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The Devil and the eggs Sunday January 20, 2008

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
12 comments
There are creatures of habit.
There are 4 year old children.
There are people who are strong-willed and determined.
 
And then, there is La.
 
This is the story of how I ended up with my jeans around my ankles at 3:30 in the afternoon with the dog and the Alien going ape-doody all around me while my helpful teenagers rolled on the kitchen floor in hysterics, pointing and laughing.
 
Over eggs.
 
I’ve recounted before how Laura loves to make fried eggs; what prowess she has at the stove, how she’s already learned to crack the eggs expertly over the pan and flip up some perfect over-easy culinary masterpieces even at the tender age of just-turned-four.  I’ve told you of her love for eggs, how she kisses them as they come out of the carton, cradles them to her tiny little chest and calls them all her ‘guy eggs’ and tells them goodbye before she cracks them over the pan to fry.  In short, that girl loves her some eggies.
 
We all do.  We eat them fried, scrambled, omletted, boiled, poached…and when I’m in the mood and Mike is lucky since he particularly loves them…devilled.  I can flat-out devil some eggs, people.  The only person to rival my skills in the devilled eggs department is my Mom, so when we have family gatherings at her place, she makes the eggs, and I make the broccoli and cheese, since somehow she hasn’t figure out how to balance the cheese sauce yet.    (This Mom always making the eggs is important, I promise)
 
So I decide I’m going to make chicken strips, potato salad, devilled eggs and some veggies for dinner.  Yumm, huh?  I get the eggs boiled and chilled while La is off watching a movie and never think for a moment that my world is about to go to hell in a handbasket.  Oh boy.
 
She wanders into the kitchen as I’m pouring out the cold water and preparing to peel the eggs.  "Oh, eggies!  Can I crack them mommy, please?"
"Sure, baby, climb up and go ahead", I naively tell her.  When will I learn to see doom staring me dead in the face, oh when?
 
She cracks the egg, and of course no yolk comes out.  She cracks it harder and the shell continues to crumple, but still no yolk or white.  By now, she’s confused, and getting upset.  I try to tell her these are boiled eggs, they are different, and her skin begins to change from pale Laura to red Alien-angry.  She squeezes the egg, willing the yolk to come out in it’s normal liquid form, and the yolk comes out all right- pop! goes the yellow ball and fflump collapses the egg and shell and there’s one egg she has killed.  Now she’s mad.
 
She grabs another egg, trying to crack it.  I tell her they are all boiled, maybe Mommy should just do the eggs;  I take one and start to peel it to show her how it works – "Look La, this is FUN, honey!"  She ain’t havin’ it.  Eggs are supposed to crack once, then splurt liquid ick into the pan, get hard and be food.  I have screwed up her thought processes completely here.  She goes into overdrive freak out mode.  Poor Katie offers to let Laura make some eggs over at the stove while I finish peeling the eggs left, but the Tyrant is having none of that – she has to oversee my abomination of the egg process.
 
THEN I take the knife to split the egg in two.  THIS is when the child completely, totally and absolutely loses her alien ass mind.  Eggs are not CUT.  Ever.  Not for any reason, in any time continuum, on any planet, ever, Amen.  She starts pulling on my clothes, to get me away from the eggs and the knife.  I’m calmly slicing away and popping yolks into a bowl while she howls behind me, pulling at the pockets of my jeans, exclaiming that I am to step away from the counter with my hands in the air.  The dog has come in and gotten excited because his Beloved is excited and is barking like mad and pulling at my jeans legs in solidarity with the Alien.  Somehow, mustard gets spilled on the floor and Emmy, being Emmy, slips in it.
 
With a final, guttural scream, Laura pulls hard on me, jerking me backwards.  Since my weight loss, my pants fit a little loosely, and whoosh!  down they came to my knees.  Laura fell to the floor, knocking me down, the dog jumped on both of us and the twins just flat-out lost their minds right there and joined us.
 
The miracle is, the bowl stayed on the counter.
 
