So, Isabella (she’s all of 7) had her very first officially-sanctioned gymnastics meet last Friday. Now, I’m not one to brag, but the girl took fourth place in the floor exercise after only having started about 5 months ago. And, Oh… There were 46 other gymnasts.
Here’s the clip (click the link.)
Iz Floor 2014.04.25 smaller
Julianna (she’s 9) has engorged herself on Doritos: Daddy, I’m full. I can’t eat another one.
Isabella (7): Yes you can. Your stomach can get bigger. Because, babies.
Me: Well, that’s not exactly how it works.
Iz: Daddy, stop. Let me explain.
I am out of the conversation.
Iz: You see, the baby grows in your stomach, so everything you eat, the baby eats.
J: Even, Doritos?
Iz: Yes.
Me: Can I say something here? Because you are 7. Biology.
Iz: No, Daddy. No.
Continuing…
Iz: The baby keeps growing until your tummy is big and fat. Then it comes out. That’s why you have a belly-button.
J: Daddy, is this true?
Me: Um, well, no, but yeah, kinda.
Iz: See,
Me: Who wants ice cream?
Girls: Me!!!!
April is the time of year when most TV shows go on “hiatus.” Production on the current season ends until the Fall.
That’s happening to me too.
For those of you who have followed my shoulder-surgery saga, I’m going under the knife again tomorrow. The “fix” for my last surgery in September didn’t take, so I’m back to square one.
It’s Disappointing. Distressing. And Depressing.
I’ve already lost a half-year to physical therapy, sleepless nights, bottles of Vicodin, and, oh yeah, no employment. What a wasted six-months. (And, please… Don’t call it a vacation.)
Now, I get to do it all over again! Imagine my joy…
So, to you my dear Blogger friends. I’ll be signing off for a while, at least until my left wing can flap again.
’til then.
D.
Here’s an indication of how loud it has been at home while the girls have been on Spring Break: I just reflexively shushed a 737 as it flew over the house. And, the only reason I noticed that it was a plane was that it actually got quieter. Finally! Someone listened!
Ok, armchair psychoanalysts (and the couple of actual professionals that I know)… Explain this to me:
I had a bad nightmare last night. One of those sweaty, tossing and turning, talking in my sleep ones.
Turns out, I was the victim in a Scooby Doo episode. I was actually IN the episode! My first on-screen acting credit!
I had a friend who got mysteriously sucked into a fireplace. I couldn’t save him! I tried!
Then, a ghost banged on the door three times to let him in. When I refused, he came through the door anyway. The ghost floated right through the door! A “solid” door!
But, it was obviously just a guy in a sheet, flailing his arms. Still… This is an actual nightmare, and it scared the Shit out of me. The ghost was heading toward the gang. This guy in a sheet.
And, just as I was yelling a warning, “Velma! Velma!” Lynn grabbed my arm and woke me up.
Lynn: Honey! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare. You’re talking nonsense. What’s going on?!
Me: I was in a Scooby Doo episode! Crap! Velma! Daphne!
(breathing, breathing)
(pause)
Lynn: Um. Never heard that one before.
Say what you will about watching the worst cartoon of the ’70s. Because, it’s always a guy in a costume. Always. And, even my sleeping self knew that.
But, when you are actually IN it, it is absolutely terrifying. So, when Shaggy yells “Zoinks!” I now know what he means.
(And, no, wise-ass, I did not have any “Scooby Snacks” before going to bed.)
I wasn’t going to put this on the blog, but…
You know how sometimes you do the 250 mile round-trip to your dead brother’s house and the Trust people say “Here”s your last chance.” They are polite and all. Business-like, but polite.
But, still… You take what you can. And, you put his fancy dishes in your dishwasher even though you know they are clean and haven’t been used in years. Since a long ago Christmas. When you were there. With him.
Welcome to my day.
Generally speaking, I don’t care if you wear underwear. That’s usually between you and your dry cleaner.
