Monster

One thing about having Monster is that now I realize how well trained Zeus is. Zeus spends every waking moment worrying about us. He pays attention to everything we do, he follows us and is aware of when I slip on my flip flops (that means I might be leaving) or when I put things in my purse (also leaving) and his ears are tuned to the slightest jingle of keys (ACK! LEAVING!) If we are leaving, his first and foremost goal is to be taken with us. He is terrified that this might not happen. And he is beside himself with excitement when we arrive back home.

Monster is completely unaware of any of the above. It catches him completely off guard when he is scooped up and locked into the bathroom with Zeus.

Zeus is worried if anyone raises their voice, and he runs and hides under the furniture. Monster doesn't care. Zeus takes his watch dog duties very seriously and barks at me when I come home. Monster runs and hides. (???) Zeus goes to bed every night in the same place and stays there until Jeremy gets up and lets him outside. Monster wakes up some time in the middle of the night to pee by my door so that I can't leave the room without stepping in it. Zeus comes when called. Monster might, if he's in the mood. Zeus stresses out a lot. Monster is happy and friendly and mostly occupies himself with chewing on things or people or Zeus.

Part of me has always wondered if I am somehow responsible for what a neurotic stress case Zeus is. That somehow the type of dog owner that I am, the way that I treat dogs, has created his various mental health issues. Time will tell, I suppose, if I turn Monster into a raving psychopath, but so far he seems more relaxed and happy than I ever remember Zeus being.

Please leave a message after the beep...

I'm a terrible message-leaver.

Really. The voice mail comes on and suddenly I'm fumbling around, forgetting what I called for and repeating what little information I am able to retrieve out of my suddenly sluggish mind. It think it has to do with the fact that I'm never just talking on the phone. I'm on the phone and doing laundry, or doing a project for school, or driving somewhere (yes, I'm one of those evil women in a minivan on a cell phone). When I have someone on the phone, I get to pause and let them talk. When I'm leaving messages, there's just silence. And me... rambling.

I left Zach a message one time. It was something like, "Hi... It's Rachael... Um... I have your thing [I forget what the thing was]... So... um... if you want to meet me... I'll be in class.. but it's over at 8. But it starts at five, so I can meet you before then... or after, but I'm not home right now.... I'm on the other side of town, and I have to go get Imogen from school at 3:30 and then go to the grocery store... So I don't know when I'll be home.. So call me and we'll figure out where to meet... Or I can drop it off later... If you'll be home... Ok, talk to you later, bye!"

Zach called me back, "You leave terrible voice mails!"

Introducing...

This is Monster! He's a ten week Shih Tzu, a gift from my mother and step-father. He's the sweetest thing ever!

Birthdays

Imogen's birthday is this Friday, which she is handling with the composure of a lunatic in a rubber room. We were discussing and salivating (me the former, her the latter) about it in the car today and of course Genevieve wanted in on the action. Their birthdays are exactly six months apart which means as soon as one has her birthday, we can begin the countdown to the other's. Genevieve commented (again) that she would get to turn six.

I told her no, she is my baby and my baby is not allowed to turn six. She must turn four and then the following year, she can turn five, then four, five, on and on. I assured her between her protests that we would still give her the same amount of gifts so I really don't see what the big deal is.

She said, "You'll see, Mommy. You'll see." And then she cackled theatrically as if this was some kind of movie. As I was pondering what it would be like to be in a reality TV show with someone like her, she turned to Imogen and broke the spell with, "Won't she see Imogen? When it's my birthday and I turn six?"

That's just bad dialog, I thought.

Circus

I took the girls to the circus today. They mostly had a good time. The show was a little long for them.

For Imogen, it was all about the tigers. Unfortunately, the tigers came first so the rest was a bit of let down. Imogen has an affinity for large cats. She's convinced that she does a spot-on lion impression and when she had to pick an animal for a project at school, she chose the lion.

The only frustrating thing was all the pauses in the show where they begged us to buy stuff. They literally had a guy in center ring holding up ridiculously priced toys while the guy on the PA system jabbered on about them. At the end of a long intermission, they spent a good ten minutes getting people to buy a coloring book full of ads (yes, I want to pay to be advertised to). Of course, my kids thought it was a great idea to buy all this stuff, which the circus people know and which is why they were doing this in the first place. Unfortunately for my kids, they have parents who are too willing to say no. Fortunately for the circus people, most other children don't seem to have this burden.

Otherwise, it was a fun show. We had elephants standing on their front legs, trapeze artists flying around, a bunch of fluffy dogs jumping over things, and a monkey driving a cart. All that you expect from a circus, plus hula girls dancing to Elvis. I'm glad we went.

Wait a minute...

Two days ago, I wore flip flops. People were barbecuing. Today, both Missouri State and my kids' school is canceled for snow.

The weather here is psychotic. Really.

Flowers

Every year (in lieu of grass) we get tons of purple flowers all over our front yard. This year we noticed these two yellow flowers out of nowhere.

