Once upon a time, Tom and I went out quite a bit. Of course, that was in the beginning, when it was just us, no little kids (his older kids were teenagers when we meet, so, like I said, no little kids.) We could come and go, sleep as long as we wanted, blah blah blah.
These days, we don’t get out much. It’s a big treat when I pick up subs from Subway for dinner and we eat them together on the couch watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns.
But we’ve managed to get out of the house, just the two of us, twice in the past two weeks.
I know! I’m not sure what’s gotten into us.
The first date was to see the newest Wolverine movie. Let me confess right here that this was my idea. Tom was reluctant to go because, well, he thought the movie would be stupid.
But he was pleasantly surprised, as I knew he would be. I mean, come on! Wolverine is the coolest of the mutants in the whole mutant world. And hello, Hugh Jackman is just so pretty.
But I didn’t say that even once during the movie. Of course I didn’t. I was on a date with my husband, he didn’t want to sit there listening to me swoon over how pretty another man is, even if that man is Hugh Jackman. Did I mention how pretty he is? *Sigh*
The very next weekend we went out to Tom’s high school reunion. It was fun. It was nice to spend an evening with other adults (even if there were a few preschool jokes about the fact that I found my picture in their senior year book. I was a first grader that year. It’s true.)
The nice thing about these dates is that Tom and I have been reminded that we actually like each other. We enjoy spending time together that doesn’t revolve around making dinner and doing laundry and mowing the lawn and yelling at the kids.
This is a good thing since the kids probably aren’t going to be around to be yelled at forever. Though…in this day and age our chances might actually be pretty good for always having one or the other (or, yes, maybe even both) around for, well, ever.
But if they do both ever move away and Tom and I find ourselves with an empty house…I like the idea of us actually having something to say to each other. I like imaging us going out for breakfast every few weeks just to get out of the house. I like knowing we’re still friends who want to be together just for the sake of being together. It’s something to foster, to nurture, to continue to work on even as we work on being better parents.
A mom, a dad and two daughters. We're living ordinary lives with a twist of 5p- (Cri du Chat) for spice. But we're about so much more than our younger daughter's genetic diagnosis.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Hot Stuff
It’s canning season. Tom’s worn out.
When I called home yesterday to let him know I had to stop at Aldi to pick up a bag of sugar for my mom (who is in the middle of making blackberry, raspberry and cherry jams) and see if he needed anything.
Tom answered my call with, “Thank goodness, someone’s calling so I can whine. Imagine doing something you hate so much. Something you loathe and multiply that hate by about a thousand and that’s how I feel.”
I laughed and said, “You’re peeling tomatoes, aren’t you?”
He grumbled, “These romas are awful this year. They’re so tiny they’re not even worth the time it takes to blanch them and peel them.”
He went on for several minutes about the tomatoes. Poor guy. He started this process on Sunday with the peppers. He spent three hours with ice packs on his hands after chopping jalapenos that evening.
Monday had him chopping onions and Tuesday brought the aromatic crushing of garlic. That left the tomatoes for Wednesday. He started working on them at 7:10 that morning. I called him at 4:30. He was in his own little tomato hell.
By the time the girls and I got home at 5:30, Tom was peeling the last tomato. This meant that all that was left was the mixing of the ingredients and then the canning process.
He’s such a trooper. And I mean that totally unsarcastically. I’m just glad he’s willing to do this kind of thing because we do so enjoy the green beans and salsa all through the winter that he puts up in late July and early August.
I was greeted by many quarts (maybe 28?) of salsa this morning. He’d labeled some of them Mom and others Dad. The hotter salsa got the Dad label. He looks out for me. I do hope he knows how much I appreciate all the work he puts into our family. He’s pretty awesome.
The next batch? I might try and muster up the enthusiasm to crush some garlic for him. It’s the very least I can do.
When I called home yesterday to let him know I had to stop at Aldi to pick up a bag of sugar for my mom (who is in the middle of making blackberry, raspberry and cherry jams) and see if he needed anything.
Tom answered my call with, “Thank goodness, someone’s calling so I can whine. Imagine doing something you hate so much. Something you loathe and multiply that hate by about a thousand and that’s how I feel.”
I laughed and said, “You’re peeling tomatoes, aren’t you?”
He grumbled, “These romas are awful this year. They’re so tiny they’re not even worth the time it takes to blanch them and peel them.”
