No! You're a Nator!

My three year old has a hearing problem. Okay… not really, though I doubt his ear drums are fully intact after the super high pitch squealing soundtrack of his infancy and the shouting match gold medalist status of his toddler years. I say he has a hearing problem because he constantly asks everyone “What?”

*** he may or may not have picked this up from a certain Muddy fellow from another country that once visited us and spilled coffee on my carpet. And I don’t care about the coffee… it’s the “what?”ing  you’ll pay dearly for mister!***


He just likes to talk. He likes people. And why shouldn’t he? Everywhere he goes, he’s charming and that’s the feedback he receives.  People like him, adore him, even. For no reason I can see. That came out wrong. Of course I CAN SEE…. I mean jebus. He’s adorable to the tenth degree. Those dimples… the big knowing brown eyes…. The reddish blond mop of limp hair on his head… his tiny man swagger… that way his eyebrows wriggle just before he's about to really blow your mind with funny.... it’s a miracle I haven’t eaten him whole. But I’m his Mama… I’m talking about virtual strangers.

My son will be throwing a raging tantrum in the cart area at Wal~Mart because he’s just found out that once again his mother has blown all her quarters in the jukebox at the pub and he won’t be riding the rocking whatever it is that month.  And old people will approach cooing and handing me five dollar bills I’m supposed to trade in for quarters to satisfy my tyrant of a child. That’s not normal! Usually when you have a screaming child in public people stare at you as though you brought a razor on an airplane. Old people more than anyone!

Actually I have a theory about his adorability. (it's a shouldbeaword) He’s a supremely good mimic. And people love nothing more than themselves. That’s a fact.

Wow. I lost track of what I’m talking about. OH! The goddamn whating is driving me bonkers.

Imagine for a moment that most of your day is spent saying simple mind numbing things like “please wash your hands” or “Yes I love that blue line you drew.” and “Stop hitting your sister.”  Don’t forget the stand bys such as “no.” and “Maybe later.” and “not right now.” and “yes I’m very sorry I crumpled to the hardwood floor when you jumped on my back unexpectedly whilst hollering "YEEHAW MOMMY!" and we both rolled onto a pile of legos and matchbox cars bruising our bodies head to toe.”

Now imagine having to say it all thrice. Not just because my “intense personality” children are often so absorbed in whatever havoc they’re reeking that they actually don’t hear me. But because Thatcher always always always has to ask “What?” two or three times after I say anything.

“Mom? Where’s my Dad?” he asks

“I think he might be in the bathroom. Give him a minute and he’ll be out before you know it.”

“What?”

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“What?”

“HE’S URINATING!” my sister tried to help me out.

“No! You’re a nator!” Thatcher retorted.



*sigh*  now it’s like our family catch phrase. “No! You’re a nator!” 

September 30, 2009

WANTED: An Action Figure

I don’t remember her exact words…. But she* said it was something she had to learn over and over and I think I’m going to try to absorb it and be it and know it often enough to stop bending over for the wrong people. She said you have to figure out if you’re seeing people the way they are or the way they could be. You have to look at who they are being right now and act accordingly.

This wasn’t a light bulb this was a stadium at homecoming.

OOOOO0000hhhhhh! Who they are being right now!


A S S H O L E S !


Right.


And there are a million reasons. Circumstances. Blah blah blah blah. And it doesn’t matter.

And yes I can see who they might be. I can see who they want to be. I can see their best version.

This is the key to the forever mojo. Nobody wants to give that up… this feeling that someone sees their best self.

BUT WHO ARE YOU BEING RIGHT NOW????


I can keep seeing who you could be. But I won’t go all in with a phantom. I’m going to have to treat you as the person you’re acting like.

Because that’s what it’s all about. Action.


****plastic weapon accessories optional.




*she be Loree 

September 25, 2009

Letting off a Little Steam

Sunday afternoon we went to the Molalla Train Park for a birthday party. Thatcher’s cousin Alex turned three and it was a lot of fun. Small children were sobbing and screaming as their mothers attempted to take them home - always a sign of a child’s party is going really well.

You might be wondering what the hell the Molalla Train Park is..... No? Too bad I’m going to tell you anyway. (you knew that) 

I first heard about the Molalla Train Park on Oregon Field Guide. (why yes I do watch public television thank you for noticing that about me) The folks at Oregon Field Guide have this super dry documentary style that manages to capture oddities all across the state of Oregon without ever offending the oddities.You get the childlike fascination and wonder feeling instead of the knee-jerk run from the freaks scary belly roll. (might just be me - I’m sort of a documentary junkie. What? How else can I know an insignificant bit of nothing about everything there is to know?)

