Two boys, a chainsaw, and a big old tree

07.20.06

Sounds like a good time, doesn’t it?

 

Let me clarify that these are two grown-up boys, sometimes we even call them men, but for the purpose of this story just remember how things like chainsaws so quickly turn men back into mischievous boys.  Call it a second childhood, if you like.  Or an extended one.

 

A few nights ago the ‘boys’ discussed cutting down the tree to make way for the imaginary deck.  It sounded like a real good day for me to be at work and for our Little Miss to go to grandma’s.  Girls should stay out of play-dates that involve trees and chainsaws.  Well, unless the girls are the mighty sort that want to wield the chainsaws themselves.  It happens.  Actually, it happened to me, once, a long time ago.  There is a satisfying sense of power one gets holding a chainsaw in their hands and watching branches drop off of trees.  But I digress.  That was for fun.  This is for real, and I knew if I wanted the tree to actually getcut down it would be in my best interest to stay out of the way.  Preferably far, far away.  Like at work.

 

At lunchtime I called those boys to see how goes the tree felling.  I wished I hadn’t.  Oh, the stories they told of hollow trees, and stumps and hornets’ nests and… gasoline.

 

What?  Gasoline?

 

I know boys.  If there’s gasoline then matches can’t be too far out of the realm of possibilities.  Of course, the speed of the decision to add fire to gasoline is directly proportionate to the amount of alcohol thus far consumed.  I was in luck.  Alcohol wasn’t involved.  Yet.  I caught them having breakfast, hoping that the gas fumes alone would drive the bees and hornets away.  So I said something like, “Whichever of you idiots comes up with the idea of throwing matches on that tree is in trouble.  Or as Little Miss would say,  “You in bi-i-i-g trouble, Dude.”

 

Did I mention the tree is very close to my house?  Like… within 8 feet.  I really hoped they were listening when I made the “no matches” rule.  I found out later that there’d been an oversight.  I did not make a ‘no burning cigarettes’ rule, however it seems luck was on my side.

 

I’m not even sure I’ve heard all the tree stories yet.  I do know that there are still large pieces of intact tree trunk laying in the yard and more than a few discombobulated bees.  And I know I’m getting very differing points of view about the events of the day.  I commented to my husband that I was impressed they didn’t drop the tree on the house.  He held out his hand showing a few inches between his thumb and forefinger and said, “It was this close.” 

 

“Whoa.” I said, “So what was your strategy?” 

 

“Prayer,” he answered.

 

My confidence level dropped a notch or two on that one.

 

I said to my friend, “My husband said the only thing that kept the tree from hitting the house was prayer,” and he said something along the lines of, “No worries.  It was so well-planned it wasn’t even funny… in theory.”

 

I decided it might be best for my peace of mind not to ask any more questions at all.  Just shut up and say thank you.  Phase One of Operation Imaginary Deck complete (well, almost).  Now we just have to strongly encourage the bees to go away so we can finish cutting and stacking what remains of the tree.  All right, I’m telling a big fat lie.  It would be so my husband can finish cutting and stacking it.  I’m still staying far away from this one.  I’m just the idiot who said we need a deck this year.  Other than that I’m keeping my distance.

 

Sometimes leaving boys alone with chainsaws is a bad thing.  Sometimes you get lucky and the boys are on the wagon.  Whew.

Scary Stuff

07.13.06

I don’t know if I should write about the bear, or about losing my cell phone.  They were both pretty scary. 

 

The cell phone thing was patently ridiculous.  I set it down on the counter of the gas station while I paid for my coffee, and left it there while I chased my daughter down and stuffed her mischievous little butt into the car (have I ever mentioned how grateful I am for child-safety-seat laws?  I really ought to thank the government more often than I do).  I swear it was 2 minutes, no more, until I went back for my phone, and it was gone.

 

Where’d it go?  Well, some idiot came along while I was chasing my kid, picked it up, and took it home.  How nice is that?

 

When I eventually gave up searching for the darn thing and used the gas station’s phone to call it, a guy answered.  At this point I had no way to know that he’d answered 5 calls on my phone already, and each time I was asked for – so when I identified myself he was very confused.  I’d even venture to say he was confungled.  I explained very carefully, “You have my phone.”  He didn’t believe me.  I tried again, “I am calling my own cell phone from the gas station phone.  You answered.  Therefore it follows that you have my phone.”

