Biter

I was sitting on the floor sorting laundry yesterday afternoon when I heard a small rustling sound behind me.  I turned quickly to find Coco inches from my face.  Her eyes were wide.  She stared at me for a second, then said in a low whisper, "I'm going to be sad when you die."  Then she walked away. 

Today on Creepy Things Your Kids Do!

she's terrifying

I had a dentist appointment a couple days ago.  It was just a cleaning but they told me I must return soon to have a crown placed on a particularly unhappy tooth.  It was not welcome news -- my last crowning didn't go so well.

I said I understood the importance of crowns, of course, and would be happy to come back at a most convenient time to have another crown installed by their extremely capable hands but the only problem was, you see, when I do I'm going to freak the hell out.

I told both the dentist and the dental hygienist, both lovely women who listened to me carefully with nodding heads, that pretty much everything they do to me in the dental chair these days is triggering my fight-or-flight response.  And honestly, truly -- and I really mean this -- I do not want to fight them.  But I will.

The dental hygienist began chuckling and said, "Uh-oh, there's going to be a red flag on your file with a large note that says, "CAREFUL, SHE'S A BITER!!"  The dentist and the dental hygienist started waving their arms around and laughing at that -- "A BITER!  A BITER!  OH NO, A BITER!"

I was like, "What?  No no, ladies, I'm not going to bite you.  My arms are just going to fly up all synchronized-like and clock you both in the jaw at the exact same time, gangster style.  Then I'm going to run down the hall and out the front door wearing my bulky black dental work sunglasses and my teeny little dental work bib.  I'm going to fight AND flight.

They're not gonna see that coming.

They promised they would work with my newfound dental anxiety but I'm not convinced.  The dental hygienist walked me to the front desk and told the receptionist, "MJ here needs to schedule a crown as her temperament allows."  Then she patted my shoulder.

Our new refrigerator is pretty great except it started leaking all over the floor five minutes after the water line was hooked up to the ice maker.  We joked our fridge had an incontinence problem.  The thought did not make us too keen on drinking the water dispensed from the door.

The fridge repairman's scheduler made a mistake so the repairman showed up for our appointment four hours early, which would have been fine except I wasn't home.  And our cleaning lady was.

I received a frantic call from the cleaning lady, quite freaked out by a man trying to enter our home, claiming to be a repairman and insisting he had an appointment.  She was like, "No, you don't!" and he was like, "Yes, I do!"

By the time I got home, it was a tense stand-off indeed.  I'm pleased to report our cleaning lady did not assault the man with a Swiffer, though she held one at the ready.  I brokered the truce.  The fridge guy spent two minutes fixing the fridge and left, but the cleaning lady probably needed several drinks and a doobie to finally calm down.

I sent Lucien to school without breakfast for the first time ever this week.  It was a rushed morning and Lucien refused to eat the oatmeal Alex placed in front of him.  Loosh said, "I don't want oatmeal, I want cereal" and Alex said, "There's not enough cereal for both you and Coco" and we all knew as soon as Lucien started eating cereal, Coco was going to demand cereal too and we were not up for that fight.  The oatmeal was plentiful, and it was good.

I stepped in and said, "Lucien, we're serving oatmeal for breakfast.  If you don't eat it, you don't eat it, but that's all you're getting."  As soon as I said it, I thought to myself, "Hmm...that could have been handled better, hardass"  because I knew what was coming.  I have a very stubborn son, you see.

As I feared, Lucien sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and said, "Fine, I guess I'm not eating breakfast then" and I said "Fine" but what I really meant was "Shit."

It was ye olde power struggle.  Dreadful things.  But as a parent, once you've entered into a power struggle, it's a bad idea to back down.  You must be strong and not let the little punk smell your insecurity.  So I held firm.  We drove to school in silence and then OH MY GOD, he ran off into school without breakfast.

I texted Seattle Mom my failings and she sympathized -- many a parent has been made humble by ye olde power struggle.  She suggested I go visit The Loosh at lunch, which I did, and when I saw his face light up when I walked into the cafeteria, and saw him beaming when all his little friends clustered around me, and felt him grab my hand, I knew we were going to make it through No Breakfastgate 2013.

Our blissful mother and child reunion was interrupted by a call from the cleaning lady yelling about some guy trying to break into our house.  

Christmas is coming and I'm very excited.  It's my favorite time of year.  It's the only time of year I feel like baking, which can be quite alarming to my family members.  They sometimes walk into the kitchen slowly and ask with tense voices, "Hey....what are you doing over there?"

