TheMommyBlog

Thursday, October 16, 2003

I have this thing about salmon. I really don’t like it. The taste, the smell of it cooking, and especially the smell of the packaging after it’s been emptied just absolutely makes me gag. Thing is, it’s my husband’s favorite food. A preference with which he has now also infected the children. I don’t know why I find this so distressing, as I never have to eat it myself.

While pregnant and in possession of bionic senses, I would have to open all the windows, spray the offending air with whatever was handy and did not smell like salmon, and sometimes even leave the house until the odor dissapated. I would also get upset if I had forgotton to close our bedroom door to keep the smell from disturbing my sleep later on. In short, I’m a little neurotic about it.

So last night I came home to “fishy” children. Not a biggie, I don’t care what they eat during the day, I’d just prefer not to relive it when I get home. The problem was that I couldn’t tell where the smell was coming from. I scrubbed to counters, the table, and the floor under the kids’ chairs. Still stinky. Then Dylan crawled into my lap and I got a noseful of the fishiest-smelling hair in history. Aaaaaccckkkkkk! How did he get salmon in his hair? Doesn’t that get you disqualified?

“Up! Up! Out! Bath! Bubbles! Now!” I plonked everyone in the tub and went, shuddering, back to my favorite chair.

Which smelled like salmon.

I dropped to my knees, scoured the floor for rotting aquatic fleshy bits, recalling that Logan had left his dinner plate on the chair the other night (Why?? Who does that?), and almost gagging at the thought that it had been ripening since then. Nothing. Then I smelled the slip cover. Gag, gag, gag. Doused it with Fabreeze and moved on.

Cut to this morning, as I was showing off my new, comfy, Hannah Andersson drawstring skirt.

Logan: “Mommy? You know how much you don’t like salmon?”

Me: “...Yeesss....?”

Logan: “Well, that’s how much I don’t like looking at you in those pants.”

Me: “...???...”

Logan: “Because they have ties on them. And I hate ties.”

Me: “...Wow. Okay.” (Rolls eyes.)

Later, he came to me while I was drying my hair and said, “Mommy, I don’t like looking at Dylan in his shorts, either.” He cupped a hand next to his mouth and said in a stage whisper, “They have a rip.”

(Speaking of neurotic.)

Tuesday, October 14, 2003

My mom volunteered though the university where she works to help out at a site for Habitat for Humanity yesterday. She has a torn ligament and lots of other icky stuff happening in one shoulder, so I was relieved to hear that she was to be in charge of coffee and donuts. Of aaaaaalllllll the people who could have volunteered, only a handful did. Of those, only 3 had any kind of skill that would allow them to help do the roof. Of those, one had only one arm. Outwardly, I commisserated on the shame. Inwardly, I wished I had been there with a bucket of popcorn and a lawn chair.

I forgot what the other sad story was. My daughter is tugging my nightgown and shouting “ALL DONE” at me so persistently that all else has escaped me.

Tuesday, October 14, 2003

She’d better not get pregnant.

Tuesday, October 14, 2003

...is still ticking me off. I bet she’s thinking she’s ready for bigger things, and doesn’t plan to finish inner high school. She’ll get that inner GED, then file for inner emancipation. Then move in with the inner version of my scary high school boyfriend, Callahan.

Monday, October 13, 2003

So I was surfing around, flitting from blog to blog, and I found something cute and fun. An Inner Child quiz. OK, I’ll bite. It could happen, right? So I was born “old” (as my “friends” used to point out). There could still be a scrap of minor down in there somewhere, some remnant of innocence or shaft of pediatric sunshine.

So I take the quiz, click Submit, and wait. What the hell? My inner child is 16?? That’s not a child, folks. A child bride, maybe, but not a child. Any person who can procreate and drive a truck to a job where they could potentially be trusted to handle money (not necessarily in that order) is most definitely not a child.

Go ahead, give it a shot. But if you get a bouncy 4-year-old or even a precocious 8-year-old, I don’t want to hear about it.

My inner child is sixteen years old!

Life’s not fair! It’s never been fair, but while
adults might just accept that, I know
something’s gotta change. And it’s gonna
change, just as soon as I become an adult and
get some power of my own.


How Old is Your Inner Child?
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