All Rileyed Up

Today is my six year anniversary. This means that six years ago–

My mother-in-law realized the new shoes she bought are both for her left feet.

My father forgot to bring his tuxedo pants to the church.

My three-year-old ring bearer was too scared to walk down the aisle.

The bagpiper scared everyone when he started to play “The Wedding March.” As a
result, Husband’s microphone caught him laughing throughout the entire start of the ceremony.

My friend’s cell phone rang in the middle of the vows and my other friend whispered, “It’s God” (a la Dead Poet’s Society). Only the people sitting around her heard.

During the reception when the ladies sang “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling,” the videographer zoomed in on my friend’s breasts.

Lastly, one that has been mentioned previously:

My cousin-and-bridesmaid woke up to discover her best friend and compadre—a 1 year old mini pincer named Dexter—died in the night, likely from suffocation from sleeping with her on the couch. She took one too many pills and nodded in and out of alertness throughout my wedding ceremony and reception. She dropped her flower (instead of bouquets, my bridesmaids each carried a single duchess rose). She slurred through her reading. She was pinched more than once by the bridesmaid next to her to be woken up during the service (Catholic weddings last a looooooong time). The groomsmen watched her, whispering to one another about when they thought she would finally fall down. Because each of my bridesmaids wore a different colored dress, the running question amongst wedding guests was “What’s with the orange bridesmaid?” and the running answer was a hush-hush “Her dog died. She’s having a rough time with it.”

DING! DING! DING! We have a winner.

It was my very own Sixteen Candles. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Well, maybe for some Percocet.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbFzAAoN13Q]

A while back, I posted on the contents of my daughter’s purse. Veronica at Toddled Dredge commented on what MacGyver could do with such things. It got me thinking: how many of my daily life situations would benefit from MacGyver being present?

There was that day I was at my friend’s house when we opened up the spiral-painting-coloring-thing-toy and all the powdered coloring tablets were broken. I’m sure MacGyver in all his wile could have concocted some colors for us, perhaps with the help of a few mashed flowers, a spool of thread, and the strip of an unused pregnancy test.

Then there’s the day my cell phone was run over by a car. I dropped it in the parking lot and continued on to the restaurant we were going to, and on our way back to the car, Little No Limit had a tantrum in the middle of the road, and Husband spotted the phone thought, huh, that looks like my wife’s phone. It still works, but the front is damaged. I’m sure MacGyver could fix it with one of Husband’s leftover guitar strings and a Doc Marten.

Whilst considering the many times in which MacGyver could help me out, I came across this post by Meredith at Poppy Fields, inspired by If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.

This is the end result:

“If You Give MacGyver a Screwdriver”

If you give MacGyver a screwdriver, he might whittle a whistle out of some bark from your apple tree.

If he whittles a whistle, he’s going to want to play “Yankee Doodle Went to Town.”

If he plays Yankee Doodle, you’re going to want to see fireworks.

If you want to see fireworks, he’s going to have to create out them out of a Pringles pop can, a sheet of bounce, WD-40, and the back of an earring.

If he creates fireworks for you, you’re going to want to have a party.

If you have a party, you’re going to want to invite that friend of yours you haven’t seen since college, who watched all those MacGyver episodes with you.

And MacGyver’s going to have to find him. Which he will.

And once MacGyver finds him, you’re going to have to mail an invitation, and you’re going to need sealing for that envelope,

And MacGyver’s going to make it for you out of maple syrup and and PlayDoh.

And once MacGyver pulls the ingredients out, your child will want to play with the PlayDoh.

And if she wants to play with the PlayDoh, you’re going to have to satiate her somehow or another,

So MacGyver’s going to have to whittle her a whistle!

And now, MacGyver’s Finest Moment:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTWEh2mcdsg]

“Trees” By Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Sigh.

In other news, OSU must really hate Florida right about now. Go Gators!

I was tagged for this meme that’s been going around about what a ‘real mom’ is, by Wendy at Things in Your Head. Her post for this meme was pretty funny. I have been taking my time on the answer. Is this real, as in ‘opposed to a fake’ mom? Because I’m sure most people know she’s not real:

Does Real Mom = Good Mom? And how does one prove such a thing?

