A Jen Too Many

A few days after this post, our television died while the Love of My Life was watching it. This was just hours after the power cord for his laptop died.

He was not having a good day.

It wasn't a surprise. We knew the TV was dying, we were just hoping it would hang on for awhile longer. A year or two. (Just like we were hoping the refrigerator would hang on for another year or two.)

Since having a broken TV and a temporarily unusable computer was an unbearable combination we went out and got a new TV within hours, to tide us over until the new power cord got here (which turned out to be the wrong one, so we are still without a working laptop.)

Our previous TV, the one that I let small people dust, was an old, very heavy, almost impossible to destroy CRT.

Our new TV has a plasma screen. It was on sale for less than the comparably-sized LCD screen TVs. Which is not to say that it was not expensive. Because it was.

The children have been warned that touching it will lead to HORRIBLE consequences, and breaking it will lead to no more TV for years and years to come. This TV, they were informed, should last us 20 years. If it gets broken before that time - by such things as knocking it over with a thrown toy, or excessively enthusiastic cleaning - there will be no TV in our house until the scheduled two decades are up. In other words, if anything, but ANYTHING happens to that TV before they are both out of the house, there will be no more TV for the rest of their childhoods. No TV any more. No Tivo. No DVDs. No video tapes. Nothing.

So far, so good. We only have one small handprint on the screen so far, and that might have happened before the lecture.

I only have to hold my breath for another 19 years and 51 weeks.

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In other news, the refrigerator part of our fridge is still working; the top freezer is not. We are assessing our options (playing ostrich-in-the-sand.)

LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA

Bad things! Not there! Can't hear you!

LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA

I just opened the freezer of my refrigerator. Everything in there is thawed out. The fridge part is feeling suspiciously not-cold, too.

The TV broke a few days ago. Now the refrigerator. We are still paying off the new heat pump we had to put in last fall. Plus all the money we've been paying to the mechanic the last few months. Throw in the major dental bills we have also incurred recently for several different family members.

It's a good thing we have always made a point of staying out of debt as much as possible. I'd hate to be dealing with all this and a previous credit card balance.

Don't mind me. I'll just be sitting over the corner, gibbering quietly.

Youngest Girl Child: I don't like white. I like the white that has colors.

Mommy: White doesn't have colors, honey, that's why it's white.

Youngest Girl Child: Yes, it does. (pause to think) My favorite is the white that is purple.

Mommy: (speechless with laughter)

There is a certain member of my family, whose pseudonym shall not be revealed (but said person does not own one pink article of clothing and has never been married) whose idea of a bowl of cereal involves a mixing bowl and three quarters of a box of cereal.

Which is why, when my sweetie and I saw 17 Again (on a date! an actual date!) I laughed until I couldn't breathe, during this scene (starts at 1:23):



I wish I could have found a longer clip of just that scene. Hmmm. Oh, well.

Going to see that particular movie was less a function of wanting to see it, and more a function of our babysitter (The Boy Child) getting off work late and us having only 10 minutes to get to the last movie that hadn't yet started. Not that we needed to worry - we got there 10 minutes late and still had two previews to go before the movie started.

It was a good movie, though. We were glad we saw it. I'm not sure I would have enjoyed it so much if I hadn't been through the whole teenage boy thing, but given where I'm coming from in life (feeling older, thinking back wistfully to when I had a figure, blah, blah) it was a lot of fun. (It also didn't hurt that my sweetie and I are both complete and unabashed nerds and got a kick out of the rabid collecter/gamer/etc. sidekick.)

So, if you're looking for a good movie, think about this one, especially if you are middle-aged with teenagers.

"He continued his appraisal and something within me looked for words to wear, failed, ran naked away through the night."

The Hand of Oberon, Book Four of the The Chronicles of Amber
Roger Zelazny

The Big Step. Point of No Return. We are there. We took that step this week.

Of course, I suppose it's been a point of no return ever since Youngest Girl Child was born. After all, it's not like I ever had the power to turn back the clock and make her even one day younger.

This just seems so much more final, though. Not that I'm weepy or anything, but then I wasn't when Oldest Girl Child had her Big Day. I expect that will happen in a few months when I put her on the bus, turn around to go home, and burst into tears.

This week YGC registered for kindergarten.

