Probably not, as I try to block it from my mind. Well, not really, because if it were blocked, then I wouldn’t be able to bring it up when I want credit for working in the service industry.

I was a waitress at Denny’s. And it wasn’t just any Denny’s, it was the Denny’s in Park City, Utah. SKI RESORT DENNY’S! You’d think that wouldn’t make a difference, but I swear it does. You would think that it would make a difference on the PRO side, but you would be wrong. OH SO VERY WRONG.

I’m afraid I really really sucked at waitressing. I was OK if it wasn’t too busy. But once it gets busy, then watch out because I won’t visit your table and I’ll bring you the wrong order, and that wrong order will be COLD! I was VERY good at apologizing and giving you free stuff to compensate, however.

One thing that kind of flabbergasted me was the wide powers over the ticket that a server had. Maybe it was just my Denny’s, where we actually wrote the tickets on a ticket slip BY HAND (none of these highfalutin computer systems there, I tell you whut). I was probably 19 or 20 and just amazed that I could just give free stuff away ON MY OWN SAY-SO. I didn’t have to talk to anyone else about it, if I felt that free stuff was warranted, I could do it! OH THE POWER THAT WAS MINE! FEAR ME AND FLAGRANT USE OF GIVING AWAY FOOD FOR FREE! I suspect that my Denny’s was somewhat lenient in this regard however. Did you ever work in a restaurant? Was this how it was for you?

Even as the “worst” job I ever had, it wasn’t too bad. Mostly it was bad when it got busy and because I was new and no one else wanted to do it, I had to take the night shift from 10pm to 5:30am on Sunday night (the one night off the other night server had). It was just me and the cook, who never really talked to me, and the customers which were around until about 2am, but then not so much. I remember one man who came in at 5:45 EVERY morning on the dot. He walked in, walked straight over to the same table and sat down. I was shocked at how blatant he was. Menu? No, no menu needed. I walked over to him offered him a menu, and was informed of what he’d have instead. As soon as I got it through my skull that he’s been coming here probably longer than I’d been living in the state or maybe had even been alive, I dealt with his lack of proper restaurant behavior (no waiting to be seated! no need for a menu! no waiting for the check just money on the table and he’s gone! what am i to you, just some cheap Denny’s hooker?!!) just fine.

I had a couple of other notable jobs. I didn’t really work in high school or during the summers much, but in my junior year I got a job with my friend’s mom’s cleaning company. It was crazy good money, $8/hr, and I got to work with my friend Michael so that was fun, and we both were in choir together so we’d sing as we worked sometimes and always had fun. Once though, I almost electrocuted myself by touching some wires that were hanging out of a socket. It’s kind of amusing to think back. I remember touching them, and then I was on the floor and Michael was standing over me asking, “Are you ok?” with no time lapse in between. Very odd.

I remember another time I was electrocuted. We moved to Marysville Washington from Colorado, and while we lived in town, it was a nice little neighborhood and there was this little side street where there was a field where a horse lived. I loved horses. (Remind me to tell you about the time my friend Emily and I planned out how we were going to buy a horse when we were 14.) I would take a carrot and go to that field and stand on the bottom rung of the fence and visit with the horse. It was a very nice horse. Brown, with a white blaze on his head. One day there I was, carrot in hand, but no horse. Just inside the fence they had strung up an electric fence, just a single wire. I knew, in theory, what it was, but I was curious. I picked up some grass and dropped it on the fence. Nothing happened. I guess in my mind, I expected a cartoonish “BUZZZT!” crackle or something, but of course, nothing happened. So next, I picked some long grass and touched it with the grass. If you didn’t already know, grass is an excellent conductor! Now, the voltage running through it is pretty low, I don’t think I even lost my grip on the fence, but I definitely didn’t go touching any electric fences after that.

Well, today has been a day for rambling and remembering, it seems. I’ll just leave it at that and bid you happy Tuesday.

amy is too cool for school.