But, if you do clothe yourself with the skivvies, I don’t want to see them.
My rule:
– If you are sporting a V-neck halter top with an H-back bra: Find another shirt.
– If you are buttoning your pants just North of your knees: Buy another size pants. Or, a longer shirt.
– If you wear red undies but your white sheer skirt is giving away your secret: Save it for the clubs in Hollywood.
– And, if that thong part from your butt makes an appearance…. Um. Ew.
Darren, Fashion Police.
I’m very proud of the musical playlist that I have put together so that my daughters can earn a respect for classic rock songs from pre-Gaga days. And, I encourage them to talk about these songs.
“Every Breath You Take” comes on.
Julianna: Daddy, what is this song about?
Me: Well, there’s a boy who really likes a girl, and he is basically stalking her.
I have said too much.
J: What’s stalking?
Me: Crap. Well, he wants to watch her all the time. And everything she does.
“Every move you make.
Every breath you take.
I’ll be watching you…”
J: That’s like really creepy
Isabella (she’s 7): Like in the bathroom?
Me: Um…
J: That’s super creepy.
Me: Yeah, well… Maybe we should skip to the next song. [click.]
Iz (again, she’s 7): Daddy, what is a “very kinky girl?”
Crap.
Iz: And, why would you not take her home to your mother?
Jesus.
I’m rethinking my whole philosophy that Rock and Roll should never be age-appropriate.
You know how sometimes you suffer through a two-hour tantrum with a seven-year-old. And, you go through every stage of the self-help Parenting Catalog of techniques:
– Caring Dad: Honey what is really bothering you? “AHHHHHHH!”
– Stern Dad: Put on your shoes. Now! “AHHHHHHH!”
– Ignoring Dad: “You’re ignoring me. Why doesn’t anyone LIKE me!!!!!?”
– Earlier Generation Dad: I’ll give you something to cry about. Where’s my belt?
– New Age Dad: Find your Chi, Sweetie. Find your Chi.
– Sports Dad: Oh, look. A beer and a game. And headphones. (muffled “AHHHHHHH!”)
– Married Dad: Your turn.
– Guilting Dad: When I was a kid, we were so poor that we couldn’t afford shoes. And, I bought you this house.
– Deafened Dad: Stop Screaming! “I am not SCREEEEAMMMIIINGGG!”
– Time-out Dad: From the corner “AHHHHHHH!” for an hour. Bullshit.
– In-control Dad: I am in the middle of a sentence. Do NOT interrupt me.
– Most Wanted Dad: Really, Officer? The neighbors are complaining? You see, I have a seven-year-old. She won’t put on her shoes.
– Diplomatic Dad: If you put on your shoes, then maybe we can talk about going to the park.
– Authority Dad: You just lost the park. “AHHHHHHH!”
– Equitable Dad: Look, I made breakfast. I brushed your hair. I did your laundry. I’m willing to go to the park. Just put your shoes on. “AHHHHHHH!”
– Reasonable Dad: If you put on your shoes, I will tie them for you.
– Birds and Bees Dad: You exist because of me. Put on your shoes.
– Blaming Dad: We’re not going to the park. And, it is all your fault.
– Too Literal Dad: Put your shoes on. “I already have one of them on! You said ‘shoes.’ That means more than one. I already have one on. I don’t have three feet. How many more shoes do I have to put on?”
– Absentee Dad: … “AHHHHHHH!”
– Step-Dad: “You’re not my father!”
– Child-Whipped Dad: Put your shoes on and there will be ice cream and unicorns and rainbows. I can make all of that happen.
– Mafia Dad: There are only two ways that this can go… And one does not end well for you.
– Hygiene Dad: You realize that you can’t go outside without shoes. Because of all the germs.
– Higher Authority Dad: Would your teacher let you come to school like that?
– Highest Authority Dad: Because Mommy said so. “AHHHHHHH!”
None of them works. It turns out you’re a shitty, shitty father.