by mayberry on October 4, 2009
I have had headaches almost as long as I can remember. As a tween/teen/young adult, I saw general practitioners, neurologists, dentists, rheumatologists, and gynecologists. I got X-rays and MRIs and answered, ad nauseam, the question “on a scale of one to 10, how painful is your headache right now?” I was variously diagnosed (and then undiagnosed) with conditions ranging from TMJ to lupus. There was nothing to see or quantify objectively. I was treated with painkillers, antidepressants, and biofeedback therapy.
Nothing really worked. Things got a little better, life went on. Until I started having babies. With each successive pregnancy (and with every cycle in between), the headaches got worse and worse, and were enhanced with a heaping dose of nausea, lightheadedness, exhaustion, and heartburn (you know, the fun stuff that pregnant women get to enjoy anyway). My doctor smiled ruefully and handed me some T3s. Those don’t work, by the way. Neither did acupuncture.
Nowadays, my head hurts during PMS week and then any other time that routine deviates even slightly from the norm: a little too much work/not enough sleep; travel beyond a 100-mile radius from home; two glasses of wine instead of one. Today I’m at the tail end of a 10-or-so-day span, and that’s after I took one of those aforementioned T3s and slept for 11 hours straight. (Sleep usually is the only remedy.)
I’m not sure what the point of this whine is except to say that it’s hard to think of much else when I’m in the clutches of one of these headaches. I wasn’t going to write about it, on Captain Obvious grounds. Then I heard about this. Son of a …. scooped again. (And no, I haven’t tried Vicodin, only because I know that narcotics make me feel even crappier than I started out feeling.)
by mayberry on June 18, 2009
Sometimes I feel like the only mother in the world who really dislikes bedtime–the process, not the result (that part I like). Yes, I like snuggling and reading books (well, some books) and shampoo-scented hair. I even almost like ear-fondling. But I don’t like “put on your pajamas” nagging, “brush your teeth” nagging, “put your clothes in the hamper” nagging, “stop jumping on the bed” nagging, “did you use the potty?” nagging.
It is absolutely prime time for me losing my patience in a big bad way, even more so than the 5:00 arsenic hour. I don’t know if that’s because bedtime comes at the end of a long day and I need a break, or because I am jumping ahead to the sweet, sweet free time that’s almost in reach. But you will never catch me writing rhapsodic posts about cuddling with my darlings at bedtime.
Maybe when they’re teenagers and put themselves to bed and sleep until noon. That’ll be rhapsodic, right? And then I’ll blubber about how I miss those bedtime moments. For now, I’ll continue wishing for my instant-sleep superpower. I promise only to use it in good faith.
by mayberry on May 18, 2009
And it’s not at the playground while “supervising” your child. During a birthday party.
I went to three birthday parties this weekend: 1x roller rink, 1x planetarium (that one was actually cool. They played Fine Young Cannibals during the ’80s-themed laser show), 1x playground. I get that most dads (well, a lot of moms too) would rather be almost anywhere than hanging out at the playground with your three-year-old while she attends a party, but dude. I think that is just rude (and kind of makes you look like a creep too). He didn’t even take one out during the truly social portion of the afternoon–cake-cutting, pinata-swatting, etc.
I should probably start a whole blog full of judgmental posts about parental birthday party behavior.
by mayberry on May 14, 2009
I thought I was almost done crossing things off the list of “things I will never allow/resort to/say when I am a parent.”
Apparently not, because my car now has stickers on the insides of four (four!) windows. Better yet, two are Sponge Bob, one is Sesame Street, and one is Transformers. They all came from the doctor’s office. (I know they didn’t come from the haircut place because you should see my shaggy-headed children. It’s a little hippie up in here right now.)
Yes, I drive a station wagon. One that’s eight years old and has a big dent on one side because I practically rammed it myself with a shopping cart. One that’s carpeted with crumbs and critically important crayon drawings and reusable shopping bags and gum wrappers.
But really, the stickers have driven away any last shred of decency and coolness I had left.
by mayberry on May 10, 2009
Alternate title: Mother’s Day–The Low Road
I know it is petty, but sometimes I would like a teensy bit of credit for the things I do. I bet you do them too. You know, the things that are essential to the running of the household; or maybe just considerate–but that go entirely unnoticed by everyone else. Things like:
- Being able to pinpoint exactly where every item of clothing is at any moment: “your middle drawer”/”the hamper”/”in your cubby at school”/”in the too-small box because you outgrew it two years ago”
- The biweekly declutter (along with the weekly, semiweekly, daily, and hourly declutters)
- Dressing and undressing in the dark if others are sleeping
- Unloading the dishwasher 98.7% of the time
- Wiping the bathroom sink clean every single night (can’t anyone get their toothpaste down the drain? How does it end up on the shelf under the medicine cabinet?)
- Eating all the leftovers so food doesn’t go to waste
- Taking (almost all of) the pictures/video of the precious children; uploading/archiving (all of) the images
So for Mother’s Day, I am giving myself a giant pat on the back. And here’s one for you too; what do you do that no one ever appreciates?