I actually reread the entire series this summer. Except the last book. It’s gone missing. If anyone has seen my copy of The Last Battle, please let me know.

As I walked out of the movie, I was filled with mixed emotion, mixed impressions. When I got home, I was still all mixed up. I couldn’t decide whether I liked it or not. I am pretty easy to please, and just enjoy being entertained, so it is a little odd to be so perplexed about the movie. I think it can be summed up in the first scene. It’s the very first 5 minutes, so I don’t think I’m giving anything away to tell you, but if you would rather not know ANYTHING about the movie before seeing it yourself (that’s the way I am), then you may want to skip this post.

It begins from the perspective of a bomber looking down on London, and the audience follows the dropping bombs down to the buildings below. We then see a mother and her four children scurrying into a shelter, quite panicked, as is to be expected. It is all very real. Very life and death. Very turbulent. Next we see the children being packed onto a train, complete with tags attached to their coats labeling their destination, with hundreds of other children, and hundreds of parents watching them go.

The first few sentences of the book is as follows (please don’t sue me, it’s just three sentences for crying out loud):

“Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent away from London during the war because of the air-raids. They were sent to the house of an old Professor who lived in the heart of the country, ten miles from the nearest post office.”

Do you see the difference here?

I think it can be pinned down as this: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe is a children’s book. And as such, it glosses over items that children do not necessarily need detailed. And it’s more than just, “It’s a children’s book.” Harry Potter is also a children’s book, but not a lot is glossed over. Lewis not only wrote a children’s book, he is telling a child a story. In the movie, there is no glossing. The audience is not necessarily a child, it could be anyone – adult or (hopefully slightly older) child alike.

Well, that’s it. That is the difference. So after hammering this out in my head, I’ve resigned myself to the innate differences these two types of media yield. I do like the movie. I just have to keep telling myself that it is a different telling of the same story. And it is the same story, and a great deal of it IS told the same way. But it will never be the same as the first time it was told to ME. Through the pages of his book(s), C. S. Lewis told me the story himself. Over and over again, through my childhood, adolescence and even now.

So, now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I will tell you that I adored little Lucy Pevensie. She was absolutely perfect. I would say second to Lucy was the White Witch. Perfect. And in no particular order because he had virtually no screen time, was the Professor. I just loved him. Stay for the credits. I’m not sure about the choice of Liam Neeson for Aslan. Not that he was bad, but the entire time I just kept thinking, “That’s Liam Neeson’s voice!” instead of paying attention. I don’t think that was what the movie was going for.

As soon as I got home, I blabbered incoherently to James about the movie for a few minutes, and then I ran to my computer to see what was going on with the next movie. And as far as I could tell, NOTHING! COME ON HOLLYWOOD! These kids are growing up! GET ON THE STICK! I can’t remember which book comes next, because nowadays they are printed up in a different order than when I read them. However, the movie uses the first book I read as the first movie. Anyone remember which one is next? I’m thinking it is the The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, but who knows.

Other children’s books I would love to see made into WELL DONE movies: Anything by Noel Streatfield – They’ve done The Little Princess, and The Secret Garden (both by Frances Hodgeson Burnett), it seems like Ballet Shoes should be at the front of the line. The Book of Three anyone? I would love to see that one on the big screen, and really targeted to children, rather than adult children’s movies. I’m sure I’ll think of more as time goes by. Any you’d like to see? Comment!!

amy, who adores children and young adult literature and still reads it all today

Boys Costlier Than Girls

Damn boys and their damn toys!

This could be true for grownups too.

I’m just saying!

I have free time on my hands today. So shoot me.

I’ve been pondering my grown-upness lately.

I don’t know about you, but I rarely feel very grown up. Well, I take that back. I do feel grown up, when I do something grown up and did it without feeling weird that I did a grown up thing. Like phone places.

