21 posts tagged “guv”

Today, the longest day of the year, is the Guv's and my 11th wedding anniversary.  (It was also the longest day of the Guv's life since he was at a -- ahem -- "club" until 2am the day we were married at 10:30 am, but, anyway...)  We're celebrating from our Green Mountain home.  I would be celebrating more if I could escape the smell of rotten eggs (aka sulfur) coming from our water heater, which means either cold showers forever or a call to the plumber since our attempts to remedy the situation did little.  The heater needs to be bleached out and drained, and we need to remember to remove the magnesium anode before we leave next time, as magnesium provides the electrolytic conversion that makes the smell worse.  Or something like that... I almost failed chemistry, which is why I'm not a doctor right now.  Mmm-hmmm.

So, we're going out to dinner, to escape the smell and to marvel at all of these green, leafy trees.  That, and eleven years without killing each other... And this'll be the best year yet, I'm just feelin' it.  Happy anniversary, Guv -- onward and upward!

The packers come tomorrow, and I am dead on my feet.  If you're like me, any night before taking a vacation, you're up until 1 am packing... you've had that happen too, right?   Except tomorrow, we're not leaving for vacation -- we're leaving for good.  We've only been in this house for a little over four years, but there are a lifetime of memories, princess objects that Petunia (my budding paleontologist) no longer wants, and, still, many pencils left to sort through.  My curb already has ten black trash bags full of garbage, and there will be ten more by the end of the day, alongside some rebar, an old window, and various other things that we should've thrown out long ago -- except that this was supposed to be our last house.  Ha.

Last night, the Guv doubled over laughing hysterically.  He fell on the floor, and I couldn't tell if he was laughing, crying, having a heart attack or what.  (This is fairly normal behavior for the Guv, so I didn't call 911.)  When he came to, as I stood over him, arms crossed and waiting for him to shut up and do something already, he said: "I just finished cobbling together hundreds of thousands of dollars for a down payment on a house I've never seen.  A HOUSE I'VE NEVER SEEN." 

Whenever I am angry with him, like RIGHT NOW AS HE IS GOLFING WHILE I'M DOING EVERYTHING FOR THIS MOVE, someone needs to remind me of that comment by the Guv, as he lay on the floor, because I don't ever require proof that he loves me (after almost twenty years, I just know)... but the proof in this pudding is that he's buying us a ridiculously overpriced house that he's never even seen just because I told him it's the one.  So I'll stop my whining, and return to my packing, and try to tuck my frustration and sadness and imminent hyteria and, most of all, my fatigue away in some corner of my heart where I can't find it until we get to the Green Mountains on Friday, when I can finally have my nervous breakdown.

New Jersey, it's been a real pleasure, but I won't be back.  I'm moving to my last house, again.

Dash, to the Guv tonight, totally deadpan: "One time, when Wish Bear (Petunia) was gone, and Mama was gone, and you were gone, I drank a whole bottle of Diet Pepsi, and then I booted everywhere."

Wow, even Dash, age 3, has caught on that it cannot be good to mainline Diet Pepsi like the Guv does.  200+ ounces a day and counting...

Last time I posted a picture of the Guv on my blog, it linked to a video of him opening one of the many Christmas gifts from me that he returned -- the audiobook of the history of the CIA.  As he tore open the wrapping paper, the Guv whispered, "Please be the Led Zepp boxed set, please be the Led Zepp boxed set..." and it was not, and his disappointment was still so raw that he demanded that I take the post down -- but not before a commenter from Australia (hi, mates!) asked: "Wait, I don't get it... did he get the Led Zepp boxed set, or not?"  Apparently, I forgot to include the revelation that it was, in fact, an audiobook and not the Led Zepp boxed set on my video.  Now, my Aussie friend, you know the sad, harsh truth.  