*My husband is very good at holidays so I am sure I will be suitably thanked and celebrated today. It’s just the other 364 days a year that sometimes need work.
by mayberry on March 18, 2009
Mad drawing skillz, that is!The assignment was to draw a self-portrait, so Opie drew himself “with a mad face” (top left; apparently also with some kind of bunny ear/mohawk thing going on. And also he’s holding a sword, one that “shoots needles”). Then he required everyone else to draw a Mad self-portrait. Jo is on the upper right with the unibrow. Jeff is at the bottom left, being shot by a needle and shouting at the sword-bearer. Also he’s on fire. I am on the far right with angry eyebrows and bared teeth. And in the bottom center, Jo’s “surprise” look.
Here’s what I found irksome the other day: Our grocery store changed its policy on reusable bags. They no longer offer a 5-cent rebate for each bag you supply–only their branded bags count. I don’t use the reusables for the cash, but come on! What a stupid policy.
And you?
by mayberry on September 13, 2008
I don’t get vanity license plates. I mean, not like “what is the deal with vanity plates,” but like I see them, and then spend precious minutes trying to figure out what the hell they meant.
BHAPIE: This one lives in my neighborhood and I swear to you, it took me a year to determine what it means. I couldn’t get past “bha-pye” (rhymes with pop-eye). No. “Be happy!” I’m not happy–I just wasted a year of my life on your dumb license plate.
STAUPL8R: Stop-lighter? Stop-later? Staple-a-tor? Stay up later — now why would I want to do that? I don’t get enough sleep as it is.
ICNCYDU: I see Nancy Drew? Inky dinky doo? I can see why, do you? Well, no, I don’t. I have no idea what you’re trying to express, here.
DCK HTR: Duck hunter? Dock heater? Dick hater? WHAT?
I’m thinking if you have such an important message to get across, maybe spring for a bumper sticker or a magnet or something. PLZ?
by mayberry on September 4, 2008
1. I am the automatic dishwasher; thou shalt not have any other gods before me, and believe that a five-second spin under the faucet is my equal.
2. Thou shalt not take the name of the dishwasher in vain, and curse it for not unloading itself.
3. Remember the dishwasher and keep it holy; thou shalt not run it during the dinner hour.
4. Honor thy father and thy mother, and learn to place your dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and not under the couch.
5. Thou shalt not kill your meltable objects by placing them in the lower rack.
6. Thou shalt not cheat by running the dishwasher when it is not full.
7. Thou shalt not steal space through inefficient loading.
8. Thou shalt not bear false witness by claiming disposable items are meant to be washed and reused. And that includes 100-to-a-box drinking straws.
9. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, if it has two dishwashers instead of one.
10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, who unloads the dishwasher in a more timely manner.
This post may possibly have been inspired by the people in this house with whom I share a dishwasher. Maybe.
by mayberry on August 12, 2008
Via Wordle (click on it to see it bigger), which I found via Mimilou.
This is an image derived from the RSS feed of my blog. How perfect is it that “child” appears right in the middle, connected to words like “love” and “thought” and “nasty” and “normal” and “responsible” and, of course, “sucked”?
*
Today’s PSA:
Hoard is not the same as horde.
Chic is not the same as chick.
Pore is not the same as pour.
*
Words that sound better with a British accent:
controversy
aluminum
whilst
*
I’m finally a-Twitter. I’m afraid this is a slippery slope which inevitably leads to me neeeeeeding an iPhone.
by mayberry on June 20, 2008
Yesterday afternoon my kids really wanted to go to the pool. Since I was already feeling peevish and whiny I refused. We actually have a really nice community pool here. It has an enormous shallow end with lots of fountains and sprayers and other fun stuff; it has two water slides, a huge grassy area, a big sand play area, a snack bar, and halfway decent locker rooms. It’s a five-minute walk from our house. Of course, the kids love it (anyway I think that’s a Little Kid Law, to love any and all swimming pools).
But yesterday I just wasn’t up for changing the clothes and slathering the sunscreen and packing the stuff and blah blah. And I especially wasn’t up for the post-pool herding of two children into the showers and back home (where I’d immediately have to move right into Dinner-Books-Bed mode).
So I brought out all my home-based water ammo: Let’s play with the volcano sprinkler! How about you guys can spray each other with hoses! I’ll blow up the little pool! They grudgingly agreed to the little pool. Which I then spent TWO HOURS trying to inflate with a bicycle pump. (Two hours, because I had to keep stopping to a] prevent myself from keeling over and b] check what mischief Opie was up to wandering around the house/yard by himself. Apparently, according to my husband we do have some kind of electric pump but all I could find was its tormentingly empty box.)
Of course the kids lost interest way before the pool was ever inflated. And my arms fell off and now I really don’t look good in a bathing suit even if you do overlook my stretchmarks and smushy belly.
And so the moral of the story is I should have just taken them to the pool that didn’t require inflating, mommy suit and all. Especially after last weekend’s visit to The Waterpark Capital of the WORLD (where people wander all over wearing next to nothing and believe me, some of them need just a little more something), I have come to terms with my tankinis and swim skirts. When I go to the pool, I accessorize my post-kid body with a couple of cute kids and that means a lot.
This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by BOCA.
