Motherhood - 2/9 - Big Mama

Next week I may get my oil changed

September 20, 2007

Well, I’m sitting in Discount Tire while I attempt to compose this post. With any luck, the ambience of a bargain tire warehouse will inspire some creativity, because heaven knows I haven’t been able to think of a single interesting thing to say while sitting at my desk at home.

It’s a little known fact that Hemingway composed most of his best work at his local Discount Tire store.

My car has a back tire that’s been steadily losing air. I would have never noticed this in a million years. A fact, by the way, that completely boggles P’s mind. We have spent countless minutes of my life that I’ll never get back looking out at the car in the driveway, with him grilling me on how I can’t tell the tire is flat.

“How can you not see that the tire is flat?”

“It doesn’t look flat to me.”

“Do you not see that it has significantly less air than the other tires?”

Umm. No.

What am I? Some sort of automotive, tire pressure specialist?

The tire is not flat to the naked eye.

Or, at the very least, the unobservant eye.

I have a gift.

So, fingers crossed, maybe I need a new tire. Because I would so much rather spend money on a new tire, as opposed to say, saving said money for a sweater coat from Anthropologie. Not to mention the fact that, really, there is nothing I’d rather do with a free morning while Caroline is in school than hang out in an auto store.

It’s almost like being at Starbucks, but with the smell of burnt rubber as opposed to delicious Colombian goodness with a cinnamon swirl muffin on the side.

And instead of catching up with my friends, listening to some woman trying to tell me about her upcoming road trip to California or something like that.

Doesn’t she see that I’m in the midst of composing a literary masterpiece? I bet Hemingway never had this problem. Or maybe he did and it’s how he got the idea for “Grapes of Wrath”.

Except that would be John Steinbeck.

And everyone knows he did most of his writing in the snack bar at Target.

Anyway, this is how I seem to spend the days Caroline is in school. I have high hopes for all the things I’m going to accomplish, then I look up and it’s time to pick her up. Most days all I’ve accomplished is catching up on my Oprah episodes and getting out the vacuum cleaner with the best of intentions.

This summer I made a list of all the things I would accomplish once Caroline was in school:

1. Clean out all closets
2. Paint inside of bathroom cabinet
3. Give house deep cleaning including removing rugs and having them cleaned
4. Taking couch slipcovers to drycleaners to get them cleaned
5. Go to lunch with Gulley at least once a week.
6. Reorganize kitchen cabinets.
7. Clean out laundry room.
8. Thoroughly clean all light fixtures.
9. Organize photos and videos into some sort of system.
10. Write coherent, interesting, entertaining posts for blog.

Here’s what I’ve accomplished.

I’ve gone to lunch with Gulley about 4 times since school started.

Obviously I’m pacing myself.

I think I’m still a little bit giddy with my newfound freedom. Freedom that allows me to roam the aisles at Old Navy, Target and TJ Maxx without someone hanging on my leg and begging me to stop looking at clothes so that I can watch how fast they can run across the store.

Seriously, when I resigned from my job last spring, Caroline finished school two weeks later. Thus began the longest summer ever. Granted, I loved being at home without the pressure of work, however, I had no idea what it was like to just have free time for the sake of having free time.

I haven’t really known what to do with myself. I’m like a kid in a candy store, or you know, like a kid who can watch Friday Night Lights instead of Noggin on a Wednesday morning.

But, with my foray into Discount Tire, I am proclaiming that I’m serious about getting stuff done while Caroline is in school. I’m ramping up to be proficient and wise about my time management.

I may even go home and clean out a closet later.

But let’s be honest, the only way the inside of the bathroom cabinet is getting painted is if I hire someone to do it.

I think I’ll edit my list.

2. Hire someone to paint inside of bathroom cabinet.

See, I feel more efficient already.

And as I washed the smell of bowling alley out of my hair, I knew it had been a good day

July 26, 2007

Guess what it did here yesterday? Seriously. Guess.

IT RAINED.

And here is where I’d like to make some stupid joke about animals walking down our street being led two-by-two by an elderly gentleman with a long beard, but at this point it just seems like a cliche.