           

“I just went to the gas station for cigarettes a little while ago,” he said.

 

Well, duh.  Yeah, buddy, here’s your sign (okay, I admit I stole that line from comedian Ron White).  But I should hope he wasn’t just out randomly stealing people’s phones for no reason.  Anyway.  “Yes, and while you were at the gas station you picked up my phone and took it away with you.”

 

“No wonder some lady keeps calling and asking for ‘Sheri.’  And I was wondring why there’s a picture of a baby on my phone.”

 

Well, that would be because it’s MY phone.  “I’m at the gas station – can you bring my phone back here?”

 

“I’m home already,” he says, “I’ll give you directions.”

 

Okay, I hate this guy.  He steals MY phone and I have to go fetch it.  Nice.

 

As I follow directions that leave civilization far, far behind, I get a little creeped out and paranoid.  I’m driving out to the middle of nowhere to a stranger’s house.  I want to bang my head against something because I wasn’t bright enough to call my husband from the gas station. Yeah, I suppose I could give myself a sign.  And I have my sweet beautiful funny helpless daughter in the car.  That’s thinking the situation through.  What if the guy is a bad guy?  What if he kidnaps and murders us?

 

When I lost my phone I was on my way home from a family reunion.  And I’d been thinking, like a week ago, that the only reason we needed to have a family reunion was because nobody’s died lately.  Well, I thought now, at least I got to see everybody.  But what a bummer that they’d all  just get home and have to come right back.  Well, not that they would.

 

 I have such bright and happy thoughts, don’t I?  Although I hope you’d never know it to look at me.  Anyway, as I pull up a long driveway into middle of the woods I am really aware how stupid it was to come here with nobody having a clue where I was going.  So I start playing the “if… then…” game.  If it’s a run down shack, then we’ll just leave.  If anything looks sinister or spooky, then we won’t stay.  If I see any cadaver arms hanging out of trunks or any blood dripping from anywhere, we’ll turn the car around and go, never mind the phone.

 

Okay, so maybe this was ridiculous thinking.  I mean, serial killers don’t, I suppose, typically leave body parts laying around in the yard.  But welcome to the inside of my head.

 

It was fine.  Of course it was fine, I’m sitting safe at home writing this, aren’t I?  Even so, it was a bonehead thing to do.  One might win the Darwin Award for such lack of judgment.  On the other hand, I recently finished writing my 2nd novel, my brain is bored, and now I have a really intriguing start to a best-selling thriller, right?

 

Oh dear.  I ran out of room for the bear story.  Well, here’s the run down; me, the dog, the driveway, a very large black bear.  I want to go into the house.  The dog doesn’t.  You can imagine the rest on your own now that I’ve given you a sneak peak into how my brain works.

 

Sometimes scary things are all in your head.  Sometimes they’re eating your garbage.

Inked

07.06.06

            Ink. 

            Just the word gives me a shiver.

            I love it when it flows perfectly from a fine-tipped pen.  I love it when the printer lines up my words perfectly across a crisp white page.  I love it here in the paper– my crazy thoughts going out to all who care to read them.

            But last Thursday all I could think about was a different kind of ink.

            To look at me you might not guess I have tattoos.  In fact, now and again I run into someone who’s made an actual bet that I don’t.  Which just tickles me.  I do look like such a vanilla girl.

            But I’m not one of those “feel the burn” ink addicts, either.  Really I’m not.  I don’t like getting my teeth cleaned, so believe you me, there was dread in the pit of my stomach last Thursday as I drove downtown for my tattoo appointment.  I was so anxious it never occurred to me to look for a Reader.  That’s pretty anxious – usually I can’t wait to see my words in print… my too-subtle titles massacred …and the crazy view of the back of my own head.

            There is, of course, a long convoluted story behind my recently beautified tattoo.

            It was tattoo number 2, and I got it last fall, but for whatever reason the ink didn’t take, and I ended up with a trip to my doctor, heavy-duty antibiotics, and a disappointing mess.  Not to mention pretty much a full month of excruciating pain.