After Christmas, the Guv also returned this audiobook (hey, he has a long commute!) and this offense to his City Boy sensibilities.  But he kept this comedy CD and this one too -- which just goes to show us all that he may be turning 36 today -- THIRTY-SIX, MY GOD HE'S ALMOST FORTY!  -- but, clearly, he's still the teenager I fell in love with eighteen-plus years ago, somewhere underneath that increasingly grey gubernatorial mop of hair.

Happy birthday to you, Governor, and don't worry -- for this occasion, I'm giving you a gift that you can't return: estate planning, since you have one foot in the grave and all. 

The Guv has returned from his annual golf vacation, rested and (finally) victorious, cradling the trophy for the year.  He has many funny stories to tell, and tonight, I will enjoy hearing them.  That's right, I will enjoy -- a word that hasn't been seen in my last few blog posts! 

There is peace in our kingdom, for daddy is home at long last.  Dash, who was beginning to take on a rather sickly appearance, decided to EAT!  in celebration of his father's triumphant return.  He munched on some of his favorite Starbucks vanilla scones, Burger King french toast sticks, cheese pizza, katsu chicken, rice... he ATE!  And, needless to say, he was pretty much instantly a different child -- an enjoyable, happy, fun little boy with whom I wanted to spend time.  We kicked rocks all the way around the cul-de-sac.  We posed dead worms.  We counted three deer, one bunny, one squirrel, one robin, one very angry bluejay and too many dandelions.  We laid on the grass and looked up at the cloudless blue sky.  This is how every day with him should be.  Instead, this is one of very few days we've had like this over the past school year.  I will remember this day next time he's refusing to eat, because I need to believe that he eventually will eat.  I also need to figure out how to convince him that eating makes him happier -- because think about it: if YOU didn't eat for four days straight, wouldn't you be miserable (and make everyone around you miserable) too?  Thank God that soon, after his ear tubes are placed and especially when we hit the Green Mountains for the summer, he will be pleasant like this more days than not.  I'll play with dead worms all he wants to if he never cries at me in anguish all day again.  Too bad he's too young to make that (gross) trade.

So tonight, the Guv put Dash to bed, I read Petunia a very scary section of the fourth Harry Potter book (the Guv should expect a middle-of-the-night visitor over that one), and I held some guinea pigs, who have been sorely neglected as I've struggled to keep my head above water over the last few days.   It's a nice way to end one of the roughest patches of my parenting career.  And end it, we have.  Guv, get the Goldschlager!  Time to celebrate.

On Thursday morning, the Guv left for his 8th annual boys' golf vacation, this year to Barton Creek in Texas.  This trip with the same four guys (two from NY -- one of whom flew in from Dubai one year -- and one from CA) is the highlight of his year, and I am truly happy for him that he has this special weekend.  This post is not meant to detract from that at all.  BUT...

Seriously, though, this is the end of day three with no daddy around, when daddy is ALWAYS around on the weekend (just ask Dash, who reminds me of that fact every five minutes), and I'm losing my freakin' mind.  Speaking of Dash, he has been nothing short of horrible.  True, he doesn't feel well, with his umpteenth ear infection.  But I don't feel bad enough for him to condone his biting his sister repeatedly.  He was never a biter until two weeks ago, and now he bites and, if that doesn't make the bitee yield to his will, hits.  If this was behavior that came with sickness, he'd have been doing it for a much longer time.  He's just being rotten because he can -- because people are always doing his bidding.  Case in point, we're having leftovers for dinner tonight, and Dash requested chicken.  (BTW, chicken was not a leftover.)  I made the chicken.  He didn't want the chicken; he wanted rice.  I made rice.  (BTW, rice also was not a leftover option.)  He didn't want the rice.  He wanted Dora Yogurt.  I had one left.  He didn't want Dora Yogurt.  I strapped him into his high chair -- thank you, inventor of the five-point harness! -- and informed him that he would not get up until the Dora Yogurt was gone.  His response?

"Mama, you're punished," said with some serious power behind it.

