So I've been thinking of late about the whole Friend Thang. Gotten some emails and phone calls regarding my last post - women who identify with the difficulties WE give each other. Swapped stories - laughed some - cried some - girled some.
Chatted with MomLady about it. We came to the conclusion that, truly, everyone we meet wants to be friends. They might not want to put forth the effort to create a friendship, but really? women like friends. Or at least women like other women to like them.
"No man is an island," and all that jazz.
Went to Wal-Mart the other day with My Man. Quick trip. Just for hamburger buns (Sloppy Joe buns, to be exact). Oh, and bananas, milk, and a phone with an answering machine while we're at it. You know, basic stuff. Left MomLady with Da Boyz suuuuuuuuuuper fast. Super fast, Mom, I swear.
We were determined to make it out of The Labyrinth Built to Destroy Your Budget in record time, so we split up. Divide and conquer. I headed to produce.
Got my bananas (and cantaloupe - on sale, and peaches - they looked good) and buns. I was in a good mood. That lady in sweats and a ponytail with two screaming children over by the potatoes wanted to be my friend. The lovey-dovey couple checking prices on kiwi wanted to be my friends, too. I grinned a lot - with my teeth, because that's so much friendlier than the cheek smile.
Milk was next. Of course, the Labyrinth Built to Destroy Your Budget places milk at the very BACK of the store - forcing you to pass all sorts of deliciousness.
And lest we forget, I was in a hurry. Suuuuuuper quick trip and all.
I contemplated for a good four seconds. The fastest way to get to that milk would be to ride the cart. But I didn't have any kids with me. Truly - what would people think?!
Then I remembered everyone in the store wanted to be my friend.
And dang it if I didn't hop on and SPEED down to the milk.
Got some looks - didn't have time to see if they were weird looks - and I grinned at them with my teeth. Because that's so much friendlier than a cheek smile. One little girl in particular opened her eyes wide at me. She looked about ten - old enough to know that I was one crazy lady to be riding a cart without any kids in it.
Picked up the four milks that fit in my fridge (and some yogurt ... and some cheese ...) and headed on to electronics to meet My Man. As I rounded the corner, there was my buddy, the ten-year-old. She grinned at me with her teeth - so much friendlier than a cheek smile - and waved. I waved back. We're friends.
My Man was happy to see me. I was happy to see him. We got our phone, riffled through the $5 movies and the $3 books suuuuuuuuuuper fast, and headed back through the Labyrinth toward check-out.
We were meandering quite slow. I tried not to sigh.
My Man squeezed my hand, looked into my eyes and -
"Hop on."
And we sped off toward check-out with toothy grins -
We're friends.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
So pleased to make your acquaintance
Friend-making on the That Girl Front is making progress. We're moving out the front lines, conquering the desert frontier, bravely facing every skirmish with a smile. Battle tactics are subversive. The opposition - UNKNOWN FEMALE - is an impressive foe. Mysterious. Coy. Plotting. Strict follower of the Making Friends Handbook.
I somehow missed that book in middle school.
It's different in Brazil. Down There, you just ARE friends. There isn't any ice to break - any rules to follow. You state your name and - bam! - friends. No social faux pas, no silly mannerisms or facade to keep up. These people have no tact, and no secrets. Everyone is everyone's best friend by default.
I forget that it's not like that Here.
I got invited to the pool the other day (so! so! excited! okay, That Girl, calm down, play it cool, don't act as desperate as you are ....) with two other ladies. Collected, chic females with masters degrees in the Handbook. Plenty of light banter and polite conversation. I had trouble eating that night for all the times I bit my tongue. (No! don't gush too much about how grateful you are for the invite ... No! don't tell them how much your feet sweat here ... No! don't tell them your children's birth stories ....)
Frank. That's my new name.
(I think I came on a little strong.)
Maybe that's why blogging lends itself to friendships so easily. We have no walls. We are who we are; we read who we read.
And we just ARE friends.
I somehow missed that book in middle school.
It's different in Brazil. Down There, you just ARE friends. There isn't any ice to break - any rules to follow. You state your name and - bam! - friends. No social faux pas, no silly mannerisms or facade to keep up. These people have no tact, and no secrets. Everyone is everyone's best friend by default.
I forget that it's not like that Here.
