First of all, I feel like I need to apologize for yesterday’s post. I was venting, and, even with more than 12 hours, and a good nights sleep between the party and all the noise and confusion and chaos, I was still quite tense about the whole thing. Like I said yesterday, nothing good ever comes from acting in anger.
Now that I’ve got that out of the way, I can move on…
I’m going to give the oddest piece of automotive advice that you’ll probably ever get: If you have the chance to buy a 1997 Geo Prizm, do so. My car is 13 years old, I’ve been driving it for 10, (minus the time I was on my mission; Dad didn’t want to give it back after that) and I have never had any major problems with it. Yes, it needs a new paint job, and the plastic bits in the cab tend to fall off at inopportune moments, and filling the gas tank involves the use of an old dog leash–but on the whole, it’s a great little car.
When I open the hood, the parts that have brand names on them all say Toyota. Problems with gas pedals aside, my car has convinced me that my next car should be a Toyota.
I bring this up because of the drama yesterday. For a family that claims to eschew drama (ooohhh, WordPress isn’t going to like that I used the word eschew–but I managed to spell it right on the first try!) we sure have a lot of it.
Sis and the Bro-in-Law were headed home from the party, and, about thirty miles outside of town–coincidentally right at the turn off to Uncle Ornery’s farm, the new-t0-them car died. Dad and I went on a rescue mission–fortunately, Sis knew the farm well enough to take the hyperactive three-year-old on a walk to meet the cows. (She reports that G was quite funny with this–“Is that poo?” “No.” “Can I step on it?” “Yes” “Is that poo?” “Yes” “Can I step on it?” “No” Finally, she pointed out that some poo was dry enough to step on. This is the first thing that G told me about when I came to the rescue.)
Their car had a leaky oil pan that was fixed over the weekend, and hopefully the problems are just because the mechanics over-filled the oil. And yes, I know what that sentience means as long as their are no follow-up questions.
Sis and the boys decided to stay at my parents house until the car gets fixed, but the Bro-in-Law had to go to work today, so I was voted official taxi driver. I took him home, then flipped around and drove the 45 miles back to my house.
Between my parent’s house and Nephi, you can consistently get five radio stations. Three of them are country, one is easy listening/old people music, and the other one is top 40 and historical pop 40. None of which I like. So, unthinking, I did what I ususally do on the way home from my parent’s house, and turned on the MP3 function of my phone.
Yeah, my music is a lot weirder when someone else is listening to it too.
In the Bro-in-Law’s defense, he didn’t complain through the cycling Mika, Indigo Girls, Vampire Weekend, Michael Jackson, the Ting-Tings, Iseley Brothers, etc. And that’s not even getting into stuff like Kings of Convenience and Colin Hay that I don’t like to listen to when I drive…
If you knew who all those people/bands are without looking them up then good for you.
There’s a part of me that’s saying that by singing the praises of my car, that I’m sure to start having problems with it. Superstitions had to get started somehow…
Back before Christmas, G had a sleepover at my house, so his parents could go shopping for Santa without him. Personally, I thought we had fun–we painted my window with tempera paints, we watched movies, I tried unsuccessfully to build a tent, and Max and Lulu curled up on the bed with G when it was time to go to sleep.
Every once and a while since that time, I’ve asked G if he wanted to do another sleep over at my house. He always says no.
When Mom was shuttling Uncle Ornery around yesterday, at one point, she dropped Ornery off in Provo, drove up to SLC, picked up G and E, then headed back down to Provo to pick up Ornery up, then went back to SLC. She asked to borrow my crock pot to get ready for the Easter Party, and, because I knew that she was planning on heading down to Provo anyway, I gave her a key to my house and told her were to find it.
When we got back from the expo, we were talking about what G did that day, and I asked if he stopped to visit Max and Lulu.
“No,” he said. “But I need to.”
I then asked if he wanted to do another sleepover at my house that night. The answer was, of course, no.
The Bro-in-Law heard me ask, and he asked G if he ever wanted to do another sleepover at my house. G looked at his dad, looked at me, then tried to nod and shake his head at the same time. Further questioning revealed that no, he doesn’t want to have another sleepover.
“Why don’t you want to have a sleep over at Aunt Cori’s?” was the next very sensible question.
“It scary.” was the answer.