He went on for several minutes about the tomatoes. Poor guy. He started this process on Sunday with the peppers. He spent three hours with ice packs on his hands after chopping jalapenos that evening.
Monday had him chopping onions and Tuesday brought the aromatic crushing of garlic. That left the tomatoes for Wednesday. He started working on them at 7:10 that morning. I called him at 4:30. He was in his own little tomato hell.
By the time the girls and I got home at 5:30, Tom was peeling the last tomato. This meant that all that was left was the mixing of the ingredients and then the canning process.
He’s such a trooper. And I mean that totally unsarcastically. I’m just glad he’s willing to do this kind of thing because we do so enjoy the green beans and salsa all through the winter that he puts up in late July and early August.
I was greeted by many quarts (maybe 28?) of salsa this morning. He’d labeled some of them Mom and others Dad. The hotter salsa got the Dad label. He looks out for me. I do hope he knows how much I appreciate all the work he puts into our family. He’s pretty awesome.
The next batch? I might try and muster up the enthusiasm to crush some garlic for him. It’s the very least I can do.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Whispers
I believe I mentioned that Olivia is reading these days. I love this so much. I love sitting down with her in the evenings, our three books on my lap and showing her the title of each book and having her read those titles to me.
She only occasionally needs me to help her sound the words out. Last night, she sounded out ‘never’ all by herself. I am one proud mama, let me tell you.
But…she’s unsure of herself in this newfound skill. She’s not confident that she’s actually cracked the code of reading and so, when she reads to me, she whispers.
Which means at school, she won’t read at all. Because hello, last year she was whispering to her teacher about everything and she tends to speak loudly to me about everything.
The logical conclusion is that if she’s whispering to me as she reads, she won’t speak at all when she’s in school and asked to read.
That makes me sad only because it will be one more instance where I’ll have to say something inane like, “She does it for me.”
And they’re write in each IEP report, “Mom reports Olivia reads at home.”
I hate those little inserts. It feels like they’re patting me on the head when they put sentences like that in the IEP. It feels like they’re saying, “Okay, sure, if you say so. We don’t believe you but we’ll put this in there anyway.”
I want the world to see Olivia the way I do. I want her teachers to see her sense of humor, her silliness, her sweetness and yes, I want them to hear her read. I want them to know how capable she is and when a child won’t talk, people can’t know how amazing they are.
I know this will work itself out. We continue to work on it ourselves in our own home. I know that with good teachers and therapist working on the same things at school that we work on at home, at some point, Olivia will gain the confidence she needs to shout those words out. Or, okay, maybe just say them loudly enough for someone across the table to hear.
Not only do I want her teachers to know how amazing she is, I want Olivia to know how amazing she is. I want her to have the confidence to speak out in class, to know she’s cracked that reading code and want to let the rest of the world to know it too.
I’ll keep reminding her of how amazing she is and I have to have faith that someday she’ll believe it too.
She only occasionally needs me to help her sound the words out. Last night, she sounded out ‘never’ all by herself. I am one proud mama, let me tell you.
But…she’s unsure of herself in this newfound skill. She’s not confident that she’s actually cracked the code of reading and so, when she reads to me, she whispers.
Which means at school, she won’t read at all. Because hello, last year she was whispering to her teacher about everything and she tends to speak loudly to me about everything.
The logical conclusion is that if she’s whispering to me as she reads, she won’t speak at all when she’s in school and asked to read.
That makes me sad only because it will be one more instance where I’ll have to say something inane like, “She does it for me.”
And they’re write in each IEP report, “Mom reports Olivia reads at home.”
I hate those little inserts. It feels like they’re patting me on the head when they put sentences like that in the IEP. It feels like they’re saying, “Okay, sure, if you say so. We don’t believe you but we’ll put this in there anyway.”
I want the world to see Olivia the way I do. I want her teachers to see her sense of humor, her silliness, her sweetness and yes, I want them to hear her read. I want them to know how capable she is and when a child won’t talk, people can’t know how amazing they are.
I know this will work itself out. We continue to work on it ourselves in our own home. I know that with good teachers and therapist working on the same things at school that we work on at home, at some point, Olivia will gain the confidence she needs to shout those words out. Or, okay, maybe just say them loudly enough for someone across the table to hear.
Not only do I want her teachers to know how amazing she is, I want Olivia to know how amazing she is. I want her to have the confidence to speak out in class, to know she’s cracked that reading code and want to let the rest of the world to know it too.