Caroline got in bed with us at around 5 a.m. when she claimed that thunder had woken her up. The rule at our house, that we enforce with semi-regularity, is that she can only get in our bed if she’s sick or if it’s thundering outside. I’m not sure that it was actually thunder that she heard at 5 a.m., but I was too tired to debate it and honestly, it could have been because that’s all it ever does anymore. It thunders and it rains. Rinse. Repeat.

I asked, “Are you sure it was thunder?” She said, “Yes, it was thunder and I know because my ears are very sensitive.” I wasn’t convinced, but she won me over with the claim of her sensitive ears and and so I let her get in our bed. We fell back asleep and woke up around 8 a.m. to the sound of legitimate thunder and raining.

Gulley called around 8:45 because we had planned to take the kids to the free Wednesday movie at the theater, but we decided we didn’t feel like driving across town in the driving rain to go see “Clifford’s Really Big Movie”, otherwise known as parental torture in the form of a large, red canine. So, we ruled out the movie and Gulley asked, “What are we going to do all day in this rain?” And I said, “We’re going to pack us a sack lunch and come spend the entire day at your house.”

And that’s exactly what we did. Except we didn’t pack a sack lunch.

However, I did pack several of our DVD’s including “Muppets in Space” and also my new jeans so that I could show them to Gulley and she could try them on to see if she needed a pair for herself. Oh, and I brought my laptop, but never could figure out how to get it connected to the wireless interweb at Gulley’s, so I spent the whole day away from the computer and, other than some mild twitching around noon, I survived.

The kids all ran back to the playroom to play and we attempted to have a conversation, but kept getting interrupted because, apparently, the gang felt they needed to “ice skate” in the living room. So, because the rain has driven us to desperation, we went and got in Gulley’s bed, turned Food Network on the T.V., and let the children take over the entire house. Did I mention we were both wearing the same clothes we’d had on the night before? Clothes that are really one step away from pajamas, but if you call them “yoga pants” they become totally acceptable, if not attractive.

Every now and then one of the kids would come in and ask us for some juice or something and we’d say, “Why can’t you people leave us alone? Don’t you know we’re trying to figure out if black tights are really going to be in for the fall? This is serious, serious stuff.”

At some point we realized it was probably time to feed everyone lunch and when we emerged from the safe haven of Gulley’s room, this is what we saw.

They had torn the place apart. And we didn’t care.

We debated for awhile about what to do for lunch, the age old dilemma of McDonalds versus hot dogs. Delicious and nutritious either way. While we debated lunch, the kids started playing with a whoopee cushion. I’d like to say that Gulley and I were above it, but we weren’t. We gave in to the whoopee cushion and all took turns seeing who could give the most realistic portrayal of intestinal distress, loudly applauding all the dramatic efforts. It was all fun and games until Jackson got a little too enthusiastic and popped the whoopee cushion. He was pretty upset about it, but Gulley told him to just go get the other one out of the playroom. It was a proud moment for me to realize that my best friend is a two-whoopee cushion family. I mean anyone can have one whoopee cushion, but to have a spare? That’s just dedication to a lost art form.

We decided we could all probably use to get out for a little bit, seeing as how we were down to our last whoopee cushion, so we loaded them up in the Trailblazer and drove through the pouring rain to pick up McDonald’s Happy Meals. We got home, ate our Happy Meals and had a little rest time. Gulley and I could have easily reverted back to our college days and taken a four hour nap, but the kids wouldn’t even sit still for a movie. We finally gave up after an hour of repeated demands for popsicles and Chex Mix, and decided to let them bake cookies.

Gulley helped the kids make Paula Deen’s Triple Chocolate Chip cookies and oh my word, they are better than strawberry butter. I’m not even going to talk about how many spoonfuls of dough I ate because it’s just shameful. Here’s a batch fresh out of the oven.

So, we’d played, we’d talked, we’d eaten, we’d baked and we’d eaten some more. It was 3:00 p.m.

What to do? How do we fill these hours with meaningful, purposeful, perhaps even educational, activity?

We bowl, my friends. We bowl.

And please tell me that I am not the only one who is envisioning the entire bowling alley scene from Grease II right now. “We’re gonna scooooore tonight. We’re gonna scooooore tonight.” I actually thought they were just talking about bowling.