            Not an experience a person ever wants to repeat.

            Nevertheless I arranged daycare for Little Miss one afternoon and made a trip downtown to talk to someone about fixing it.  I still loved the original idea.  I still wanted a nice tattoo instead of an ugly mess.  I thought maybe I was brave enough for another go around.  The “cute kid” story here is that when we got home my daughter said, “Let me see that fixed tattoo, Mom” and lifted up the back of my shirt to look.  And I thought, “Dang, this kid totally listens to my telephone conversations,” and found myself explaining to her what making an appointment is all about.  She’s not even 3 years old.  How crazy is that? 

            Anyway.  I’m determined to go through with it even though I’ve been warned that re-inking a tattoo hurts more than getting it the first time.  Okay, queue up the breathing exercises.  I mean, come on, I’ve had a kid, I can get through an hour of ink, right?  Um, right?

            Oh yeah.  To tell the truth it wasn’t bad at all.  I mean, there’s an element of discomfort – we are, after all, talking about needles and ink and skin.  But nothing like last fall.  This was a different artist with what I suspect must be a very different technique.  And no pain afterward.  No pain on day 2 or day 3.  Oh yeah, and no tattoo-prints on my clothing or my sheets.  There’s a plus.  Ink that stays put.

            When I picked up my daughter she again lifted my shirt and was rather furious to find a white bandage taped over the tattoo.  “You may see it tomorrow,” I told her, “and when we get home you can see a picture.”  For a few brief moments I wonder, should an almost 3 year old even know this much about tatts?  But then I shrug and know that it can’t be helped.  She lives here.  She’s going to notice it, and I’m better at being up front with her than being evasive.

            I wish I could put words together to describe the moment I looked in the mirror and saw, for the first time, what I thought I might only ever dream.  My passion, infused into my skin with indelible ink –  a writer’s symbol to be sure, but with whimsy and art and spirit.

            The day after ink… I step out of the shower, bandage removed, to find the family’s smallest critic waiting impatiently, “Let me see that fixed tattoo, Mom.”

            “Don’t touch, it’s like an owie right now.” 

            “I won’t touch it, I promise.”  She didn’t.  Then, “Ooh, Mommy, it’s beautiful.”

            She’s right.  It is.

 

*Tattoo and photo by Jay at Anchor’s End in Duluth.

 

Who's got the power?

06.29.06

            So last week we had a miscommunication with the power company.  They communicated (through the mail) that they were going to turn us off.  We communicated (through lack of opening said mail) that we didn’t believe them.

            Guess what?

            They won.

            They have leverage.

            Because they actually do have the power.

            My husband went home to take some measurements for our (imaginary) deck and discovered we had no electricity.

            He’s a good guy.  He went to the power company and paid the bill. They told him they’d turn it back on “tomorrow.”

            “Why tomorrow?  Why not now?”

            “Because that’s our policy.”

            “Okay, but I just gave you money.”

            “Tough.”

            So basically they’re punishing us for being stupid idiots, because it’s not like we didn’t have the money –  we just weren’t paying attention to their demands.  I think they just feel a need to prove that they’ve got the power… remind us, in case we’ve forgotten, that ultimately they can take both our cable and our internet amusements hostage.  Not to mention our coffee maker.

            Because my husband is furious with them, he calls me at work and yells at me for 10 minutes.  The gist of the conversation was, “You have to open the mail.  Even the bad mail.”

            He couldn’t see me rolling my eyes and sticking my tongue out at him, which was probably a good thing.  I don’t know why I have to open the bad mail because he’s the one who, technically, has all the money.  I’m thinking maybe all bad mail should just go on the front seat of his truck from now on – let him sit on it, not me.  I’m pretty sure he’d see the beauty of my mainstress-management technique:  Ignore bad mail. 

            I used to ignore telemarketers, too, but  the phone ringing all the time gave me stress, so I just got rid of the thing.

            It is important to simplify your life.

            We had an evening without electricity and it was fine, except for the part the next morning when I couldn’t make coffee or take a shower before work.

            We had a nice family picnic supper on the living room floor.  Cheese and crackers, lunchmeat, lettuce, tomatoes, milk – you know, all that stuff in the fridge that was going to spoil.  Little Miss tried to turn on the television to watch a movie, but I explained you can’t have movies with a picnic.

