So the cavemen were all hanging back at the cave one day. The women had gone off to forage berries and the men were left in charge of the children. It wasn't unusual that the men were with the kids because back then the women had so much more work to do. Weaving intricate baskets, molding dinnerware from dust, grinding herbs for the medicine. Food, clothing, most of the shelter making. All women.
Nothing simple, like say, knocking an animal over the head and dragging it back to the cave. Which what the cave men did. Primarily.
So the cavechildren are running amok. Driving the cavemen nuts. And one caveman says/grunts to another. "Man, this kind of sucks."
And they all go on to grunt/agree that watching the children is the hardest of all of the work. But what to do? After much deliberation they came up with a plan. "We'll tell them THEY are better at it."
"But that's ridiculous!" One of the men shouted/grunted."The women are emotional. Sensitive. These kids will run all over them. We're MUCH better at it."
This man was immediately clubbed to death.
And that, my friends is how it all began.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Monday, December 5, 2011
So just a few days after we got home from the funeral-Thanksgiving combo Girlie got a fever. Took her in and the ped said she probably had a virus. Waited it out the full five days (no school, no leaving the house, five days of house arrest) and took her back in. One trip to the afterhours clinic and two x-rays later, we had a diagnosis of pneumonia.
But! On the bright side... waayy back in early November (because it feels like a year ago) I had gone to a wine sale and bought a case of wine to give as Christmas gifts to my neighbors. So now I am drinking the gift wine. See how good I'm doing? The world through wine colored glasses!
I know. Don't say it.
Posted by Mental Momma at 7:54 PM
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Yesterday a friend texted me to see if I needed anything. My father passed away several weeks ago and I've received many of these messages - emails, texts, phone calls. And really, it is hard to know what to say.
For the most part, we've got it covered. Hubs has been amazing with the kids and extra help on the homefront. Our neighbors have rallied around, even stocking the fridge when we returned from the funeral. Work has been lovely about giving me some time, even during the busiest time of year. Life is moving along and we're all settling in to this new reality without my Dad. But then what do I need?
I need everything to stop, even for a few minutes, the whole world still so that I can be quiet and think. I need to understand the incomprehensible. There must be a way to wrap my brain around this, but there just isn't time. Not in early December, just before the holidays. Not with a sick kid at home and preschooler to shuffle around. Not with piles of laundry and dinners to cook. Not with work to catch up on and more arrangements to be made for the burial in a few weeks. Not enough time in my lifetime, so the world spins on. Just as it should. And I need something impossible.
This week Hubs and I have been staying up late geeking out with the Lord of the Rings on dvd in several hour chunks. Last night was the second movie and my favorite part of the entire series - the epic battle of Helms Deep. Men, women, and children flee to a fortress in the mountain, sensing ambush, but moving forward anyway, going to the only place they can think of.
Like taking cover down in the basement in front of a movie when you've got a million other things to do. The illusion of safety, at least for the moment.
Posted by Mental Momma at 7:29 AM
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Recently, Little Guy walked in on me trimming my eyebrows with a tiny pair of scissors, or as I like to call it, getting the Italian out. He asked tons of questions and though I tried to explain about the scissors near the eyes and the need for a grown-up and that he should never ever do this himself and that he would probably never need to do it, I could see the wheels turning.
He ran off to play and I thought - well, that was a mistake. Add that to the list of mistakes I have made so often as a parent. Sometimes innocently enough, but still.
Then the other day I heard this report on NPR. The piece was not about parenting, it was about Syrian politics, though one could say that both are equally chaotic (or at least I might say it). This reference is not in the text, but during the broadcast when the reporter asked the interviewee about mistakes, he corrected him and called them lessons. This struck a chord with me.
So I'm not making mistakes, I am making lessons. I think, for now, I'll go with that. And hide those little scissors too.