Now, here’s the thing. G loves it when I come and visit, and he loves visiting me, and he’s always begging me to have a sleepover at his house. My house, though, is a lot noisier than his. When we tried the sleepover, he would almost be asleep, then we’d hear a train, or a loud car, or people talking, or the neighbor’s moving furniture or something that would wake him up, and he would say “What that?” I’d explain what it was, and he’d almost go back to sleep, only to repeat the process. It was a pretty long night for both of us.
I told him that I understood that it was scary, sometimes, trying to go to sleep when you aren’t in your own bed, and acknowledged that my house was very noisy, and suggested that we wait until he was older to try a sleepover again. I asked if he would be brave enough to sleep at my house when he was four. He thought about it, then gave a definitive “yes”.
Four is going to be a big year for that kid. Not only will he be brave enough to sleep at my house, but he’s also going to turn into a hiker, at least according to my dad.
I guess that means I have until his birthday in August to plan the most amazing sleepover ever.
You just can’t get rid of me, can you?
A word of advice to all my single readers out there. Or maybe my readers with single siblings would be more apt. Marry (or encourage your siblings to marry) someone who works in the IT/computer engineering field. As soon as my sister got home yesterday, she suggested to my bro-in-law that he build me a new computer. She’s called a couple of times this morning to give me updates on it. I asked if the B-I-L was having fun, or if she was having to crack the whip. She assured me that he was having fun–he wouldn’t be spending his day off working on a computer for me if he didn’t enjoy it. AND, it’s making my sister happy because it’s getting rid of some of the random computer parts that are cluttering up her storage room (that’s why I’m encouraging siblings to marry computer geeks–you get all of the benefit, and none of the clutter!)
So, yes, my family is amazing. I honestly don’t know what I did to get so lucky.
Maybe it was timing.
So, my parents bought a new car yesterday. It is gorgeous!
In an effort to keep their yard from being cluttered with cars in various stages of workability, Mom suggested that Sis and the B-I-L buy the car that they were replacing. It might have come back to bite her, though, because as part of the sale, Sis and B-I-L traded the car they were driving back to my dad. This had the added benefit of confusing the heck out of G. Sis kept talking about her new car, and G kept insisting “That’s Papa’s car!” I can’t wait to see what happens next time he comes down and finds the car his parents have been driving his whole life in Mom and Dad’s driveway.
So, to recap, Mom gets a brand new car, Dad gets a new to him car, and Sis and her family get a new to them car. I get a broken computer.
I’m really not all that jealous. Any car I could afford right now would be in worse shape then the one that I’m driving.
Um, obviously, I’m somewhere with access to a computer. I’m still at my parents house. Last night was as bad as I thought it was going to be, (I spent all day depressed about my broken computer, AND spending time with the kids) and I didn’t want to be alone.
That’s a good thing, right? Normally, or historically, perhaps, when I’ve gotten really depressed, I retreat into a shell, and don’t want anything to do with anything. It has to be a good sign that when I knew I was going to be depressed, I sought out the company of others.
Huh. Spell check doesn’t like the word “epicness”. Neither does dictionary.com.
So I’m falling into what has already become an old trap, even though The Storyteller Chronicles is a little over three months old. I can’t sleep, so I’m updating my blog at 3am. Fortunately, I’m in a good mood, so this isn’t going to be an uber-depressed post.
It is going to be a post showing off my dad and my nephew.
So, here’s the thing. My dad had a birthday about a month ago. Me, being the poor/cheap/lazy daughter that I am, neglected to get him a gift.
I was shopping at Michael’s Arts and Crafts for…idunno, candles, or art supplies or something, and I saw these awesome foam swords. I of course, thought of G. Then, I thought about my budget, and couldn’t justify buying them for him without a reason. I then remembered that I owed my dad a birthday gift, and he’s the one that G likes to sword fight with, so Dad got the swords.
Seriously, the best money I ever spent. By the end of the day, I was laughing so hard, I had a headache.
I took some great video, then edited it together. I mean, uh, I carefully choreographed the action to fit with my chosen music selection, then spent a great deal of time carefully putting everything together. I in no way just spliced a bunch of film together, then grabbed my Best Classic 100 volume 2 CD set, chose the disk labeled “Spectacular Classics”, then chose the first song I came upon that could logically go with a sword fight (#5, Muggorsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition: The Hut on Fowl’s Legs), to have it coincidentally fit almost perfectly with the random scenes I had shot earlier in the day. Yeah. Nothing like that happened at all.
