And the moral of the story is.....

Once in awhile I like to tell stories to the girls. But something I especially love to do is to sneak a lesson into the lines as I go. I have done this with The Husband for years. Decades. Here is an example:

Him: Gosh it's hot in here, why is it so hot?
Me: Maybe it's because you left the side door to the garage unlocked three years ago and the wind blew open the door during a storm and you never fixed it so surely there is heat in there and now it's coming into the house. Or maybe because it's summer, I don't really know.

He claims it's annoying of me to do that. I call it an incidental teaching opportunity. I also call it, shut up and fix the damn door.

Back to the story. It has come to my attention that Teena and Genea believe they are Professional Competition Talkers. As soon as they think of it they will avidly discuss entry requirements to the Olympics. Thankfully Genea has scaled it back a bit, but Teena took up all that dead air for herself. It is not even believable how much they talk. Not only do they talk incessantly, they constantly require confirmation that I heard them. It goes like this:

Teena: blahbidie blah blah blable blah blashity.
Me: .................. Mmm
Teena: blable blah blah blah blabididdle blah RIGHT MAMA?
(hair of a tenth of a second passes) RIGHT? MAMA RIGHT? MAMA!!!!!!! RIGHT??????????
Me:...........................

So the other day at dinner, Teena asked me to tell the story of my grandmother, who was possibly the original Professional Competition Talker. I tell my stories with a lot of, mmm, secret detail. Secret because there is no way of verifying any of it. I think. Anyhoo, here is the story I told.

My grandma was a talker. She talked and talked and talked. It did not matter if anyone was listening. It did not matter if anyone was in the house. She just talked.

She talked to the pots and pans while she cooked dinner. She talked to the utensils she stirred food with. She talked to the food itself!

She opened her closet door in the morning, and guess what? She talked to her clothes. She gave them human attributes and asked them questions. Do you want to get worn today? How about you? Nope black shirt, too hot for you today and you just went out for lunch last week. So sad you are black shirt, so sad, but you have to give the other shirts a chance. You can't hog up all the chances!  And on and on. And on some more.

She talked everywhere she went. She talked to the car while she drove it. Surely she talked to other cars on the road.

She talked to hear herself talk. 

In short, my grandma liked to talk. She felt very strongly that there was no such person, place, or thing that could not be improved with the sound of her voice. Dramatically and wonderfully improved.

As I am telling this story at the dinner table, the girls are asking me all kinds of silly questions. Did she talk to the grass? Yes. Did she talk to her hair? Most definitely. Did she talk to the fan? Yep.

I had a moment of brilliance, as I sometimes do. I was telling the story and it occurred to me that I could weave in a lesson about the negative effects of too much talking. Yes, I amaze myself. It's a gift. I decided that I could squeeze in a bit of uh, secret detail, that could only benefit me later. Or even immediately. So, I continued the story.

 My grandma kept talking and talking, until one day she woke up and she couldn't talk any more. You see, she had used up her lifetime allotment of words, and now she had no more! No, it's true. She talked so much that there were no words left. She had to go around the rest of her life like that. That can happen, didn't you know? Every person, when they are born, gets a certain number of words to say for their life. When the words are used up, that's it!

Whoa, come to think of it Teena, you seem to have used a lot of words just today. You too Genea. Mmmm.

Mentally I continue to congratulate myself on this unprecedented idea.

Teena, she says to me, "Mama? That was a long story. Right?"
"Yes", I tell her, "yes it certainly was!"
She says, "Mama? I think you used up all your words."

Our days

So far this summer the girls have had summer school, and then last week they had Karate camp. So, this week starts the first time all summer that our days are free and unscheduled. 

Karate camp was a blast!!! I was so impressed, the very first day they came home and had learned a lot. They weren't great of course, but I could recognize what moves they were trying to accomplish. There was a lot of yelling hi-YA and trying to balance on one foot. Teena would say "Mama, Mama, be a perpetrator Mama, pretend you are a perpetrator". I eventually figured out she meant I should  try to grab her by the arms, which I did, and she promptly kicked me in the shin. It worked! I let go!