Anyway, we hit the lanes. We laced up our bowling shoes, grabbed the lightest bowling balls we could find and had ourselves a little tournament. Check out this style and form.

We discussed taking them to the museum, but decided to show them some real culture instead, to teach them a skill that will serve them well throughout the rest of their lives. And a great time was had by all, even though none of us broke 100 in spite of the bumpers in the gutters. Gulley should be ashamed of herself because she took bowling for kinesiology credit at A&M and really didn’t play up to her potential.

Eventually, everyone got a little bowled out.

We headed home, proud that we had turned what could have been a dreary, boring day into a day of fun and adventure. And I’m not even talking about the adventure that comes when you visit a bowling alley in a sketchy area of town.

If it keeps raining, we’re going to see about opting out of our pool membership and joining a bowling league. You can’t put a price on that kind of entertainment.

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow

July 25, 2007

So, last night I finally gave the girls in my Bible study the blog address, which means admitting in public that I am known as Big Mama on the world wide web of internet. I had mentioned that I had a blog last week, but then I started to sweat profusely and couldn’t really get the words out, so I left feeling like I had just told a group of people that I write things on the internet in what may, or may not be, just a Word document. I don’t know why I am okay with people I’ve never met reading all my ramblings, but start to twitch when I realize people who know me in real life are reading. It’s like I’m afraid of the rejection, like someone may say, “Boy, that whole Big Mama thing? Really bad.”

Anyway, here’s how I’ve spent the last two days. On Monday, I had my annual exam with my ob/gyn and asked him at what age do I become too high maintenance to try to have another baby. He grinned and said that although he doesn’t live with me, he feels fairly certain that I already am high maintenance. Oh touche’ baby doctor. Touche’.

But seriously, in a world filled with Hollywood actresses having babies at age 52, what does he consider to be too late or in the risk zone? He basically told me that I should have gotten pregnant yesterday. He also gave me this long lecture on how once a woman reaches age 25, her eggs begin to gradually taper off year after year. And as I sat there with my feet in the stirrups, all I could think about was that I can’t believe I’ve been going downhill for the last 10 years and no one told me. I was all prepared to start going downhill in 3 weeks after I turn 36 and now, I’ve found out that I’ve been headed down the hill for a long time and am quickly gaining momentum.

If I was a snowball, I’d be large enough to kill someone by now.

So, he told me that I better make a decision pretty quick because time? She is a-wastin’. And the pressure that put on my ovaries, combined with an already raging case of PMS, just did wonders for my emotional state. As I drove home from his office I felt like there were flashing neon signs that screamed, IT’S NOW OR NEVER and honestly, I’m not ready for it to be now, so maybe it will be never. But like Scarlett O’Hara says, “I’ll think about that tomorrow”.

Then, yesterday morning, I had an appointment with my orthodontist. On my last visit, two weeks ago, he had done the molds for my permanent retainers and when I booked my follow up appointment with his receptionist, she mentioned that it looked like I might be getting my braces off on my next visit. So, I have been walking around for the last two weeks like a kid in December, all hyped up on candy canes and Santa, just dreaming of how glorious it will be to live a life that doesn’t require me to figure out a subtle way to take out my rubberbands when dining at a nice restaurant such as Chik-fil-A. In fact, I almost bought a pound of salt water taffy at the store on Monday so that I could celebrate by eating all of it on Tuesday once my braces were off. And here’s the thing, I don’t really even like salt water taffy, but I was going to eat it purely because I haven’t been able to in almost 2 years.

I was going to eat nothing but corn on the cob and taffy for weeks. And then, go to the doctor to see about clearing up my scurvy.

I hadn’t mentioned that I was going to get my braces off because first of all, I didn’t want to jinx it (and yes, I just said jinx it because I have braces which sometimes cause me to channel the lingo of an 11 year old) and also, I was going to do this great before and after thing with braces and no braces. It was going to be oh so witty and clever, and much better than this post of disillusionment, disappointment, and crushed orthodontia hopes that y’all are now stuck reading.

Anyway, my appointment was at 8:30 Tuesday morning. I brushed my teeth while looking in the mirror and having visions of pearly, white teeth dancing in my head. I actually put on makeup and cute jeans with my favorite black top AND my wedge heel sandals. I figured if I was going to get my “after” pictures taken, I better look good. Plus, I was going to spend the rest of the day setting the world on fire with my dazzling white, straight smile.

