my quest to become a {gulp} storyteller

This weekend we went to see the comedian Mike Birbiglia perform his show, My Girlfriend's Boyfriend. He is so funny and such a wonderful storyteller. I loved that his act had multiple small story arcs within one larger arc, and so many of the jokes would come back later in the bit. I also appreciate that, when compared with the tragic moments in Sleepwalk with Me, My Girlfriend's Boyfriend is at its heart a love story, full of the missteps and heartache but also pockets of optimism that he delivers with such honesty and self-deprecation. It was fun to see the show in Worcester, close to his hometown; the audience was as rowdy as I expected. [If you haven't yet, you should check out Mike's film version of Sleepwalk with Me on Netflix].

I am the fiyah startah

Yesterday the girls were feeling crummy with a virus. Doc thinks it's nothing serious, so the prescription is ice water, honey, and plenty of Pixar. Isn't there something about Pixar films that just feels positive and wholesome? We watched Toy Story 3 and Robots back to back. Well, Vivi watched while Charlotte took the longest nap known to man, and I baked delicious Christmas treats, boxed them up, and still had time left to have a chat with the mailman while I handed them off to him.

Oh, and Robots isn't actually Pixar, but it was cute! Though, I must add that in a non-Pixar children's movie, there is typically an air of "We are making a joke RIGHT NOW. Get it?" going on, and this film is no exception. Still, worth a rent at the library.

In the afternoon, I left the house bra-less and pajama-clad (aka "honey-badgered") to run into the post office two minutes before they closed, and then perhaps more appropriately, to bring my therapist her holiday goodies. Because if you can't be a boob-swinging, striped-panted, half-crazed mess at your therapist's office, then when can you, amirightladies? At least my therapist wasn't in her office when I dropped them off, so I've got that going for me. Winning!

Tonight will undoubtedly end in another evening writing Christmas cards by the fire. In what could be called true home ranger fashion, I am the go-to fire maker in our household. It started with my ability to light a one-match fire when we were camping, thanks to all those pioneering summer camp classes, and it has continued to our first home equipped with a fireplace. Can you believe we've lived in something like 11 places in 10 years, and we only JUST got a home with a working fireplace?

Anywhos, I am looking forward to the snuggling to come. Oh, and I'll note that I first thought our kindling was called "Firelady's Ambiance," which I thought added to the kismet that I wear the fire pants 'round here. Then I noticed it's actually "Fiready's Ambiance," without the L, which makes no sense. So, I plan to ignore that fact and go back to my original name for it. In conclusion, I must share with you the ridiculous photo on the side of said kindling.

 

How's that for some Firelady's Ambiance?

swimming against the current

Vivi starts swimming lessons next week. We've periodically gotten lessons for her over the years because I have an urgent need for my children to know how to swim before kindergarten. The reason for this desire is as of yet unidentified, but when the flood comes, I will be redeemed (that goes for my capri pants too, to all of you geezers who asked me if I was waiting for a flood. Yes I was. But not really.)

The initial swim lessons took place when she was six months old, and I will never forget that first time because I had to drag both a whiny baby and a whiny husband to the rec center pool. With my frizzy hair, pajama pants, and crying duo in tow, I must have been the picture of new motherhood. Do not go up against my determination, readers. It is resolute. I am the crazy, nasty-ass honey badger. You may complain, but I simply don't care.

Notice how I am really selling it. This WILL be fun!

Looking back, I kind of wonder why I was so insanely admirably purposeful, and I think there were two main reasons. First, I had heard about babies holding their breath under water (remember the Nirvana baby?), and I wanted to discover if it was true. I ultimately didn't find out because even I, the wild-eyed mother on the brink of insanity who had been living for four months with a colicky baby who cried all the livelong day, could not force myself to plunge my baby under the water.

Also, I had a hunch that since it took twenty times introducing any activity for baby Vivi to like it, swimming would be no different. This guess turned out to be true because that first day, she screamed and cried pretty much the entire lesson. And ever since then, if I go too long between trips to the pool, I endure the same screaming and crying all over again.

Ever the patient mama, I endure the drama because I know how proud she will feel when she finally masters swimming. And there's a little bit of me who knows she probably inherited this fear from me. Fear of what, I'm not even sure, but I remember it well. Even with lessons at summer camp every year, it took me until I was in high school to feel confident about diving and swimming strokes in front of my peers. I even faked the monthly visitor a time or three to get out of swimming. TMI? Anyway.

Part of me wants to think it could be as simple as some people have a natural love of the water, and others don't, but anyone who has seen Vivi at the lake or ocean knows this isn't true.

The girl adores the water; it's the pool where her issues bubble to the surface.