Now begins the official summer drag. Endless days, open season on tantrums and fits. I realized something recently- I home school! Yes I do! It was a surprise to me as well! I know that Genea needs all the help she can get academically. If I can keep her up with the material, then she will be more able to focus on new information when school starts in the fall. When she moved in with us, I don't think she could sing the alphabet so we started there and I tried to get her as much of a running start as I could for kindergarten and I have made a point of working on academics all summer going on three years now. I found out from reading Watching the Waters (who actually does home school and knows what she is talking about!) that this is home schooling! Well daaaaaaaaaaaaang! I guess it is! So now I know- I would officially slit my own throat if I had to do this all year round! One of those things you don't know until you try it I think. Anyhow, Teena works on writing her name and such and so far this summers home school is going great. You know, since we started today. Awesome!

A Piercing Question.....

I love the look of little girls with pierced ears. When I was a kid I had a friend from a large Italian family and all the new babies had little gold posts or tiny thin hoops in their ears. I thought it was adorable! I wanted to get Teena's ears pierced right away when she was a baby but I let people talk me out of it. So many people suggested that I wait until she was older, to make a glorious day of mother-daughter fun out of it. To make it a rite of passage, or to mark a significant event with it. It should be special, people said, an occasion. The Husband is good in these area's, he will give an opinion but recognizes he has no experience being a girl. However he did not like the idea. So, I left it be.

I let people talk me out of it and I then spent the next four years wishing I had not. Ugh. Since when do I let people talk me out of stuff like that anyway? When Teena decided she was ready to talk I started asking her opinion on earrings. Are you sure you don't want pierced ears? How about now? And now? What do you think about pierced ears hmmm? Teena tried to redirect or ignore me but finally gave in last fall. I promptly paraded her to the mall and happily dragged her to the Claire's.

FYI and BTW, there is nothing special or passage- like about hanging off a bar chair with your butt halfway in the mall from the doorway of the Claire's. Nothing. I signed 400 pages of documents, they shot Teena with the snappers, she looked really startled and turned red and then we were done.

Genea had already- pierced ears when she moved in. Unfortunately, at some point one of the earrings fell out and the hole closed up within a few days without my even realizing we had a problem. I gave her the choice to get the ear re-done or let the other one close up and she made the only sensible decision for a 4 year old- close 'em up! Really, her behavior at that time was so wild and out of control and violent that earrings were probably not a good idea anyway. So I only started nagging her about a year ago. Are you ready yet? How about now? I thought Teena getting hers done might prompt Genea to do it too, but no- go. She was afraid of the pain.

Who knows what goes on in the mysterious mind of Genea. Late last week she woke up and informed us she wanted to get her ears pierced. YAY! I gave it a few days and off we went. I filled out the 400 forms to verify I am Genea's mom, her parent and not her guardian, official and legal- like. The piercer noticed the marks from the old holes and asked about using the same spots, which I thought would be fine, there hadn't been any issues there. Then she asked when had I had the original piercing done? And I went..... ummm..... Hmmmm. I don't know when they were done.

Woosh! Just like that, Genea became The Adopted Child! About 20 different thoughts were jumping around my brain. Should I tell them? Should I not tell them? It's not their business. I don't know when she had them done because I was not there for the first 4 years of her life. They don't need to know that. I can't just leave it though. A mom knows when her child's ears were pierced. They will think I am not her mom and refuse to do the piercing. How could I not know? I have to tell them something. I looked over at the piercer who was busy sanitizing something and I realized she did not seem to care too much. I paused another moment. What should I say?

Nothing. In the end I said nothing. Which was appropriate. I answered the question and I had nothing to hide. An explanation might have been nice but, meh, too bad.

They pierced her ears anyway and did not ask for clarification.

Here is the "before" picture of Genea. They leave this cute little teddy bear on the chair for kids to hold on to. The teddy bear has about 12 piercings in her ears. Hootchie teddy bear. This is Genea smiling just before the action.