I’ll keep reminding her of how amazing she is and I have to have faith that someday she’ll believe it too.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Interesting
Last night Alyssa and I stayed up until the ungodly hour of 11pm watching Under the Dome. Yes, I am letting my ten year old watch this. There are scenes I tell her to not watch and I mute the tv while she looks away but come on, she’d ten. She’s a ten year old who asks questions about things she doesn’t understand.
I love that about her.
Okay, I admit it, there are a lot of things I love about this girl.
Anyway, a baby was born on the show and near the end of the episode the new mom was shown in bed, snuggling her newborn, gazing lovingly into the baby’s eyes.
I announced, “Babies are boring.”
Alyssa laughed at me, sounding a little insulted.
I said, “It’s true. Babies are really boring. But ten year olds? They’re awesome. You can have actual conversations with ten year olds. Ten year olds can get themselves something to eat if they’re hungry. They can share their opinions, thoughts and concerns with you in a comprehensive way.”
Alyssa shrugged at me and went to the fridge. I had, after all, mentioned that she was able to feed herself when she’s hungry.
I think back to those early days of motherhood, those days when the hours seemed to drag because babies are so, so boring. Sure, they’re cute but they lay there and they blink and they eat and they poop and then they need to sleep again.
Unless they’re Olivia, then we replace the blinking part with screaming and well, you’ve got boring and LOUD.
My girls are so much more interesting and fun now than they were during those early days of infancy.
Though I do admit that once upon a time I worried greatly about what I’d do with them when they gave up naps. But guess what? By the time that happened, they were already more interesting and fun than they’d been when they needed eleven (or three, who’s counting?) naps a day.
All this is not to say that there are not days when I’m counting down the hours and minutes to bedtime but those days are further and fewer between than they were ten and six years ago.
I know how lucky I am to get to enjoy the company of these smart, funny girls. I want to cherish these moments even as I anticipate it just continuing to get better and better.
I love that about her.
Okay, I admit it, there are a lot of things I love about this girl.
Anyway, a baby was born on the show and near the end of the episode the new mom was shown in bed, snuggling her newborn, gazing lovingly into the baby’s eyes.
I announced, “Babies are boring.”
Alyssa laughed at me, sounding a little insulted.
I said, “It’s true. Babies are really boring. But ten year olds? They’re awesome. You can have actual conversations with ten year olds. Ten year olds can get themselves something to eat if they’re hungry. They can share their opinions, thoughts and concerns with you in a comprehensive way.”
Alyssa shrugged at me and went to the fridge. I had, after all, mentioned that she was able to feed herself when she’s hungry.
I think back to those early days of motherhood, those days when the hours seemed to drag because babies are so, so boring. Sure, they’re cute but they lay there and they blink and they eat and they poop and then they need to sleep again.
Unless they’re Olivia, then we replace the blinking part with screaming and well, you’ve got boring and LOUD.
My girls are so much more interesting and fun now than they were during those early days of infancy.
Though I do admit that once upon a time I worried greatly about what I’d do with them when they gave up naps. But guess what? By the time that happened, they were already more interesting and fun than they’d been when they needed eleven (or three, who’s counting?) naps a day.
All this is not to say that there are not days when I’m counting down the hours and minutes to bedtime but those days are further and fewer between than they were ten and six years ago.
I know how lucky I am to get to enjoy the company of these smart, funny girls. I want to cherish these moments even as I anticipate it just continuing to get better and better.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Getting There
Tom and I attended his high school reunion this past weekend.
The day before the reunion, my mom asked me what I planned to wear. I told her I wasn’t sure yet.
She said that if I wanted to go sleeveless…
She stopped when she saw the look on my face.
I haven’t worn a sleeveless shirt since 1995. The dress I wore in my brother’s wedding a few weeks ago was sleeveless but that was a VERY special occasion and I was still hyper-aware of my stupid arms most of the day.
But, my logical mind whispered, you’ve lost 52.5 pounds. Don’t you think maybe your arms are smaller?
Sure, the mean girl in my head sneered. They’re smaller than ENORMOUS, which means they’re just huge now.
To stop the fighting going on between the voices in my head, I went home and measured. My arms are two and a half inches smaller now than they were back in December. I consider that to be a pretty good improvement.
Not a tank top or sleeveless blouse improvement but definitely a tangible improvement.
But then, just because I had the measuring tape out and knew the comparison number, I measured my waist. I’d last had it measured at work for a health program back in October, so yes, ten-ish months ago. And what do you know? My waist is now seven inches smaller than it was all those months ago.
