the heck out of there. We left her intercom on so that we would be able to hear her cry or talk in the night, but she slept soundly.

Tonight, as we were getting everyone ready for bed, Dave called to me from Emma's room. As I went in there, he said, he would like to introduce me to the Witch. Emma got a new night light for Christmas, and the shadow it cast against the curve of her sleigh bed, formed a perfect Witch's hat against the wall at the foot of her bed. I said, "That's the Witch?" she nodded and said, "She's just wookin' at me." Dave propped up a pillow against the wall to distort the shadow, and Em happily flipped over, tossed us a kiss, and went to sleep.

Well, I am glad we didn't overreact to that. Pshh. Just a shadow.

Salsa Rage

Sometimes I forget that I am a parent.

I never forget that I birthed the Hoodlums, partly cause I got it on home video, and partly cause, they always hangin' around. No, my parenting amnesia comes from a deep rooted sense of immaturity. That might come as a surprise to some, but that just means they don't know me very well.

We've had Mexican food for dinner every night this week. After Emma's big birthday Fajita Bar on Sunday, we had leftovers Monday and Tuesday. Then yesterday, Dave was a dink to me, so he apologized with din-din at the Don's. (What he doesn't know, is that when I went to bed without him, I tucked his pillow between my legs, then tucked the covers in tight around me, then let the hospital's "Famous Chili" live up to it's name. Which technically probably made us even.)

That brings me to today. I had lunch at Los Hermanos with an amazing girl, that I am sure is actually my twin sister, separated at birth. Besides being equally irreverent, Lani, is extremely immature, and boycotts fajitas because of the vegetables. If only she didn't live so far away.

*Sigh*

After a lovely lunch, I texted Daveskins, and asked him if he would like me to get him some chips and salsa, or was he Mex'd out this week. I didn't hear back from him, but being the loving, forgiving wife that I am, decided to get some as a surprise. Plus, I figured I would need a pick-me-up after I drove like a mad man home, just in time to attend the Hell, that is, Achievement Days. I don't understand why my church would entrust me with 14, 8 and 9 year old girls. That is such an impressionable age.

It's really like throwing a birthday party for a crap load of pre-tween giggling girls, twice a month, that starts and ends with a prayer for their safety, and my being able to make bail. It's a good thing that I have a helper, although a lot of good she did me last time, when the noise level got so loud, I had to tell the girls about their volume, setting off my epilepsy. It's Brittney, so she knows me, and really should intervene, before I go into graphic detail of their constant chatter, making me thrash, lose bladder control and bite my tongue off. I guess she has her hands, er, back full with the girls trying to jump on her for piggy -back rides. Seriously it is such a circus.

Anyway.

Back to my Mother Amnesia. I know the kids are gathered around the dinner table tonight, because I was scrambling to feed them something for dinner. I managed to rustle up some leftover Boneless Buffalo Wings with Blue Cheese, cheese quesadillas, canned peaches and chocolate milk.......... That was really humiliating to write. Usually I, or someone else, makes us a more well-rounded meal, but both Dave and I had basketball games tonight so we were in a time crunch.

Dave made himself a quesadilla, and I got out the chips and salsa from earlier. This is about the time he completely morphed into a child. He gave me the, "What the Hell, are you doing with my salsa, in front of the Kids?" look. I rolled my eyes, and stuck out my tongue, and continued on with my snack. Dylan distracted me for an instant with the need for a refill on his chocolate milk, and when I turned back to my snack, Dave had emptied all but a 1/2 inch of the salsa into another bowl.

Ridiculous.

He looked like a big, gangly nerd guarding his "test", with his enormous arms piled on each other like a fortress, and his head low to the table, ready to protect his precious salsa. In a move, even I can't believe, the Sucka had forgotten his drink on the other side of the island. Without thinking, he asked me to hand over his beverage. I am going to have to claim Salsa Rage, here, because without so much as a thought to my Sweet Lil' Things, watching, I smiled and said, "Of course." And I did hand it over, right after I dragged the mouth of his Sobe across my butt crack.