Ummm, there is no "after" picture. Despite all of our warnings that this was going to hurt, Genea was still surprised at the level of pain. Many, many shoppers in the mall that day were also surprised at the volume one medium sized child could emit shrieking in pain. I didn't explain anything to them either.

Brushie!

You have only yourself to blame.

I present.............. BRUSHIE!

My cute tea pot jammie pants do not look as geriatric in real life, I swear.

See previous post if this makes no sense. If it still makes no sense, well then I cannot help. 

Huh? Hey!

There I sat. Innocently, calmly, quietly. Not bothering anyone. Completely unprepared for the colossal insult about to be shotgunned at me by the child I gave up caffeine for. The child that took 30 hours to move herself and her accessories out of my body (not that I felt most of it but that is not the point).

We were sitting together actually, on my recliner. A recliner meant really for one medium sized adult. Maybe one adult and a cat. But not one adult and a child. However, as I am so immensely generous of a person, I let both of my children cram their bodies into the chair with me, one at a time of course. I have to twist and torque into shapes the human body was not designed for but I love my little girls and they love to sit crammed in there with me and we do. Despite the unbelievable discomfort it causes me. And pain.

So Teena, she is an articulate child and a bright one at that. While she is often logic-and-filter - impaired, she is observant. As we were sitting on my recliner and her 200 degree body was caulked in with me, she made a comment.

Your feet look old, she chirped with a happy smile.

"What makes them look old?" I queried back to her, unsure and looking for clarity. After all, feet are not the typical age detector. (I believe this was a good indicator of things I need to learn as a parent. Exhibit A:  for the love of body butter, know when to ask and when to let it go!)

"They look all brushie here", as she  points to my heels which indeed have developed a sort of well, brushie, look to them.

I squawked, "what? what do you mean? what do you mean by brushie?"( trying to ignore the facts, I love me some good denial)

Clearly recognizing she needed to backtrack at the speed of a runaway train she wouldn't discuss it any further. But I was stuck. Stuck because I was both impressed by her descriptive skills and pissed off about my old looking brushie feet.

Too little too late, I let it go.

Good Riddance to Bad Trash

I've waited a couple of weeks to see if this was really going to happen. It seems to be. The Husband received the following text message:

"Don't know if you've noticed but i am no longer living across the street. Skankenho and I have split up and i have moved out, aside from a few big items that are still there for the moment. The kids have asked if i can still visit them. So the only time i am over there is in the evening or at night and it is usually for about a half hour to an hour. Not sure if you're still gonna do what you had told me the last couple times we talked but i just wanted to update you on the situation."


GUESS WHO FINALLY GOT OUT OF MY FACE!!!!! That's right, Jack Ass. Don't let the door hit ya' where the good Lord split ya'!


Guess what epic loser has moved in with his brother??????? 

GOOD RIDDANCE TO BAD TRASH!


Here is a post on the history of all this, and a few other links that will explain it all, within reason anyway. To make a long, super long, story condensed, the man who originally adopted my daughter from Ukraine and terminated his parental rights after about 3 years moved in across the street from us with a new girlfriend and her 2 daughters, and began doing some creepy things. We got a restraining order that turned out to be fairly flimsy. There have been a few verbal altercations since, and mostly he has hidden inside the house but would not leave! 


So what is Mr. Ass referring too in the last line of his text? At one point, The Husband told him that if he moved away and was no longer a threat to our daughter, than we would not need a restraining order. If he was not there we would cooperate with steps to get the order lifted, if that is possible. See, but I guess we forgot to tell him he had to move the fuck away and STAY away for it to count, because he has been at that house just about every other day for weeks. He is mowing the lawn. He takes care of the garbage cans. He is an unwashed unpaid houseboy.

Oh, and by the way thanks for the six months we just spent in the seventh circle of hell you moron. I guess I missed the part of the text where it says he is so very sorry for all the inhuman pain he caused. No sir, straight to the main focus of his pathetic life- himself. Seriously, he has the nerve to ask for a favor. For us to do something for him. Selfish. Ignorant. Fucktardmoron.