Do you remember when you were a kid and your mother called places? And it seemed like such a grown up thing to do, and how are you going to manage to grow up and CALL PLACES ON YOUR OWN without your mother to do it for you?

“Hello I’m calling about my daughter Amy. She’s had a fever and I would like to speak to a nurse about whether I should bring her in or not. Thank you.”

“Hello, this is Mrs. Xxxxxx, Amy’s mother and I need to make her an appointment for her teeth cleaning.”

“Mrs. Rawlins? Hello, it’s Mrs. Xxxxxx. I wanted to call and RSVP for Heidi’s Barbie Doll Birthday Slumber party, Amy is very excited and wouldn’t miss it.”

Grown Up phone calls were seriously something that I would tremble to think of doing. There are a variety of Grown-Up calls that need to be made through the course of one’s life, and it’s weird to think, here I am at 31, making Grown Up calls with no trouble whatsoever. In fact, when the Grown Up calls involve chewing someone out, I kind of enjoy them. Like when there is an error by some huge corporation and it affects me and isn’t my fault whatsoever, I love to call and chew them and their huge corporate asses out. See? Very Grown Up! How did I manage to do that without trembling?? The mind boggles.

I had a roommate in college named Amy (yeah, and this was the SECOND Amy that I roomed with in my college years. Phone calls were a bitch. “Hello, Amy?” “Yes..” “Oh hey, was that design thing-” “Hang on. You want the other Amy.” They were always for the other Amy. However, this Amy was really cool and I didn’t mind that she was always getting called and me not so much.) and we used to discuss things the things that we were expected to handle, now that we were grown up. Grown Up phone calls was one of them.

I still kind of cringe when there are a pile of Grown Up calls that need to be made. Even though I know how to do them now, I still wish they didn’t have to be done. There are more ways that one can resist Growing Up as well.

Throughout my formative years in my parents house, I wore jeans and t-shirts and flannel and didn’t bother much with hair or makeup except to dye it (the hair, not the makeup) red whenever possible and fiddle around with it (the hair and the makeup) when I was bored and it was fun. I often heard, “You’re going out like THAT???” from my mother, or “Can’t you do something with your hair?” that only gave fuel to fire to look as much like the flannel wearing garage band listening grungy growing-up-near-Seattle teenage was SUPPOSED to look like. I kept it up in college and my twenties except when I wasn’t allowed, like, at grown up jobs. Lots of my jobs have been at places where jeans and thermal-weave shirts (i graduated from flannel) were perfectly acceptable.

Anyway, I guess it was a few years ago that I made a conscious decision that I need to take a bit more care with my appearance. I mean, hell, I watch “What Not To Wear” – I can see that half the transformation is just a good haircut and some makeup, but even then the clothes go a long way too. The fact was, even though in my head, my strangely bleached jeans with the bottom hem lopped off (so that it would fray all cool and punk) and random t-shirts and thermal weave shirts looked totally cool and hip, the fact is I just looked weird and old and the whole “don’t bother combing your hair for three days, just shove it into a barrette or ponytail” didn’t help much. Plus, I had great skin as a teenager. People on the street would always tell me how beautiful my skin was. However, at near 30, no one was rushing up to inform me of my great skin anymore. One can’t just hop out of the shower in the morning and walk out the door looking like a Neutrogena commercial at 29.

Anyway, so I made more of an effort with my personal appearance. Which also clued me in and made me start Project Skinny, which on the whole was a lot like the whole in-my-head thing not being in ANY way proportional to my actual appearance. But lately, the whole grown up clothes and makeup and whatnot have been sliding. I think it’s because I need a haircut. You see, you go and get a haircut and the stylist gets all fancy and styles your hair with foamy mousse-y stuff and large barreled hairbrushes and pointy blow dryers and then they get out the curling irons and the hair spray and you watch really closely so that you can try to duplicate their efforts in your own bathroom and it really is kind of motivating! Look! If you spend 20 minutes on your hair, YOU TOO can look like the goddess of Love and Beauty! After I get a haircut, I’m all motivated and I think, HEY! I can do this! I can look like a grown up and not be a scrungy-on-the-outside but really thinking-i’m-so-hot-and-punk on the inside.