Oh yes, Dash, I am punished.  I am punished every day, because that is the nature of being a mother -- but I am also rewarded more than I am punished, and that is why I let you live on days like today.  Days when I'm thinking Thank God the au pair works tomorrow so that I can take Grace to church, because I need to get out of this house (!!!) and I need some church to remind me of what a sage friend once said: "When you ask God for patience, he doesn't give it to you; he gives you opportunities to learn it."  And man, am I getting schooled right now!

Usually, I could say "At least Petunia is behaving," but even she is under my skin today.  It started with a comment in the car about how she and Dash both want a cat (let me make this clear: I DO NOT LIKE CATS), and how it sucks that people in our family are allergic to cats... and how, when they're all dead, we can have cats!  Oh. My. God.  Is that my dear, sweet princess talking, or was that the horror film child with the spinning head?  I am quite sure that Petunia understands the error of her statement now, and I'm quite sure that I know the talk SHE'D BETTER be having with God in church tomorrow...

And the day is not done, nor is this long weekend.  Because of a business commitment tacked on to the end of this trip, the Guv is gone until Monday night.  Thank God he said "no" to going to California to look at a house that I really like on Tuesday, because I'd surely be over the edge by that time.

These children, I love them dearly, so much it hurts.  Sometimes that's a good hurt, and sometimes, that's a bad hurt, like today, when I am punished.  I've lost my temper, forced a kid to eat by strapping him down (note, though, that it did work), and made another feel pretty bad about her very nature after wishing people dead so that she could have a cat.  (Clearly that's not exactly how she meant it, but I promise you that she will never have a cat in her life now.)  I'm pretty far from a perfect mother, but the Guv tells me often that "the perfect is the enemy of the very good."  And I think I've done "very good," because I've given them hugs all day when, on a couple of occasions, a good spanking would've done more good.  But I don't believe in that, so hugs it is. 

Hopefully, on Monday eve, the Guv and I can polish a golf trophy together, and I can hear about his trip and think about how nice a four-day escape would be.  One of these years, maybe they'll find a way to golf near Canyon Ranch, take the mothers of their children, and call in the grandparent cavalry to wrangle kids for the weekend.  Then, everybody wins!  Do you think it's okay to pray for that in church tomorrow?

Over the weekend, the Guv took the kids to McDonald's.  We have a general rule that Petunia, our tall child who's built more like Emme than Kate Moss, is allowed to have seven of her brother's fries (because she's seven) but has to order apple slices as her side dish at McDonald's.  (She's okay with that; she actually likes to eat her fruits and veggies.)  Dash, on the other hand, who's built more like Kate Moss than Emme, woofs down fries and chicken nuggets whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Here's our conversation about their dinner with dad:

Mama: Where did you guys go?

Petunia, groaning: McDonald's.  We always go to McDonald's.

Mama: What did you have to eat?

Petunia: A hamburger and fries and fruit-punch mixed with Sprite.

Mama: Uhh, fries?  What happened to apple slices?

Petunia: Yeah, I don't know what's up with that.

***

And Mama doesn't know what's up with that either.  On the one hand, we've talked a lot with Petunia about healthy eating, and she does eat more healthfully than any kid that I know.  On the other hand, I really don't want her eating fries.  I actually don't want Dash eating fries either, but, totally seriously, he couldn't live without them since he only eats five things, and forms of potato are the first three.  Pizza is the fourth, and lollipops are the fifth.  I wonder, actually, what other people do in this situation where one kid has more of a need than another to eat more healthfully than the other.  We have made great efforts to carefully manage Petunia's diet and to carefully teach her good eating habits so that she remains at a healthy height/weight balance.   But fries?  Soda?  McDonald's at all? 

I think we're going to stick with Whole Foods for subsequent Daddy dinners.  There, Petunia loves to raid the salad bar, making a beautifully colored plate that usually holds broccoli, carrots, Skyr yogurt, melon, granola, half an egg and maybe a little cheese.  This, when she can have anything in the store.  Dash can munch on pizza, and she chows down on granola with a big smile on her pink-cheeked face.  Perhaps I fret over nothing.  Or perhaps Mickey D's needs to get with the program and offer more healthy choices geared toward little kids.