And those ended up being some damn-fine devilled eggs, of course.  Laura didn’t have any.  I called and scheduled another session with my therapist.
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Flip-flops, Sticks and Ticks Wednesday March 14, 2007

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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Spring is great…it is my second favorite season behind Fall just because I like temperate climate…and our Spring lasts oh, about 3 weeks.  It goes from being cold here to Spring and then less than a month later…sometime in late April it gets HOT.  All day, every day. 
 
Yesterday it got up to 79 degrees.  Insane for mid-March in Northern KY, but there it was.  It’s been in the 70’s all week and the kids have begged me to dig out their flip-flops and tank tops so they could run the neighborhood after school and look for boys.  Like new ones pop up out of the ground when the sun shines (just like daisies!).  Soooo, there were almost 15 pair of flip-flops for me to choose from when I took Lala outside to play.  I hate flip-flops generally…they’re cute and all, but the space between my big toe and tall toe doesn’t like having *things* between it.  I get itchy if there’s lint from socks.  Maybe its because I’m from Kentucky? 😉
 
But I put on a pair yesterday because I was being harassed mightily by the loud-lungged La to "Come ON Mommy! Let’s go let’s go let’s go OUTSIDE!"  It took 3 minutes to remember why I hate the things so much.  The only thing worse than the irritation of flip-flop foot is NEW flip-flop foot…getting used to that dang piece of leather between your toes.  It didn’t help matters that La the Wild Thing decided we’d spend our outside time running back and forth between a tree she was climbing and a field.  She’d climb out of the tree, run through the yard to the field next door, stop halfway in the middle, wave at the nice old man who was watching us from the porch and giggle as she waited for me to catch up "Gonna GET me, Mommy?"  And as soon as I’d almost reach her, she would RUUUUUUUNNN back to the tree and climb it again.  I think I walked a good mile and half back and forth making that kid happy.  In painful flip-flops.  I’m getting some good sandals tomorrow.
 
When she finally got tired, she decided it was time to play Sticks.  The kid loves sticks…playing swordfight.  We bought her some outrageously overpriced Star Wars light saber thingies to indulge in this fencing thing she has going on, but NO.  She likes sticks from the yard, wouldn’t you know?  So okay, we play sticks.  She gets my knuckles at least once every five minutes, but otherwise her hand-eye coordination is excellent.
 
The cool thing yesterday is the Shadow Sword Play she started.  She discovered shadows fully for the first time, and was absolutely enthralled, of course, in prancing about and making her shadow follow along.  Then she discovered MY shadow too….holding the stick.  Great.  Now she wants to shadow-stick-fight with me…her back turned as she watches the shadows and tries to figure out where to hit her stick against mine without looking at anything but my little pretend stick.  She was actually VERY good at it…I am still amazed at this kid every day…what an amazing race of Aliens she came from!  Then we started making letters with our sticks..X, V, L, T.  The V’s hurt…she kind of comes down on the end when she makes it HARD.  Little darling.
 
And, as she made a T and raised that little arm up high to top it off….ACK!!!!   A TICK on her underarm!  ALREADY!  TICKS in MARCH!!!  Dadgumit!  So here I am with the little Alien who is ticklish beyond belief under her arms…and I’ve got to get a tick off her.  Luckily for me, it hadn’t attached yet, he was still making his way up probably into her hair.  *SHUDDER*  Suffice it to say after that, we went in for an inspection. 
 
And then back out for more sticks, soccer kicking and jumping on the trampoline.  But just in case you think the kid is just an outdoorsy Alien…
 

Hmmmm…can she REALLY play?   *Smile*

 

No, not one more time! Monday February 26, 2007

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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I like to quote Thomas Paine’s  "These are the times that try men’s souls" whenever things get a little more hectic than usual around the Gingerbread House-more to add levity to the situation than anything else.  The past seven days have really been a test on my patience levels and just how much I love staying at home and taking care of my kids full-time.  With Laura and Emily falling ill on February 19th together, the deluge began…."when it rains, it pours", indeed.
 