Mothering two children has taught me my children come on this Earth with a full package, and it's up to me to decipher it and enjoy the ride. Nothing could provide a better example than swimming, since Charlie took to water like a chubby little fish. She practically flung herself into the ocean the first time she saw it.

Conversely to Vivi, I decided not to give Charlie lessons, figuring I knew enough about it at this point to teach her myself, and it has been so fun. I took her to the pool recently, and she let me lay her on her back, while she lounged as cool as a cucumber, smiling up at the ceiling. On her back! To this day Vivi acts as though you're trying to drown her if you even suggest she roll over onto her back.

Ah well, all in good time. That phrase has become my mantra. If I feel myself swimming against the current, I know it's time to let go of my preconceived notions about how parenthood would or should be and go with the flow. I'm amazed by how true it is; you can try to force your kid into a new milestone, or you can just let it happen. The results will be the same, but your memory of the experience will be completely different.

Today is one of those moments when the patience is paying off. One day Vivi wasn't interested in dressing herself or jumping off the side of the pool or quitting the thumb-sucking, and today she suddenly is. IN ALL THREE, on the same day. I relished in our hour at the pool together, giggling as she ran-jumped off the side into my arms, while the ladies who aerobicize clucked and cheered from the other side of the pool. Then, as we ate our celebratory post-swim grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, I beamed when she said she wanted to put band-aids on her thumbs to help her quick sucking. Behold the proud mother bear.

And so, I am experiencing one of those times in my life as a parent that everything comes together perfectly. I get to sit back and pretend that I planned it this way. Does this phenomenon ever happen to you? Believe me, it is a rare occasion in my household, and I am grateful...and gloating. What better day to gloat than on the last day of my month of daily blogging? Thanks for reading. I hope you'll stay with me as I take a day or twelve off from blogging to rest.

TTFN,
J

my cat is like the honey badger...

...aka how NOT to bathe your cat...

It isn't often that you learn something about a man after being with him for over ten years. Friends, I learned something about my husband last night.

I've always known him to be well groomed and to expect the same from me. Part of his appeal when we were courting was that he was the only 20-year-old guy I knew who used Pantene. Pantene! I was whisked away by the scents of a dewey meadow, and now here we sit ten years later philosophizing about the value of pets. To be clear, we were actually discussing whether or not we should keep our cat. To be even more clear, he was discussing, I was hysterically raving. If it had been a silent movie, you would have sensed how I was feeling.

So ok, some stuff happened in the middle. I'll back up a bit. Recently we noticed our once perfectly coiffed, lovely gray cat has been getting rough around the edges. Like the nastyass honey badger, she just don't care about cleaning herself. It's as though she has suddenly decided to grow dreads on her back, which makes for some gross petting. What could we do? Well, we started by cutting off the problem, but that was no use, as though the cutting caused little baby dreads to spring up out of the stubs. It was not a pretty sight.

We chose to ignore the situation for a while, until this weekend's cleaning fest. I really do wish my in-laws would visit more, both because I love seeing family and because an upcoming visit causes me to conduct a cleaning frenzy of the kind typically reserved only for selling your home. We're talking under the radiator, behind the cleaning products under the sink, outside of the windows kind of scrubbing.

That's when we got a tad overzealous. Looking around at our pristine home, I began to puff myself up, thinking I might just be a cleaning genius, one who could scrub even a cat until she shined like new. I even took pictures so I could photograph the great cat remodeling event of '11. Although I hate to say it, I was wrong. WRONG. Do not try this at home. Don't even think about it. There was much screaming (the cat and me), much combing, and some more cutting, and lots of fur flying about. And now? Now she resembles a sheep that's been shorn by a drunk, blind shepherd.

Which brings us to what I learned about Nate. After the failed experiment, we were bemusedly sitting about, contemplating what had just happened and our own new-found cat-cleaning ineptitude. I won't go into the details, but our conversation shifted into whether it was worth keeping an animal that's still got her cool personality but is no longer her once-gorgeous self. I was surprised to learn we are of different minds on the subject.

Sufficed to say, I will continue to maintain myself with hair cuts and trips to the gym, because I see where this train could go if I'm not grooming on a regular basis. I'm kidding of course. In fact, I am the fortunate recipient of daily remarks on how beautiful he thinks I am, despite sometimes still wearing last night's scrubby pjs in the afternoon and seriously needing to rethink how often I pluck my eyebrows. And make-up? What's that?

So let's recap. How to bathe your cat:

Step 1. Do not bathe your cat. Just don't do it!

Because I love you all, I will leave you with a photo that makes me chuckle. Happy cleaning!