I create my own problems

Mornings are so hard.

Mornings are literally the worst except for the evenings.

We've been struggling with our keys recently, so when I couldn't find them as we were walking out the door the the other morning, it was like, "of course I can't find my keys. Why would I have learned to keep track of something silly like my keys?"

Where are my keys?

In my purse!

Now all I have to do is find my purse.  I'm zipping frantically around the house, clutching Lilly's lunch and jacket and breakfast and an umbrella and we HAVE TO LEAVE we are VERY LATE and my fingers are tired but if I put anything down I will lose that, too.

"Ok, Lilly, I have to find my purse, so try not to be annoying for a second." (I didn't really say that part, because I love her, but I thought it)

"You need to find your purse with the tree on it?"

She's referring to the purse I was using until a few days ago when the strap broke and I went back to using my trusty old brown purse.

"No, not the tree purse, I don't use that one any more."  Also, I'm finding it super annoying that she's being all specific about this.  The hell does she care what my purse looks like?

"You need to find your other purse because it has your keys in it?"

"Yes, exactly.  Gotta find my purse, because I gotta have my keys to go anywhere."

"So we're looking for your other purse?"

I swear to god if that girl can't stop talking about my goddamn other purse and let me find my goddamn keys in peace . . .

Wait. Why *is* she talking about my "other" purse?

So I stop for a second, and look down and . . .

Yup.  There's my purse, hanging from my arm.

Lilly has been justifiably confused about what, exactly, it is that I'm running around looking for, because surely there is some other purse at play if this one is just swinging in the air.

Nobody wants to be an apple

We were sitting by a pond, Lilly and I, and she says to me, "Mom?  Isn't this so peaceful? Don't you want to stay here for hours?"

And I absolutely did.  Except my hips are too old to be sitting around on the ground like that.

"Mom?  What would you want to be: a hippo, a duck, or an apple?"

Do you know how many years of my life I have spent answering questions like these at this point?  Sooooo many.

"I would say definitely a duck."

"DAD.  DAD! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE A HIPPO A DUCK OR AN APPLE?"

Lilly.  Remember the peaceful?

"Oh, a hippo. That's a no-brainer."

"Chris, that's absurd.  Who wants to be a hippo?  What is even remotely appealing about being a hippo?"

"Dude, if I was a hippo I would crush you like a bug!"

"Hippos just look like giant stomachs or some other internal organs lying around in mud.  A duck can fly, swim and walk.  Again, the duck is obviously the better choice."

"Hey, if you had to be a girl duck, you would have LAY EGGS."

"Um, yeah, but if I had to be girl hippo, I'd have to give birth to a HIPPO."

"Fair enough.  I still think ducks get shot at a lot, and nobody wants to mess with a hippo."


And that's how we spent a beautiful Sunday by the pond.

Rainbows are pretty for everyone

We're attempting to fulfill Lilly's request for a rainbow theme in hall bathroom. Well.  Technically she asked for a rainbow theme in her bedroom but instead we decided to go with an understated "you're lucky you have a bed, let alone a theme, here, I found a pack of rainbow stickers," theme.

So, even though I couldn't find bedroom stuff in rainbow, I wanted to tackle it in the bathroom.

Here's the thing I figured out:  You can have an owl bathroom, or a seashell bathroom or a leaf bathroom, or an animal print bathroom, but there is no such thing as a rainbow bathroom.

Not even on Amazon.

BUT.

Because I'm smart and intuitive and pay attention to key words, I figured out that you CAN have a gay pride bathroom. Which is just like a rainbow bathroom, except you have to search using "gay pride," instead of "rainbow."  Then it's a whole new world of options.

In this age of the Internet, I'm always a little surprised when something I want doesn't exist on line. There's how many billion people and I'm the only one who wants a framed picture of a rainbow?  I'm being offer the chance to buy a seven foot tall statue of a rooster, but there's no such thing as a rainbow trash can?  There are more people who want a hat shaped like a fish than want a rainbow hand towel?

Anyhow, with the help of our proud gay brethren, and a picture my mom painted of a rainbow that I stole out of my nephew's bedroom, Lilly is very pleased with her new bathroom.

#owen

I picked the boys up from tumbling today and I wasn't even late!  True story. 

The tumbling teacher greets me with a "Hey! We missed you on Saturday!"

Um . . . we missed you too?  It's so long between Wednesday classes? 

"The halftime show wasn't the same without the boys!"  

Oh.  There was a performance. 

"I understand!" He says, "people get busy."

But we weren't busy. And I also didn't forget. I never even knew about this in the first place.  That's how out of touch we are.

We gather our stuff in shame, the boys clutching the cowboy hats they were supposed to wear during their routine. 

He calls after us, "I think we are going to have one more show this spring, Owen!  So don't lose your hat!"