Feb. 19  Emily wakes up with fever of 102.4 and coughing her head off, sore throat.  By noon Laura has a fever of 103.8 and they seem to be in a race to see who can boil their blood first.  Off to the doctors!  Respiratory infections and an ear infection, lots of nasty meds the two Woo-Woo Girls won’t take w/out being held down and wrapped in a towel like a cat being force-fed a pill.
Feb. 20-22  3 days of wheezing, crying, lazing about and screeching by the sick kids….then the call from school that Libby was jealous of all the attention her sisters had gotten so came down with a fever too.  Mike comes home with a limp and then falls over because he can’t walk from back strain. 
Feb. 23  Chiropractor’s visit and doctor visit and two more people home with me needing my attention and help 24/7. 
Now, three days, TOPS is about as long as I will play Saint Lynn, the Patient.  Gaining two more clients on Day Four was just about too much, especially when Laura started to get better, sort of, and went into Hellcat/Poor Baby switchup every 3 hours.  Sometimes it’s hard to remember I love taking care of these people.
 
 
I was just about at my breaking point.  Laura has 3 books that she carries around with her religiously, invoking the "I can’t read it myself, woman…and it’s a BOOK, not TV" button within my Mommy nature and forcing me to read them to her constantly.  She’s had Sleepy Dog  so long that both of us can ‘read’ the book without opening the cover…I simply start with the first lines, "Time for bed, sleepyhead…" and she whispers, "He’s going up the stairs" and off we go into the adventures of a Sleepy Dog and his bedtime routine.  Same thing with her Peek-A-Page board book  about 3 Innocent Forest Animals and the Destructive Blonde who breaks into their home one day.  She knows the story, which words go with which picture…and we read it at least 3 times a day.
 
But the exhausting book Are You My Mother?   finally pushed me to the brink this week.  The sweet story of a baby bird who goes looking for his Mother and encounters lots of different entities on his quest is the most tiresome book in the world when you read it over and over and over again every day, every night.  Laura worships this book, panics if she can’t find it, screams inconsolably when someone refuses to read it to her…that someone usually meaning Mommy.  Apparently I make the "SNORT!" sounds better than her sisters or Daddy. 
(She’s in my lap right now, exclaiming "The baby BIRD!!  I look at it!" since she spied the photo)
 
I’m taking a long time to make my point today, sorry….it’s been a LONG week. 
 
It’s hard to keep my sense of humor when I have a migraine and someone else is hollering about *their* pain, a kid’s coughing constantly and rolling around on the couch moaning every 2 minutes just to be sure I remember she’s still there and a 3 year old is shoving a book in my face and trying to rub a mole off my arm at the same time.  I was about to crack, finally.  Fighting past the feeling sorry for me fit I wanted to throw and trying to concentrate on doing for the people I love was tough for some reason, I think because I’d had migraines every afternoon and evening and couldn’t even rest.  Reading that dadburn book umpteen times didn’t make the mood any lighter.
 
Then I visited a private blog and read some thoughts on The Secret, that book Oprah’s having cows over,  and gained some insight into myself that was much needed. 
Part of the discussion on the blog was about levels, and moving forward in life – literally and emotionally, spiritually.  One of the things said pertained to something like "If everyone moved forward, who would clean the toilets?"  It was said jokingly, and I took it that way, especially knowing the writer, but at the same time it made me think…I like that.
 
I spend my life cleaning toilets, washing puke out of sheets, cleaning up spills I didn’t create, making food I don’t want to eat and then cleaning up afterward, doing thankless jobs for people who are largely clueless and/or ungrateful, and I do it for not one penny of monetary compensation, vacation time, sick days for a bunch of bosses who are progressively harder to deal with the longer they’re with the company.
 
It sounds like a sucky job, doesn’t it?  And yet, I’ve done it for 21 years and loved every minute of it, even wiping up the crap-splash off the toilets…splash that isn’t even mine.  I think it’s important work, valid work that I’d do even if I didn’t get the occasional "Thank you, Mom" or "I love you, Honey" out of the deal.  I do it for me as much as them; I do it to be the best Me I can be.  I think there is a great amount of dignity in dropping to your knees to clean out a commode and doing a good job of making things hygienic in your home.  It’s just as important to know how to quickly warm up a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup in a few minutes when your kid is craving it as it is to know how to make Baked Alaska for twelve.  While I was changing one of Laura’s really ummm….odiferous diapers last week I chastised her a bit about not wanting to use the potty like she should so’s I wouldn’t have to be a butt-wiper all my dang life….then I realized, yeah, I would.  We’re all butt-wipers, aren’t we?  All our lives.  Well, hopefully. 
 