That, my friends was an ego boost. The arms? Still need some serious work but that waist? It’s making me pretty darned happy.
The day before the reunion, my mom asked me what I planned to wear. I told her I wasn’t sure yet.
She said that if I wanted to go sleeveless…
She stopped when she saw the look on my face.
I haven’t worn a sleeveless shirt since 1995. The dress I wore in my brother’s wedding a few weeks ago was sleeveless but that was a VERY special occasion and I was still hyper-aware of my stupid arms most of the day.
But, my logical mind whispered, you’ve lost 52.5 pounds. Don’t you think maybe your arms are smaller?
Sure, the mean girl in my head sneered. They’re smaller than ENORMOUS, which means they’re just huge now.
To stop the fighting going on between the voices in my head, I went home and measured. My arms are two and a half inches smaller now than they were back in December. I consider that to be a pretty good improvement.
Not a tank top or sleeveless blouse improvement but definitely a tangible improvement.
But then, just because I had the measuring tape out and knew the comparison number, I measured my waist. I’d last had it measured at work for a health program back in October, so yes, ten-ish months ago. And what do you know? My waist is now seven inches smaller than it was all those months ago.
That, my friends was an ego boost. The arms? Still need some serious work but that waist? It’s making me pretty darned happy.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Placeholder
I’ve got nothing today but I want to get that silly ‘sad’ bean story out of first place.
Things are good. Life is good. But good can be boring too. And that’s okay. I’m happy with boring.
Tom and I are going to his 35 year high school reunion tomorrow night. So there’s that. He laughed last night saying that we’d probably be the only people at the reunion who have to leave a decent time because we have little kids at home. And that’s true. I mean, do many people celebrating 35 years out of high school have a ten year old and a six year old? Probably not many women, I’m betting. I mean, Tom was 42 when Alyssa was born. He was 46 when Olivia was born. While yes, Halle Berry is currently pregnant by ‘surprise’ not many women have babies at 46.
Anyway.
My mom is watching the girls for us tomorrow evening. I have to confess that we’ve never left the girls with anyone but family. And by family, I mean my mom and/or step-dad. Is that weird? Probably.
I did jokingly suggest that if my mom wasn’t available to watch them, we could drop the girls off at my brother’s house. Tom didn’t get the joke. He replied, “I’d stay home first and let you go to the reunion alone.”
Which…uh, no. But seriously, it was a joke. My brother and his new wife have five dogs, two cats and a rabbit or three. All those creatures live INSIDE their house. That right there is a nightmare for Olivia. She hates visiting their house because of all the dogs. Four of the five dogs are small yappy, jumpy, obnoxious dogs who want to be petted and held. Olivia hates dogs. She hates dogs that jump on her and lick her. The few times we’ve visited my brother’s house, she insists on being held so she’s above the dogs’ reach at all times. I wouldn’t subject her to that.
I don’t have anything against people having animals in their home. That’s a choice we all have to make for ourselves. Tom and I made the decision that animals (other than Bomber the betta fish) aren’t welcome in our house. We came to the agreement that Orville the cat can live in the garage but even that is pushing it for Tom. He’s very anti-animal hair in the house and Orville does like to lay right next to the door and leave hairballs that sometimes get trailed in by unaware feet.
So yes, he didn’t appreciate my joke about leaving Olivia in a house filled with dogs and cats and even rabbits. Even though I’d never actually do that and I’m pretty sure he knows it.
For the record, my mom’s cat, Prissy, lives inside too but she and Olivia have a mutual respect for each other. They ignore each other completely and everyone is happy. Orville could learn a thing or two from Priss.
Things are good. Life is good. But good can be boring too. And that’s okay. I’m happy with boring.
Tom and I are going to his 35 year high school reunion tomorrow night. So there’s that. He laughed last night saying that we’d probably be the only people at the reunion who have to leave a decent time because we have little kids at home. And that’s true. I mean, do many people celebrating 35 years out of high school have a ten year old and a six year old? Probably not many women, I’m betting. I mean, Tom was 42 when Alyssa was born. He was 46 when Olivia was born. While yes, Halle Berry is currently pregnant by ‘surprise’ not many women have babies at 46.
Anyway.
My mom is watching the girls for us tomorrow evening. I have to confess that we’ve never left the girls with anyone but family. And by family, I mean my mom and/or step-dad. Is that weird? Probably.
