July 13, 2006

I may have inhaled some Easy-Off, why do you ask?

Wade called me at lunchtime today and said, “Where should I go for lunch? Since my Quizno’s burned down, I’m really short on options.”

And I said, “BOO HOO I ate the crusts of Charlie’s pb&j.” No, I didn’t. I said, “WHOA, I’m really glad you called because I have chicken poaching and I forgot all about it until the phone rang!” Because that’s how I am when I’m cooking.

Wade called me again this afternoon to see if I wanted anything from the beer store grocery and said, “What’s for dinner?”

“We’re having tuna salad.”

“I thought we were having chicken salad.”

“We were. There was an incident. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Was this the same chicken you were cooking when I called before? And you said it was a good thing I called because you forgot about the chicken?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“What happened?”

“There was an INCIDENT. I don’t want to talk about it.”

(But I will tell you, Internet, that the Incident MAY have consisted of me leaving chicken poaching while I went outside to supervise the boys in the splash pool and read a book. And I MAY have let all the water boil off the chicken. And it MAY have burned to the bottom of the pan. Fortunately, I have Calphalon and the charred bits came RIGHT OFF the nonstick surface! Which is good because at first I thought the pot was a goner and THAT would have been hard to explain. Or at least necessary to explain, which is mostly the same thing. If, indeed, that really IS what happened.)

You know what’s sad? Wade and I have conversations like this ALL THE TIME when I cook. Tonight I’m cleaning our oven (right now! as I type! hooray for toxic chemicals that eat the goo RIGHT OFF the inside of the oven while I sit on the sofa and entertain you!) because a while back, I made chicken Parmesan, although by “made” I mean bought at SuperTarget and brought home to put in the oven. I followed the directions and it was delicious EXCEPT for one thing: the directions said to cook the breasts on a cookie sheet, which resulted in a greasy mess all over the bottom of our oven. And some smoke. Okay, LOTS of smoke.

And every time we have turned the oven on since then, there has been lots of smoke. The kids think it’s great, but it’s starting to freak Wade out. So today I bought some Easy Off and after the kids went to bed I hosed down the inside of the oven.

And now, I may be a LITTLE bit high from the fumes. But the inside of my oven door is TOTALLY clean. I’ll let you know about the rest of it. (As an aside, should I be embarassed that we’ve lived here for SIX YEARS and haven’t ever cleaned the oven?)

In other news, Charlie’s birthday party is Sunday night, at a local pizza joint. He decided today that instead of a bakery cake, he wanted a chocolate chip cake, which is easy to make but has to be baked in the OVEN (go figure). And I don’t think he really wants the Extra Smoky chocolate chip cake. So I’m cleaning the oven, which makes me feel like I am Doing Something to get ready for this party. Because otherwise, I have done nothing.

Things I really need to do to get ready include the cake, the gifts, and some sort of craft / party favor. Not much, right? And before you start giving me a hard time about having a craft at a four-year-old’s birthday party (because I know you’re rolling your eyes and saying it’s a PARTY for heaven’s sake don’t make those poor kids do a CRAFT) you should keep in mind that there is nothing at this pizza place but the pizza place–no inflatable jumpy castle or ball pit or video games. Just Henry and Charlie and six other kids in a room! With pizza! And maybe beer for the grown-ups! And NOTHING TO DO BUT GO BERSERK.

The kids, not the grown-ups. Although anything is possible.

So I need a good pirate-y craft, suitable for kids ages two to six, that will not make me want to gouge my eyes out with a plastic fork. Think about it and get back to me, okay? I’m going to stand in front of my oven and breathe deeply and see if anything comes to me. Or I may just enjoy the pretty colors and the floaty feeling. Duuude.

July 12, 2006

teach your children well (or you will end up where I am now)

When I was pregnant with Henry, I worried about all sorts of things, the most irrational of which was, by far, that the baby would be ugly. Yes! Really! One night I said to Wade, “What if the baby isn’t cute?” He looked at me like he was waiting for the punch line of a joke. “Seriously,” I said, “WHAT IF THE BABY ISN’T CUTE???”

I don’t know why he didn’t smack me; probably because I was pregnant. And ironically, at not quite five pounds, Henry wasn’t exactly “cute.” But he recovered! And was a very cute baby.

Anyway, I guess I was so worried about how cute my baby would be that I didn’t worry much about Really Important Things, like how I would get these kids to read. Because suddenly, it’s an issue.