So first a few months go by and the motivation fades out and the hair doesn’t’ get blow dried. And then the whole makeup comes and goes. And then sometimes you don’t even bother combing your hair after you get out of the shower and so it dries in weird crazy medusa styles that look like the locks of hair are trying to escape from your head, even when you shove it up in a barrette. And start to stop bothering with the nylons because whoever invented THOSE was just sick and besides you think you’re allergic because where exactly is that RASH coming from around your knee?

Then one day you come home from work and run upstairs to change out of your grown up job clothes into comfy jeans and a t-shirt and you catch a glance at yourself in the mirror and realize that your boss is probably wondering where the ever-so-grown-up looking girl they hired a few months ago went and when did this medusa haired, not-good-skin having, non-make-up wearing, non-nylons wearing*, weird girl come from??

* instead I choose ATHLETIC ANKLE SOCKS. WITH A SKIRT. 6am is not a good hour for me to be making fashion decisions.

In short, it’s time for me to get a haircut. And thus, some motivation.

However, there is a downside to looking all grownup. That being, that if you look all grown up and responsible and very Molly, then people look at you and expect that to be what you actually are inside. But no! I want to cry, I’m not Molly! I’m not grown up! Really! I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what I’m doing with this life! It’s all an illusion! I just got a good hair-cut, that’s all I SWEAR!

It’s the same thing with the whole house issues I have. If I get my house all fixed up nice, then people will make assumptions about what kind of person I am. What if they’re wrong? What if I am not like that at all? Just because I have no idea how to choose a style for my house and pick something WRONG do I have to live with that the rest of my life?? OH THE AGONY!

Ok, that’s probably enough of amy inflicted on you for one day.

I will tell you, however, that it is supposed to SNOW TONIGHT YAY IS ME AND YAY TO THE WORLD AND PEACE ON EARTH GOOD WILL TOWARD PANDAS!

Ooh, and everyone pray for the government to shut down, because if it DOES!!!! NO WORK FOR ME!

amy likes the feel of those latex finger grippy thingees that help you turn pages

So have you heard about the pharmacist who refused to fill a woman’s prescription?

The original livejournal post that I was reading about has since been taken down, but here are some other articles on the subject:

• Druggists refuse to give out pill
• Pharmacists’ Rights at Front Of New Debate

Seriously. This makes me want to go to school, become a pharmacist, and then PUNCH SOMEONE IN THE NOSE WHO PULLS ANY OF THIS CRAP.

Amanda Marcotte says it all so well – I have to at least quote this sentence in the last paragraph:

“Instead of openly admitting that they want to use any means necessary to force their religious beliefs on women, religious wingnuts instead are pretending that they are actually being oppressed if they are forced by law to respect others’ right to their own beliefs. They’ve convinced themselves that black is white, that they’re beliefs can only be respected if they are allowed to force them on others.”

Some more links:Ill. pharmacists withhold emergency pill – action being taken by Walgreen’s against those who refuse to fill prescriptions.

I honestly just wonder about people sometimes.

What’s even worse is when people’s wacko actions like this rub off on the non-wacko yet still religious folks. It just gives anyone religious a bad rap, and then when someone slams another’s belief system it’s humorous or OK because everyone knows that all religious people are crazy.

Why can’t everyone just let others believe what will make them happy and worry about themselves? That is seriously my motto about religion in life. If it makes you happy, and doesn’t hurt others, more power to you.

And if other beliefs make others happy, then why ruin that for them? It’s their life, not yours. If it makes them happy, then isn’t that great, that they’ve found something to believe that makes them happy? Yes! It is! It’s great! Just because it’s not for you doesn’t mean it’s not for them.

amy will step off the rickety soapbox now, because she really sucks at trying to get her opinions across anyway and it’s best left to other people.