While the discussion on the blog about levels and rising above wasn’t about moving from cleaning toilets to washing windows to owning the company someday…I find that when I really think about it, I’m happy enough to stay at my toilet cleaning job until they take the brush from my hand and retire me.  It’s a sucky job, but there are rewards too.  At least I know when I plop my arse down on the thing that it’s always clean.
 
 
 And, there is no feeling in the world like the one I was gifted with this weekend:  walking by Laura’s room and hearing her read Are You My Mother? to her doll;  same inflections I use, almost word for word and with the exact gestures and movements I show her when I am reading it to *my doll*.  For a 3 year old to memorize a book with 20+ pages of text in it already is pretty cool, I’m thinking…but the next time she asks me to read it to her again today….
 
 

“Wimmin’ Everday!” Tuesday July 18, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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That’s all I am allowed to do now, go "wimmin’ EVERDAY!".  There’s no real question of who the ruler of the roost is…Lala bosses us all, and she isn’t even kind enough to pretend otherwise, as most wives do to their husbands.  No.  She is the Queen, the Ruler, the Empress, the Tyrant.  And we’d best be knowin’ it.  Of course… I let her think that…but that’s our secret.  I LOVE "wimmin’ everday!"  And her father likes making her happy…and since I am her primary caretaker, and I say "Dear, your daughter *really, really, really wants to go swimming again today, is crying to go…sorry, can’t clean the ceilings today or rake the yard"…guess what we do?
 
So Saturday was the last day w/out Emmy, Katie and the Libbygirl.  We’d been told for a week that they wouldn’t be in until Sunday sometime.  So Saturday was OURS!  Jess had Sat. off…Becca was home, so we planned a "Big Girls" day at the lake…with La of course…there is still no one insane enough to take this kid on for a day.  And anyone insane enough to volunteer to babysit her…is too insane to be *allowed* to babysit her.  Simple as that.  It’s the Rock and The Hard Place.  Both not as resilient as her head, and one she is apt to throw at anyone she doesn’t like.  So off with us she went….     
 
 
 
I was amazed the beach wasn’t packed as the heat wave that is covering the country right now was definitely in full-force here in the Bluegrass state.  We thought we were melting on the ride over and raced each other into the water.  The girls were angels of mercy and handed me my float and took the Water Baby in and played with her for the longest time while I simply drifted along in the murky water and let the sun soak in and melt away my tensions.
 
Yes, tensions…I called to talk to the Little Screechers while we were en route to Gilligan’s Island, and found out they were *ON THEIR WAY HOME*…in Atlanta already and would be at our house around 6 pm or so!  ARGHHHH  ACKKKKK  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
This was not the plan!  I had no dinner planned, I was banking on still being on the water at 6 pm, what the heck???  
"Oh, no, we were coming back today the entire time…we just didn’t think we’d get in until late and we’d have to have the girls sleep over and then bring them home Sunday.  If it’s too much trouble for you, they can spend the night with us, of course…."
 
I’d already heard from the kids that Katie had a terrible earache and that Emily was practically banging a dent in the van’s ceiling with anticipation of seeing us all again;  Too much trouble for me indeed.  Being with those three will make you cranky, won’t it, Granny?  Grrrr.
So now we’re on time constraints.  *Sigh*
 
We had a BALL!  I did float and rest and people watch to my heart’s content.  Laura revelled in all the attention from the ‘Not the Mommy’s, But Darn Close!’ Sisters, they had a great time talking and catching up and sitting in cool water.
 
 
 
 
We eventually dragged ourselves out of the water, grilled burgers, chased bees from our sodas and enjoyed our day at the lake.  THEN, of course, we had ice cream cones from the little bait shop before heading home.  To see our favorite girls….
 
More later…I’m being thrown off the computer again.  I almost got half an hour this morning!! Wow!
 