First of all you should know something about Molalla…… whoooo doggy! What a town. Sweet Jesus. I was getting the heebies just driving through. It has this small town vibe where you can tell the residents are goddamn proud of their small town and like it just the way it is, thank you very much. Not like touristy small towns that make it all pretty either. It's not a city persons small town replica… I’m talking about fierce redneck pride here. I’m talking about my wife rides our tractor mower in her bikini with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a toddler on the steering wheel people. I swear to you the entire town is in some kind of yard sale/junk yard/tacky yard ornament competition. I love it. And hate it. Like most everything. But my point is; you can see why the crazy train people found a home here.

You know about crazy train people, right? I know they don’t get the publicity the Furries get but give them a chance!! You can spot them… they’re usually large fifty plus men with lots of facial hair going on. They wear overalls with an oil rag hanging out of their back pockets and often as not a train conductor shaped cap.  They have large round bellies.  They’re gruff and if they’re not cajoling you they want you to cajole them. I have the idea that they wouldn't have any use for a woman unless she was wrapped in rope attached to the track with a big silent movie H E L P hovering over her head.   But listen… it’s not all “look at the big hairy men play pretend with their tiny trains” … they mean business. Like any freaks they are EXTREMELY passionate (prickly) about their craft.

Now grown men obsessed with steam engines and tiny toy replicas of a dying mode of transportation are a delightful rare find. And that’s part of the joy. Their love of the trains. Building the tiny pretend towns. The cult of it . …the old timer coal burning steam making whistle blowing THRILL of it all……All that fun stuff… rare, delightful. The Molalla Train People… took it up a notch. Excuse me… the Pacific Northwest Live Steamers. (*ahem* serious business, folks.) They built  … “A seven and a half inch gauge railroad nestled on four acres”  and it’s open to the public. For Free. (donations gladly accepted)  Pretty awesome. (freaky)

SO. Here’s the deal. The crazy train people pay for their own trains (built especially to fit this track which is (as far as I know) the only track they can go on.) They pay for the tracks, everything to do with the actual trains and they‘re all members of the club. They volunteer their time to drive the trains with people on them. The donations from visitors and the gift shop and the snack bar  pay for upkeep on the park.

Look closer……. You have cranky old men with intricate delicate hand made toys inviting the public to come ride their trains for free. Keep in mind the part of the public interested in riding the trains is the cranky toddler set. Ummmm problems maybe? Ya think?

Well. Mostly no. Most of the guys we met and interacted with were Grandpa types. They were patient. They were conductor like. They were great. And if you think I don’t know how insane a proposition it is to drive a tiny train around in circles all day while parents attempt to keep their kicking screaming whiny annoying unappreciative brat children from ruining your slaved over work of art train toy…..you’re wrong. I get it. It probably sucks ass. But ummm HELLO0O0O you invited them!!!

Well. Clearly I’m beating around a big bush… so let’s razor that puppy and get to the dick I want to tell you about.    (ahahahah gawds that is filthy dirty terrible writing! I’m leaving it; the filth humors me)

Allow me to paint the picture… it’s a beautiful fall day in Molalla, Oregon. Somehow through the magic of the pink plus sign on a pee stick I find myself straddling a piece of wood the width of a bleacher bench on a tiny train track with two three year olds, an eight year old and Tim. The piece of wood is one of the “cars” connected to a miniature train engine and the conductor of said tiny train is walking the length of the train to board and guide the locomotive around a track for our pleasure. Tim is behind me, Then there is Thatcher in front of me, Birthday Boy in front of him and amazingly tolerant eight year old Isabelle ahead of him.

I say tolerant because she is at the mercy of the three year olds sitting behind her. The thing about three year olds is they wriggle. They poke. They shuffle their feet around. They head butt. They tickle.  They rock. They roll. They scream and squeal about what an incredibly good time they’re having on the tiny train. And we haven’t even left the station yet. But, I know that once the train gets going I will have a significantly easier time keeping them at task.

So my beautiful, tolerant, bright eight year old daughter has twisted her body in a half turn to look back at the boys and she’s smiling and laughing at their antics as I get them settled down before the conductor “all aboards” and we can be on our merry way.