I got invited to the pool the other day (so! so! excited! okay, That Girl, calm down, play it cool, don't act as desperate as you are ....) with two other ladies. Collected, chic females with masters degrees in the Handbook. Plenty of light banter and polite conversation. I had trouble eating that night for all the times I bit my tongue. (No! don't gush too much about how grateful you are for the invite ... No! don't tell them how much your feet sweat here ... No! don't tell them your children's birth stories ....)
Frank. That's my new name.
(I think I came on a little strong.)
Truth is, there really is structure to this whole Friend thing. You can't be clingy. Weird. Open. Snooty. Dirty. Gross. Crude. Fake. Shallow. Scary. Shy.
Maybe that's why blogging lends itself to friendships so easily. We have no walls. We are who we are; we read who we read.
And we just ARE friends.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
When things get too serious around here, time for embarrassing photos!
A peek into why it takes me so long to get ready for a hawt date ....
Monday, July 20, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Get ready for some serious stream of consciousness
I woke up at 6:00AM today - SATURDAY - just so that I could check my email. Which I haven't done all week. Which completely floors me.
Got a few emails from some friends - wondering if I had, indeed, died, despite my insistence to the contrary. Makes me feel very warm and fuzzy. Makes me want to blog, too.
I'm having a hard time, Bloggy World.
Since we moved (has it not even been a month?), my three children have been ... difficult.
Wow. Understatement of my life.
Of that month, they've been sick for three weeks. Pink eye, ear infections (two! each!), majorly nasty stomach flu. If I haven't made many friends in the ward, I have in our pediatrician's office.
Not surprisingly, being constantly sick and MOVING COUNTRIES has sent my kids for somewhat of a loop.
For one solid month, I have considered getting a job and just throwing them all in daycare.
(did i say that?)
I'm especially frustrated with Ouro Branco. He'll be three next month. He's always been a little stinker, but he's the sweetest stinker you've ever met. Until now.
People, I don't know what to do. It's like living with my own personal demon.
I try to step back from the situation. I did, after all, get a degree in Family Science. I'm supposed to be able to TEACH PEOPLE how to deal with kids like OB. So here's my professional assessment:
He's disoriented and confused.
Probably misses Brazil, but can't articulate his feelings.
Doesn't feel well.
Completely and totally bored (our house is still EMPTY. And I do mean empty.)
Wants consistency and security and love.
Wants attention. Majorly.
I really and truly feel that he does everything he can to get me to blow up. And he does a mighty fine job.
Yesterday. We're making pumpkin bread. We're actually having a very pleasant time. Happy. Cooperating. Reminiscent of the old days.
Then it's time to lick the spoon.
Apparently there was a sliver of the spoon showing, and he wanted ALL of it to be covered in batter. He immediately threw a World Class Fit - but I couldn't tell at first what he was going on about.
I'm speaking calmly, asking him to tell me what the problem is ("use your words") and in the meantime starting on the dishes. Well, by the time I figure out that he wanted more batter, I'd already rinsed the bowl.
The tantrum escalates.
I'm praying and trying to talk him down simultaneously, but he threw the spoon, splattering batter all over the kitchen. He got a time out.
I'm walking away, breathing in and out like a bull - attempting to not lot myself get upset. Then I feel a Thomas the Tank Engine shoe pelting my back. He's now throwing everything he can get his hands on. Including the nearest chairs.
I storm over to him and restrain his arms. Speak harshly but softly. And he kicks me in the face.
And then I blew up.
I screamed and shook and acted, essentially, like a two-year-old.
Of course the guilt overwhelmed me within minutes and I went crying to the bathroom. Afterward I apologized and we cuddled on the couch and read books, as is our habit.
(Sidenote. It's occurred to me that he instigates these fights because he likes the make-up time. Maybe he likes that closeness? I've tried majorly stepping up loving contact throughout the day - lots of kisses and hugs, verbal affirmation, etc. So far, no difference. I've even tried hugging and cuddling him in the middle of a tantrum. No joy.)
I feel like I've tried everything. I've tried speaking reasonably. I've tried singing. I've tried whispering. I've tried walking away. I've tried just locking him in a room til the tantrums over.