So, I like to think that I’m fairly tech savvy, but YouTube kicked my butt with this. I thought it wasn’t uploading, when in reality, it just wasn’t automatically going to the screen that told me it had uploaded. I ended up putting like six versions of the video on YouTube before I figured it out, and took five of them down.
Yeah, I’m smart like that…
My sister is always saying that she wishes I could put a “like” button on my blog. Sis, I looked, but I don’t like the options that WordPress has. I have learned, though, that I can automatically have my blog posts post directly to my Facebook wall, and, if I did everything correctly, this should be the first post to do so. Of course, now, you do realize that you are now under obligation to click the “like” button for all my blog posts from here on out.
Today is my Bro-in-law’s birthday. I was feeling sorry for myself a few days ago, so foolishly I volunteered to babysit while he and my sister went on a date to celebrate. Of course, it couldn’t just be for a few hours in the evening. He wanted to meet with his family for lunch, then take my sister out on the town tonight. E is sick and had been fussy all morning, so I watched him while my sister took G on a picnic with the bro-in-law. When they got back, I insanely suggested that G and I take Lulu, Max, and G’s dog Polly to PetSmart. There’s at least four things in that sentence that would prevent a peaceful trip.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad, at least, once I got the kid and the dogs loaded into the car, and they all figured out where they wanted to sit. Before that happened, though, I said out-loud to myself, “I’m crazy to be doing this.”
G heard me, and answered, “Don’t be crazy.” That’s the best advice I’ve ever gotten. G also kept insisting “Polly is my dog. She needs to sit next to me.” Well, next was a good idea. Polly though she needed to sit ON G. I should probably mention that Polly is a mostly corgi mutt–about thirty-five pounds. G is tall, but really skinny, and weighs in at about 40 lbs. Polly thought that G’s car seat made a great step to look out the window on the way to the store. Fortunately, G thought that was hilarious.
When we got to PetSmart, G insisted on holding Polly’s leash. I was leery, because I know that Polly is stronger than he is, but I also know how good she is with him, so I let him keep track of her. They were so cute together. They would run up and down the aisles together, and when I lost track of them, I could call “Here Polly!”. Polly, as she should be, is more loyal to G than to me, so she wouldn’t come, but she also wouldn’t budge from wherever she happened to be until I found them.
I took a picture, but the camera on my phone isn’t very good, and they were about 20 feet ahead of me when this picture was taken. Still–can’t you just see how much these two enjoy spending time together? And fortunately, the drive back to G’s house involved much less three-year-old being squished by a dog.
A few hours after I got back from the store, my sister went to pick up the bro-in-law from work, then go out to dinner. I stayed to watch the hyperactive ball of…hyperactivity that is G, and the sick baby.
This is where the title of this post comes in. My sister is a superhero. She takes care of G and E all day. Every single day.
The more I thought about it, the more I decided that ALL Mommies are superheros. Especially the Mommies who don’t get enough or any help from the Daddies, and/or have to work all day at a job, then come home and take care of the kids. A single day watching those two–and half the time I only had one of them, and I’m worn out, and asking myself why I want one of my own.
I grumble about Max and Lulu being four-legged two-year olds, but I can also count on them to fall asleep after 20 minutes of hyperactivity. Or lying around doing nothing. Whatever. I can also leave the house when they get to be too much, and not worry about them.
So, yay for Mommies! Yay for Daddies, too! Yay for all those who selflessly give of themselves to make this world a better place, for us and for the future generations!
Y’all wear me out. I’m going to bed now.
Apparently, I didn’t do the Facebook thing correctly, because my blog isn’t showing up there. Oh well, I’ll keep working at it. Sooner or later, I’m bound to figure it out.
My sister has had a difficult week, so I spent the day at her house, because, you know, nothing helps with a hyperactive three-year old and a colicky infant like also having to take care of your crazy sister. I debated kidnapping G for the day, but decided I needed to spend time with my sister. Besides, I tried a batch of Bakerella’s cake balls, and they were getting all eaten at my house, so I needed to get rid of as many of them as possible.
While I was there, I helped Sis sort out the clothes that G and E have grown out of, and pull out some of G’s hand-me downs for E. When we finished, and she was boxing up the newborn clothes, she said “Je suis grande maintenant.” A quick note–my sister took French in middle and high school–I chose to use the discretionary language credits taking creative writing classes. I did pick up a little French on my mission in Canada–a very little, mostly what was on packages in the grocery store. Basically the names of fruit.