Last night after I put the kids to bed, I was sitting wallowing and watching Gilmore Girls when Jocelyn started talking/singing/mumbling to herself in her crib. My laptop was right next to the monitor so I quickly recorded it for posterity.

Jocelyn in her crib after bedtime.

Have you ever felt like you have so many things to do, that they are choking you, smothering you and you can’t possibly do any of them? That’s how I’ve been feeling so far this week, despite the beautiful snow – usually it snows and nothing can keep me out of the clouds, because really, snow is beautiful and wonderful and sometimes comes with the added benefit of not having to work. But while it is beautiful and wonderful, I do have to work, and I do have to clean the house and watch kids and bath kids and feed kids and answer 1 kid’s questions (which is infinitely better than the next one) and try to determine the desire that isn’t being met by the other kid who is throwing a huge tantrum and let’s not forget about the work part and the not sleeping part and the being stuck in my head with all the same old depressing thoughts and mentalities that make me just want to pull the covers up and stay put all day.

Lately I’ve been wishing that I was someone else because I’m so sick of being me. It’s not that I think my life is so awful, really I quite like my life, it’s more that I’m just so tired of being depressed by the same things over and over that if I could just swap mental faculties with someone else, their mental problems would be a refreshing change of pace. I’m bored and frustrated by my own tendencies toward depression, I guess. And generally speaking, I am not a depressed sort of person. I generally can go through my days pretty happy and contented and loving life and (oh here she goes with all the ands and no commas and what in the world did we do this Tuesday morning to deserve this Amy?!!!!) oh ok ok OK ALREADY! I’ll stop!!

So. Funny anecdotes. Nope, not in the mood for any of those. Witty anecdotes? Sorry, this is me we’re talking about and I’ve already used up my one allotted witticism for the year. Sad anecdotes? Hmmm, more in line with the mood, so I will tell you that last night when I got Jocelyn into her jammies, I put on the sort that have pants and a shirt instead of the all-one-piece-that-zips-and-has-FOOTIES!! and while it seemed fine at the time, I forgot to put socks on the girl, and at this age she doesn’t really keep her blankey on her all the time, and so this morning at 5:45 (5 minutes before my alarm went off) she woke up crying because her poor little feet were like icicles and our fucking heating system upstairs was designed by idiots because the thermostat is on our bedroom and the vents manage to actually get hot air to our bedroom while bypassing the other rooms nearly completely which results in our room becoming warm, the thermostat registering the temperature in there and turning off and thus the other rooms including the ones where our children sleep being little ice cubes. We have tinkered with the flow valve thingees up in our attic to try to shut air off from our room and push more air into the secondary bedrooms but it never seems to do any good. Any suggestions welcome. What we should do is leave their doors open at night but then we have the problem of Ethan getting up at 6:30, turning on every light switch he can find on his way to the potty which I’m sure would wake up his small sister. If of course, he didn’t just go in there (and he would, if the door is open) and holler, “WAKE UP!!” or “WOOOO WOOOOOOOOOOOO!” at her. We don’t need that at 6am, don’t you think? So. Back to the original sad anecdote, my daughter’s feet were frozen half the night and she finally woke up and complained about it loudly. This is saying something, because she will stay in her bed hours after she’s woken up, just sucking her thumb and musing about world peace, probably, waiting for someone to fetch her. So James got up and went to check on her and felt her icicle feet and had to put her back in her crib while he went in search of socks because there weren’t any in her drawer because last night instead of putting away the massive amount of clean laundry like I said I was going to I was smothered by all the things I needed to do and therefore did not do any of them except wallow in a chair watching Gilmore Girls. He swore in the darkness and Jocelyn wailed in her crib where she thought she was being redeposited for good and she didn’t like that because the icicle feet had not yet been thawed and covered. I got up and went in and held her while James put her socks on and then I rocked her for a bit with her blankey all snuggly around her and told her I was sorry about the socks and she looked at me and said wisely, “Socks.” I nodded and apologized again and then she forgave me if I never let it happen again, and put her head down on my chest and breathed slowly. I held her until I really had to go get in the shower because of the whole needing to drive to work thing, and so put her back in her crib and tucked her blankey all in around her. I miss her so much sometimes. I see Ethan often, I get him up and take him to school and pick him up and take him home, but James and Jocelyn sleep a bit later and they’re still in bed when Ethan and I leave the house. So I see her in the evenings and on weekends, but I never see her during the week until Ethan and I get home and she screams, “MOMMMY!!” and throws herself at my legs until I catch her and swing her up for some bear hugging. I miss my daughter.