It is amazing how a silence can smack you back into your reality. It was dead silent, with the Boys' staring wide-eyed at each other, in a 'Did-You-SEE-That' kind of look. Emma, frozen, with her quesadilla poised mid-air, with only the sour cream dripping off, to indicate motion. I put the bottle down in front of Dave, and Dyl lost it. I used the giggling as distraction to grab the bag of chips and retreat to the opposite side of the kitchen, and it became a stand-off.

Two sides.

Dave threatening to drink the salsa plain, and me saying, "I will straight up smash every last one of these chips." Eventually we worked it out peacefully, with Dave pouring some more salsa in my container, and me doling out a handful of chips. The Boys got into it by ambushing me, and stealing chips for their Father. They mostly got away with it until I grabbed Dyl, flipped him upside down and dumped his head in the snow out the back door.

It was really all in fun, but how am I going to be able to instruct them on the proper etiquette of sharing, when their Father can't even be a good example, over something as meaningless as restaurant quality salsa. Just kidding, I would never demean the importance of a good salsa. I guess the lesson here, is to fight for what you love, even if you are fighting your Lover, for it.

Happy Birf-day E.B.

Emma is three today. She is a funny, spunky, sweet little thing. We all adore her and she holds an especially sweet place in each of her brother's hearts. She wanted to go to the houseboat at Lake Powell for her birthday, but regrettably the big day falls in January, so the Boyz pumped her full of alternative ideas.

We ended up at Jungle Jim's, which is always fun, and by fun, I mean dirty and sticky. They do offer tiny toilets though, and a sweet glimpse of what the State Fair folks do for entertainment during the winter. I love air brushed t-shirts, gold chains, and high hair, and certainly got my fill, while jockeying the kids in line for the bumper cars. Often times during our visit, I had the feeling that a switch blade may be pulled on me, for inadvertently butting in line, or spending too much time on the air hockey table, but Dave reassured me that whilst a switchblade would be the weapon of choice, it would probably have a comb, instead of an actual blade on the end.

She was really torn over which cake to choose. It was Diego all the way, til I actually started to order at the bakery. She loves Diego and plans to marry him, but his cake was orange and blue. At the last minute she blurted out, "I want a Princess cake." so that's what we went with. I could tell she felt a little guilty for betraying Diego, so I had a good, firm talk about making our own decisions, and how if it was meant to be with Diego, a little shortening and lard wouldn't come between them, and left the whole animation dynamic for another day.

We love this girl!

Don't Look Down

Tonight we had a very exciting new development.

The Hoodlums came home from school this afternoon all hopped up on something, so when Daveskins came home I announced, Operation: Exhaustion, and we headed to the pool. Daws has enjoyed the high dive at the pool for several months now, and Dyl has bounced on the sidelines, just itching to throw himself off the end, but just not quite daring to.

Last week he told me that his day had come, and up the tall ladder he went. He made it to where the metal bars end, and then looked down at me and said he was too scared. Fine by me. I told him to turn around and back down the steps. He did so, and repeated that same scenario 4 or 5 times before we left the pool.

Tonight, Dawson got him all pumped up for the big leap, on the way to the pool. He was pretty confident that he could do it tonight, and I jumped into the deep end, to tread and wait for him. He went up and down that ladder five times, but each trip making it to the end of the diving board, looking down at me, and shaking his head. The last time he came down the ladder, he plopped into the pool next to me, frustrated and mad. He said that it looked so far down when he was up there, but didn't look very far from where I was. I said, "Don't look down. Just look across at the wall and step off."

He shook his head and looked at me like, 'Why didn't you tell me that 5 trips up the ladder ago?' and then he was gone. I could tell something was different that time, and his knees wobbled considerably less climbing the ladder. When he got to the top he hollered out to Dave and Em, who were watching from the other pool, and looked down at me for the thumbs up sign. He strode out to the end of the diving board; his confidence fading with each step.