            It was all good.  The house was much darker and much quieter than usual.  We all went to bed early.  I learned something that I’m sure will be important in my novel-writing future:  in a pinch cell phones make pretty darn good flashlights.

            Sometimes a bright idea is a good one, sometimes it leaves you in the dark.

Here's lookin' at you(r) kid

06.22.06

            Everybody (and by everybody I mean doctors, magazines, other parents) will say “You can’t compare kids.  They all grow and develop at their own pace.”  We all know it, right?  And we all do it anyway, right? (Oh come on, you do, at least a little bit).

            You see a kid throwing a tantrum at the grocery store and think, “Whoa, I’m glad my kid doesn’t do that.”

            Sure you do.

            But here’s the real deal – more than comparing kids you compare yourself to their parents.  You think, “Man, I would have handled that differently than they did.” 

            Am I psychic, or what?

            Isn’t your child’s behavior ultimately a reflection of your skills as a parent?  I mean, really.  All the stuff you said you’d never say, all the stuff you said you’d never let your kids get away with… and now you’rein the thick of it, and you hear yourself say, in this really annoying tone, ‘”Because I’m the Boss, that’s why,” but sure enough, the kid gets the little bag of M&M’s  in the check-out lane anyway, even though you already told her there’s a five pound bag of them at home in the cupboard.  But what you think in the grocery check-out line is, “Well, if 79 cents can get her to be quiet for 3 and a half minutes it’ll be money well spent, because all I want is 3 and a half minutes of silence.  And hell, if I let her open the bag in the car I can have silence all the way home.  Yeah, baby!”

            My child is spoiled.  I think she might even be a spoiled brat.  We’ve definitely been sparing the rod, and I’m afraid it shows.

            She is naughty.  She wants everything NOW, finds it nearly impossible to share her toys, completely ignores the word “no”… and there’s no way she believes that I’m the boss.

            Why I should find this so astonishing is beyond me.  None of our dogs ever thought I was the boss, either, current dog included.

            So okay, I have a spoiled brat.  Now what am I going to do about it?

            Well, I’m gonna watch other parents and how they manage their kids, that’s what I’m going to do.

            And yet… and yet… that’s not even fair, because my girlfriend has the original zen-like Buddha baby.  I mean, I called one day at TEN O’CLOCK in the morning and they were JUST GETTING UP.  Man, I’d kill (okay, kill is a little extreme) to ever sleep until ten o’clock in the morning.  Heck, by ten I feel like my day’s half over and I’m convinced it must almost be nap time.

            My other good friend, well, I can’t even begin to explain what the heck he does, but I’d sure like to figure it out.  It’s time to go and his kid doesn’t want to go, and says, “I don’t want to go!” and Daddy doesn’t say a word, just stands there and holds out his hand.  The li’l guy sniffles, puts his little hand into Daddy’s big one, and away they go.  Damn.  I have to pick my jaw up off the floor to say goodbye.

            Here’s my kid:  “I don’t want to go home!” and she runs away; down the hill, around the house, across the yard, to the glider-swing, where she sits with her face set in an expression of stubborn mutiny.

            And because I could stand there holding out my hand until moonrise without effect, here I go - down the hill, around the house, across the yard  to the glider.  I pick her up and her whole body turns to jelly while I lug her back across the yard, around the house, up the hill and to the car, where I pour her into her car seat.  Oh yeah, did I mention through all of it she’s screaming, “But I don’t WANT to go home, Mom.”

            And I smile and say to my own mother, “She’d tell you she had a wonderful time, but she’s too tired to be that nice.”

            Excuses, excuses. 

            Truth is I know why she never takes me seriously.  It’s because she’s had me in hysterics literally from the day she was born.  Her tiny face was all scrunched up and she had a crease on the bridge of her nose just like that guy (the ugly one) who always plays a mafia hit man in the movies.  I laughed and nicknamed her “Bruno.”

            I’m still laughing.  This Little Miss, spoiled or not, rocks my world.  And that’s the truth.

            There’s no “sometimes” about it.

