Little No Limit sits at the table. She is cutting paper, a popular activity for her. She moves to brush a strip of paper off the table and inadvertently knocks her pen down to the floor.
“Uh!” She exclaims. Then she looks at her dad with her lips protruded and anxiety inked all over her big brown eyes and says, “Daddy – pick that up.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “That is not how you talk to Daddy.”
She turns her eyes to Husband, lips protruding even more, maybe even a little tremble, and Husband laughs. “Oh, she just wants a little help.”
He walks over, picks up the pen, and hands it to her. I feel like he might have called her Princess too. She snatches the pen back, and without so much as a thank you, continues cutting paper.
I am about to say something, but Husband chuckled at that moment. Chuckled at this… this… behavior, and then looked at me and said, “Who knew when I married one, I’d get two?”
“That was, uh, so not cool.” At which point, I knocked something on the floor, looked at him, and added, “Pick that up.”
The Boy and Little No Limit attended their first karate lesson. The first thing they did was run into the dojo with their shoes on. Sensei was open minded about it and managed to get them back to the lobby to take their shoes off. Once inside the dojo, they impressed me with their listening skills, though I daresay they didn’t impress Sensei.
Impressing me means that they actually listened and followed instructions at some point. Never mind that Sensei had to repeat everything several times, and then actually mimic the requested movements before the kids could follow him, but hey, he’s worked with this age for a while. Surely, my kids’ behavior wasn’t that outside the norm. Over the course of the half hour, they did a lot of running, punching, kicking, projecting their voices (“Aiya!”) and standing at attention, with a smattering of high fives along the way.
Towards the end of the session, Sensei was kneeling in front of the kids wearing mitts on his hands, directing the kids to punch and kick. He was asking them to punch as hard as they could and kick as hard as they could, first at the mitt and then at his chest. It was on this attempt to kick his chest that The Boy missed and kicked Sensei in that part of the body where men don’t want to be kicked.
Ouch.
Sorry, Sensei. Good thing you’ve mastered the art of self-control, because your older student and I, who were observing the lesson from the lobby, had to cover our moths and snort a lot. We weren’t laughing. We swear.
On that note, I’m off to watch The Forbidden Kingdom. Jet Li and Jackie Chan ain’t got nothing on The Boy.
The morning shower left droplets on the red and brown leaves and recently mowed grass. There is a light fog, probably leftover marine layer and the sun has finally come out. The whole park screams “Yes, I am that beautiful.”
We spend some time walking about the park and the kids sing “It’s November” to the tune of “Where is Thumbkin?”, something they learned at school and can’t get enough of (they’re fans of Albuquerque the Turkey as well, but haven’t memorized the lyrics). The Boy and Little No Limit scurry about to the tune of their song, their footsteps swishing and squishing their way through wet grass. They pick up fallen leaves. Leaf after leaf goes securely into their plastic bag for them to bring home and examine one by one for nuances in color, the random caterpillar, and full vs. broken.
The dogs are happy to be out on a walk, sniffing for all the latest and greatest pee-mail and leaving their appropriate responses. Another dog goes by in a car, a toy pinscher, wearing a sweater, barking at us.
Don’t even try, little dog in human clothes, you will not win.
Little No Limit is wearing jeans with large wet circles on both her knees from kneeling in the wet grass. She jumped in a puddle. I know her socks are soaked. I hope she doesn’t catch a cold. I worry if The Boy should even pick up leaves because the other day when he did that at a different park, his eye swelled up and his elbows and knees turned red and the doctor said he probably touched/rubbed against some plant.
I was talking about that incident this morning on the phone with my sister in law. “It’s so hard,” she said, while talking about how to protect our children. “What are we supposed to do, put them in a bubble?”
Honestly, there are moments. Moments when I think, man, I wish I could just do that. Hide them away in a bubble or a sanctuary like the guy in Once Upon a Day. But then I remind myself that that’s crazy talk. That I can’t lock them away. That that doesn’t protect them or help them. That I can’t stop everything, or perhaps anything, from happening to them.
I read a quote recently, attributed to Corrie Ten Boom: “Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength.”
I am a worrier. There is no way around it. I worry about everything I do, everything I don’t do. I can’t stop myself. I do at least restrain myself, though, and force myself to not let my worrying stop the kids from being kids.
And so I watch my daughter get her shoes and pants wet and I watch my son play with the leaves. And the only thing that happens are smiles. Smiles and red, exuberant cheeks, and giggles, and more of “It’s November.” And I am thankful.