We have always read to our sons. When Henry was a baby, I would put him in the bouncy seat or under the Gymini and read Jane Austen to him. I think, in his first year, we read all of Pride and Prejudice and most of Sense and Sensibility, (they’re the most baby-friendly of the Austen canon, you know). We skipped baby books altogether (because baby books are boring! who cares where baby’s toes are? I don’t need a book to play that game! boring! get to the good stuff! with plot! and characters! and beautiful language! THAT is what will make him love reading!) and went right to picture books like Henry Hikes to Fitchburg and Green Eggs and Ham.

I was a reader myself, and so I read all about how to raise my baby, particularly those articles about teaching children to love reading–you know, the ones that say Have Lots Of Books In Your House! and Let Your Children Catch You Reading! and my personal favorite, Read To Your Child For Thirty Minutes Each Day! When Henry was a toddler Wade and I would laugh ourselves silly every time we heard those PSAs, the ones that make it sound like a BIG STRUGGLE to find thirty minutes a day to read to your child. Because at our house, story time could last for, oh, TWO HOURS. No joking.

Henry loved to be read to, but he wouldn’t sit still and look at the book (probably because he COULDN’T SEE IT). He would walk around the room and play with toys and do his thing while we read, but if we stopped he would come over and tap the book or push it at us or hit us with it, depending on how much he thought he was being ignored. He would listen to the same book over and over and over (and over and over and over and . . . ). These weren’t sweet little Sandra Boynton books, oh no–these were big ass LOOOONG books like Katie and the Sunflowers, which is a book about IMPRESSIONIST PAINTERS for god’s sake. Eventually we skipped from picture books to juvenile novels, because those Beginning Reader books are so boring! All those simple words! and no good plot! Those won’t teach kids to love reading!

We patted ourselves on the back all the time because Henry loved books so much, and loved good books. Clearly, we were doing the right thing. Weren’t we?

Just this week it has dawned on us that Charlie doesn’t know any of his letters. (How do we know this? Because when we show him letters, he says, “Look at the numbers! What numbers are those?” or if we show him, say, a C, which he SHOULD know, he says, “It’s a . . . twelve?”) Wade was a little freaked out about this until I pointed out that Henry, who DID know all his letters at four, REFUSES to read. He CAN read, but will often cry–CRY!–if we ask him to read something.

Either way, I am the mother of two illiterate children.

So last night we made a Plan: we (okay, I) would take the boys to the bookstore and let them each pick out a book. Henry’s would need to be a Level 1 reader; Charlie’s would be an alphabet book. When Henry had read his ENTIRE book, out loud, to one of us, he could get another book; when he had read that one, he could get another, and so on. He could chose superhero books if he wanted, but HE would have to read them, not us.

Charlie just needs to learn his letters. That’s it! Just learn his letters. And then I will buy him a pony. Or something. (His plan is a little more vague, because he’s not the one I worry about.)

It sounded like a good plan! Until this afternoon when I told the boys about it and the crying started. At one point they were both saying, “We don’t want ANY NEW BOOKS! EVER!” And I was all, “OH NO, WE ARE GETTING NEW BOOKS. YOU WILL PICK OUT A NEW BOOK RIGHT NOW, BOTH OF YOU.”

What the hell???

By the time Wade came home, Henry had read 11 pages of Danny and the Dinosaur Go to Camp, and Charlie was totally in love with his Leap Frog alphabet book, and BOTH of them were all about learning to read. So I guess we’re through the worst part.

July 10, 2006

Day in the Life

Thanks to Sheryl for coordinating the Day in a Life posts; go here to read hers, and to see links to other participants.

Wade wakes me up at 5:00 am; he has been sleeping in the guest room, because I am puss-y and phlegmy and contagious. This morning, he is flying to St. Louis; he hasn’t packed. He showers and shaves and then goes in his closet and starts tearing the wrapping off of every shirt the laundry delivered this week. The sound of the paper crunching is deafening. He turns the bathroom light on and off at least ten times while he is getting his things together. Finally, he takes his bag and goes into the family room to pack. I doze off.