Boy. I’m afraid to reread what I’ve written above, but I think it’s safe to say that a tired depressed amy results in very long run-on sentences with lots of ands and no commas and not much comprehension. I think I’d better stop while I’m…. well, I don’t think I can say ahead, so I’ll just stop.

amy could use an upper this morning. damn her non-coffee drinking lameness.

I really shouldn’t be allowed to write blog entries when my state of mind is below a certain percentage of happiness. (Percentage of happiness? Maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to write blog entries at all! Good grief!) I’m doing better today with taco bell in my tummy and some caffeine flowing through my veins.

Good enough to at least relate a few cute kid stories before they fade from memory into oblivion.

Cute Kid Story #1: Kid – Ethan:

I picked Ethan up from school last Friday, after being out of school from Tuesday-Friday due to the ear infection/pink eye situation. Well, often we’re driving along and due to the car noise/radio noise/Ethan not speaking up, I don’t understand what he’s talking about. This is where the token, “Ahhhh.” gets used a lot, although I usually try to save that for when I’m hopelessly lost and he can’t make himself clear. Like when he’s gesturing. In the car. While I’m driving and thus can’t see him. And I can’t make him stop:

me: “Like what honey?”
ethan: “Like this mommy.”
me: “I can’t see you dear, I’m driving.”
ethan: “LIKE THIS!!!!!!!” (flailing going on behind my seat)
…
me: “Ahhhh.”

Anyway, so we’re driving, and Ethan is going on about something hurting and his sleeve. I don’t follow what he’s saying at all, but he’s talking so animatedly and he really wants me to understand, so I give it a try.

me: “What was that again Ethan?”
ethan: “I went like this, and then it hurt a little bit.”
me: “You went like what?”
ethan: “Like THIS!”
me: “Honey, I can’t see you while I’m driving, what motion are you making?”
ethan: “I wiped it with my sleeve!”
me: “Ahh, and it hurt?”
ethan: “Yes, it hurt, so we’ll need some Awctelmufflemuffle.”
me: “Some what?”
ethan: “Some muffletermfomuffle.”
me: “I can’t hear you honey, what do we need? Octoform?”
ethan: “No, OCTERMFUR!”
me: “Octermfur?”
(pause)
ethan: “Say Ahhhhh-”
me: “Ahhhh..”
ethan: “Tuhhhh-”
me: “Tuh..”
(at this point he goes into many many syllables that had no relation to the original word, and it was so damn cute I nearly pulled the car over to hug him.)
ethan: “Nerr-”
me: “Nerr..”
ethan: “FORM!”
me: “form?”
ethan: “Oct-oh-form!”
me: “Aha. Octoform.”
ethan: “Yes, we’ll need it to make it feel better.

Non-kid-having people may not realize the cuteness of this exchange, but when you’ve sounded out a ZILLION difficult to pronounce words for your child, then having him sound out a word for YOU is just about the most darling thing ever. I still had no idea what he was talking about however, but then I realized it was AQUAPHOR!!! This is a vaseline type ointment that we put on his lips when they get chapped, or more often, the area of skin between nose and lips that he bites on all day and makes sore and red. The little cutie was informing me that he needed some aquaphor for his face. All together now, “Awwwwwwwwwwwwww!”