*Blessings*
 
 

Alien Journals Saturday July 1, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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"Leedle Deedle Leeeedle Deeeeeedle Deeeeeeeeeeeeee Leedle
Leedle Deedle Leeeedle Deeeeeedle Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedle Leeeedle Deeeeeedle Deeeeeeeeeeeeee"
 
 
This is the Official Call of Laura Lala’s Alien Language.  We don’t know what it means, what it signifies, when exactly it is most used, because she is liable to spring it on us at any time, under any circumstance.
 
 
Then there’s the Phrase of the Week.  She’s cracking us up with them lately, although the "Okay…FINE!" snotty refrain she gave to anyone who asked her to do something she didn’t really want to but was forced into it was a bit obnoxous (thank you, Rebecca, for teaching her *that* one by saying it to her every time you did something for her you didn’t really want to do).  After "Okay…Fine!"  we were treated to "I don’t THINK SOOOO", which was really a hoot, and that lasted almost two weeks.  That constant refrain turned into "Oh, come ONNNN, Baby!" until her current constant message to everyone in the house—"I got it!"  We are not allowed to do anything anymore for her, she can and will do it all, bless her little Alien heart, because, by golly, by gee…she’s "Got it!"  I got it, indeed.
 
She is still her destructive, wall-climbing, crazy little self.  My Dad has christened her Stitch, after the Disney Alien in the Lilo and Stitch cartoon….the Alien who was made JUST to be destructive…he can’t help himself.
 
 
For a while there we thought of her more as an Alf…she does love her Cat Flesh.  She chases our kitties down every time she sees them, and no matter how many times we reprimand her, or how many scratches she gets, she persists in trying to eat them.  Something in her dietary standards demands the taste of kitty meat…or perhaps fur…she didn’t come with a manual.  Whatever it is, she’s just going to have to get it from Pediasure, because there ain’t no cat eating goin’ on here!  Libby won’t let us let her eat the cats.
 
There’s Lala’s need for combat and attack-which reminds me a lot of the nasty Alien in the movies with Signourey Weaver, Alien(s).  She even drools all nasty like the Alien did in the films.  She attacks without provocation and warning at times, although I don’t remember the movie Alien giggling maniacally as the victim screeched in pain in quite the same way our Little Visitor does.  But Miss La has no remorse, just like the unrepentant creature that had to be annihilated in the classic cult films that put Weaver on the Red Carpet again.
 
But she has so many redeeming qualities too.  She is brilliant beyond her years, sweet and soulful, cuddly and loving.  She’s like Mork from Ork–curious and excited about Earth…and she loves Eggs.  She celebrates life every single moment of it, always ready for any and every adventure that comes her way, and she has an amazing capacity for sending that energy out to anyone in her range:  she makes the rest of us raring and ready to play and party with her the moment we see that spark in her eyes, hear the excitement in her voice.
 
So beware:  the day is coming:  We’re going to be taken over one day by a wild race of cat-eating, wall-climbing, egg-loving, warrior Aliens who are unrepentantly joyful, unrepentantly bouncy and excitable, unrepentantly wild.  Oh, and they love moles.  See your dermatologist now, or be a prisoner forever to a cuddly Alien child.

Aliens We have loved Tuesday June 27, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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I have a big hole in my foot now.  Hurts like the very dickens, it do.  First they scraped the bottom of my foot, getting the chunk of plantar’s wart off it..  Then the digging began…YEEEOOOWW~~~
and the pronouncement that it was rooted in too deep…unless I wanted to lose mobility for a few weeks…."Errr,  No, It is to laugh, that is not an option, thank you, Doctor"….so the rest was frozen.
 
Another words–I’m in a lot of pain tonight.
 
And wrist-deep in a draft about Laura and her various Alien personas.
There are lots:  Alf, Lilo and Stitch, the Gremlins, Mork from Ork, the Alien from Alien, and Aliens, to name a few.  If you think of more, let me know!
 
Gonna pop a few more pain pills and go to sleep, now.  Y’all have a pain-free night.
 