A little before 6:00 he comes in to say goodbye. I can’t open my left eye; it is glued shut with pinkeye goop. I doze again. At 6:45 I hear Charlie get up. I drag myself out of bed, wash the goop out of my eyes, and put in some drops. Charlie is sitting on the sofa, snuggling his blanket and sucking his thumb. When I come in, he says, “Hi, Mama!” and gets down and starts dancing around. I go to make coffee and remember that we’re out of French roast; I dig through the freezer, under the chicken nuggets and frozen peas and tea lights, and find a tiny package of pinon coffee left over from Wade’s Christmas stocking. I strip the sheets off my bed and start a load of laundry. I make Charlie some frozen French toast and cereal. While he eats, I make a To Do list:

call pediatrician
call pizza place
call pediatric neurologist
call pediatric dentist
call speech pathologist’s billing office
call Henry’s school

buy stamps
get groceries

I make a separate grocery list, which includes random things like YELLOW MUSTARD and OVEN CLEANER and ZIT CREAM. I do not write COFFEE on the list.

Henry sleeps until 7:30 (late for him). When he gets up, I put his medication in a little bowl of applesauce and make him one slice of French toast and one frozen waffle, at his request. While he eats, I load the dishwasher and listen to him tell me a long complicated story about how he KNOWS that Peter Pan is REAL. My mother calls; the phone is in the living room, in a chair, and I don’t hear it ring. Charlie does and picks it up and pushes the button to answer it, but doesn’t talk to my mom. Instead, he walks into the kitchen holding the phone in front of him and saying, “Mama, here’s the phone. It was ringing.” My mother is laughing. She is calling from Pittsburgh on her cell phone; she walks across the room and loses the connection and has to call me back. While we are talking, Henry finishes his breakfast; he and Charlie go into his room and start dancing to The Amazing Adventures of Kid Astro.

When I get off the phone, I talk the boys into watching Sesame Street while I shower, on the theory that TV is always safer than dancing, at least at my house. I shower and shave my legs and get dressed; it takes me fifteen minutes. The boys are asking for juice so I get them each a glass, which empties the container. I add ORANGE JUICE to the grocery list. I think about writing COFFEE on the list, but forget before I get back to the kitchen. I call the pediatrician’s office and convince them to phone in some eye drops for the boys, just in case one of them gets pinkeye. Cross call pediatrician off my To Do list.

When Sesame Street is over, Charlie decides that he wants to go outside, despite the fact that it is already almost unbearably hot and humid. He climbs up on the swing and asks me to give him a push; he stays there for the next half hour. Henry comes outside for five minutes, pokes a few things with a stick and then announces, “I’m all done being outside. I’ll be in my room.” He plays quietly in his room for the next half hour. I put the sheets in the dryer and sort laundry and add LAUNDRY DETERGENT to the grocery list.

At 9:30, Charlie comes inside and we get ready to run errands. The boys want a snack and I need coffee; Henry wants to go to Panera but Charlie wants to go to Starbucks. We finally decide to go to Starbucks today, because it is close to the shop that sells stamps, and Panera tomorrow, early, before we go to the pool. I am relieved; Panera has terrible coffee.

Charlie asks why we can’t go to the pool today; I explain that it is closed on Mondays. “It’s always closed when the daddies are at work,” he says. No, I tell him, only on Mondays. “Will it be open tomorrow?” he asks. Yes, I say. “And will Daddy be at work?” Yes, I say. “So tomorrow is a MAGICAL DAY!” he says happily. We have coffee and snack at Starbucks; the boys are polite and peaceful. Another customer compliments me on their nice manners. The store manager comes over to say that she saw the article about me in the Nichols Hills magazine.

We walk to the card store, to buy stamps. The boys refuse to stand still; they try to touch EVERYTHING. The store is not kid-friendly; there are breakables everywhere. I am trying to write a check and keep one hand on the kids. The clerk looks frightened.

We go to Super Target for groceries. I make Henry responsible for reminding me to get coffee, which is not on the list; I think about asking Charlie to remind me to buy tampons (also not on the list! but necessary!), but decide that’s not a good idea. I tell them that if they are peaceful while I am shopping, they can look at toys. I get everything on the list except OVEN CLEANER; Henry remembers the coffee; I remember the tampons. The boys sit nicely in the 18-wheeler cart, telling knock-knock jokes and laughing, while I try on flip flops. We look at toys.

When we come home, I put the groceries away while the boys go in Henry’s room to dance. I pick up the mail and check my e-mail. I check the phone messages; my dad has called to say that he has read this post and if I need help with the kids this week, he will come over. I call him back; say thank you and tell him that I’m feeling better. We visit.

I make the boys some lunch (peanut butter and honey for Henry and peanut butter and jelly for Charlie). While they are eating, I move the laundry from the washer to the dryer and start a new load of wash. I load the dishwasher. After lunch, Henry goes to play in his room while Charlie and I play pirates. We build a Captain’s Den out of pillows and blanket and practice the safe way to sword fight (“Hit the SWORD! Not the PERSON!”). Every so often, I tell Charlie that I will be! right! back! and I go check on Henry, who is playing peacefully on his bed. I start the dishwasher and fold some laundry.