I feel energized by Christmas this year so agreed to lead the Christmas community service project at Coco's preschool.  It was a great project but took up a lot of time as well as space in my dining room.  Then I volunteered to collect money from all the parents in the class and buy all the teachers' gifts. I spent many a morning chasing a parent down in the preschool parking lot, begging them to give me money or sign a card and narrowly avoiding the squealing tires as they peeled away and yelled out the window, "Can't! Late for work!"

The teachers may wonder why half the parents in the class have the exact same handwriting.  I tried to disguise my forgeries by using different colored inks.

This was Lucien's recent karate homework on the theme of "patience."

Maybe I should think of cake when I'm in the dentist's chair.

She's a biter!
MJ

Living the Dream in September

It's not really a receptacle for honey

We've finally arrived at the apex of human achievement.  There's a Honey Bucket in the driveway. 

Lucien asks every day if he can go outside and poop in the Honey Bucket.  I'm trying to impress upon him that, if given the choice, most rational human beings would choose the comfy bathroom ten feet away over the Honey Bucket.  Deaf ears so far.

I shouldn't be surprised.  This is the kid who recently wrote a song entitled "Buttcheek Monster" and sings it at inopportune times, such as in the middle of his swim lesson. I keep telling him to stop singing and learn to, you know, possibly, swim.  Deaf ears so far.

Yesterday he asked me to say "cheese" five times in a row and, not seeing any obvious catch, I obliged.  He then made the most realistic mouth fart sound I've heard (the kid should teach seminars), pointed at me and laughed.

What?

 Congratulations -- it's still a boy!

September has not been our favorite month this year.  It's actually in hot contention for our least favorite.  Alex is preparing to take on a new role at work but is still working his old role, too.  Two roles at one time is a sh*tty equation that equals bags under eyes and weak high-fives in the hallway as our primary means of communication.

While Alex wrestles mental collapse, I'm handling the education situation for Lucien. We are still vacillating between keeping him where he is or sending him to private school given his recent learning disability diagnosis. I have daily meetings with any one or more of the following: school psychologists, occupational therapists, doctors, teachers, and/or potential private school administrators. I'm pretty sure it is all of their jobs to confuse me.

I'm going to figure it out, though.  I've come to think of myself as an education detective. I'm collecting clues and every piece of information I gather -- good, bad, neutral, or wtf -- is critical to solving the case.  This sometimes necessitates me crawling into a private school administrator's lap and inspecting her closely with a magnifying glass.

• Fancy Private School isn't sure they have the resources to support his learning disability -- CLUE.  
• That administrator told me to "follow my gut" and my gut was to punch her in the face -- CLUE.
• Lucien is one of 500 kids in his current classroom -- CLUE.
• All the mothers in this parking lot seem to be wearing the exact same black yoga pants -- CLUE, I DON'T LIKE UNIFORMS.

The public school tells us Lucien's learning disability, while obviously impacting his learning, is not severe enough to warrant special services through the public school system. I asked the school psychologist if we could test him again, but maybe this time I could coach him to throw it?  Tell him not to try at all?  Slip him some Benadryl beforehand?  Maybe we could encourage him to just sit there, stare into space and drool a little?

She looked at me all horrified -- CLUE.

Sometimes Alex comes home from work and steps over my overwhelmed body lying prone in the middle of the floor.  He usually says, "Do you want a glass of wine?"  and I usually say "yes" and then he says, "Do you want white or red?" and I say, "It doesn't matter, I'm not drinking to enjoy the wine tonight."  And Alex understands but he still brings me the best bottle we have and pours it into a decanter.  That's why we're still married.

Coco's school is a whole different kind of stress.  Her preschool has requested lunches be packed in environmentally low-impact packaging and contain lean proteins, fruits and veggies only (there goes the ole ziploc bag and leftover pizza slice).  They've also requested the size of the lunch "fits the child's appetite."

I guess I can measure the contents of Coco's stomach each morning after breakfast and develop an algorithm to pinpoint how much she's likely to eat at lunch.  This may be tedious for us both but -- hey, when did preschools get so bossy?

Education is hard.  Maybe I should homeschool HA HA HA HA HA.

To distract myself from the heftier side of life, I've begun focusing an inordinate amount of time on things that don't matter.  In related news -- Mantisy is thriving!  When it comes to mothering a praying mantis, I am flawless.  I caught his most recent meal straight out of the air with a pair of tweezers last night. In the seconds immediately after the capture, as I stared at the moth struggling between the tweezer prongs and realized what I'd done, I was scared of myself a little bit.

I've also painted the back of the house with five bazillion different paint samples. The house currently looks like a really ugly quilt, which has alarmed most of the neighbors.  The people at Benjamin Moore told me the other day, "You should probably just pick one because that's pretty much all we've got, lady."

The house project has encountered some delays but we're still on track for completion by 2020.

