When birds do sing, hey ding a ding a ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring!
Ah Spring! When all the world is mudluscious and puddle-wonderful and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee, and we poets throw convention to the april winds and begin
here and there
across the page letting all the capitals
fall in heaps
fall in heaps
like so many
So beside Spring, what else has been going on?
Well, Ms. Chicky of Chicky Chicky Baby awarded my Pennsylvania is for Pothole Lover's post a ROFL Award for February.
And I am honored. Truly.
It's nice to know that I'm spreading a little ha-ha around, making someone's day a bit lighter and brighter, perhaps aiding in the much needed nose-irrigation via caffeinated beverages that we all need now and again to remember just why it is we climbed out of the primordial soup in the first place, i.e. liquid in the nose is uncomfortable.
I myself have been lax in awarding my own ROFL Award - well, let's be honest...I've been lax in just about everything - but if I were to award another, then gosh dang, it would have to AGAIN go to my sister.
I know, I know.
I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking, "You know, that new Justin Timberlake song ain't half bad. But it makes me feel so sad for Britney because you know he was just thinking about her when he wrote it - I mean, if you really listen to the words and all, there's a message there within the lyrics that could so apply to what was going on with Britney and K-Fed (What goes around comes around. Get it?) "
You were wondering what that weird twangy instrument in the beginning of the song was? Electric mandolin is my guess.
Oh...you think the song is about Justin and Cameron Diaz.
My sister makes me laugh out loud. "Cats, pan, and tuna." Yonko, please! I know a lot of folks say, "Oh my gosh, that was so funny I wet myself." But really...I'm soaking in it. Do yourself a favor: if you have to read one story this year about a madwoman trying to trap a passel of feral cats, this one is it.
Oh. And the beginning part of the post is good, too.
Although, if you don't want to think about frogs mating, then beware.
Although, really, too late.
In other news....
I often write joshingly about my parenting skills (and/or lack thereof). And how instead of a college savings account, my husband and I are just siphoning money into a therapy fund for our kids along with, possibly, directing other monies to a somewhat larger fund to pay for my face transplant and identity change once our children's tell-all book comes out. It's not like I keep wire hangers or anything. And I occasionally allow sugared breakfast cereal, so it’s not as if I’m an overbearing “No high fructose corn syrup” tyrant. In fact, I rather like the opiate effects a little Captain Crunch can have on antsy-pantsy children. Although coming down off that high can be a bitch.
But, when you are an English major writer type, and your children’s father is also an English major writer type, you figure that sooner or later these children are going to take pen to paper and begin writing their own poetry and fictions.
And then later, later on, you figure they’ll be writing their tell-all non-fictions. (“Later, later on”, of course, meaning sometime off in the waaaaaaayyy waaaaaaay distant future when your kids are ornery teenagers and walk around the house slouching beneath their hairstyles and saying things like “Huh?” and “Muh”, and you realize that it doesn’t matter that you don’t wear those un-hip mom jeans and that you do have Death Cab for Hot Arcade Chip’s latest single on your iPod - or whatever…your iChip Cochlear Implant - it doesn't matter, you’ll just never be cool again.) That during this distant “later, later on“, you figure your children will be jotting down for all posterity their recollections, impressions, and sugar-addled critiques of your parenting style and personality flaws.
But you gotta also figure their rants and more rantings won’t be scribbled down in some cutesy Happy Bunny diary with an aluminum lock and key and then stuffed between the mattress and box spring. And it won’t be some bittersweet Thursday afternoon after they’ve left for college when you’re airing out the bedding that you happen upon the diary, and so you take a moment to sit upon the pink chenille bedspread to leaf through pages filled with exclamation points and underlined opining of just how!!! wrong!!!! you!!!!! were!!!!!! for yelling like a madwoman at them this time, and how embarrassing! it was when you sang!! karaoke Justin Timberlake!!! at the school May Fair!!!! that time. No, it won’t be “Thank goodness at least the whole world doesn’t know what a crazy lady mother I am! I'll just quietly don my Lee Riders and pretend to finish sweeping, and if my kids turn out to be cocktail waitresses or insurgents or poets, I can blame their father.”
Oh no. It won’t be like that at all.
More likely, you gotta assume that whatever your kids will have to say about you will be typed out and immediately published on their blog (or whatever…their iLaser Mega Graffiti System) for everyone in the global neighborhood PTO to read.
And even though you openly and honestly admit to your kids that you’re not perfect and that you make mistakes and sorry for catching your chin in the snowsuit zipper all those times, the illusion that they will forever hail you as Queen Princess Mommy Goddess will be broken sooner or later. Perhaps when they are pre-teens. Perhaps when they are tweens (whichever age that is, but it sounds obnoxious and expensive.)
Or maybe when they are eight years old.
Maybe, they will be entering an animal story writing contest, and they will ask you to read their story, and you will read this:
“The cat was hungry! Don’t you care about hungry animals?” I shouted.
“Prima, I do care about hungry animals, but this one could have been sick! It could have given you rabies!” Mom yelled.
“Mom, it didn’t look sick!” I shouted.
Mom thought for a while. “Okay,” she sighed, “I’ll let you feed it, but if you get rabies, it’s not my fault.”
So, to recap (and with apologies to my writing group who already heard this story, but I felt the need to share it with the class.)
1) My oldest daughter and I communicate mostly through yelling and shouting.
2) I have a thing about rabies (but with good reason, if you ask me), and
3) I’d let my child get rabies to prove a point.
Well, pluck my brow and call me Ms. Crawford.
Of course, I could be this parent. His Hemingway is only six years old. The little scamp.
Anyway, the entire story was very good and well-written. And I did let her keep the cat in the end. (Go me!) And no, even though this story was (supposedly) fiction, I have never, ever, ever, EVAH said anything remotely like “…if you get rabies, it’s not my fault.” On the contrary. More likely, I said something like, “Honey, if you ever go near a rabid cat I will weep every day for a month for not having been a more attentive mommy and for ever allowing you out of the house in the first place without a Kevlar jumpsuit.”
Just kidding. I wouldn’t say that either.
I do suppose that I was due a little karmic comeuppance for using my kids as material for my own writing. (Even though I make them sound mostly adorable. The little scamps.)
I suppose that I already do write about my own madcap adventures and flounderings in parenting and publish them for all to see, so really, what’s the big deal if my daughter jumps on the bandwagon? (Copycat.)
I suppose I do yell more than I should (though I blame our house’s bad acoustics and reverberating hardwood floors. I mean, c’mon, I'm mostly just projecting. The sound goes everywhere.)
I suppose I could chill out with the rabies phobia, especially since we’re all vaccinated against rabies anyway. Eh-hem.
(I was thinking of renaming this blog “Anyway….”)
That’s all that’s going on here.
The loverly Ms. Slouching Mom tagged me a with a meme that I’ll come back to in a bit. I’m up to my eyeballs in Girl Scout cookie deliveries right now. And diapers. And springtime.
That hey ding a ding time.
A ding a ding.