It was a great experience. We ran into several people we know. Mostly adults, but one of her friends was there at the same time we were. They checked her hearing, listened to her talk (she lisps a little they told me. Really? 'Cause, y'know, I had no clue, never having actually listened to my child talking before.) (I know, I know - nice people, they mean well. But - really? You really think I might not have picked up on my daughter saying "wain" instead of "rain"? "The wet wain watewed the wocky gawden." I noticed. Trust me.)

The thing I liked best was the attention the volunteers and school staff paid to her. I'm used to adults dealing with me and ignoring the kids, even when we're talking about the kids. Their pediatrician asks me what their symptoms are. Their dentist tells me that YGC has a cavity and needs a filling* after sending her off to get a toy. Etc.

Nothing wrong with that. After all, we're dealing with very small people who are still developing their communication skills, and I know them probably better than anyone. I also make the important decisions. Talking to me instead of them is entirely reasonable.

But at kindergarten registration the emphasis was on her. As we moved from station to station, she was greeted warmly, with direct eye contact. Her name was used. Her hand was shaken. It was Her Day.

She loved it.

I don't know if it's had an impact on her attitude toward starting school. She tends to keep her feelings inside herself and think about them for awhile before popping up with (sometimes very) odd little statements, but she did come out of there relaxed and comfortable, wanting to stay and play, in fact. It was good.

So. Next fall. Bus / school / weepy mommy? / growing up.
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*Long, long story. Short version - dictionary / cavity-prone / my child's picture. Our retirement - never gonna happen / the dentist's retirement - Hawaii. In a very nice mansion with a great coastal view. Maybe a private beach or two.

Youngest Girl Child walked into the kitchen, where I was up to my wrists in meatloaf, and said, "There's stuff on the screen of the... The... Of the..." She paused to think. "The TV."

"Do you want to dust it?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yeah."

She probably wanted the feather duster, but she couldn't reach it and I didn't feel like stopping to wash my hands, so, "I know just what you need," I told her, and pointed under the sink. She opened the cupboard door and I gestured toward a dusting cloth. "The yellow thing."

Her fingertips brushed the yellow bottle of Clorox wipes. "This?"

"Sorry. Not that."

Her hand moved to the dusting cloth.

"Yes, that."

She pulled it out, looked at it speculatively, then up at me. "Do I need to put poison on this?"

Hmm, I thought. Maybe we're putting a little too much emphasis on the dangers of cleaning chemicals.

"No. You'll be fine. Just wipe the dust off."

I finished shaping the meatloaf, washed my hands, and went to check on her. She was concentrating on her work, leaning her weight into her hands as she rubbed the cloth over the TV screen and around the tops and sides. She sang softly to herself as she worked on the corners. She's started doing that more lately, singing a transcript about whatever she is doing, as she is doing it, the more so when she is concentrating on something she enjoys - playing with dolls, coloring, dusting the TV.

When it was done, she turned to me and smiled, expectant. "Look at the TV. Is it shiny?"

I nodded, "It sure is."

She nodded back, one sharp bob of her head, then put the dusting cloth away without being reminded.

"I'm going outside, Mommy!" she yelled, then slammed the door on her way into the backyard, making me cringe as every other door in the house rattled in response to the sudden pressure change. And then the only sound in the house was the hum of the computer fan, and the faded cries of a little girl, gleefully chasing a visiting pair of ducks around the lawn.

You know, I really thought I was ugly back then? What I wouldn't give now to look that again. OK - minus the acne.

Of course, this was my senior photo, the big one, the one that was going in the yearbook! So, I was wearing makeup, and had just come from the salon where I'd gotten a brand-new cut and perm. (And, considering it was the 80s, I'm surprised it looks that good now. What? No BTS?* What was I thinking, looking so sedate?)

Most of the time I went around with my hair looking, well, odd. I never, ever wore makeup.** I had no judgment at all in picking out my clothes and probably looked a mess most of the time.

Unfortunately, a lot of that is still true. I hate wearing makeup, even though I've hit an age where I really can't get away without it anymore. I always forget to put it on in the morning, and it annoys me that I have to keep refreshing it throughout the day. Who has time?

Clothes are still my bane. I desperately need a clothing makeover, with serious advice on how not to look like a bag of rags that's been dragged through a blackberry bush.

