i had plans for good monday. nothing concrete. hopefully something casual outdoors. the rain was remaining up in the sky, so why not.
the children had napped until 6:30 on the way back to dallas the day before, so they took their time returning to unconsciousness that night. 10:30 for violet. that didn't stop them from getting up around 6 or 7. i was eventually convinced to start moving in a meaningful fashion and managed to produce these peanut butter pancakes. oliver took one, made a small amount of headway into it, and then asked, "what's in these?" which, like most questions from young people, confused me. what do you want here? flour, hempmilk, baking powder, peanut butter? are you thinking like i was that a few chocolate chips in these things wouldn't exactly be a bad idea? i have been known to insert a secret chocolate chip into a pancake.
no, he just thought it was going to be some kind of reese's peanut butter pancake with a peanut butter patty sitting right there on the inside. what am i? david copperfield in an apron?
anyhow. my children are curiously fickle when it comes to pancakes. okay, when it comes to just about anything. monday was an i-don't-like-pancakes day. i don't know what the problem was. i found them to be fairly supersonic delicious. but whatever.
somewhere in there, i had two projects come in for dialing. and then i received a text from catie's mom, andrea. catie is one of oliver's inner circle of ladies. andrea asked if we would like to come over for a playdate and i said we would and how about after naptime, because violet was going to need one desperately.
i sat in my pajamas with unkempt hair and scrabbled away at work. i took breaks to ask oliver why, oh why, on earth was a playdate with catie not sufficient motivation to spend all of ten minutes getting dressed and making his bed and i think one other ridiculous thing. he would look very industrious and completely serious until two seconds had passed and he would be distracted by something shiny. this is pretty much how i spend most of my days with oliver.
he also spent an ubelievable amount of time lining up the thirty dimes he received for easter from my grandmother with all of his other change, trying to figure out if he had enough for this $46, gigantic, animatronic, battling dinosaur with missles that i've been trying to talk him down from for some time. he asked me ten ways to sunday what this many dimes plus another this many dimes was, ad infinitum. and i kept telling him daddy and i would have to discuss this with him, regardless of how much money he had. and i finally started looking at it again on amazon to see if i had changed my mind about it and i saw those fucking ridiculous missle launchers on this T-Rex and, in case you don't know, i'm terribly anti-gun/anti-violence/anti-glorifying these things to children through play. and those missles just made me snap. and i very seriously informed oliver that missles are not toys. they are rockets with the sole purpose of destroying buildings and killing people. mommys. daddys. children. babies. that is all they do and i don't think that makes for a very good toy or a good message for children, don't you agree? and showed him a photo of real missles on a launcher and a short video shot by someone in syria hiding in alleys while missles boomed in the background.
it's okay. yesterday, we addressed what it was he liked about the dinosaur and parlayed that into choosing a much cheaper, educational k'nex motorized robot for him to buy and now he is k'nex jazzed and next wants to recreate this gigantic k'nex ball maze that's on youtube. by the by, it is laughably surprising how one can search for motorized robots (or whatever i was searching for) and find that 90% of the results returned included missles in the description.
back to monday. i finished one project and then started getting this inscrutable error on the second and began to feel my furstration levels rising as i tried to isolate the issue and discern why oliver can't seem to make his bed still. my plan was to have violet in bed by noon and out of bed by two. it was 11:45 and i hadn't found a break to put some form of lunch on the table. i squeezed out a couple of burritos and then begin the long road of trying to get someone, anyone, to eat the fucking burritos.
i finally just tossed violet in bed and, fortunately, she really was super tired and provided me with only minimal fussing before passing straight out.
oliver was busy not eating and not making his bed.
i was still in pajamas, wearing stink pits and limp hairs.
the error continued to mock me.
somewhere in there, i decided something is going to have to fart its way out a release valve and i canceled the playdate so that andrea isn't hanging the hat of her day on my shifting wall nail. and also, TO TEACH THAT KID A LESSON. oliver, not catie.
i finally isolated the error and engaged the yellow bird and a pair of clean underpants. i scrubbed my pits and applied my stink eraser.
along the way, i had been waiting a couple of hours for my boss to reply about when they were going to begin dialing, so i would be ready for the trickle of ridiculous five minute requests for changes or corrections, which always fuck with my day.
i put the kids in the car, dropped off two rolls of easter photos, and went to drive down the ramp to the underground whole foods garage. this is the part where i wait for oliver to begin lamenting the fact that we aren't going to the above ground lot. "when are we ever, ever, ever, ever going to park upstairs?" i asked him why he was so hot to park up there and he said it takes too long to get inside when we park downstairs. mind you, parking downstairs means you get to ride the escalator. TWICE. so i really don't get what's going on there.