Little did I know, I was mascara-ing in vain.

Dr. Kevorkian came in, looked at my teeth and said, “Well, Sport, I see a few more things I’d like to tweak.” And with that, I knew the braces weren’t coming off, and I am embarrassed to say that I truly almost started to cry. I know the PMS was making me a little more emotional than usual, but I sat in that chair as he twisted some more wires in my mouth and had to think about things like Victoria Beckham posing for her drivers’ license photo to help me fight back the tears. Part of me wanted to give in to the self pity of being a woman of advanced maternal age, on a rapid downward spiral with questionable eggs, and braces on my teeth, but I couldn’t let those 12 year olds sitting next to me see me cry. Mainly because I was afraid I’d overhear them telling their mamas, “Yeah, there was some weird lady in there, who was, like, YOUR AGE, and she had braces and she was crying like a little girl”.

So, I focused on lovely thoughts of Posh Spice and her reference to Lionel Richie dancing on the ceiling while laying wood floors, and it got me through. And as soon as I got out of the office, I headed to Nordstroms to indulge in a little brand new jeans therapy. I bought a pair called “The Rocker” because they sounded edgy and trendy, although now I’m wondering if they’re actually made for elderly women and “the rocker” is actually referring to a chair, not a state of mind.

Something to ponder.

Later, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things and saw Katie Holmes on the cover of People. The headline screamed, “Why Katie Holmes is Happier than Ever!!!!” I didn’t need to buy the magazine, because I know the answer.

Katie Holmes is happy because she doesn’t have braces on her teeth. I bet she eats corn on the cob and saltwater taffy whenever she wants.

If that’s not having it all, then I don’t know what is.

Blah, blah, boots, blah, blah, zucchini, blah, blah, pizza

July 16, 2007

I already mentioned that I started my day on Friday by horribly disfiguring my thumb in an accident of idiotic proportions. In fact, I tried to dodge the “how’d you do that?” question from P because I didn’t want to see the look on his face that would confirm my brilliance, but eventually, there was no other way to explain how I’d sliced my thumb open in my car without telling some lie about huge shards of glass hidden under the drivers’ seat. I had to ‘fess up.

And the look? It did not disappoint.

Anyway, Caroline and I forged ahead with our morning o’ errands with our first stop being Cavenders Boot City. She has outgrown all of her boots and she has to have boots to wear to the ranch, not just because it’s the obvious fashion statement for a day in the country, but also something about tall grass, stickers and snakes. I was living in fear that the day would come when P would offer to take Caroline to the ranch for the entire day, and I would have to decline this offer of freedom because our child has no boots.

We walked into Cavenders and headed straight to the shoe section. I measured her foot on a handy little mat with various renderings of foot sizes, and figured out she’d need a size 9. I was looking through the array of size 9 boots, preferably in hot pink (only because snakes don’t like hot pink, not because they are the cutest) when a salesman came up to help me. He threw us into a state of confusion by showing Caroline way too many boot options and trying to convince me that she really needed an 8 1/2. I tried to explain that her foot grows at a rate of speed NASA wishes they could achieve, and therefore, I like to buy shoes a little bit bigger so that we can get more than 2 days of wear out of them, but he kept pulling down the size 8 1/2′s.

I expressed my sympathies over his apparent hearing problem and continued to try to find a pair of size 9′s. Finally, I found a pair that Caroline and I both liked and checked the price tag. $59.99. Oh, Cavenders, you’re not fooling me with that price tag, I can round up and I know that’s really $60.00. I’ve seen the state of Caroline’s boots after she’s been to the ranch and there was no way I was going to pay $60.00 for something that would be covered in mud and scratched beyond all recognition and cuteness. Money was no object to Caroline though, and she wanted those boots. I promised her, as God is my witness, that she would have a new pair of boots before the morning was over, and we headed to a new store that sells boots.

We walked into Target and went straight to the shoe section. Lo and behold, hot pink boots at 50%, bringing the grand total to $7.84, which even rounding up, means they were just $8.00. Caroline declared they were the best boots EVER and we happily took them up to the cash register. She is now ready for any spur of the moment trips to the ranch.