And I'm telling you. He WILL NOT CALM DOWN UNTIL I'VE SCREAMED AT HIM. He keeps upping the tantrum, doing more and more and more and more until I've completely lost it. And as soon as I turn into Monster Mommy, he stops. Instantly. But he WON'T STOP until then.
My record is two hours. I kept my evil half at bay, hoping OB would finally diffuse on his own. But nope. He finally won.
Lately I feel like, "well, I might as well blow up at the beginning and get it over with." But it's exhausting, screaming at my son all day. (Because it's seriously all day that's he's like this. All. Day.) I don't like the mom that I'm turning into. I'm not like this. Or, I WASN'T like this.
Change me.
Funny thing is, I'm not angry at him. Really. He's not even three, for Google's sake. (Because I don't know any Petes.) Truth is, I'm angry at MYSELF. And horribly, crushingly guilty.
I feel so ... trapped lately. My kids are so on edge that I can't do anything - anything! - I want to do. (Is that not the most selfish thing you've ever heard?!) I have an entire house to decorate and make mine, and I can't even run to Jo-Anns without causing a scene. I can't go ANYWHERE without being so humiliated by my terror children that I never want to go back. I try to get out of house, do something fun with them, make some changes - but it doesn't seem to help. I try, every morning, to think, "today's going to be a good day. I decided! I will be cheerful today no matter what!"
Some days I last longer than others.
It didn't used to be like this. I swear. I mean, of course my children were not perfect angels before. They fought. They bickered. They threw tantrums and disobeyed and, yes, embarrassed me sometimes.
But not like this. This is ... not normal. Not my kids. Not ME.
And a MONTH, people. I've been on edge for way, way too long.
.... Kids are awake. I can hear them upstairs. Crying. Of course. It's 7:20AM. And the house is already in crisis.
I can't do this.
So help me, Faithful Bloggy Friends (if I have any left - I've been extremely faithless lately). What do you do when your kids are doing everything they can to explode you? I mean - what do you DO?!
Got a few emails from some friends - wondering if I had, indeed, died, despite my insistence to the contrary. Makes me feel very warm and fuzzy. Makes me want to blog, too.
I'm having a hard time, Bloggy World.
Since we moved (has it not even been a month?), my three children have been ... difficult.
Wow. Understatement of my life.
Of that month, they've been sick for three weeks. Pink eye, ear infections (two! each!), majorly nasty stomach flu. If I haven't made many friends in the ward, I have in our pediatrician's office.
Not surprisingly, being constantly sick and MOVING COUNTRIES has sent my kids for somewhat of a loop.
For one solid month, I have considered getting a job and just throwing them all in daycare.
(did i say that?)
I'm especially frustrated with Ouro Branco. He'll be three next month. He's always been a little stinker, but he's the sweetest stinker you've ever met. Until now.
People, I don't know what to do. It's like living with my own personal demon.
I try to step back from the situation. I did, after all, get a degree in Family Science. I'm supposed to be able to TEACH PEOPLE how to deal with kids like OB. So here's my professional assessment:
He's disoriented and confused.
Probably misses Brazil, but can't articulate his feelings.
Doesn't feel well.
Completely and totally bored (our house is still EMPTY. And I do mean empty.)
Wants consistency and security and love.
Wants attention. Majorly.
I really and truly feel that he does everything he can to get me to blow up. And he does a mighty fine job.
Yesterday. We're making pumpkin bread. We're actually having a very pleasant time. Happy. Cooperating. Reminiscent of the old days.
Then it's time to lick the spoon.
Apparently there was a sliver of the spoon showing, and he wanted ALL of it to be covered in batter. He immediately threw a World Class Fit - but I couldn't tell at first what he was going on about.
I'm speaking calmly, asking him to tell me what the problem is ("use your words") and in the meantime starting on the dishes. Well, by the time I figure out that he wanted more batter, I'd already rinsed the bowl.
The tantrum escalates.
I'm praying and trying to talk him down simultaneously, but he threw the spoon, splattering batter all over the kitchen. He got a time out.
I'm walking away, breathing in and out like a bull - attempting to not lot myself get upset. Then I feel a Thomas the Tank Engine shoe pelting my back. He's now throwing everything he can get his hands on. Including the nearest chairs.
I storm over to him and restrain his arms. Speak harshly but softly. And he kicks me in the face.
And then I blew up.
I screamed and shook and acted, essentially, like a two-year-old.