anyhow. i park in a spot and oliver turns the volume up full blast with a total meltdown. that boy was putting his shoes on the back of the new car's seat. probably lost ten minutes of my life with the stress of bracing for one of his tennis shoes to crash into my head. i asked him a couple of times if he was going to calm himself down before i peeled the hell out of there and drove back home empty-handed.
after returning home, oliver and i made our way to the foyer door with violet trailing behind. i stood on the step waiting for her and her green boots decided to run the last three feet. but they were running on that 1960s heavily-pebbled sidewalk surface, which is prime territory upon which to trip, and she tripped and it was in all kinds of slow-motion. i can't figure out where her hands went, except maybe out to her sides, but i did see how her face went straight down into the pebbles with nary an appendage to impede its velocity or impact.
i tossed a stack of mail down on the sidewalk next to her and began reliving that afternoon that oliver tripped on those same damn pebbles and landed forehead first on a pointy pebble on the step and gushed blood all over the rick-a-rack place and i'm thinking, oh god oh god, please don't let me pick her up and have blood dripping all over. and i picked her up and her hair was kind of hanging straight down as she was still horizontal for a moment there and it had taken her absolutely no reaction time to start screaming. there was a road rash on what was already a puffy bruise under her right eye and another little purple knot above her eyebrow. so she kept most all of her bleeding well-contained under her skin. i managed to grab the mail back up and haul it upstairs. i believe we were both crying at this point. i kept pulling her back to see if the deluge of red had begun yet, but it was holding steady with just the bloody scratches.
she wasn't too keen on me putting a damp napkin on her face and certainly wasn't a fan of me wrapping an ice cube in it. so i sprayed some of that analgesic neosporin on her bandaid (she chose the bears) and i patted myself on the back for resisting the urge to spray the neosporin straight under her eye initially. we kept the band aid on for a day and a half and i finally managed to remove it, much to her protest, to find she had a bit of a black eye, the poor dear.
i'm thinking with all this mess, i neglected to send oliver to his room. it's possible, likely, he was sent later for some other grievance and asked to take a siesta. it was kind of the beginning of a particularly rough week with him. the moon must be in some kind of phase and, if so, it needs to fucking stop it.
i began to fashion dinner out of no new groceries. at some point by now, brian has made a reminder known that he has a luxury appointment and will not be home until post-bedtime. which is what makes it luxurious.
i don't remember what i managed to make for dinner, but oliver did his usual pooping during the eating of it and, for the second time recently, he began complaining that he couldn't feel his feet. since this is a weird one, i chalked it up to sitting on the pot too long and god, i don't know. am i a neurologist? a psychiatrist?
this led to all sorts of hullaballoo and he forgot his ailment momentarily and walked across the dining room for a few feet before remembering he had been hobbled somehow and he was starting to get over it and i reminded him to go wash his poo hands and he said, "BUT WHY DO I HAVE TO!?" which he has started demanding with such mind-boggling frequency that i have begun to ignore it.
he wound up on the bathroom floor SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING that he couldn't walk and SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!!!!!, to where i thought for sure some neighbors were going to come knocking.
maybe this was wrong, but i recorded 30 seconds worth of it on my phone and played it back to him after he finished a good 20 minutes of this and finally washed his poop and returned to the table.
you have these big talks with the kids about respectful behavior that isn't sociopathic and they answer you in a reasonable fashion and you figure that's all behind us and then it's a half hour later and someone's screaming bloody murder and beating the shit out of you because you politely suggested they take three minutes to write their spelling words before eating a slice of apple. i got punched in the back last night because oliver didn't know where he'd put his wallet and he refuses to be a person capable of finding anything. so, PUNCH.
we survived dinner. a time later, violet was over by the fridge and lifted up her right foot and said it hurt. i'm sure it's some kind of signifier or omen that the right side of her body was so afflicted. so, my first thought was... finally, the first victim of the tamari bottle incident. and i looked at the bottom of her foot, but all i saw was this short, black thread standing at an odd angle to the surface of her foot and i tried tugging it off, but it wasn't budging. which kind of made me hyperspace. i tugged again. and it tugged back. and i was like, holy shit. i got some tweezers and prepared to do battle and noticed it was threaded through her foot and poking out a tiny bit a millimeter away. i yanked and it came out. i still wasn't believing she had a thread stuck through her foot. turned out, it was one of brian's whiskery hairs that he's always refusing to vacuum out unless i specifically carry the vacuum to him while he's clipping away in there.
am i the only person livejournal spell check no longer works for?