Continuing on with MomDot blog party with the hopes that the police haven’t been called in to ruin all the fun…
Today, MomDot wants to know what my favorite holiday recipe, what my holiday table looks like, and what my biggest holiday disaster was. Let’s start with the easy ones: fave recipes are my crumb topping apple pie and sweet potato soufflé. I also like my mother’s lumpia, even though I haven’t been able to eat it lately and mine just doesn’t taste quite as good. Of late, one of my favorite recipes has been gluten free, rice free pizza dough, but that doesn’t scream holiday fun the way a nice bowl of red-coated Christmas caramels does. Just look at how much fun Little No Limit was having at her second Christmas with those babies:
I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.
On to my holiday table. Given the above picture, I considered posting a picture of an exam table from Gross Anatomy 101. But, no. Here is what my holiday table looks like:
Kneel before Zod!
As for my biggest holiday disaster was, I recently posted on my first Thanksgiving Day dinner. I’d say that was probably the silliest dinner every, but disastrous? Not sure I’ve got anything disastrous, for Christmas or any holiday. At Little No Limit’s first birthday party, my mother dropped the cake icing side down on our pool table. This was bad both for the cake and the felt on my pool table. There was also the Valentine’s Day dance where my date stood me up. Does that count as a holiday disaster? When you’re in high school, it does. (fyi, it turned out to be a misunderstanding, like in Three’s Company, but still…).
There was also a particularly memorable Christmas when I went into labor and got rushed to the hospital, oh wait… that never happened. Nope. I was due on December 21st and then the doctor suggested we might have the baby early, say, closer to the 15th, but when I passed that date with nary a change to my special lady places, we started thinking I might have a Christmas baby, and come Christmas day, we were all on edge that maybe, just maybe, I was going to have a baby. But lo and behold, The Boy held out until December 30th at which point I had a planned C-section because I hadn’t even effaced and he was a behemoth child. No mistakes with the date, btw, just a little boy who found his Mommy’s internal world the right place to chillax. Of course, I might still call that Christmas a disaster because I had just been informed that the Little No Limit I was expecting was actually The Boy. Yes, I am one of those moms who was told the wrong sex of her child. Disastrous, I say. Disastrous. (not anymore, of course - just at the time).
So anyways, thank you MomDot for these pressing questions that forced my stumble down memory lane, and thank you to Bottlewise and Glow Mama for sponsoring the MomDot Blog Party Day.
There’s a party going on at MomDot and you’re all invited. They’re posting a Christmas question every day from Nov 12 – 27th, and even though today is the 13th, I am starting with the original question (which is sponsored by La Belle Toile and This and That by Randi:
“Introduce us to your family and share Holiday pics of years past.”
I think you all know my family by now, but just to recap, there’s me, Riley, the witty and beautiful writer of this blog (did I mention I’m conceited?); Husband, the hard-working vegan who puts up with me (did I mention I’m a know-it-all?); and my wild wide eyed children The Boy and Little No Limit. Here they are putting on a show of their new presents at Nana and Papa’s house last Christmas:
Like how warmly dressed they are? That’s what Christmas in southern California is all about, baby.
Santa gave the kids bicycles and while they are riding them outside in the above pictures, they have a different place to ride them at home:
That’s right – I used to let the kids ride their bikes inside the house. I have all wood and tile, and they were just getting the hang of it, so why not? It was fun for a while, but nowadays, they’re more interested in riding their bikes outside, where they can get in better speed and distance than one could ever hope for in a hallway or living room where the random dog or toy or parent’s foot might be in the way. I guess it’s time for the training wheels to come off!
There is something wrong with the Notorious F.O.X. I don’t know what it is, and unfortunately, right now, neither does the veterinarian.
We adopted Notorious F.O.X. from the animal shelter when she was between three and four years old. She’d been brought to the shelter, adopted, returned, then adopted again, then found roaming the streets pregnant and they couldn’t track down her owner (she could be her own Lifetime movie). She had her puppies at the shelter and watched all of them get adopted away from her within two months, after which she was spayed. By the time we came along, she’d been in the shelter for three months (it’s a wonderful shelter that keeps all their animal friends as long as it takes for them to find a home). She was depressed, they told us. She never ate. But she was so calm and sweet. When Husband Then Fiancé and I walked around the shelter, she just looked at us, with those eyes that look like they’ve lived a million lifetimes, and when we put our fingers to the metal wires, she walked up and licked us.