 

Beach Bumbling

06.15.06

            I took my almost 3 year old daughter to Wisconsin Point last week.  I’d had visions of her playing on the shore, squealing when the cold Lake Superior water lapped at her toes, dashing in and out of said water shrieking with glee.

            It didn’t go that way, of course.  Things never go the way I imagine they will.

            To get to the beach of Wisconsin Point you drive a long way on a really crappy road.  The scrub brush and trees and sand dunes completely obliterate any view of the lake or the shoreline.  In fact, my girl sagely said from the back seat, “Mom! This is a forest.”

            I parked at a little parking area that had no other cars, ‘cause who knows what kind of weirdos are at the beach at 10:30 in the morning.  I wasvery glad that my daughter can carry her own bucket and shovel because I was as laden as any pack mule for the trek up the dunes. 

            I had my giant non-PC Marlboro bag slung over my shoulder.  Inside were beach towels, a picnic lunch, two bottles of pop, one bottle of water, one sippy cup of juice, sunscreen, a hat, 1 pair of extra kid shoes, 2 diapers, 3 paperback books, a notebook and pen, my digital camera, and my cell phone.  And a zip-lock baggie filled with the most essential thing of all – (no, not THAT) – baby wipes.  (Sheesh, what are you people thinking?)

            Slung over my arm was a great heavy wool beach blanket.  Why this particular blanket is the beach blanket I have no idea, but it’s the one that’s always in my trunk and that’s what it gets used for.

            Tucked under my other arm was the umbrella from my outside patio furniture set.  Because there is no shade at Wisconsin Point (Park Point, either, for that matter) and 88 degrees beneath the full hot sun can be miserable.

            So there, I’ve got absolutely everything (and then some) and we’re ready for the beach.   I hand my girl her bucket of sand toys and tell her to head up the sand dune.

            I follow her up the dune and over the crest and the whole beautiful sandy beach and endless lake stretches out before us.

            My girl stops dead in her tracks.  “I don’t like this beach, Mom.”

            My arms are tired.  Heck, my legs hurt already because my body isn’t accustomed to walking on sand.  I give her a nudge. “This is a great beach.  Go.”  She doesn’t move.  “Go!  Let’s go by the water.”

            “I don’t like that water, Mom,” and it comes out a shrieking cry.

            I go around her and head down the beach.  Sand flies are buzzing around my feet and biting my ankles.  It’s not very pleasant.  But it’s HOT.  I’ve been cold for months and want nothing more than to worship this sun for a while.

            The kid watches from the top of the dune while I spread out the blanket, and plant the umbrella into the sand.  Then she comes down and says, “I don’t like this beach.  I want to go home,” and she starts to cry.

            I dig in the bag and distract her with a bottle of orange pop.

            Thirty seconds later I’m using baby wipes to soak orange pop off the wool blanket.

            The sand flies are going nuts, and I’m fairly certain the ants will be joining us shortly.

            But things do improve.  I show her how to fill a bucket with sand, tamp it down, and tip it over to make a sand castle.  She smashes it with great joy.

            I make more “buildings” (as she calls them), and she smashes them.

            I convince her to let me make a small city, and, like a good stealth bomber, she annihilates each and every structure.

            My daughter, destined to become a demolitions expert.

            We sunbathe.  She buries me in the sand.  When it gets unbearably hot we crawl to our blanket that’s so nicely shaded by the lawn umbrella and spill more pop.  The umbrella only falls over once.  Far down the beach we can see some kids playing in the water, but mine won’t go near it.  “That water’s too big, Mom.”

            I learned three things for next time:  Number 1 – it’s ridiculously pointless to shower and get ready for work before going to the beach.   Number 2 – if you want to relax and read or write or whatever, park NEXT to the minivan, not 4 blocks down the beach from it.  Number 3 – one zip lock baggie filled with wipes isn’t enough – better to bring the whole container of wipes and save the baggies for better things.

            Peace out.  Enjoy the beach.

 

 

Consistent Routine? Says who?

06.08.06

            The parenting experts tell you to be consistent and follow a routine, which is great advice…  except the KID keeps changing.  Every time you think you’ve got things settled and going well they enter a new phase of development.