"I won't!" Owen replies cheerfully as we head out the door.

Then, as the door closes, I hear him say, under his breath, "hashtag, I definitely will."

#hesnotwrong #knowyourself #helearneditfromwatchingus #butsopolite #thehatisalreadygone

Still no Superman, though.

In the car today Sam asked when we were going to get rid of all the pay phones.

So I'm looking around and I see exactly zero pay phones. "I think the pay phones are already gone, Sam."

"The what are gone?" Owen asks.

"Pay phones, Owen."

"What are those?"

I am so old. So very old.

"Before cell phones there used to be phones on street corners and stores that you could put 25 cents in and make a call."

"Oh, I've seen those.  I saw two . . . no three in Disney world. But prices must have gone up because it cost two quarters."

Okay, so number one, Jesus, inflation. Number two, how about next time we spend a million dollars to take you some place special you pay a little more attention to the goddamn magic.

Schooled

"Mom?  How many states are there?" Lilly asks.

I KNOW THIS ONE

"There are 50 states in America, Lilly."

"No," she says, "like how many PLACES are there?"

"Places?"

"Yeah, like there's Ohio State and China and the park."

So just, like, literally every place?  I have no idea.

"Mom? I thought that there were seven continents but now I'm counting and if you include North Antartica and Sourh Antartica, then that's eight."

"Um . . . Maybe because I don't think there is any such thing as North and South Antartica?"

"Mom! Of course there is!  Otherwise all the polar bears would eat the penguins and there would be almost no penguins left!"

Here's the thing though. I really can't say with any kind of certainty that there isn't a North Antartica and South Antartica.  It doesn't exactly SOUND right, but it's been a long time since that was relevant in my life. Also, on the face of it it doesn't seem logical that penguins and polar bears have separate continents but what the hell do I know about wildlife?  The answer is less than I know about geography.

So I didn't argue with her. This seems like a job for School Teacher.

Adventures in Sleeping with Chris, Part II

So one thing I forgot to mention about Chris's nocturnal habits: moaning.

He moans.

A lot.

And with vigor. Imagine someone shouting at you, but they are also a zombie.

First, a silent , gentle, calm inhale.

OOORRRHHHAAAAAOOOoOoOo exhale.

It's frustrating from my end. Like, I understand snoring. You're congested, what are you going to do?  But moaning feels like a choice. Soooooo, if he could maybe not do that, that would be great.

It's also distressing. You know who moans?  People who are sad. Or upset.  Or are lying gut-shot on a battlefield.   Those people are moaning.

So I'm here, trying to go to sleep, and Chris is lying there, deliberately groaning like a civilian casualty of war.

It's upsetting.

Honestly, normally, it's not really a problem. I push him a little (super gently) and he startles himself awake enough to resume his normal business of chomping and leg spasms.

But the past week, it's been relentless. So, after spending the night on the couch, I decided to google it.

"Yes!"  The internet says, "I know exactly what you mean!  It's called Catathrenia and it is not a problem!"

Well.  I mean, it's kind of a problem.

"No, really! It's completely benign!  Not a big deal"

Well, again, Internet, I'm going to beg to differ.

So instead of googling, "what the fuck is wrong with my husband he's moaning in his sleep" I tried googling, "Catathrenia cure."

I see an article titled, "5 Tips for Battling Catathrenia."  I click on that because, clearly, we are about to show Catathrenia whose house it has entered and it will feel my wrath. Even if the cure is horrible for Chris, I'm willing to have him pay that price.

But here is the suggested battle plan:

1) Relax!  Not as in meditate to stop moaning, but, hey, relax, Catathrenia is totally not something to worry about.  At first, I didn't realize that this was actually listed as a step for battling Catathrenia, but I realized there weren't enough steps and went back and checked. Step one of our battle is to chill out, man.

This is not an appropriate attitude for battle, FYI.

2) make sure it is really Catathrenia, because if it something else, it might actually be a problem.  But if it is really Catathrenia, it's not a big deal.

Again, shut up.

3) use white noise.

Oh, yes, obviously, this 200 pound man lying a foot away from me and moaning like a goddamn wildebeest will fit right in with the sound of Rainfall in the Night Forest.

4) ear plugs

Maybe if you put in ear plugs you won't hear me tell you to shut up with your bullshit advice?

5) see a doctor!

Look, you just told me that the best five point plan of attack the whole internet could come up with was a) don't attack, b) verify that it isn't something actually worth attacking, c) ignore it, d) also ignore it. That's it. That our battle plan. Honestly, I don't think that doctors know things that Google doesn't. It's GOOGLE. Doctors are just better at deciphering.


If I'm counting, and I am, exactly none of those had shit to do with battling precisely anything.