By the time he stood perched at the edge, his little toes were clinging for their life to the end of the fiberglass. He hastily glanced back and forth from the water below, to the wall straight ahead. He looked down at me, and smiled that kind of smile, where everything from the nose up is paralyzed, and even though the edges of your mouth are turned up, you still look petrified. I just pointed at the wall, flashed a thumbs up, and he looked straight ahead and stepped off.

It all happened in slow motion and seemed to take an eternity for him to hit the water. We were all screaming and whooping and hollering. Dawson was cheering the loudest, and the look on Dyl's face when he came shooting up out of the water, got me all choked up. He was grinning from ear to ear, and doggy paddled like a maniac over to where I was.

"Didyaseeme?Didyaseeme?Didyaseeme?" like we might have turned away for a second. He jumped out of the pool, and with Dawson hot on his trail, they jumped off the high dive like hamsters in a wheel, for the rest of the night. We had to pry them away from the pool, and even in the dressing room, could hardly get a word in. Dave and I just laughed at their continual recap of each and every leap of death.

The fervor continued as we went to the Gateway for dinner, to "celebrate" and because Dave didn't want to eat the healthy dinner I had planned. They were distracted momentarily by a word search on their menus, but each time Dave and I decided it was safe to launch into conversation we were interrupted by one of the Boys saying, "Can you believe what happened at the pool tonight?"

This is one of those times that I hope is burned into my mind and heart. It was a warm and fuzzy experience to have all of us so desperately hoping for the success of one person in our family, and then celebrating and having the happiness like it was our own. What a great night.

The Non-Alarmist Mother

I come from a long loin-age of Non-Alarmist Mothers. My Gram, a nurse, is condescendingly unimpressed with minor cuts, broken bones, and the ease of a medicated childbirth in an actual hospital, versus a tent or while hand plowing a field.

Yawn.

She hales from the days when it was kosh to ring my Gramps, from the hospital, day or night, to request a pint or two of his blood, for whatever type O pos, accident victim happened to be bleeding out on her watch. True story. I think.

Later, she begat my Mother, undoubtably, while canning jam, with nothing for the sting of labor but a piece of bark. This is where the story gets fuzzy, but I imagine my Gram, immediately putting my newborn Mother to work washing jars, or maybe nonchalance is just passed through the placenta.

I remember a time or two, when I started to learn first hand about the "wait and see" method of diagnosing injuries. There was the time I got sent home from school with a hurt ankle, and my Ma told me to walk next door to my Gram's to see what she thought.......Fractured. I think my Gram may have even had me walk home so my mom could take me to the doctor.

Then there was the time my parents were playing tennis, and Jordan and I were riding our bikes off some sweet curbs. They were probably only in their first set, when I executed a wicked poppa wheelie and broke my collar bone. I lay there for some time until the sky turned dark and the sprinklers came on. The squirt, squirt, squirt, of the sprinklers mixing with my tears...Just kidding, I am not sure who I inherited the drama from, but I did lay there about 20 minutes before the folks decided I wasn't going to shutty anytime soon.

So here I am. I am that Mother at the playground who gives a high five to the Chitlins when they fall off the swings or a quick kiss on a scrape and then pats them on the butt, to get back out there. I've waited a day or several, before getting a sore throat checked, and for the most part it's worked out fine. Like my Gram says, "This too shall pass."

When Dyl came home today, he was all a bluster about a horrible bloody wound he had incurred during recess. Apparently it was so life threatening that they had to take him inside and wash it thoroughly with soap and water and then...... a rest. He didn't mention arterial spray, but the Boy peaked my interest, with his description of the intense cleansing and debriding.

Be forewarned: The Following Pictures Are Intensely Graphic.

All this near amputation needed was a Superman Bandaid, and a kiss from Moi.

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Day 5 of Captivatiy

It is day five of my "lifestyle change." Shauna, (the trainer) can word it anyway she likes, but not calling it a diet, doesn't change the fact that when I talk about "the big change," a little part of me dies inside. At least I only have 11 weeks and 2 days to go in the contest.