Cute Kid Story #2: Child – Jocelyn:

Jocelyn can say a lot of words, and many of them are crystal clear. Drink. Nummies. Daddy. Mommy. Story. LOFTY! and I think her favorite, “Uh-huh.” She usually answers questions by the “Uh-huh.” or just a shake of her head.

Well, on Sunday we were sitting around in the family room watching something on tv. Mommy and Daddy are pretty much beat, since we’ve been hassling with our crooked tree (OH MY I haven’t told you about our crooked tree. Well I smell another update tomorrow.) Other parents know well the intricate process of trying to get their partner to deal with the little kid things that need dealing with such as refilling the drink, getting the toy down from the high surface, and the ever dreaded, changing of the diaper.

So it was while trying not to make eye contact with James that the following ensued.

Jocelyn picks up her sippy cup of soy milk and discovers that it is empty. She comes over to me and informs me, “Drink!” while putting the cup in my lap.

“Is your drink all-gone? OK, go give it to Daddy, and he’ll fill it up!” I try to hand her her cup back.

She obviously does NOT want the cup back, she wants ME to fill it, and she glances over at Daddy to see if he’ll do. Deciding the answer is definitely in the negative, she turns back to me, shoves the cup back toward me, and says “No.”

That’s it. That’s the story. Just a plain, “No,” but damn James and I hooted with laughter. And then James hooted some more as I had to get up and get her drink myself.

Cute Kid Story #3: Child – Ethan:

Also on Sunday, Ethan was downstairs after a very brief stint in his room doing lots of not-napping, while Jocelyn was in her room, napping. Naptime drew to a close and soon sounds of non-napping activity could be heard over the monitor.

me: “Sounds like someone is awake up there.”
ethan: “No, there’s NO ONE making all that noise up there!”
me: “Really? No one? Then where is all that noise coming from?”
ethan: “I don’t know, I can’t tell anybody!” (he says this a lot, either when he doesn’t remember or doesn’t’ want to get into it, “what did you do at school today, ethan?” “I don’t know, I can’t tell anybody!” – he nearly sings it, the booger)
me: Well, I think we’d better go up and see who’s making all that racket.”
ethan: “OK! Let’s go see! I bet it’s Ethan up there! I think Ethan is up there in Jocelyn’s crib making all that racket!”

???

– the mind boggles at what these kids think of.

Cute Kid Story #4: Kid – Ethan:

Another driving story.

But first some preface.

When Ethan was younger, I found storytelling a good way to enforce things we were trying to teach him. For example, there was a time period when he LOVED to take off his clothes. Including his diaper. He was also not potty trained at this time. If he then discovered something IN his diaper, he would proceed to play with it. Let’s just say the ensuing scene was NOT PRETTY. We called it “E cubed” – Ethan’s Excrement Extravaganza. Paint came off the walls from all the scrubbing.

Anyway, at bedtime, I would often tell Ethan a story, and I’d always start it, “Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Ethan.” And I would go through his day emphasizing the good choices he made (“and while Ethan was in bed for naptime, he remembered NOT to rip the pages of his book! And when his mommy came in, she was so proud!”), and the bad choices he made and the consequences there of, and generally I think they were pretty helpful to him, plus, he LOVES to hear stories about himself. Well, I still tell him stories, but instead of trying to stick a hidden “BE GOOD DAMMIT!” message in there, I vary it up. I have told him about how his Pookie Bear was once MY bear, when I was a little girl. I also told him the story about when he was born, scary gorey details of being cut open for the birth glossed over lightly.