I did jokingly suggest that if my mom wasn’t available to watch them, we could drop the girls off at my brother’s house. Tom didn’t get the joke. He replied, “I’d stay home first and let you go to the reunion alone.”
Which…uh, no. But seriously, it was a joke. My brother and his new wife have five dogs, two cats and a rabbit or three. All those creatures live INSIDE their house. That right there is a nightmare for Olivia. She hates visiting their house because of all the dogs. Four of the five dogs are small yappy, jumpy, obnoxious dogs who want to be petted and held. Olivia hates dogs. She hates dogs that jump on her and lick her. The few times we’ve visited my brother’s house, she insists on being held so she’s above the dogs’ reach at all times. I wouldn’t subject her to that.
I don’t have anything against people having animals in their home. That’s a choice we all have to make for ourselves. Tom and I made the decision that animals (other than Bomber the betta fish) aren’t welcome in our house. We came to the agreement that Orville the cat can live in the garage but even that is pushing it for Tom. He’s very anti-animal hair in the house and Orville does like to lay right next to the door and leave hairballs that sometimes get trailed in by unaware feet.
So yes, he didn’t appreciate my joke about leaving Olivia in a house filled with dogs and cats and even rabbits. Even though I’d never actually do that and I’m pretty sure he knows it.
For the record, my mom’s cat, Prissy, lives inside too but she and Olivia have a mutual respect for each other. They ignore each other completely and everyone is happy. Orville could learn a thing or two from Priss.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Sad
I was so sad. So, so sad.
The night had gone so well. I’d maintained an air of patience as I scratched Olivia to sleep. Alyssa was quietly working on a combination lock in preparation for fifth grade which will bring lockers with actual locks she’ll have to figure out. She’s been stressing over this for the past week or so as school looms in the fairly near future.
But when I extricated myself from beneath Olivia’s legs on the couch and made my way to the kitchen I saw that the living room light was on. That light is never on. I checked. And there he was. The sight brought just a little sadness but I pushed it back down and went back to watching Master Chef. Ahh yes, good guilty pleasure television will take away any sadness.
Except it didn’t because I glanced over and saw that he’d left something in front of the back door. He’d left it for me.
With resignation, I got to work but the work made me so sad.
Snapping green beans in preparation for canning is such a sad, sad job. It is so monotonous and even, sometimes, gross. There are often slimy bits on the beans. What are those slimy bits? I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.
So I snapped and snapped and snapped some more. Alyssa laughed at me each time I lamented just how sad I was. Then she’d toot and announce the toot, to which I’d reply, “You’re toots aren’t making me any less sad.”
Tom was no help either. Each time he ventured into the kitchen I’d tell him how sad this job was making me. He’d just say, “I know. I’m sad too.” Then he’d go back to his own sad job.
But hey, the bucket holding the beans didn’t turn out to be bottomless. I did reach the bottom and then, glory of glories, the last bean. And the sadness lifted. The beans were done. Until the next picking. Which can be almost as sad a job as snapping.
The night had gone so well. I’d maintained an air of patience as I scratched Olivia to sleep. Alyssa was quietly working on a combination lock in preparation for fifth grade which will bring lockers with actual locks she’ll have to figure out. She’s been stressing over this for the past week or so as school looms in the fairly near future.
But when I extricated myself from beneath Olivia’s legs on the couch and made my way to the kitchen I saw that the living room light was on. That light is never on. I checked. And there he was. The sight brought just a little sadness but I pushed it back down and went back to watching Master Chef. Ahh yes, good guilty pleasure television will take away any sadness.
Except it didn’t because I glanced over and saw that he’d left something in front of the back door. He’d left it for me.
With resignation, I got to work but the work made me so sad.
Snapping green beans in preparation for canning is such a sad, sad job. It is so monotonous and even, sometimes, gross. There are often slimy bits on the beans. What are those slimy bits? I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.
So I snapped and snapped and snapped some more. Alyssa laughed at me each time I lamented just how sad I was. Then she’d toot and announce the toot, to which I’d reply, “You’re toots aren’t making me any less sad.”
Tom was no help either. Each time he ventured into the kitchen I’d tell him how sad this job was making me. He’d just say, “I know. I’m sad too.” Then he’d go back to his own sad job.
But hey, the bucket holding the beans didn’t turn out to be bottomless. I did reach the bottom and then, glory of glories, the last bean. And the sadness lifted. The beans were done. Until the next picking. Which can be almost as sad a job as snapping.
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