I was somewhat surprised  to read the note that he will be coming by to spend time with Skankenho's daughters. They have a father. They have a good father. He is the one I see at the school functions. He is the only one I have ever seen out at the park with those girls. He is always at the bus stop early when it's his turn to pick them up. In fact, he is early enough to have had a conversation with me on one of the last days of school. I was shocked to find out he had no idea of what was going on with Jack and us. Shocked! I casually brought up our restraining order on Jack and could not believe The Real Dad did not know any of this! He knew the police had been by the house, but not why. Well, once that cat had squiggled out of the bag I had to tell him all of it. I did not exaggerate and I did not try to make us look better or them worse, I just told him what has been happening. He, The Real Dad, who pays a huge amount of child support. He pays Skankenho to babysit her own children when he is working, by custody order. He pays her lots and lots of money to sit there while their kids are in school and he is working (remember, we citizens pay their rent and other needs). He who wants full custody and does not have it. Gosh, and I know how important all that money is to her. I sure hope that didn't cause her any problems.



It took less than 2 weeks for Jack Ass to be formally kicked out of the house, his shit at the curb.




HOOOOOOOOOOOOO- wah!



He's gone! He's gone! He's gone!



Now, the last thing I need is to find a scuzzy man to parade up and down my street to catch her attention. She is going to need someone to do the laundry and watch those kids. Should I try Match dot com?
"Seeking Scumball with job income. Drugs a plus, access to script pad pharmacy a double plus plus! Must love pumping stomachs and mowing the lawn. I enjoy: super poor judgement, watching tv, laying on the couch, passing out. Love drama! "
I'll keep working on it.

4th!

The girls woke up on the morning of The 4th asking about the fireworks.

They spent all day asking about the fireworks.

Around 3:00 they started planning their outfits for the fireworks.

They wanted to see fireworks.

Problem was, rain was forecast on and off all day. And in fact, I have never seen bizzaro rain like this before. Probably 3 or 4 times the sky would turn a deep dark gray and water would explode in the air. Afterward, it would clear entirely and we would see the sun again, creating an odd sort of steam in the heat. So, should we stay or should we go? The fact that we parents could not answer the question caused a blip in the brains of the children, sort of like what would happen on those old fashioned big black CD's we used to call records. Scratch thunk are we going to the fireworks?
Scratch thunk are we going to the fireworks?
Scratch thunk are we going to the fireworks?

(wait for it....)

Finally around 8:00 we decided to give it a whirl. Mind you, 8:00 is Genea's bedtime. But with all the other changes disrupting her anyway, what the heck, add a few more. The Husband and I, we generally have ambitious plans early on and as we lose energy and brain cells throughout the day, we jettison our ideas from our own sinking ship. Go early and have dinner at the festival? Meh. Nope. Bring a cooler full of drinks? Meh, no ice in the freezer. Forget it.

So we (I) packed up a few things and left the house. Outside it felt like we were in the shower with the water on scalding hot. Probably 90 degree's and 90% humidity. A hundred years ago we lived in Columbia, South Carolina for about 5 minutes during the late summer. It felt like that. We headed downtown towards the big festival the city puts on every year, with bands and beer tents every 2 steps and tons of awesome food every 10 steps, and set about the process of trying to find a good spot to watch the fireworks. People start coming out around noon to stake out their spots for the show and so the really good spots were simply out of our reach and we never even bothered with those area's. We snaked our way through the hundreds of hot, smelly people, who had been at the festival for many hot, humid hours.  What is it about a festival that inspires the hairiest of men to strip dignity and shirts off in public? There should be a law. With the rain and the heat and all that beer, one might imagine the smells rivaled those of the dead. Icky. Super raging colossal icky.

But we shoved on.
(wait for it....)