We left the shelter with Notorious F.O.X and brought her to her new home, where she promptly got into the potato salad while we weren’t looking. We didn’t even get mad. Oh, early love. Over the following months, we learned things about Notorious F.O.X. – how she could take down a Christmas tree, for example, and bust through a window and its wooden blinds. Later, we discovered she could chew through and/or break any kind of metal crate. We have addressed the anxiety in different ways over the years, sometimes with better results than others, but inevitably, she reverts to her original namesake self. She’s notorious. There’s nothing else to say. What other dog do you know of who has tried to escape from a house through an AC vent?
Her anxiety is at its worst now. She’ll crawl on top of me in bed, jump up and walk along the outside wall, attack corrugated cardboard boxes like there’s raw meat hidden inside of it. She’s also between ten and eleven years old now and her eyesight and hearing are waning. A few days ago, I came home to her shaking violently. As in, looked like she was having a seizure. I immediately called the vet and asked to bring her in.
The vet is on the same block I live on, on the opposite corner, and across the street. It only takes a few minutes to walk there, or a half hour depending on how distracted the children are (Look, leaves! Look, a car! Look, a speck on the sidewalk!). It was my first visit to the vet with both children, since this visit.
To start, as soon as the veterinarian walked into the room, the first words out of his mouth were “So what seems to be the problem today with—oh, hello.” See, The Boy decided that he should walk up and grasp the veterinarian’s legs in a big bear hug. I smiled and nodded like this was totally normal. Rather than explain to the vet “My son has autism and we’ve been working really hard on encouraging him to socialize and be affectionate but he doesn’t always understand the differences between friends and strangers, not that you’re a total stranger of course, but blah blah blah” I simply smiled and said, “My son’s very friendly. Son, you can let go now.”
The good doctor let it drop and we began our dog discussion. We went through the usual list of Notorious F.O.X.’s anxiety issues, then I added that they seemed worse lately, and coupled with the shaking/possible seizing, I feared the worst. He asked me if there was anything different at home, did we have a new baby, did we get another pet, did we buy her a new bed—
“Ahhhhh! A cat!”
Apparently, Little No Limit thought that an appropriate moment to prance the toy cat the receptionist gave her through the air.
“Please keep your voice down while Mommy is talking with the doctor, thank you,” I said, and smiled at the doctor. “Um, the only thing new is her leash. I can’t imagine that’s an issue.”
Just then, The Boy tried to climb up on top of the table where Notorious F.O.X. was resting while the vetertinairan petted her head. “I’m going to ride her!” he exclaimed.
I immediately informed the veterinarian that the children are not allowed to ride the dogs (even if they can dance with them). He asked if Notorious F.O.X. ever lashed out at the kids, or anyone, and I said, “No, she’s really quite calm and well behaved around them [even when they do succeed in riding her]” at which point Little No Limit thought it necessary to TURN THE LIGHTS OUT and scream “Daaaaark!!!!!”
In my best mother voice, I said, “TURN THAT BACK ON – THIS. INSTANT.”
It is either a show of my acting capabilities and/or complete idiocy that when the lights came back on, I kept a straight face and said to Dr. Probably Now Scared Of Having Kids, “So what do you think?”
He, for his part, maintained a calm demeanor and acknowledged that it could have been a seizure, or worse (eg: central nervous system tumor), but nothing was giving him that indication now, as her vitals were all normal.
Pause, with look at the kids.
“I think I’d like to prescribe an anti-anxiety medication for her for the next two months and see how that goes.”
Another pause, as Little No Limit and The Boy start arguing over their imaginary personas – “No, I’m a robot!” “No, you’re a dog!”
So, uh, doc, you want to prescribe any of that for me too?
What do people with a peg tooth, no belly button, and differently sized feet, some with missing bones, have in common?
a) They’ve all been characters in a Flannery O’Connor short story
b) They all made an appearance yesterday on my giveaway post’s comments.
c) Possibly both.
My post yesterday got more comments than my last 50 posts combined, which is both a sad fact about the previous 50 posts and a surprising fact to know that an Amazon gift certificate could introduce me to such an array of entertaining folks with uncanny multitasking abilities when it comes to bodily functions. I certainly can’t burp and fart at the same time. (Although when I was a kid I did used to have what I called the Burp Dance, which was a move that involved chanting and knee shaking and enabled me to burp on demand. It drove my brother batty. “How does that always work?!” he would scream in confusion.)