Toy problems

Genevieve went to the dentist yesterday while Imogen was at school and a received a small gift from them in return for allowing them to stab needles in her mouth and drill holes into her teeth in a violent effort to fix them. Imogen doesn't deal well with this type of thing. We pick her up from school and she gets into the van and sees Genevieve with some insignificant trinket which becomes very significant during the rest of the afternoon while I listening to screaming "negotiations" concerning the balance between the virtues of sharing and the rights of ownership.

And I reflect once again that only children don't have this problem. Or children born eight years apart. My children are eighteen months apart, to the day. In some ways, this makes life easy. They like all the same toys. They borrow each other's clothes. Or, at least, Genevieve borrows Imogen's clothes. Which is always good for a laugh.

But on the other hand, they like all the same toys. Which means they argue over all the same toys. And while they might, on occasion, play nicely with each other, fights are frequent and passionate. It doesn't help that Genevieve doesn't believe in solving any problem calmly. At the first sign of a disagreement, her eyes fill up and her voice gets all squeaky.

Yesterday, in the car, while Imogen was eyeballing Genevieve's new toy, she said, "Can I have a turn with it?

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a yoyo," Imogen said.

"No, it's not," Genevieve said.

"Yes, it is," Imogen said.

"What is it then?" I asked.

"I don't know," Genevieve said.

I glanced over my shoulder. "It's a yoyo," I said. When we got home, I demonstrated how to use it, then carefully put the loop of the string over her finger and the yoyo in her hand. She let go and it clunked onto the floor. The string was too long. But she took it to school for show and tell today.

Over dramatic

If Imogen had her way, all the pictures that I took of her would be of her standing up straight, smiling right into the camera. I've had the hardest time convincing her that this is very boring. But this time she finally seemed to get it and tried to be dramatic and pouty for me.

Mix match day

Today was mix match day at the girls' school. They get to go in clothes that don't match.

Haircut

Before.

And after.

Genevieve's flower and excess of knowledge

Today, as Genevieve got into the van at pick up time from school, she handed me a flower she had made. She said, "My flower has a realistic stem." Only she pronounced it "wee-alistic". I examined the flower. Imagine my surprise to find that it was an exact replica of that type of flower (whose name escapes me at the moment) that has a stem that is exactly like a neon yellow pipe cleaner. I was suitably impressed.

Yesterday Genevieve told me that her teacher sang the "ears hang low" song. You know... "do your ears hang low, do they wobble too and fro, can you tie 'em in a knot, can you tie 'em in a bow..." etc. Anyway, she was upset because she already knew the song. Imogen had taught it to her. Now, Genevieve pretty much knows just about everything she knows because of Imogen. I've taught her nothing, mostly because by the time it's time for her to learn it, she's already picked it up.

Now, here she is saying that Imogen should avoid mentioning anything that Genevieve may learn in the future at school so that Genevieve can learn it from her teachers instead of her sister. This is so wildly misguided that I didn't even bother arguing about it.

I just said, "Even if I could get Imogen to stop telling you things... I wouldn't."

Renting Books

Libraries are a wonderful invention. However, there are some people who should never be given a library card.

I love books. I adore books. I read a lot, or I do when I'm not in school, and I miss reading while I am in school. I like to own books. So it is my preference to buy books. I like Barnes and Noble and I like Borders. I still haven't found a good used bookstore, but I haven't looked very hard. I keep saying that I'll go on a quest for one some weekend but I haven't gotten around to it. I'm busy.

There is, however, a library very close to my home. Unfortunately, I'm reeeally disorganized when it comes to library books. The girls and I will bring home a stack of books, some of which get read, the rest of which get lost. They get found again, and put in a neat stack to be returned. The stack get buried under laundry or backpacks or an avalanche of junk mail. Or the stack of books gets accidentally put on a bookshelf and mixed in with normal books. Pretty soon the library has sent me a bill for the books and really, I don't want to pay $150 for these books because if I wanted them I would order them from amazon.com or something. Plus, I don't think a lot of my kids' taste in books. Genevieve picks out a book because it has a cool looking tiger on the front and it's some idiotic story about cave people. I don't love books indiscriminately.

Really, I would rather go hang out at Barnes and Noble. I can buy each of the girls a book for around four or seven dollars. It's cheaper in the end than the late fees.

Motivated

After trying various remedies to get Imogen to stop biting her nails, I gave up. They're her fingers.

But then, on a whim, I said, "If you let all of your nails grow out, I'll give you five dollars." One thing Imogen is fairly motivated by, is money. Her nails are almost all grown out, except for one pinky nail that kept getting chewed on. I'm making her grow out all ten, because I figure... I'm paying for it, so I get to make the rules. Besides, the longer she resisting chewing, the more likely the habit will be broken. And if I can break her of chewing her nails till they bleed, it's five dollars well spent.

Inadequacies

In the car, I'm a captive audience. The girls know they can talk to me and I can't run away.