As The Prophet Kenny Rogers sings, "Every gambler knows/ that the secret to survival/ is knowing what to throw away/ and knowing what to keep."  Amen.

I remember when my friend and neighbor Adrienne moved a year and a half ago, she talked about picture frames -- how she felt that she may have bought a new one almost every time she went to Target, and how, when she was moving, she was getting rid of them, unused.  I could relate to that; I have a couple of boxes full myself.  I'm going to use them someday!  They have moved with me from Boston to New Haven to Princeton to Pennington, and, damn it, they'll move with me to California!  Or, NOT.

I sit here blogging tonight because I dare not lay down and close my eyes, else the panic will set in.  And anyone who knows me well will tell you that, of all the irritating things I do, I DO NOT PANIC.  (Okay, Guv, in all fairness, I did panic when that mouse ran across our floor once, but that was the only time!)  But now, I am on the verge of hyperventilating.  Why? 

My children's stuff is killing me.  There are, to the number, 83 unsharpened pencils in my kitchen drawer, most of which are imprinted with either Disney princesses or Ivy League colleges, illustrating how much Petunia's taste has changed since she started this, umm, collection.  These pencils were not all together at the start of my ongoing cleaning journey.  There are pencils everywhere in my house.  They were hiding in my closet, my bathroom, the never-empty laundry bin, and in many of Petunia's 65 purses.  There were 2 in my most private of drawers.  WTF?  There are about 50 Westin hotel mini writing tablets laying around that the Guv thought Petunia would enjoy.   Stickers?  EVERYWHERE.  And don't even get me started on the host of craft supplies.  Sequins?  In every color.  Ribbon?  Enough to lay a trail from here to California.  An the Matchbox cars?  Vroom, vroom, vroom.

The Guv and I, we are weak-willed people.  He would like to blame me for a lot of this mess, and I would like to blame him, when, in reality, it's both of our faults for not setting limits regarding what we buy for the kids and what we allow others to give them.  When Dash is screaming at Target, it's really easy to appease him with a 97-cent Matchbox car.  From now on, those will be replaced with chocolate bars: consumables that I don't have to move.  And the next time that the Guv's aunt gives Petunia SIX Barbie dolls for Christmas, I think someone needs to say, "NO!"  Or perhaps we should do what I wanted to do three years ago and write a nice letter saying "Please, ONE gift per child."  Rude?  Maybe.  But not as rude as adding six Barbies to an already-huge (like 40+) collection.

I will have a shot or three of Goldschlager, and I will calm down, and I will sleep, perchance to dream of pencils Sequoia trees.  I will know what to throw away, and I will know what to keep.  I just wish my back would stop hurting from the three hours of tennis I mistakenly thought myself up to playing last Thursday.  It is going to be very hard to reach the Matchbox cars and pencils under my bed with this kink in my back and the Guv too far away to do it for me.  Sigh.

This is the long weekend from hell.  Dash has been fighting his umpteenth ear infection, and then he contracted a flu or some type of gastroenteritis on top of that.  Yesterday morning, he had thrown up so much that he was totally still, totally quiet, and staring off into space.  I think he was actually happy when we got to the ER (conveniently located in the most God-awful part of Trenton), where he had five hours' worth of fluids drained into his little arm.  He didn't scream once, not even when they were trying desperately to take blood from him (he was too dry, so they had to wait).  When the nurse finally removed the IV, he didn't cry at all; he just looked at her and asked, "May I please have some apple juice now?"  By evening, he was totally and completely fine, just a bit quieter than normal because he beat up his esophagus with all of the booting. 