Anyway, if you ever think the world has gotten too normal, by all means, check out the comments on my post, especially this one from Sharla, AKA my new best friend:
I think horned melon looks really gross, I want to live closer to the beach and I’d even be glad to help clean it up, I think Princess Beard is adorable (I teach preschool out of my home and she is actually quite talented), I hope you’re healed now from that infection, and you are funny even when you don’t try, although your dog is cute. Oh, and about me, I love getting free stuff but I like finding blogs I want to read even more. I’m now a subscriber!
Here’s one more sample comment, from Nick PapaGeorgio of Cubelife STL (His name’s not PapaGeorgio! It’s Rusty Griswold and he’s a C+ student!):
In 1992 I went down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. While down in the French Quarter, I met a girl about my age who looked totally goth, which was kind of a turn on for me.
We sat in this dark, smokey bar for hours and talked literature, music, etc. She was into The Cure (big surprise), early Depeche Mode (once again, big surprise) and really like Edgar Allen Poe. Me, being a Poe fan, led to us talking about Poe and all of his dark and twisted glory.
After about 3 hours of this, she invited me back to the place she was staying at. I thought I would get lucky, so I went along. We walked about 2 blocks north of the French Quarter to this old but very nice house. She let me in and when I walked in I could not notice but how dark and muggy it was in there, even more so than outside. She asked me to follow her and I go nervous when I heard several other voices.
Well long story short, she and her friends claimed that they were vampires and thought I would be a good addition to their brood since I could be a transition between the typical member and the typical population.
Needless to say that I bolted out of that house and ran faster than I think I had ever ran before.
Oh, New Orleans, I miss her so.
Hey Nick, if that girl’s name was Christine, you were right to run.
And since we’re already on the subject of New Orleans, here’s a wonderful Wordless Wednesday shot from Tricia at Momdot. How much you want to bet that guy was headed to Oz?
Looking forward to more fascinating stories and quirky life details y’all.
This is who Little No Limit brought home today from school:
“This is Princess Beard!”
I have many questions about Princess Beard, beginning with “Where are your other facial features?”
When I asked Little No Limit where the eyes and nose where (I figured the mouth would be hidden by the ginormous beard), she said “There,” and pointed to the blank spaces where they should have been. I didn’t see them but clearly Little No Limit thought I should have.
I guess Princess Beard is nothing more than another case of not noticing one’s normal features in favor of the odd one. Perhaps I’m particularly sensitive to this fact because when people see my son, they often jump to conclusions about his skin. People see what is different and focus on it (and in some unfortunate cases, comment on it), whether it’s the kid with bad skin, the guy with the big nose, the woman with the wonky eye, or this guy:
MOLE!
Poor Little Princess Beard. Doomed to only be noticed for her abnormal chin growth (though I do like that swanky striped fabric accessory) instead of her evenly spaced eyes and button nose. Here, Princess. Let me help you out:
Little No Limit pronounces some words differently than others and also sometimes mis-hears the way words are pronounced. On occasion, this leads to interesting cases of “Do you think that’s what she meant to say?”
Lately, Little No Limit has shown an interest in singing. She particular enjoys the song about a certain spider that scurries up the water spout, and then rain comes (and you pound your hands down), and then the spider is washed out, and the sun comes out (and you wave your arms around like a lunatic), and then the spider, our undaunted champion, climbs back up?
You know that one?
Little No Limit calls it The Bitchy, Bitchy Spider.
I haven’t decided if I should put a stop to it or record it.
(By the way, there’s a nice review of my blog on Do You Digg It. Check it out!)
Little No Limit snuck into Husband’s office while he was working and managed to distract him for a few minutes of play. I took advantage of their father-daughter time to catch up on a magazine article I’d been meaning to read (note I didn’t say book, because, well, that would be like shooting for the moon).
I could hear shouts of laughter and amusement, and then—
“Ow!”
I pause in my reading.
Calm words from Husband.
Moments later, Little No Limit walks into the living with unable-to-ignore crocodile tears in her eyes. “I hurt Daddy (sniffle) I hurt Daddy (sniffle sniffle).”
I walk to the office. “Honey? She’s saying she hurt you. What happened?”
His response is grave and serious. “She punched me. Somewhere… sensitive.”
I stifle an insensitive laugh. “Well, she’s crying now. Did you yell at her?”
“No, I just told her not to do it again.”
“Well, how did you tell her? You know she’s sensitive.”
And then, my sensitive girl walked over to Husband with arms outstretched and tears in her eyes, and he reached out to hug her — and then she socked him… somewhere… sensitive.