*Blessings*

Mean Baby Friday May 26, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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I’m fine, really.
Don’t call in a panic, Stacy  LOL
 
La decided to wonk me with a freakin Spike plastic dog she had…and when I jumped up to recoil from the pain…I slammed myself on the head, right behind the ear of course, and have a nice lump…a lot of pain and probably a concussion.  I’ve mostly been ‘resting’.  I’ll be back up and around soon.  I just don’t feel all that great right now.  But I’ll be bouncing back in no time!
 
Loves ya! and of course…
*Blessings*

Ain’t No Moutain High Enough Sunday April 30, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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Words have so many powers, don’t they?

Lips can twist to spew forth venom and cruelty and hate. Lips can kiss the tears away. Words have the power to lift us up, form word-images in our minds that inspire us to such great things; volunteer-ism, to vote, to believe in a religion, to work harder, to dream bigger, to think, to live a certain way.

Such power in a few syllables.

Especially when they are lisped out by a two year old, R’s not included.

The La-ness has explained it all to me: First in a dream, then during a long, winding walk in which we switched places and she led me.

It all started very simply: I don’t dream much anymore, haven’t since the aneurysm. Something got tweaked or disconnected or burnt out, and I waken a lot in the night…that, and La’s helpful wakeup calls….and I don’t get into REM sleep often. When I do dream, I don’t remember them often, perhaps one dream every 3 months. It’s actually been documented as part of my insanity, they’ve realized a person who can’t dream goes nuts.

But Alienbaby came to me in a dream, and read me a story. It was the story of the Lady who grew up too fast, who left her Sillies behind. The Lady stopped giggling, stopped playing in the flowers, stopped dancing around the trees and rolling in the grass and playing Ring Around the Rosies and soon started to wither. La-Ness gave me many pointed looks during her reading of the story, and a sharp elbow in the ribs at one point. Terrible things happened to The Lady. Hair grew out of her moles. Her nose became crooked, her toes went green. It was a not nice story. La is fascinated with horror movies, the Thrill Junkie.

Anyway…when I woke up, I decided it was time for a junket out of doors, even IF it were sunny outside. We bounced outside, stayed out all day and came in quite refreshed and now I’m all better.

End of story! YAY!

Beginning of adventure, really.

Normally, we all turn left at the end of our yard. Town is that way, the school is that way, the kid’s friends all live that way. Laura wished to go right for some reason. I decided as she was the Mistress of the Dreams, she was to be the leader of this expedition. So right we went. We hadn’t gone 20 paces before she found a rockpile we had to dig into.

"What’s this? What’s this, what’s this? What’s this?"

"Rock, La. It’s a rock. That’s a rock. (Bored now. Sigh. Booored) That is a rock too, La. Still a rock babe. It’s a rock Laura."

Then I remembered who I was dealing with. She knows that is a rock, they’re all rocks. Why does she keep asking me this over and over. So I get down and look at each one individually and I notice not only are the rocks a little different, but sometimes she’s pointing at the rock dust on her hands or the dust puffing up as it leaves her hands. Foolish mommy. So we get into a discussion about the different colors of rocks, the gradiations, the shapes, dust, air, until she is finally satisfied she has me fully engaged in rocks and her level of curiosity and she is ready to move on.

Off we move until she spies the dandelion fluffs. We must pull each of these up, bring them to our mouths close enough so our eyes cross and fluff goes up the nose a bit and then we *BLOOWW* the dander all over the place, sending the little tendrils of weed off with the wind to find new homes. Again and again this is repeated with laughs of delight. Her laugh is so deep, almost raucous when she is this happy. It sends me into fits of giddiness too, like nothing else can, except my other children laughing just this same way.

Next we come upon our first big tree. I think about what trees mean to me, what a shelter and comfort they have always been, the solace and strength and joy they have given me all my life. I wish so much to give that to Laura. All we have now is one sad and chopped up tree in our yard, we have to go walking to find trees to teach her the beauty and the majesty of the old and strong. This one is a venerable maple, tall and true. We stand under him, looking up, up, up, smiling through the leaves and branches, and I am thankful for the shade from the sun’s burning light.

"Touch it, touch it, please, touch it."