I recall from the days of my pregnancy with The Boy (or as I sometimes call them, the last stress-free days of my life) a phone conversation with one of my best friends about the finality of my pregnancy.

“Everything is changed,” I said, “Forever.”

“I know,” she said.

“No, dude. I mean, FOREVER. I’m pregnant, and then I’m going to have a baby, but nothing is going back to the way it used to be. I’m going to have somebody in my life. Forever.”

And again, she said, “Yeah. I know.”

And again, I said, “No! You don’t! Forever. FOR-EVER. I’ve never done anything for forever! I can’t even grasp forever. And this is a human life. A life! Someone is going to be with me forever. I cannot do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because! You know me! I don’t stick to things. I don’t see things through. I even don’t even buy everything on my grocery list when I bring it to the store because it’s too hard to find some things. I give up on everything.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do! You know, my hamsters never even lived longer than six months! And babies require a lot more attention than hamsters!” (don’t I have wonderful logic?)

The conversation continued like that, and since she was a best friend, she actually tolerated it, as opposed to calling me a basketcase and hanging up (I love best friends). When the conversation finally came to a close, she said “I think you’re going to be a great mom.”

At the time, I just said, “Thank you, but I was in mental agony of the ‘how the hell does she know that?’ variety. How does anyone know that? And why do they keep saying it to me?

“You’ll be a great mom!” says the best friend.
“You’ll be a great mom!” says the family friend.
“You’ll be a great mom!” says the co-worker you’ve only hung out with once and challenged to a drinking game.

Did everyone really think that, or did they think that’s just something they’re supposed to say? Just because they said it, did that make it real? I still don’t know the answer, but once I had The Boy, I didn’t have the time, energy, or interest to ponder further.

Since having children, it stopped mattering to me whether anyone else thinks I’m a good mother (as long as it’s not Social Services, I guess). They can say I’m a good mom, or they can say otherwise, but I’m not answering to them (as long as it’s not Social Services, I guess).

I have all the typical motherhood moments. Guilt, when I held my infants still for their first shots and they looked at me all red-faced, teary-eyed and betrayed. Frustration, when I just want some ‘me’ time and can’t get it. Tired, of changing yet another diaper. And yes, those feelings are overwhelmingly outweighed by the happy times:

Little No Limit dominates (in my purely objective opinion) the stage for thirty seconds of glory in the Nutcracker

The Boy rides his first solo ‘thrill’ ride at Knott’s Berry Farm (seriously, the toddler ‘drop’ is the cutest ride ever).

I could claim that any of the million moments I’ve had with my kids make me a real mom. Most of them are documented by photograph. But what do they prove, besides the fact that I’m trigger happy fool behind the lens?

I was in Florida, recently, visiting my family. I stayed with my parents, and my grandmother on my mom’s side lives with them. She is 93 years old. She has lost a lot of energy this past year, and there are times when she is too tired to go to church (and if you know my grandmother, you know what a big deal that really is). It was great to see her, but after leaving town, I realized I forgot to take a picture of my kids with her. I have pictures of her holding them when they were infants, but on this last visit, they both danced with her and gave her kisses, and I totally forgot to whip out the camera because I too busy watching, and thinking, “Oh, how sweet.” My brother managed to take a couple pictures of The Boy with her, but none of Little No Limit nor both kids together with her. A week later, she was taken to the ER for what they thought was a stroke, but turned out to be pneumonia. And my first thought when my brother called me was, why didn’t I take the picture? Maybe that sounds self-absorbed, but as I have already said, I like photos. I want to be able to show my kids pictures of them with her. My grandmother is thankfully healthy again, and back at home. Hopefully, she will still be there on my next trip to Jville, which means, I’ll eventually get that photograph. But if I don’t, I still have stories. Lots of stories. I don’t need pictures to prove how real she was to me. So why would I need pictures, or anything else, to prove that I am a real mom? I can’t prove it. I can only tell you this. I have a much stronger idea about what “forever” means.