 This is our "deck."

The grass is gone thanks to the unplanned sewer line replacement.  The kids come into the house dusty or, if Seattle is being Seattle, muddy.

This is part of my scary house quilt.

Alex and I have been getting babysitters and spending Sunday afternoons together.  We talk and walk all over the city.  Sometimes we end up at Farmer's Markets where we buy mass quantities of beautiful, beautiful tomatoes.  This would be fine and good if not for the fact neither one of us eats tomatoes.

But they're so pretty.  Maybe I should smash them up and smear them on the back of the house.

What's happening to us?  The squiggly answer is obvious -- corn puffs.  Mercy! 

At least we've got a Honey Bucket -- CLUE.
MJ

Raw sewage and birthday cake

I think Contractor God is avoiding me.  When I saw him on the street a few days ago, he quickly donned women's clothing and told me he'd never heard of himself in a high-pitched voice.

I approached him again yesterday but before I could get a word out, he was a contractor-sized blur, leaping over cars and knocking down pedestrians as he ran.

Today when I asked him to do a few odd jobs at our rental house on Beacon Hill, he didn't speak, just growled at me and slammed the door as he left.

(That last one is true, the others are my usual bullshit).

I can't blame him.  He's been through a lot for us, more than any man should ever endure. He's taken on the neverending story that is Banister Abbey alongside the pressure-filled Goddamn House. Worse, he recently came over on a Saturday morning when we called in a panic; our sink was backed up, our basement was flooded and everything smelled like sewage.

Al and Contractor God eventually fixed that (big) problem but it was a long, painful process. All three of us would like to erase from our memories what we saw and smelled that day. Alex had the insight to say, "You should take a picture of all this raw sewage for your blog." but I answered "No" because.... just....no.

I was a chaperone recently for Lucien's class field trip to the puppet theater.  I generally don't like puppets, in fact am pretty creeped out by the little f*ckers, but I wanted to be a helpful parent.

Regardless of the destination, I do love being a chaperone.  These kids are at the best age; there's nothing in the world like a first-grader's eyes blinking up at you as they ask, "Lucien's Mommy, do unicorns exist?"  It's very entertaining but also hard to spit out the answer -- "Of course not, you stupid little first-grader!" -- in between guffaws.

Lucien sat next to me on the school bus, held my hand and rested his head on my shoulder.  I don't know how many more years I have of him being thrilled to have his Mama along on field trips.  Soon enough I'm going to embarrass the hell out of him just by being visible.

The puppets were surprisingly enjoyable and were operated by award-winning Chinese puppeteers.  After the show, the puppeteers agreed to take questions from the children.  I think they regretted that decision when five hundred small hands shot in the air.

When called upon, the children did one of three things:  1.) said, "Ummmmm....." because they didn't really have a question, 2.) rambled on nonsensically, or 3.) asked something like, "How do the puppets go to the bathroom?"

(Incidentally, you cannot use the words "puppet" and "potty" in the same sentence without sounding like an idiot, no matter how many fancy awards you've won.)

Lucien turned 7 years old last week.  We had his birthday party over the weekend.  We had twenty kids here.  There's something wrong with us, maybe.

Thankfully, we hired the best kid magician in the world to entertain them for the first hour.  I was skeptical it was going to work, expected the kids to turn against Xakary the Magician after ten minutes and pelt him with party favors. But Xakary is a true professional.  He not only kept the kids' attention for nearly an hour, he kept them laughing and happy so we parents could gossip and eat junk food in the kitchen.

Xakary made Lucien the star of the show.  The culminating moment of Lucien's life thus far was helping Xakary pull a live rabbit out of an empty box.  It was a really big deal.

I'm considering hiring Xakary every weekend for the rest of our lives so I can finally get a few things done around here.

Most parents dropped their kids off at the party and ran but a hardy few stuck around so I wouldn't have to bear it alone.  They promised they would bring flasks to help us get through but they lied, they LIED.

There are not many rooms in either Banister Abbey or The Goddamn House that are finished so I've been reluctant to post photos.  I keep waiting for that "Ta-DAH!  F*cker's finished!" feeling but I may be an old, old woman before that blessed moment happens.

Even though the work completed is plentiful, it all still looks unpainted, unfinished.  In our defense, we can't do anything until we do other things first.  But those other things rely on us doing other things and buying necessary doodads.  But to buy the doodads, we must measure the spaces that are not yet there.  It's all connected in one neverending cycle of incompleteness.

I can finally celebrate something kind of close.  I can celebrate the one room in Banister Abbey that is finished, truly finished -- except for putting the pocket doors back in and moving the piano back and getting that one piece of wood above the window back from the stripper (wood stripper, not naked stripper, though I bet that would be a better story) -- but finished enough.