The rest of the morning was spent running other errands, most of which involved buying various Little Mermaid paraphernalia for her upcoming birthday party while thinking about how bad my thumb hurt. I could have used a granola bar and some Gatorade.

P has had a sinus infection due to allergies since last week, and on Saturday morning, I woke up and realized I had caught his “allergies”. My throat was sore and scratchy, my nose was all stopped up and I was tired and achy. Plus, my thumb hurt. So, I decided we’d have a pretty non-eventful day.

I spent most of the morning cleaning out the playroom. I took a garbage bag in with me and showed no mercy to the legions of Happy Meal toys that had taken up residence. I scraped dried playdough off various surfaces, put pieces of puzzles back where they belonged, and put clothes back on Barbie. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that Barbie is a tramp.

Finally, the playroom was clean.

Elephant drawing on the chalkboard was done by Bops. You can have your own copy for $59.95. Today only.

Later on in the day, I realized that sad truth of motherhood, which is even though you may not feel good, your child has massive amounts of energy to burn. And since we don’t have a child-sized hamster wheel for her to run on, I decided to take her to the pool, even though I told her I was just going to sit on the side. And that’s what I did, I sat on the side. Did I mention it was next to two other mamas who are both 5’11 and weigh 98 pounds?

Oh, I’m exaggerating. They really weigh 105.

There is nothing that builds your self esteem like sitting between two supermodels while experiencing raging PMS, having braces on your teeth complete with snazzy rubber bands hinging your jaw together, and a head cold that causes you to sniff and rub your nose repeatedly. I have never felt more attractive or lovely. I was a Glamour Don’t caught between two Glamour Do’s.

So, after we got home, I decided it was a good time to make zucchini bread using what can only be labeled Gigantor Zucchini, which one of P’s customers gave him. This thing had been sitting on my countertop staring at me menacingly for days. It was intimidating. But realizing it was about to go bad (and who wants anything that size to go bad on them), I decided it was time to bite the bullet, or cut the zucchini as the case may be.

It made enough for two loaves of zucchini bread.

And still, there was enough left over to save for grilled zucchini for Sunday night’s dinner. It was the zucchini that would never end.

For Saturday night’s dinner, I spent hours getting dinner ready and this is what we had.

I know y’all are all very envious of this magnitude of culinary brilliance, but rest assured, you too can heat an oven to 400 degrees and have a pizza like this, with 100% REAL CHEESE, in 16-18 minutes.

I even managed to do it with my thumb covered in a Care Bear band-aid.

Let’s see if Paula Deen can do that.

BM stands for Beth Moore, Big Mama and something else

July 3, 2007

Yesterday morning, I took advantage of Caroline being enthralled with one of the Muppet movies while I sat at the kitchen island to work on my Bible study. Gulley, some other girls and I are doing “Jesus, The One and Only” this summer and I am loving it. And I have to say, I thought I knew a lot about Jesus, but this has made me look at some things in a different light, which really needs to be a post of its own at some point.

But for today, I’m just doling out the really profound material.

So, I’m sitting with my workbook and my Bible, pen in hand. The picture of studious. The portrait of a Godly woman.

Caroline can sense me having a moment to myself a mile away, so she came over to see what was going on.

“What are you doing, Mama?”

“I’m doing my Bible study”

“Oh, I’m going to do my Bible study, too!”

She climbed up on the barstool next to mine, grabbed a pen and started scribbling on a notepad. I watched her for a few moments and thought this is what it’s all about, I’m showing her my love for Jesus. I’m creating an example of living a life dedicated to God, and how precious that she wants to model that behavior. And secretly, I even wished the other person who lives in this house (that would be you, P) would notice this moment of mother/daughter/God closeness and take a picture of the sweetness.

I went back to reading my study when Caroline said, “Mama?”

“Yes, my precious angel baby darlin’?”

“I just drew this picture. It’s a picture of what my poop looks like.”

And with that, I bowed my head and thanked Him for the dose of humility.

Next week I may get my oil changed

And as I washed the smell of bowling alley out of my hair, I knew it had been a good day

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow

Blah, blah, boots, blah, blah, zucchini, blah, blah, pizza

BM stands for Beth Moore, Big Mama and something else

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