“You need to turn around and quit messing around so I don’t have to evict you from the train park. You want to play, you go home to play. You want to ride this train you will turn around and face forward and behave.”        ………says the asshole conductor to my kid.

I shit you not.  So this bizarre shocked “Hey…” comes out of my mouth and I try to reach over the boys to put my hand on her shoulder but she’s already turned around and her shoulder blades tell me she’s doing everything she can not to cry and if I touch her she will sob and then she will hate me.

“I’m going to have a problem” Tim growls in my ear. That’s code for I’m about to kick that old man’s ass if you don’t do something to stop me.

But before anyone can do anything the guy starts the train and like it or not we’re stuck for ten minutes on the train. Midway through the ride Tim actually had to lift Thatch out of my lap and over the back of my head to separate the three year olds (I mentioned the poking, right?) and other than the fierce desire to KILL THAT FUCKING BASTARD it was a lovely train ride.

After we got off the train I had to pull my daughter aside and explain to her that she hadn’t done anything wrong, that he was just a cranky old man and that she shouldn’t take it personally.

But I do. And I say How dare you, sir. HOW DARE YOU!! Clearly you’ve been around that track a few too many times. Take a train vacation for god’s sake. You have no right to belittle my child.


*patient smile*

In short… (and for those of you skimming)

If you ever get the chance; I highly recommend visiting the Molalla Train Park. Good Times.

If you run into the Molalla Train Park Nazi kick him in his train whistle for me. 


September 21, 2009

The Thrill of the Chase

My daughter’s best friend is not in her class this year. He also doesn’t have the same lunch period or any of the same recesses.  It’s okay. She’s making other friends. (perhaps friends that don’t get their heads stomped on at recess? Is that too much to ask?) Meanwhile…. She’s stalking the best friend.

“Mom. I saw his backpack up ahead on the way outside.”

“Mom, he was in the hallway today and I waved at him.”

“Mom, he was on the bus today but someone was already sitting by him and I think he saw me.”

*floored*   


I suppose the internet stalking doesn’t begin for a couple more years.

The thing is…. This kid…. Gawds. I don’t know how to say this…

Okay… so let’s say you have a kid and he’s a giant dork. Like say he wears t-shirts you get for free when you complete the libraries summer reading program (not that I don’t wear Isabelle’s) and perhaps his main interest in life is Pokemon…. Not Pokemon five years ago…. Pokemon right now… and also say he gets his head stomped into the ground on the playground and his voice is whiny even when he isn’t whining and say you spend nights wondering if anyone will ever see your boy the way you do and love love love him the way we all deserve to be loved. (restraining order love)

Well. Worry no more.

There’s some blue eyed blond haired beauty with a pokemon boner stalking him for sure. 

And it’s my daughter. 

September 18, 2009

Sneaking Out

It was beyond easy to sneak out when I was sixteen. As simple as waiting for dark and stepping outside the small camp trailer my sister and I lived in. You can picture the camper, it was a color you might call formerly white and had a big red shwoopditty along it and had some sort of fish on the side. It was the tiny kind where you turn the dining table/booth into a second bed (that’s where my sister slept.) and the couch becomes the main bed (that’s where I slept)  Grandpa had set up an extension cord between us and the house so we had electricity but when it rained you had to avoid touching anything plugged in if you were already touching any of the aluminum trim or you would receive a jolt of electricity. I don‘t know how much of a buzz; enough that you had time to feel it coursing through you and realize you couldn‘t make yourself let go.

Getting back in the trailer come dawn was far more difficult because by that time the dogs would be out and insist on greeting me as though we’d never met. But I didn’t have to think about that for hours. I didn’t have to think at all. I loved that about being sixteen. Everything  seemingly being written in pencil and no shortage of pink pearl ahead. Even as you were trying to write over the gray smudges your parents were making all over the page you were confident your marks would be edgier or more lasting or mattered at all. 

It was cold, a couple months into Autumn and there were leaves blowing about when I walked all the way into town. A whispered “Don’t tell anyone I left.” warning to my sister and the door swinging open silent into the night. I would walk out slow, measuring my steps down the driveway and then up the dark country road. There were no streetlamps and I had to try and avoid allowing myself to imagine what horrifying countrified creatures were plundering about in the ditch and pastures alongside me. Now and then a horse would make that snarfling snort noise horses make and I would nearly piss my pants.