My sister, after showing of her bi-linguality, asked if I understood what she said. I admitted that I didn’t. She told me it meant “I am big now.” I joked that if she had thrown a fruit in there, I would have understood–“Je suis grande pamplemousse.” I then had to admit that I couldn’t remember exactly what fruit pamplemousse is. I had to ask Google, which then became difficult because I stink at spelling in English. Spelling in French is nigh on impossible.
Anyway, I’ve spent today basically fighting panic attacks. Strangely, I’ve felt them coming on when I’ve been in the car–first going up to my sister’s house, then when we were leaving Chick-fil-a where we went for lunch, then on the way home. This was odd–I love to drive. I do have a hard time if I don’t have an exit route–like if I’m in a car with someone I don’t know very well or don’t trust behind the wheel, but my sister doesn’t fit either of those criteria. And when I am in the car by myself, or when I’m driving someone else, I’m usually okay.
Long story short, on the way home, I found myself practicing saying “I am a big grapefruit” in French in an effort to calm myself down.
For those of you wondering, my header means “I am an official crazy person”, at least that’s what I typed into translate.reference.com. When I switched it around, it came back “I am a crazy official”, which would be more àpropos is I had a job…
If either of my readers know how to more appropriately say “I am an official crazy person” in French, and would care to share it with me in the comments, I would be most appreciative. If you also happen to live within walking distance, I’ll even share the cake balls.
I’m trying out a few new looks for The Storyteller Chronicles. I figure if I want to be a professional graphic designer, I better make this blog look as good as possible. So, in the future, watch for changing themes, colors, etc.
Um, in the mean time, to make your trip to my corner of the web worthwhile, here’s a video of G snoring:
My sister talked me into coming up to her house on New Years Eve. She didn’t have to talk very hard. My sister and I are about a year apart in age, and have been best friends since we were little girls. And by best friends, I mean she would tell me what to do, and I would do it. That still happens.
We went to the Living Planet Aquarium in Sandy on Thursday, mostly because a local radio station was doing a satellite and selling hot dogs for 93 cents. (I wanted to go to the aquarium, so I refrained from mentioning that 93 cents is a horrible price for hot dogs, when you can buy a package of 12 for a dollar). A note for all people who are as agoraphobic (and claustrophobic, weird, I know) as I am–when a popular radio station is doing a satellite in a small, dark, fish-filled building, it might be a good idea to stay away.
The trip to the aquarium was–interesting, if not quite as educational as I would have liked. First of all, I must be better with kids than I’d always claimed. They had an exhibit where kids could touch stuff like a python and a Madagascar hissing cockroach (I’m not squeamish around bugs, but I don’t like cockroaches. I just wanted to smash that thing). They had a gray parrot and a blue and gold macaw in the background, so we thought they were going to do a bird show. G and I sat down to wait for the show, and the space I chose was right next to a man with a baby girl, neither of whom I knew. I was being polite and ignoring them, talking to G about the birds and the snake and the other critters they had, but the baby had no such social graces. She started trying to get over to me, hitting me, and making cute little baby “pay attention to me noises”. When I finally turned to look at her, she started begging for me to pick her up, which, being the kind and generous soul that I am, I did. Of course, once I was holding her she realized that she, in fact, didn’t know me, and instantly wanted to go back to her dad.
G was, of course, too shy to touch any of the animals, but didn’t want to leave because he didn’t want to miss the bird show.
Speaking of G, that kid makes me laugh. He’s super-shy, but, at the same time, will do anything for attention. At the aquarium, there is a section called “Journey to South America” which is filled with critters from the Amazon. (Because, you know the fourth largest continent is nothing but a big rain forest.) You can’t have an exhibit talking about the fish of the Amazon river without paying special attention to the electric eel. There is a display near the eel tank where you can feel what it feels like to get zapped by an electric eel. So, guess who likes to just hold his hands on the diodes?
Um, for my readers who don’t know me personally, have I mentioned that G was adopted, and is African American? Yeah, that’s not just some random kids hand. And have I mentioned that he’s 3?
So home from the aquarium, for a fun night of wild partying, by which I mean putting the kids to bed too late, and then staying up and playing the wii and card games with my sister and brother in law. So of course I spent the night rather than going home.