Here's what the parlor looked like before we moved in:

Here it is now:

There was a lot more involved in that room than buying furniture and fluffing pillows but Lord, you'd never know it.  It's disheartening, with all the time and money spent, when friends come over and can only remark, "Oh, you painted!" 

I wish changes could be tracked and highlighted and presented to each guest in a binder.  Then, a Powerpoint presentation full of slides of sheetrock dust, nail guns, chemicals, splinters and pain! 

As for The Goddamn House, it's not done either but it's close.  I'll post more pictures when it's truly done but in the meantime, here's one to prove I'm not lying when I say I think about houses ALL the TIME. 

The kitchen before, with two years of garbage and graffiti still hanging about:

The kitchen now, with sexy back views of Contractor God and Street of Dreams Neighbor:

Those are party lights installed above the cabinets.  They can be set to twelve different colors. They can also blink or fade from one color to another.  

They were Contractor God's idea.

Dear Lord, why?

Alex is in Japan again.  The night before he left, he accidentally set off the alarm downstairs.  I was brushing my teeth upstairs, assuming he had it handled and would turn it off in a second.  When it continued to go off, I went to the stairwell and leaned over the banister, "Al?  All OK?"

Alex ran past downstairs, flustered and disheveled and yelling, "What do I do?  What do I do?"

Piercing sirens can fluster even the most together of men,
MJ

Making sin out of nothing at all

As I sat down to write this, I glanced outside and saw Widower Peter standing in front of his house across the street.  He walked down to the sidewalk, opened the cover of his water meter, spit in it, then walked away smoking his wonderfully curvy pipe. 

Can anyone tell me why he would do such a thing?  Can't he just spit on someones car -- or try to land his spit on a quickly-moving bug just for a challenge -- or spit up in the air to see who it lands on like us normal people on this side of the street?

Seattle Mom and I went to see the band Stars last week.  There are few things more enjoyable than sitting in a live music venue with a beer in your hand and loud music rattling your bones.  I can't hear anything for days afterwards, which is a bonus considering the volume of my daily life (I'm looking at you, Lucien and Alex and men constantly hammering on my house).

The show went from fun to sexy when I went to the bathroom and saw these signs on the wall --

Let's rephrase so there's no confusion.  What they really mean is this --

Stars is a good band.  I liked them more when they first appeared on my radar nearly a decade ago but they're still worth the time spent.  They seem to align with me politically as well; I lost count how many times they gave Washington props for legalizing both gay marriage and weed on the same day. They called Washingtonians "an inspiration to civilization" for recognizing both those things for what they are -- not scary.



I recapped the show for Contractor God the following morning and in my description expressed relief Seattle Mom and I were not the oldest people at the show.  That's a legitimate concern when you reach your late thirties. 

Contractor God then told me of the time he and a friend, both in their late forties, went to see one of their old favorite British punk bands.  He said it was quite depressing to look around the crowd, realize how old the fanbase had become and admit they were, in fact, their peers. 

Come the first song, the fans tried hard to pogo with the same enthusiasm they'd had twenty-five years earlier.  But after about half a song, everyone hobbled away from the front of the stage rubbing their lower backs to order a beer, put ice packs on their aching muscles and wonder where the years had gone. 

We were at Seattle Mom and Dad's house for dinner recently when Seattle daughter and Lucien brought us a picture they'd drawn together.  I immediately got upset.

"Sin?  SIN??  With arrows pointing at the important bits?  Who is teaching our children their bodies are sinful?  I don't even believe in 'sin,' just use your common sense and don't hurt anybody, duh."

Seattle Mom and I called the children over, concerned about the messages they were receiving from somewhere and wanting to set them straight.  When we asked Seattle Daughter what she meant by "sin," she looked at us like we were dumb and said, "That doesn't say "sin," that says "NICE."

Seattle Mom then remembered Seattle Daughter has a tendency to write words backwards. She actually sounded it out pretty well.  English is hard. 

It's winter, the skies have gotten gray and rainy and most Seattle residents are stir-crazy and itching for change.  But for some reason, I'm currently involved in a full-on love affair with my city.  Everywhere I look, I love things.

Love my Seattle boy running on the waterfront

Love my girl owning that lollipop under the viaduct

Love those brick walls

Love that neighborhood theatre sign

Love the picture Contractor God took from up on our roof

 Love my funny friends

I wasn't born in Seattle and it's far from the most exotic or interesting place I've been, but as my boyfriend, hip-hop artist Macklemore, says about it:

"The skyline is etched in my veins, you can never put that out no matter how hard it rains."

Break it down for the town...

Not really sure where I was going with all that but there it is,
MJ