But here's the difference between me-then and me-now: putting on makeup and getting my hair done isn't going to make me-now look a fraction as good as that 17 year old girl did.

And I thought I was fat and ugly.

Now, as mother-me, I wonder - how can I keep my beautiful little girls from looking in the mirror and seeing ugly? Right now they see beauty as mostly being in your clothes. Beautiful dress-up clothes makes you beautiful. Oldest Girl Child will come in, dressed in some outrageous combination of tutus, pajama bottoms and winter scarves and say to me, "Mommy, am I beeeauuutiful?" She preens, twisting from side to side as she poses, a pleased smile on my face, knowing that I'll tell her, "Yes, you're very beautiful," because of course, she's beautiful! She has on beautiful clothes!

Youngest Girl Child will dash into the living room, "Mommy, look at my dance!" and then she'll start humming or singing and break into a long, dramatic "ballet" routine, full of posing and leaping. She asks, "Mommy, am I beautiful?" and hardly listens for the answer, so sure of the answer. Of course, she's beautiful. She's wearing a pretty tutu!

Someday, one of them is going to look in the mirror and be the first to say, "Mommy, am I beautiful?" and she'll be talking about her face, her figure, her hair, everything but her clothes. "Am I fat?" she'll ask me. "Do these pants make my rear look big?"

And that? Will be what you call a bad day.
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*Bangs To the Sky

**Too shy. Color on my face made me feel conspicuous like people might look at me. Like boys! Which I both fervently longed for, and was scared to death of having happen.

The picture for this puzzle is mine, taken a few years ago, when the girls were much younger and we lived in a different state - one where we had a ton of azalea bushes lining the front of the house!

We have a couple of azalea bushes in front of our current house, but they barely flower and look wildly ill. Azalea fertilizer hasn't helped. I think it's just not warm enough here.

We have a breakthrough, and Oldest Girl Child couldn't be more excited.

She has learned to tie her shoes!

Right now she is sitting in the middle of the living room, in her pajamas, wearing her new shoes (black with hot pink detailing), carefully double-knotting the new laces. They are beautiful laces, black with pink and sparkly white stripes. She is tying them, then untying them, then practicing tying them again.

When she goes back to school next week (after spring break) she will be one of the circle of Kids Who Can Tie Their Shoelaces. I am informed that the Kids Who Can Tie help out the kids who haven't yet learned, by tying their shoes. She is very excited to do that.

I wasn't planning to buy her new shoes yesterday. We went to the store because Youngest Girl Child needed new shoes. I'd put it off as long as possible, but she started growing a rather nice hole in the toe of her right shoe, and, well...

OGC pointed out to me, as we headed for the back of the store where they keep the shoes, that she needed new shoes, too. It turns out the sole of her shoes was about 1/3 detached from the top.

Yeah. That was a definite problem. I told her she made a good argument, she asked me what I meant, and I told her it meant she was getting new shoes. So there was much excitement from both girls.

We got what were probably the last two pair of practical shoes there* and left the store much the lighter in pocket, but happy and proud. OGC put on her new shoes in the car on the way home and has hardly had them off since.
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*Why, oh why, are most little girl athletic shoes made in white? White. For small, active, mud collectors. The people who come up with these ideas don't have children, do they?

I have been fighting a long term battle with the girls over food in their bedroom. I forbid; they ignore. I tell them, "No,"; they sneak the food in when I'm not looking.

I have a huge problem with it because they cannot eat without getting crumbs everywhere. Neither does the food that goes into the bedroom come out of the bedroom. And I really get uptight about finding half-rotted apples anywhere in the vicinity of light blue carpet.*

But! I am able to announce that today I finally found the solution!

Food in the room = bugs who come to eat the food.

And bugs in the room = SPIDERS who come to eat the bugs.

The girls are deathly, deathly afraid of spiders. We have them sometimes in the basement. They saw two last summer. The basement used to be a favored play area; now it's the Haunt of Monster Spiders Who Lie In Wait To Eat Little Girls.

I think I've had my last problem with moldy bread crusts under the bed.
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*I also get uptight about finding used adhesive bandages stuck to the floor of the bathroom, but that's another post.

Evidently, I am channeling Princess Leia.