I show her how to ground herself and reach for the sky, to stretch tall, hands opened with fingers wide, and ask for permission to touch the tree. We stand under this beautiful piece of Nature’s Offering and feel the Spirit of all things beautiful and Good and soak in such warm energy. I feel peace at last, such a long, long time since I’ve felt this much in harmony and grace with anything. I see her standing with arms up over her head, the La’s normally wild eyes calm and smiling, her body firmly planted…and then she started to dance. So I danced with her. We joined hands and we danced all around in the grass until we fell down and giggled and rolled and wrestled.

I don’t think anyone was home, at least no one came out and ran us off the property.

We stopped and picked wild daisies four different times. "So pretty!"

There were seven different trees we stopped and looked at, talked with, touched. One set of four Weeping Willows delighted her by allowing her to touch branches and leaves for half an hour. The child known as America’s WMD by her Aunt Imp was as gentle as could be, (even stepping over fallen limbs and saying "Sorry" as she did so) caressing tree branches, feeling along the leaves, rubbing her cheeks against them, looking up at me as she repeated the names of the trees back to me.

We visited neighborladies and said Hello, patted dogs, "HURRY HURRY HURRY"’D! across streets, tied her shoes 37 times despite double knots, went to the back yard and played pick up sticks.

I learned that Forests and Mountains may break my heart some days, but there are no words strong enough that can’t be healed by a sweet baby saying to me as she tugs me out to play…

"Come on come on come on Mommy!"

*Blessings*

Baby Go BOOM! Monday April 24, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
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My mother always told me there were three types of kids in your family:
The Good Kid
The Bad Kid
and the Hospital Kid
Now, she didn’t mean the Good kid
was always perfect…just that the Good one seemed to behave better
most of the time, weighed next to the rest. You know the kid, even if
you don’t want to admit it as parents.
And the Bad kid isn’t *BAD* as in
the Bad Seed…just the one always in trouble, or looking for trouble,
or perhaps…really is a bad kid, or trying to be bad. Guess who the
Bad Kid was in our family? Well it wasn’t either of my brothers.
And the Hospital Kid…the one
constantly doing something to their bodies requiring drives to the
hospital or local Urgentcare or Doctor’s Office with towels held to
various body parts as blood drips or spurts out as someone cries and
someone else frantically digs for insurance information. That kid.
Now I’d gone Eighteen Glorious Years
as a parent. Five children. FIVE CHILDREN. No Hospital Kids amongst
them. I’d decided hospital kids must be purely a male problem and I was
somehow blessed enough to only have girls; perhaps it was a fair
trade-off to deal with tampon talks and screeching 24/7 to not have to
cope with spurting blood and frightened drives to the ER at all hours.
I was wrong. It’s not a guy thing. I
was just apparently saving up my points for the Last Child. Waiting
until I was old and my nerves were shot and my reactions were slow to
get the infamous Hospital Kid. The Danger Mouse.
Lala has done it again. Why she
wants to go and injure such a lovely face is beyond me when she has
such a long little body with so many parts she could rip open…but
Alien logic is not our logic, her ways are not our ways. Reasoning with
her does not work. This time she decided she would try not her forehead
but her mouth…both lips busted slam CRASH onto the nasty cold
concrete of the Wal-Mart floor as she went careening around a box full
of flip-flops Katie was trying on. Dang running nutjob Baby.
Of course, with six kids, there are
repeats of the Good, Bad, etc…I’ve got a mix of them all…but
thankfully only ONE Hospital Kid. I shudder to think what she’s going
to be like in the days and years to come when this is what she puts us
through already…not even two and a half years of age and she’s
already had a set of stitches, and more blood poured out of her than
some blood donor patrons do in a year of giving. She seems to take joy
in banging in to objects and leaping off of things twice her height.
She’s a thrill seeking, heart-attack-inducing little Wild Thing. I
don’t know where it comes from. I just wish she’d cut it out.
After bleeding all over me, herself,
the floor, a blanket and numerous paper towels for fifteen minutes,
attracting a crowd and a couple of Wal-Mart workers, we finally
ascertained that this time she wasn’t going to need stitches, just some
cold compresses and lots of cuddle time. We got out of there as quickly
as possible and got the heck home. All this on my first excursion to
the store from hell sans anti-anxiety medication for the first time in
eighteen months. Eww boy. My poor Danger Mouse. We both needed a
pacifier and couldn’t have one.
It is obvious now to me however that
I have a Hospital Kid. I am looking for experienced moms who have dealt
with these children to tell me how to cope with these people and what
to do to prepare in the future for these accidents. I cannot believe I
have been parenting for twenty years and am dumbfounded by something
like this. Yet, I have always said that even a grandmother has
something to learn from a new mother if she is open and watchful. See,
here I am, needing to learn a new thing. My good, bad Hospital Kid has
me experiencing new sensations. This is Good, even if it feels Bad.
*Blessings*
Lynn