 I risked smoking a cigarette. Mom pretty much knew I was smoking but having already grounded me for the rest of my life had little ammunition left. She said “if I catch you I’ll make you sit and smoke an entire carton.” but my face must have betrayed my eager reaction because she never followed through on the threat.  The biggest danger in smoking as I walked down the dark road was the fact that anyone who drove by would  likely pull over and offer me a ride whether I even knew them or not. Didn’t matter, they knew my grandma or an uncle or an aunt. It would be their pleasure to escort me home and then confirm to my grandma that I was indeed her “little lost girl.” But at sixteen I didn’t feel lost at all. Everyone around me was lost and I had to walk away from that traffic jam to get where I wanted to go; anywhere but there.

*********

September 16, 2009

Dew Dew Droppings

“He has the nerve to claim fucking me is like sleeping with a statue!”  she pauses and shifts the phone to her other ear. “The thing I want to scream at him is You’re fucking a statue! What’s wrong with YOU?”


*****

How is it that when you cut your finger there’s more blood than seems necessary but when a person blows their brains out there doesn’t seem to be enough?


*****


“It’s a puzzle. It’s one of those critical thinking story problems they used to read to us in fourth grade. You know what I’m talking about? The midget in the elevator and it turns out he used his umbrella?”

“Yeah.” she laughed “I remember.”

“So here it is; there’s a man in a cage. It isn’t impossible to escape the cage… there’s no lock on the door… he just thinks he can’t leave the cage. He scared of being outside the cage. Not that leaving the cage is easy, it‘s going to be very very very difficult. It‘s just not impossible.”

“Right.”

“The question is… do you stand just outside the cage and feed this man scraps through the bars? Or do you insist he must open the door and come out to eat?”  I paused and decided to make a case for my behavior. “He’s starving. STARVING. He maybe can’t open the door he’s so hungry.”

“ahahahahhahaah”

“Yeah. I know. You’re totally right. I know you’re right.”



September 15, 2009

Dew Drops In

* What is the deal with always needing to explain to other people how to treat me well? Have I spent so much time with children that I forget that other grown adults should have that shit figured out by now? Clearly I have issues from childhood. Are you broken? Surely I can fix it. Surely I am the thing that you needed all along to be a decent human being! Let me love you and love you and love you and love you and love you until I’m completely gone!

* I think all things related to clothing should happen in one large room of the house. The room would have little dressing stalls and that’s where we would wash and dry and fold and keep all the clothes. I can’t understand all this multiple flights of stairs and  keeping the clothes in so many different rooms business. Maybe it should even have a shower. Why do we have the shower in the same room as the toilet? Is it as simple as plumbing ease? Ridiculous. Yes we will have a vanity and a shower in there too. It will be called the changing room. Gawds I love it. Who’s with me?

*Inside I’m a two year old child. I have transition issues.  Like, I have a hard time getting into the shower and then when I’m in there I don’t get out until we’re out of hot water. I never ever, ever want to go to sleep but once I am asleep I will have a tantrum if you wake me. I don’t want to change out of what I’m wearing. I will wear it until it falls apart in such a way that I actually Can Not wear it anymore.
 I’d like to live on snacks and dew (grown up juice) and I will tell you “no” on reflex but basically do anything for you if I love you. If you hang around long enough I will love you. When I first meet you I will ignore you, unable to look you in the face because some part of me knows I'm way too damn easy and open and would be yours for a cookie. I love things the longer they’ve been around or the more times I’ve seen/heard them. Movies, music, whatever is better if I already know it. I thrive under a flexible routine and need to get outdoors regularly or end up drawing on the furniture or walls. 

September 14, 2009

Two Things Bothering me That Have Nothing to do With What is Actually Bothering Me

* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/rape

It used to be… you would make a long distance phone call and you were the person paying for the long distance charge. And that was bullshit enough… you’re already paying for the phone service…. They want you to pay more because… the line goes all the way??? Fuck that…. The people that live THERE are paying for that goddamn line..  And now…..NOW the people on both ends of the phone pay for the call. Every call. I mean sure it depends on their plan but what the fuck?  Why don’t we all call bullshit on this? Why do we just accept it?  And why must I pay most of a dollar to read the text “OK” ?????? Am I being slapped around because I have idiot friends?



* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/feminist

I’ve had it with young ladies claiming they are not feminists. I can’t even go to the place where I believe that they know what it means and actually hate themselves enough to proudly state it. I assume they’re ignorant and think “feminist” means “militant lesbian” and while this is also sad it’s slightly less maddening than the idea that they don’t consider themselves equal to men. Hell., I can’t even understand a MAN being willing to admit he’s not a feminist. SERIOUSLY? I don’t care how you feel about keeping the imaginary line between feminine and masculine a deep dark chasm, surely you can’t really think women shouldn’t be able to vote.. Or receive equal pay for equal work. Fucking idiots. 


September 08, 2009

Wild Wet Willy

“Hey, you should come sit down here with us.” His sister waved him down to our end of the long table. She had their little brother Sock on her right, me on her left and older brother Crispy across from us next to a couple of her buddies from work. Tim came and sat in the chair on my left across from Crispy.

“I thought her friend was Crispy when we came in.” he told me conspiratorially.

“Cody?” I asked and glanced at him in the chair next to the spot Tim had just left. He was wearing a very similar hat to Crispy.  “I guess I can see that.” I agreed

“So… when we sat down I gave him a wet willy.”

“YOU WHAT?” wild laughter. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything, he just gave me a weird look.”

“Well. Yeah. So what did you say when you realized it wasn’t Crispy?”

“Nothing.”

“What is wrong with you?”  It was a rhetorical question. I waited a few moments until an opportunity arose to tell Lisa the story without the rest of the table overhearing. It didn’t work out so well because we became hysterical with laughter. All other conversations stopped and they stared and asked what we were laughing about.

“Cody and Crispy look a lot alike tonight.” she said by way of explanation and Tim backed her up saying, “I thought you were Crispy when we came in.”

He looked across the table at Crispy and told him “I gave him a wet willy.” and shrugged his man shoulders.

“OOOOH” Cody said, sounding relieved over the loud laughter of the rest of us “I thought you were just really affectionate.”

September 6, 2009

Just Me and Thatch

He positioned the small wagon shaped like a school bus next to the brick flower boxes that surround the front porch and stepped up on top of the handle resting over it. “This is a stool.” he said.  His hands were resting on the bricks and he shouted, “Hellooooo!” in the direction of the neighbors house. He's hoping our neighbors grandson is over there and not at school.

 The wheels shimmied under him and I gasped, “Get off of that! You‘re going to fall. That‘s not for standing on. It‘s not a stool.”

“You get off! You will fall! You will crack your head! You will break your hair and crack your head and be a crack head and go to the doctor!” His tiny perfect face was scrunched up in anger. “Go to the doctor!” he repeated and turned away to kick at the bricks with his foot.


********************************************


“The girls are not here. We got to get in the car and drive to them and find them and talk to them. The girls are at school. We got to drive there and see them. The girls are not heeeeeere. We got to talk to them and drive to them. I want to ride my bike to the school. Pleaaase. I want to ride my bike to school pleaaaase. Are you sure I will ride my bike? Are you sure? Can I ride my bike to the school?”

“No.”

“OOOOOOH! I want to ride my bike to the school! I want to drive to the schoooool! Mom! I want to drive to the school!”

“We can’t do that. They’re busy learning.”

“I want to go to Calli and Isabelle!!!!”


************************************

“Thatcher. I had sewing I was working on here. You need to put it back.”

“I can’t.”

“Thatcher. There’s a needle attached to that fabric. You picked it up and you threw it. You were angry. Now you need to find it and pick it up so it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“I can’t find it.”

“You need to look for it.”

“I can’t. I can’t find it.”

“You’re not going to find it unless you look for it.”

“I can’t find it.”

“Look for it.”

“YOU DO IT! You look for it and you find it! I am too angry!” 

September 3, 2009

Polimating Wishes

“The bees polimate the fwowers. and make new fwowers" my three year old informed me.

"That's right!" I said, rather impressed.

"Yeah. That's right." he confirmed. "The bees…. Poli… polimate the fwowers. Even purple fwowers. I just pick the fwowers. It’s okay."  he paused to watch my face and see if he could pick the flowers. I only saw dandelions in danger and said nothing.

Seeing no dispute was to be had he continued,  "The bees polimate the fwowers and then I can pick them.” He scampered off and plucked a dandelion from the lawn and galloped back to hand it to me.  “The wishes are turning into yewoe fwowers and the bees polimate them. I just am picking ’em. and blowing ‘em.”  

September 02, 2009