New Years Day got together with some of our cousins. On my dad’s side of the family, there are about 10 girl cousins all around the same age, with my sister and me right smack-dab in the middle of it all. Family reunions rocked! (As long as you have a good place to hide when it all got overwhelming. But that’s another story for another day.) Three of us, plus assorted male hanger-on-ers in the form of husbands and children, met for lunch. I have to say, the Red Robin didn’t do a good job with the food for the amount of money we spent, but it was fun to spend time with the extended family, especially the cousin who, for some reason, married a guy who, in a bid to find out exactly how crazy we all are, is attending school in Chicago to learn how to be a psychologist.
I had spent all morning yesterday entertaining the children so my sister and bro-in-law could get some much-needed rest, so by the time we got back from the restaurant, I was feeling the late night “partying” the night before, then getting up early with G, so I laid down for a nap. By the time I woke up, I didn’t want to go home that night, so, the bro-in-law suggested I spend another night.
So, I just spent the last 883 words basically describing the life of my sister and her family. I honestly don’t know how she does it. I think I could handle the mommy thing, but not necessarily 24/7. I used the words “Barely contained chaos” to describe my sister’s house, and she just nodded.
That being said, my sister and her husband have done a really good job with G. (E’s only 2 months old, so it’s a bit too early to tell with him.) He does a good job of doing what he’s told, for a three-year-old. He very sweet and loving, and has a magnetic personality that makes him a joy to be around. I’m so grateful he’s a part of my family.
I’m also grateful he doesn’t come home with me at the end of the day.
My dogs, Max and Lulu don’t like it when we visit my parents house. They aren’t allowed on the furniture, and at least half the time, my 3-year-old nephew G is there to pull tails and ears and steal toys, and to take all of his Aunt Cori’s attention. But worst of all, they aren’t allowed to sleep with me in the super-comfy bed that’s one size bigger than the bed we sleep on at home. Nights with the dogs at my parents house usually consist of me trying to convince them that their crate really is the best place for them to sleep (they don’t have a problem with the crate at my house) for at least an hour.
Last night, it was especially bad. It seemed like they wouldn’t go down for more than a half hour at a time. Every time I started to congratulate myself on finding how to get them down, they would start barking at me again. Maybe they were excited about Christmas.
I guess the only way I tell that story is to offer an excuse in case for when I ramble. I didn’t get more than four hours of sleep last night, and, if I’m going to stay awake all day to reset my body, I want to do it without chemical stimulation. Now, if only I could come up with an excuse for the rest of my posts…
G called Mom & Dad’s house about an hour ago to tell all about Christmas morning at his house. This kid’s been talking about Santa Claus since, well, last Christmas. It didn’t help that one of my uncles, G’s great-uncle, told him that Santa wouldn’t come unless he learned to go poop in the potty. G’s little three-year-old brain turned that into “Santa will only go to places where I’ve successfully pooped in the potty.” So, random gas station in Minersville, Utah? Yep, Santa went there. Aunt Cori’s house? Not so much. When G had diarrhea a week or two ago, and couldn’t quite make it to the bathroom on time, he was so distraught, not only because he made a mess in his pants, but because he thought it meant Santa wouldn’t come.
So, how did this post about Christmas turn into a discussion of my nephew’s poop? Oh. Right. Back on track now.
G called about an hour ago, and was so excited to tell all about the toys and presents he got. This is the first year he’s really been old enough to understand Christmas, or, at least understand getting presents. However, when Mom did ask him what happens on Christmas, the first thing he said was “It’s Jesus’s birthday”, before he started to talk about his presents.
I’ve had a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit this year. I’m really feeling being single and unemployed. And while I think there is no greater joy than searching out the perfect gift, and seen excitement on the recipients face when they open it, my unemployment checks are half of not enough, and I wasn’t able to get the things I wanted to give this year. When I get depressed, my thoughts get scattered, and I get frustrated easily, so making gifts was also out of the question–not to mention that it’s often times more expensive to make a gift than to buy one.
It was therefore, refreshing to talk to G this morning. To hear his child-like joy, his excitement over the gifts he got, and, more importantly, how hard it was to keep him on topic of his presents reminded me of what I posted a few days ago. Christmas is about children, family and sharing love with others.
And spoiling my nephews rotten.