So today, Imogen was in hypochondriac mode trying to describe (at length) something that was hurting her. "It's not my lungs, it more like... by my heart... right here, but it's not my heart. It's my soul. Yeah, my soul hurts."

"What?" I said.

"My soul hurts," she repeated. "Right here."

I glanced in the rear view mirror to get an idea of where one's soul is located. I didn't know what to say. I can't tell her that the soul isn't real, nor can I tell her exactly what or where it is.

"Your soul is like... your spirit. It makes you alive..." I said. Or is it a heart that pumps blood and a brain firing off it's neurons or neutrons or whatever that makes you alive? An insect is alive. Does an insect have a soul? I continued to stumble through an explanation but thankfully she got distracted and I dropped it quickly, not wanting to have this conversation. How do you quantify the unquantifiable to a child who wants to quantify everything.

Recently Imogen asked how I knew something (that dentists turn into fire breathing dragons when you aren't in the room... but that's another story) and I told her I read it in the big instruction book that they give you when you have a baby.

"Some people don't have children," she pointed out.

"That's true," I said.

"So they don't know about that?" she asked.

"That's right," I said.

I wish I really did have an instruction book.

What?!

Genevieve wanted more ketchup for her french fries. I squirted out a packet and said, "That's the last one."

"What?!" she said in an outraged tone.

"That's the last ketchup packet," I repeated.

"I didn't mean the kind of 'what' where you have to say it again..." she said.

"Oh," I said.

Frankenstein

Genevieve has decided to start the year off right. The time she slipped on the floor and landed on a small ice chest that was sitting on the floor by the door. I'm not too clear on what happened because Imogen was the only witness. But the end result is five stitches and a scar that will hopefully be hidden by her eyebrow.

You know, I grew up without needing stitches. I really consider this frequency of stitching to be unreasonable. I asked a doctor if something was wrong with her balance and/or equilibrium in some way but he seemed to think that if she is capable of walking normally without falling down most of the time then she's just a klutz. Of course, a few days ago, she tripped over her own feet when standing still. She landed on her side with such a shocked expression that even she started laughing.

Anyway, I'm sure she'll need stitches again soon, but I just wish she would stop catching her falls with her face.

Not Fair

Parents of only children don't have to hear this on a near daily basis. But if you have more than one child, no matter what the situation is, one thing that it isn't is fair.

By "fair", children do not mean the same thing that I think of as fair. To me, being fair is to give each child what she deserves (whether reward or punishment) and to be more or less equally generous with those things that they do not deserve.

My children do not see it this way. To them, "fair" means "same". So if you have one child who was a perfect angel and one child who was a perfect monster and the angelic one gets to stay up and watch a movie and the nasty one has to go to bed early, this is what I would consider fair. But nooo, this is not fair, because it is not the same. Naturally, the one being sent to bed early will be the one protesting, but the one getting to stay up still views the situation as unfair. Make no mistake, she's just sitting there feeling smug and failing to see her reward as a result of her behavior.

Yesterday I was at Hobby Lobby with Genevieve who was bored to tears as I spent too much time shopping for art supplies. But she was cooperative and kept the complaining to a minimum so on the way out I bought her a silly putty. When we picked Imogen up from school, we got to hear that this was not fair.

Today I bought a small battery operated pencil sharpener for a drawing class. But when I got home I realized that it was too small and weak for the amount of sharpening I needed to do, so I gave it to Imogen when she got home from school. It was very inexpensive, comparable to, say, a silly putty. But Genevieve positively wailed in the car about unfair it was.

Irritated, I launched into this whole shrieky lecture about how if they want me to be totally fair I will punish them both when one of them does something wrong and if I ever have one of something I will keep it for myself, which they largely ignored except for Imogen to make some haughty comment about how she doesn't keep track of these things anymore. She had reformed a minute and a half before my lecture and felt it was impolite of me to hold misdeeds against her which were so far in the past as to be ancient history (that is, yesterday).

I've told them before: It is not my job to be fair. I don't have to be fair. I do not see it as a goal for me to be fair. But of course, when I say this, I mean that I don't want to be their kind of fair. My kind of fair is much better.

Leaves

Today was a beautiful day, that felt more like it belonged in September or October instead of January. Since I find fall infinity preferable to winter, this isn't a complaint. The girls went outside to play in t-shirts and I made them take hoodies with them that they ended up taking off because they were too warm. They laid down in the ditch in our front yard and covered each other with leaves in an elaborate plan to frighten their friend's mom who was coming to pick them up. This did not go as planned, but I got some good pictures out of it.

When a man and a woman love each other...

I recently told Genevieve how she came to be in our lives.

I said, "Back when we were living in Houston, and Imogen was a baby, we left her at home with a babysitter... and we went to the pet store. And there you were sitting in a little cage with little silver bars. And there was a little sign that said 'Monkey'. And Daddy said you were so very cute that he just had to bring you home. So we bought you right then and there."

Genevieve is fairly good natured about this. She just said, "I'm not a monkey!"