Needless to say, I've been fighting the same thing.  This is the Worst Case Scenario, as Dash sleeps right next to me, still.  So if he's sick and up all night, and I'm sick and need sleep, I get sicker from lack of sleep.  The only blessing of the long weekend is that the Guv and au pair Maria cobbled together a schedule so that everyone left me alone and in bed this morning.

But then there's tomorrow.  Tomorrow morning, our realtor and a team from his office are coming to examine our home with the end-goal of pricing it for sale.  For a while now, I've been spending a lot of my free time cleaning out clutter, bagging clothes to give away and throwing out fast-food toys behind the kids' backs.  My bedroom and closet are now in total order, as are the kids' rooms, the TV room (which should be a dining room), and the formal living room.  The Guv has done a masterful job of tidying the garage and basement storage area.  Maria has put the playroom in order.  Meanwhile, both of our office spaces are buried under odds and ends, and our den -- that the Guv swears is "fine" -- looks like a storage space.   No one has cleaned (or cleaned out) the laundry room since we moved in four years ago.  And the kitchen floor is only slightly less dirty than the guinea pigs' cage, and both need to be cleaned before 9:30 a.m.  And I have a fever of 102, should be throwing up but can't (I have this thing against throwing up) -- so instead, I'm sitting on the couch with Dash on my left knee, and my laptop on my right, watching The Incredibles (which is one of my very favorite movies, so that's a score). 

In a few days, this too shall pass, and I'll return to spending my time surfing for houses in California.  That's right: California!  We're moving to Silicon Valley, where it's always 74 and sunny.  If thoughts of that won't get me well, nothing will.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, my very favorite holiday.  Yes, I know about Christmas and Easter and that, as a Christian, those are probably supposed to be higher on my holiday scale.  But Christmas and Easter involve a lot of work for me, especially now that I'm a mom, whereas Valentine's Day is a day on which I can just celebrate the people I love.  And there's nothing more that I love -- except maybe smashing overheads in tennis -- than celebrating the people I love.  So here's my tribute to my brood:

To the Guv: I have loved you for 17 years, 9 months and 1 day, or thereabouts.  I am sure of very little in this life, especially right now, but the one thing that I have never and will never question is that I am with exactly the right person for me (and vice versa).  You are way too much fun, and I imagine you making me laugh just as much on a park bench when I'm 70 or even 90.  When it comes to you, that's what I appreciate the most: the smile you put on my face every single day.  I love you for that, and for much more.

To Petunia and Dash: Yes, I've lumped you two together, because you are two halves of a whole.  It is nice to know that I am finished having children, because you are a lot of work, but you've also made it easy by completing each other.  Where Petunia's sweetness ends, Dash's antics begin.  You make me tired, but, most days, you make me as tired from the stitches of laughter you induce as from the sheer work of raising you.  You both got that skill from your father: the skill of making me laugh when I'm trying to discipline you.  Oh well; you're good kids (well, Petunia anyway -- Dash, the jury's still out).  In any event, Petunia, you are growing so beautifully -- and too quickly, as we're only a couple of years away from sharing clothes, and that freaks me out.  But seriously, there's not a single thing that I'd change about you -- especially the way you put up with your brother.  I'm worried that you may have six kids because you have way too much patience.  As for Dash, you are nothing but all-boy-trouble, and I'm hoping that my strong heart will cast some sort of protective shield around you (like Violet in the Incredibles).  You'll need it, as you seem to have no fear.  I am trying to learn from that devil-may-care attitude, when it comes to snowboarding, moving away from New Jersey, and much else.  I'm not sure from whom you inherited this recklessness, but, if it works out, I'll take the credit.  I should get something after cleaning up all of your vomit blood messes.

As for the rest of my family and friends: You rock, non-stop.  I am lucky to have parents who still "go," siblings who still reach for the stars, an aunt brave enough to work in places like Iraq and Afghanistan, and friends who put up with my antics.  Tomorrow, on Valentine's Day, I'll be celebrating all of you, and I am looking forward to another great year of love and friendship.  Cheers!