I want to take a minute to tell everyone about the personal sacrifice I made here, for the love of the children. I love fry bread. Love it more than chocolate. Love it more than ice cream. Love it more than buttercream cake with buttercream frosting (though that one is close). I LOVE fry bread. It's that stuff you can only get at festivals usually, sometimes it's called Elephant Ears too. It seems to be a batter that is sort of snaked into a vat of boiling oil until it turns a beautiful golden brown color. The Fry Bread Master then retrieves it, shaking powdered sugar over the magical result. Oooooooh, it's a fabulous thing. If it is prepared by a highly skilled Fry Bread Master,  a luscious sugary grease should blow up in your mouth after just the right amount of crisp is bitten into.

Oh yeah, um, anyway. I had to forgo my fry bread for several reasons. Purchasing one item, any item, is the start of a slippery slope. Once they know we can buy things, the children suddenly want one of everything. Then, the mess. Then we would need drinks and after drinks, a bathroom. Well there are none of those. Just port o' pots. Right. No. For the children, for the love of the children. Lastly, with the heat and the excitement we raised our puke potential to a level orange  (serious threat).

We finally found a good spot, sort of. It was behind some of the early stakers who brought their living room furniture with them evidently. They had a coffee table between their recliners and the space above the coffee table was just perfect for 2 small children to see over!

We waited. And waited and waited. Genea was about out of her skin in the 2 inches of unused space we had marked out for ourselves. Up- down up- down twirl-around up-down. The show not scheduled to start until 9:45 (does that seem unusually late to anyone else?) it blessedly began quite close to on time. It was then that we realized we had made a horrible mistake. The fireworks were going off directly over the tree's we had perched by. Sigh-double -sigh. SIGH!

Okay, also at this point the sky began to spit on us.

After a few minutes I scoped out a better spot that Genea and I could cram ourselves into just in front of the living room when one of the inhabitants got up to pee. We were sitting in the dirt but the view was better. The sky continued to spit and the size of the spit got bigger causing a group a few rocks down from us to abruptly leave. Score! I moved Genea and I, and then Teena down to the rocks where we had a great view. The rain continued its assault, picking up pace until there was no denying, it was raining. I had stashed some garbage bags in our stuff to sit on in case the ground was wet and they were repurposed to cover us instead. The wind picked up and our garbage bags were flapping, the rain was falling and I was torqued so uncomfortably on my filthy rock that I knew I would be attached to my tens unit for the next few days.

And it was totally worth it because fireworks are freaking awesome!!! But it was even more awesome to have the girls see fireworks for the first time! I could have watched their beautiful little faces instead of the show because they were that thrilled! They were amazed and awed and a little scared the droopy ones would fall on them just like I was when I was little!

It was so cool. 

leftover thoughts

What do you all think about that denim diaper commercial? The one where that baby is parading the streets of some city in a shirt and diaper while pretentious statements are made about how fabulous he is? Cuz I would be less creeped out by a night time visit from Jeffery Dahmer holding a fork and I wouldn't touch their bizzaro diapers with a designer turd. My kids crapped the same in generic diapers as in any other kind.

Of course I said I would never let a stick of a certain gum pass my lips without Mike Tyson shoving it in there because their inane commercials about the dirty mouth/clean it UP made me nuts. That turned out to be a lie. Their packaging is bright and shiny and the easiest to grab in line. Call me a hypocrite.

If I wait a few more years will the bags under my eyes travel to become flattering cheekbones? With the right amount of fluid retention would I look like Maria Shriver?

I would like to know where my eyeliner actually goes. After an hour or two it is no longer on my eye area. It is not in the bags under my eyes, I checked. So, where is it?

If you know the answers to these, or any other questions, please leave a comment. Thank you for your concern.

Lastly, thank you to Shanti at Adoption Is Our Nutshell! She did a giveaway for a $20 Amazon card and I won. I have to say it was really nice because I have won a few little blog giveaways and never once have I received the item. So this was a lovely change! She asked for my email and I sent her a note by email with my home address and info on it. Um, duh. She sent it electronically and automatically. Ahem. So, THANK YOU! Check her out if somehow you have not!