Exorcist Needed…Apply Within Tuesday April 11, 2006

Posted by gingerbreadman in Alien Journals.
12 comments
There comes a time in every parent’s life when she has to look at her child and face what she has brought into the world;  Good, Bad, Bright, Shining, Dull, Brilliant, Drug Addict, Middle of the Road Milquetoast Office Worker….Whatever.   We love them just the same….hopefully, Unconditionally and Absolutely.
 
Let me say uncategorically that I love my baby Lala absolutely, unconditionally.  It has never mattered to me one bit that she is not of this world, not this species, that she is the epitome of the Hot Topic Now…the Ultimate Illegal Immigrant….an ALIEN.  She’s MINE…sorta.  And I love her completely.  Everyone here does.
 
However.
 
Something’s gotta change.  Now.  Lala’s got a Glitch.  It has gone beyond the cat eating stage.  Beyond the 4 am Marker Party Rebellion.  Even past the "Okay….Fine!" reply when told what to do stage she has been trained into lately (gonna so get you for that one, Rebecca!).
 
I could stand the weird raspy voice she’s been using lately.  Creepy, yes.  Disconcerting, definitely.  But liveable.  The beatings she enjoys dishing out to her siblings…hey, if they can’t take a two year old…*shaking my head*…I’m not even going to say it.  The "nekkid baby!" rampages up and down and to and fro she stages every chance she gets?   Cute, normal and hey, who *doesn’t* want to throw off all their clothes and run free through the house shouting "Nekkid Baby!"?
 
But now…
 
She’s got to be stopped.  It’s just too much.  If the neighbors, or the girl’s friends, or heavens forfend my parents ever walk in and catch her at it…she’ll be deported for sure.  I’ll never see my child again!  I’ve tried spanking her.  I’ve tried reasoning with her *yeah, right*, I even sat on her…nothing is working.
 
She won’t stop climbing the walls.
 
Literally.  The child is literally climbing up the walls.  I don’t know how she does it.  I think she is like Stitch, and somehow sprouts invisible extra limbs or something, because she makes it up about 5 feet before I catch her sometimes and then she gets this "Dadgumit, caught again!" face and slllliiiddddeesssss down.   I don’t know how far she’s actually gotten when I haven’t found her out.  I shudder to think.  I believe I’ve got some baby knee marks on the ceiling in her room though, and there’s a suspicious scuff mark in the kitchen corner where the wall and ceiling meet too.
 
I’ve considered going to the Catholic Church and collecting some Holy Water to throw on her myself…but she’s my little Alien hunnybunny.  I could never scald her intentionally.  I’d much rather stand on the front porch and chainsmoke a carton of cigs while some aloof priest gets puked on and let HIM do it. 
 
Becca hopefully will have some ideas when she is home this weekend.  There has to be something she’s got in her bags and boxes.  I haven’t read far enough along in my Wiccan books yet to figure out what to use to stop evil spirits.  I KNOW there’s nothing in Penelope Leach about this.
 
The pediatrician told me a week ago she was far advanced intellectually for her age…testing in the 33 month range at 27 months in most things…but seriously in need of social developement.  She suggested I take her to church, or join a Homemakers Club.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or choke to death at the thought of the Lala in the midst of a group of innocent Sunday Schoolers her age…
or me at a Homemakers Group meeting.
 
Maybe we need TWO Exorcists, come to think of it.
 
*Blessings*