SO! Back to the actual story. Yesterday after I’d picked Ethan up from school, we were driving home and he had his Pookie Bear with him. It had fallen on the floor.

ethan: “Mommy could you get my Pookie Bear?”
me: “Sure honey” (reaches around dislocates shoulder gives bear to boy)
ethan: “I just love Pookie Bear. He is the best bear ever!”
me: “He is! I love Pookie Bear too!”
ethan: “He used to be your bear Mommy. When I was just in your tummy. But then I decided to come out, and I came out in TWO minutes. And now Pookie Bear is ALL MINE!” (hugs Pookie Bear ferociously)

I had to call James and tell him that one. Especially about the 2 minutes part. If only. Obviously, he’s gotten these two stories mixed up somewhere. I just hope Pookie Bear wasn’t in there with him, in my tummy.

I tried to straighten him out, but it didn’t go well.

me: “Actually honey, Pookie Bear was my bear when I was just a little girl like you, before you were born. Before you were in my tummy. Even before Jocelyn was born or in my tummy.”
ethan: “No mommy, Jocelyn was in DADDY’S tummy.” This said with much attitude. Don’t you know anything mom? JEEZ!
me: (through the trying not to laugh) “No, Jocelyn was never in Daddy’s tummy, honey. Boys don’t have babies, only girls.”
ethan: “No, Jocelyn was in Daddy’s tummy, and I was in your tummy! Boys have boy babies and girls have girl babies!”

IF ONLY!!!!!

And we’re done with today’s episode of cute kid stories. Back to your regularly scheduled Tuesday.

amy is going to bring back “My sainted Aunt Fanny!” as the exclamation du jour.

Very quick weekend summary:

• -1.0 lbs. Yay! There’s more to this story, but I shall sum it up this way: Always pee before weighing in.
• The southern living party went well – a couple of friends read my blog on Friday and then did a supriseroo and attended! Awwww shucks. Thanks guys. I’ll never invite you to one of these things again. EVER! I shall also not have a pity party for myself cause now I feel like I guilted them into it. Well, at least I’ll wait on the pity party until it’s over.
• I have pink eye. No doubt, caught from my son. Little impromptu poll on the situation.
  • Should I use my son’s prescription drops for me as well and don’t bother going to the doctor?
  • Should I use my son’s drops until I can get to the doctor and get my own prescription?
  • Should I not use my son’s drops and wait til I get my own prescription from the doctor?

  I won’t say what I’m doing. But I’m just interested in seeing what people think. I wish I knew how to do an actual poll, but you all will just have to write comments. Poor you. Suffering from my lack of technology. Well, I don’t lack the technology, I just lack the motivation. I am lazy.

That’s all for now, except to say that it’s supposed to snow tonight. I love snow. Also, if the government declares that it is closed, I also don’t have to go to work! And I get to charge the day to client leave (as opposed to having to use vacation). GO SNOW!

OOh – also, remind me to tell you the 2 cute kid stories that happened over the weekend. The one with Ethan in the car, and the one with Jocelyn and the milk. Oooh, also Ethan and the napping Jocelyn.

I caught a show on the Parthenon on the Discovery channel. It was really pretty cool, and it got me digging about more info on Athena. I like to share my knowledge (because let’s face it, it’s scant) with the world so here you go.

• The Parthenon was beleived to not actually be a temple to Athena, but a stronghold to house Athens’ treasures, including a statue of Athena herself.
• Athena was not born, but sprang, fully grown and in full battle gear, out of Zeus’ head (the mind boggles)
• Athena was the Patron Goddess of Athens, the Goddess of Wisdom, the Goddess of Weaving and the Goddess of Military Victory (tactics, not just inane fighting, see) (among other things)
• The Parthenon was built to be somewhat of an optical illusion. While the columns look straight, they all lean slightly. They also look the same width from the bottom to the top, while really, they grow narrower as they ascend.
• Athena was one of the virgin Goddesses.
• Athena is often called Pallas, or Pallas Athene. This name comes from a childhood friend she accidentally killed when they were having a mock battle. Athena was distraught and carried her friend’s name. The name, Pallas, means Maiden.

Coming next week, Snowball Earth!