            The first months are about getting to know each other.  Establishing trust (when I’m wet and hungry Mommy comes and fixes it), determining likes and dislikes (I like to sleep in bed with Mommy and Daddy and I dislike sleeping in my crib all alone), and figuring out everyone’s role in the household (Mom’s the caretaker, Dad’s the fun one, Baby is the anti-sex).  Babies pretty much stay where you put them and aren’t naughty on purpose.

            Then Baby starts crawling and you have to child-proof the world at knee-level.  You follow her around moving objects higher and picking loose change up off the floor.  After a couple of months you’ve got it licked well enough to actually take a nap on the couch while the child is awake.

            But once you get used to this new level of relaxation Baby starts pulling herself up on furniture, the television,  the stairs… and when you weren’t looking she learned to reach whatever it is that you own of value, and you have to child-proof the house all over again. 

            I’m here to tell you that this never EVER ends. 

            And eventually the child that was once making trouble because of downright adorable curiosity has now escalated to causing chaos out of pure maniacal naughtiness.  Suddenly you’re living with a spoiled, irritable (and irritating) little tyrant who is almost 3 years old and sharp as a tack. 

            Whoever made up the whole “terrible two” thing must have killed their child outright before age 3, that’s what I think.  “They” claim the terrible two’s are difficult because there’s a language barrier - a child has ideas and wants and needs (and opinions) that she is unable to express, and therefore overwhelming frustration leads to temper tantrums.  Perhaps, perhaps.  Our girl did some amount of flinging her small angry body onto the floor, kicking and screaming, and we consistently and routinely stepped over her and continued on with our day.  If her yowling was too gruesome to ignore we carried her to her crib without ceremony and left her there without an audience.  She mostly outgrew such tantrums within a couple of months, and things went pretty smoothly for a while except for the “nightmare at bedtime” drama, which trust me, is more consistent than less so, but never really works.

            The closer my girl gets to 3 years old, the faster her language and thinking skills develop, and nearly every day I find myself wondering, “Where the heck did she learn that?”

            But let’s back up to child-proofing the house and so on.  Here’s something that as a novice parent I just didn’t have foresight about – kids get taller quickly, and your stuff is never safe.  For one thing, they like your stuff better than their own stuff, and if they’re not tall enough to reach your stuff they’ll soon learn to drag a chair over to where your stuff is so they can reach it.  Or forget the chair and just climb up the cupboard handles.  The fingers of my Little Miss are always reaching something they shouldn’t be, whether it’s a pair of scissors or a box of cookies.            The difference now is that she knows I don’t want her in my stuff, but it gives her great joy to defeat my every effort.  And because her keen grasp of the language we speak allows her to express her wishes and opinions she’s started A) wanting whatever it is that she wants NOW; and B) having tantrums again.  Bigger tantrums.  The ones where, when I attempt to relocate her to her bedroom, her whole body goes cooked spaghetti limp so she’s really hard to carry.  And she can climb over the gate at her bedroom doorway, so time out isn’t even time out.  It’s time for the “climb over the gate, go downstairs, and laugh at Mom” game.

            This morning she wanted to go outside and play while it was storming.  When I said no, she did this voice thing that’s half-holler, half-really-annoying-whine, and exclaimed, “I can’t do ANYTHING!” and pummeled her little thighs with her little fists.

            I was struck dumb.

            Where the heck did she learn that?  She doesn’t hang with any teen-agers that I’m aware of.  And god help me if I’m getting a glimpse of what she’ll be like in 10 years.

            I asked, “What do you mean you can’t do anything?”

            “I can’t play outside, I can’t watch a movie, I can’t go to the park.  I can’t do anything.”

            I’m still just baffled.  “We rented a movie yesterday.  You can certainly watch it.”

            When she wanted cookies for lunch, I heard, “I can’t do ANYTHING.”

            When it was nap time, she said, “I can’t do ANYTHING.”

            I could go on, but I think you get the idea.  This is the same kid who told me after her bath last night, “I need to turn on this fireplace (electric fireplace in Mom’s room), it ‘laxes me.”

            “Relaxes you?” I ask, again dumbstruck.

            She’s too smart.  I really think I’m in for it.

            Sometimes things stay the same.  But not if you live with a kid.