Apr
12
April 12, 2007
The Process of Dealing with a Small Child Who Has Dropped An Object Just Out of Reach from the Carseat and is Now Howling At Top Volume:
Stage 1: Vague Commiseration
“Oh, did you drop your shoe? Sorry baby, Mama can’t get it for you. We’ll put your shoe back on when we stop.”
Stage 2: Over-Explanation of Cause and Effect
“Well, you dropped it on the floor, sweetie, and Mama is driving and she can’t reach back there. Maybe if you left your shoe on your foot this wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe if you didn’t throw stuff so much.”
Stage 3: Growing Irritation
“Mama’s ears are starting to hurt, honey.”
Stage 4: Valiant Effort at Distraction
“And on that farm he had a . . . what did he have, Riley? A cow? A pig? And on that farm he had a . . . ?”
Stage 5: Eerie Zenlike Eye-of-Storm Calm
” . . . ”
Stage 6: Total Disregard for Vehicular Safety
(lunging wildly into backseat with one arm while keeping half an eyeball on the road)
“There! There! There! Take it, for the love of god! JESUS CHRIST.”
Stage 7: Brief Moment Where All is Right in the World
“Does Riley have his shoe back? That’s right, shoe. Okay! Okay. Whoo. Make sure you hang on to it this time, now.”
Stage 8: Heartbreaking “Thump” Sound Emanates from Backseat
(horrified silence)
Stage 9: Repeat Stages 1-8
Ah, parenthood. I wish the Sisyphean treadmill of toddler-wrangling burned calories, because dealing with a 19-month-old very often makes me want to run amok with a giant pan of peanut-butter-smeared brownies. What can I say, when drinking is no longer an option your vices become ridiculous clichés. Some people dream about unwinding from their stressful day with a glass of wine, but I can’t do that, because inevitably the glass of wine morphs into a tall gin-and-tonic, light on the tonic please, and the glass is cold and wet with condensation and there’s a juicy slice of lime nestled between the tinkling ice cubes, and . . . anyway, instead I entertain lustful thoughts of ravaging a bag of Girl Scout cookies.
Which is kind of a boring fantasy, so let’s try taking the cookies—Thin Mints, of course—out of the bag and scattering them across the naked, lightly sweating torso of Clive Owen, who is reclining on a set of thousand-thread-count sheets and murmuring delightfully-accented things at me. There, that’s better.
Apr
10
April 10, 2007
Diapers, wipes, coffee creamer, Kleenex, salsa, cooked shrimp, frozen macaroni and cheese, cottage cheese, pasta, yogurt, milk, chicken breasts, canned beans, salad greens, cauliflower, broccoli, grapes, cucumbers, canned soup, tampons (sigh), apples, laundry detergent, gum. What do you guess my grocery bill came to today?
If you said $159.01, you win a Kewpie doll (not that you wanted one, because holy jesus, this thing is clearly going devour your face in the dead of night). $160 for four bags of groceries! When did life get so expensive?
I wouldn’t feel so bad about that pricetag, except I have no doubt I’ll be back at the store in a day or two, picking up a few things I forgot (I already thought of three: razors, paper toweling, and mushrooms). I don’t even want to know what our totaled monthly grocery bill is.
Dog has had this weird eye-wart thing for a while now, and it’s been getting bigger. We asked her vet about it, and they recommended having it removed surgically, to the tune of a few hundred dollars. I started to balk about the price, then thought, do I second-guess buying the more expensive bagged salad? No. Well, then I’d by-god better pony up for poor Dog, who does nothing but love us and doesn’t even wilt and liquify in the crisper drawer.
She had the surgery on Monday and now she’s totally pitiful, with a painful-looking area above her left eye and some medication that makes her act creaky and old. She’s been doing a lot of whimpering since we brought her home. I feel terrible for having done this to her, and I feel equally bad for hesitating to pay to have this done to her.
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