There is some good news. I have lost five pounds. There is also some bad news. The previously mentioned five pounds, appears to have come off my already non-enormous jugs. Oh, and also none of my family or friends can stand to be around me, especially in close, unventilated areas.

This post might contain more information about me than you care to now. Stop now, or consider yourself warned.

Yesterday I worked the 9Am to 9PM shift, which left me enough time in the morning to hit my usual work-out. It was also the first day I could lift my arms, without biting down on a piece of wood first. For as long as I have been going to Shauna's, (two years-ish,) I have been petrified of the Friday work-out. It's all core stuff, planks and push-ups, pikes and bananas, sweat and swears. Last Friday's torture camp left me so miserable, I couldn't move without grunting. While I believe grunting in some cultures is considered sexy, Dave just kept rolling his eyes all weekend, which made me want to gouge them out. If only it were my birthday, I would use my wish, to heap pain and pounds on him.

I can take the pain. I even like to exercise. It really just boils down to the food, that's got me bummed out. I spent the first couple of days portioning out snacks into sandwich baggies, so I would have something easy to reach for when I got hungry. When I headed to work yesterday, I took several, in case I didn't actually get a lunch break. Once at work I set out to unpack the carefully counted, individual portions of my favorite food groups; dairy and dehydrated red meat. I made sure to hide my jerky, since the majority of my co-workers, really have no well-defined boundaries, and then set out my least favorite food groups, oatmeal, flax, blueberries, and an apple. Blech! Most of these individual portions, especially the fruit and veggies, have a ridiculous amount of fiber in them. That's not even saying anything about all the fiber enhanced crap you can buy.

Fortunately, I was saved from my breakfast, by a good stabbing. Nothing makes my mood lighter than a penetrating trauma, and with so many people packed into the trauma bay, there will be significantly less finger pointing when my gut rot seeps out. That probably sounds cold, but rest assured, very few people are stabbed while helping old ladies cross the street, or volunteering for Special Olympics. It really just boils down to Natural Selection, genetic mutants taking care of each other. This particular stabbing came about after an argument over, who ate who's steaks, so...................

You get the idea.

My stomach bothered me all day. It was rolling and shifting, like I was great with child. At one point, I had quite the crowd, clamoring around me, waiting for their turn to feel my fiber baby kicking. Then, sometime during the early afternoon, I lost the dryer sheet that I had tucked down my pants as a filter, and my coconut lotion lost it's scent. That's when my friends really turned on me.

I didn't get lunch until 4, so the pickings in the cafeteria were slim. The final blow came, as I traipsed back upstairs with my veggie soup, and a hard boiled egg. As I finished my soup, The Smokers were headed outside for a break. I snatched up my egg, and gave a, "Wait up, Ladies!" That's when they turned around and shifted from one leg to the other, kicking at the ground and looking pointedly at my egg. Seriously, I am not even a smoker, nor do I complain about the smell of smoke. I go on the smoke breaks because I like the company, and I like spending 10 minutes of every hour outside. It would be nice if I got the same courtesy. They eventually let me come, but I had to stand away from the group while I ate my egg, and then twist my torso and waft my arms around, so as to dissipate any flatulence haze.

The ride home was lonely and cold. I rode with my passenger windows down, with a plan to get rid of my belly ache, yet not have any lingering stench, in hopes that Daveskins might nuzzle me when I got home. It was successful, but when I started jotting down my intake for the day, I was dismayed that while, full; my calories only totaled 1,030, for the whole damn day. Shauna is pretty insistent that we eat a certain amount of calories according to our heftiness, and that meant I was 970 calories short. I almost got teary, thinking I was going to have to cram more perfectly portioned healthy shit down my gullet, when I came to the decision that my body would just have to burn into the stores of yester years' delicious indulgence for the night.

This morning at work out they were calling me Pig Pen.

Only 11 weeks and 2 days to go.

"Dad? You know why I love blueberries so much? Cause they are sweet, round, and fuzzy, just like you." -Dyl