Of course the guilt overwhelmed me within minutes and I went crying to the bathroom. Afterward I apologized and we cuddled on the couch and read books, as is our habit.
(Sidenote. It's occurred to me that he instigates these fights because he likes the make-up time. Maybe he likes that closeness? I've tried majorly stepping up loving contact throughout the day - lots of kisses and hugs, verbal affirmation, etc. So far, no difference. I've even tried hugging and cuddling him in the middle of a tantrum. No joy.)
I feel like I've tried everything. I've tried speaking reasonably. I've tried singing. I've tried whispering. I've tried walking away. I've tried just locking him in a room til the tantrums over.
And I'm telling you. He WILL NOT CALM DOWN UNTIL I'VE SCREAMED AT HIM. He keeps upping the tantrum, doing more and more and more and more until I've completely lost it. And as soon as I turn into Monster Mommy, he stops. Instantly. But he WON'T STOP until then.
My record is two hours. I kept my evil half at bay, hoping OB would finally diffuse on his own. But nope. He finally won.
Lately I feel like, "well, I might as well blow up at the beginning and get it over with." But it's exhausting, screaming at my son all day. (Because it's seriously all day that's he's like this. All. Day.) I don't like the mom that I'm turning into. I'm not like this. Or, I WASN'T like this.
Change me.
Funny thing is, I'm not angry at him. Really. He's not even three, for Google's sake. (Because I don't know any Petes.) Truth is, I'm angry at MYSELF. And horribly, crushingly guilty.
I feel so ... trapped lately. My kids are so on edge that I can't do anything - anything! - I want to do. (Is that not the most selfish thing you've ever heard?!) I have an entire house to decorate and make mine, and I can't even run to Jo-Anns without causing a scene. I can't go ANYWHERE without being so humiliated by my terror children that I never want to go back. I try to get out of house, do something fun with them, make some changes - but it doesn't seem to help. I try, every morning, to think, "today's going to be a good day. I decided! I will be cheerful today no matter what!"
Some days I last longer than others.
It didn't used to be like this. I swear. I mean, of course my children were not perfect angels before. They fought. They bickered. They threw tantrums and disobeyed and, yes, embarrassed me sometimes.
But not like this. This is ... not normal. Not my kids. Not ME.
And a MONTH, people. I've been on edge for way, way too long.
.... Kids are awake. I can hear them upstairs. Crying. Of course. It's 7:20AM. And the house is already in crisis.
I can't do this.
So help me, Faithful Bloggy Friends (if I have any left - I've been extremely faithless lately). What do you do when your kids are doing everything they can to explode you? I mean - what do you DO?!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
I'm not dead
Just FYI.
Moving.
Painting.
Mommy-ing.
Wife-ing.
Target-ing and IKEA-ing.
It takes some time.
My blogging time was always during nap time, while Little Prince was at school. Now there is no school. My blogging time was also during My Man's bishop time. Now there is no bishop time.
(Yeah!)
So I'm doing a lot of family time lately. No dying.
(Yeah!)
But I have a good dozen drafts in the gullet right now, itching at me to finish them.
I will. Soon.
My house is still empty - but full, too. No furniture. Lots of love. And Mexican food.
I miss you guys, and stuff. Can I say that? Of course I can. I MISS YOU AND READING ABOUT YOUR LIVES. Don't do anything super cool, because I want to read about it. And I will. Soon.
How do I end this? Peace out? Take care? Toodles? See you? How about I don't and just
Moving.
Painting.
Mommy-ing.
Wife-ing.
Target-ing and IKEA-ing.
It takes some time.
My blogging time was always during nap time, while Little Prince was at school. Now there is no school. My blogging time was also during My Man's bishop time. Now there is no bishop time.
(Yeah!)
So I'm doing a lot of family time lately. No dying.
(Yeah!)
But I have a good dozen drafts in the gullet right now, itching at me to finish them.
I will. Soon.
My house is still empty - but full, too. No furniture. Lots of love. And Mexican food.
I miss you guys, and stuff. Can I say that? Of course I can. I MISS YOU AND READING ABOUT YOUR LIVES. Don't do anything super cool, because I want to read about it. And I will. Soon.
How do I end this? Peace out? Take care? Toodles? See you? How about I don't and just
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