At 1:45, I start a movie. Usually, we don’t watch television until AT LEAST 3:00, but I am tired; I didn’t sleep well last night and I’m sick, after all. Henry wants to watch Peter Pan, AGAIN. I can’t bear to sit through it; I start the movie and go in the kitchen to work. I write for a while, then I make phone calls: leave message for pediatric neurologist, asking about changing the dosage on Henry’s medication; leave message for pizza place manager, asking if we can have Charlie’s birthday party there on Sunday night; talk to speech pathologist’s billing office and determine that no, I do NOT owe them any more money; talk to pediatric dentist’s office manager, who says that they filed a claim with our insurance and never heard anything back; call insurance company’s automated menu and verify payment, including check numbers and the dates on which they were issued.

I make a cup of tea.

The manager of the pizza place calls me back to say that yes, we CAN have Charlie’s party there on Sunday. Now I have to call people and invite them. Call Leslie; leave a message. Call Wade’s parents; leave a message. Call Caroline, who is home, and remember to ask her, while we’re visiting, if she’s heard from Henry and Kyle’s school. She says, “Yes, we got a big packet last week. Didn’t you get one?” Swear. Tell her I’ll call her later.

I call the school in a panic; while the phone rings, I am taking big yoga breaths so that I don’t sound hysterical when someone answers. What if they don’t have a space for Henry? I sent the enrollment contract in! And the deposit! But what if something went wrong? It’s JULY! What will we DO??? I talk to the headmaster, who is very apologetic. He will send our packet out today.

Drink my tea.

The movie is over; the boys come into the kitchen and ask for a snack. I sit with them while they eat granola bars, then they go into the family room and start playing with pirates. I leave two more messages about Charlie’s party, and wonder how a kid with only three friends has 20 people coming to celebrate his birthday.

Suddenly, it’s 4:00, which is almost dinner time which is almost the end of the day. The boys sucker me into watching Dragon Tales and Clifford, because I forget that we’ve already watched Sesame Street AND a movie. We eat dinner and talk about where Daddy is and when he’s coming home. Molly calls to see how I’m feeling, and laughs when I tell her that the boys have already eaten. “Are we looking at a 6:00 bedtime?” she asks.

Henry wants a bath; he gets in the tub and Charlie brings a book in. We sit on the floor and read while Henry plays with boats. Henry gets out of the tub; Charlie gets in. I sit with my feet in the water and he sprays my legs with his squirt gun. The phone rings; I assume it’s Wade and run through the house with wet feet to answer it. It’s Leslie, who says, “Oh my gosh, I’m reading about you! In the magazine! I was looking through it and there you were! Oh my gosh!”

I decide to start my pedicure while Charlie soaks. I take the old polish off and put new base coat on. Wade calls; he is in Houston. I tell him about the school and the medical bills and Charlie’s birthday party. He will be home tomorrow afternoon. I miss him.

Charlie gets out of the tub; the phone rings again. This time it’s Wade’s mother, who is calling to ask how I feel. Her best friend has called her to tell her about the article; I have completely forgotten to tell her. “Ann said she spent all weekend reading your site!” she says. “She said we’re in it!” Of course, I tell her. I promise to send her the link; she says she will pick up extra copies of the magazine for me.

By now, it is 7:00. The boys each pick a story; Henry chooses Micawber and Charlie chooses Henry Builds a Cabin. We read in Henry’s bed and then I tuck them in and bring them water. I paint my toenails and sit down to write.

When I was growing up, my dad traveled a lot. My mom would do fun things with us; we would have breakfast food for dinner (waffles! at night!) and we took turns sleeping in the big bed with her. I am sure it must have been hard for her, to have my dad gone so much, but I remember it being like a big adventure. My dad would call every night and we would talk to him, and tell him about our day. My mom would go in the other room and talk to him, about whatever it was they talked about. Birthday parties and dentist bills and school, most likely.

In the past few months, Wade has begun to work longer and longer hours; he is doing more and more traveling. I know that he worries about what my day is like when he is gone, or when he is late getting home. And recently I’ve had some long, hard days. But today was a good day; we played a lot and got things done. As strange as it sounds, it was almost easier to get through the day knowing that no one was coming to relieve me at the end; it forced me to be calm and patient with the boys, and not to rush anything. But I will be glad when Wade gets home.

July 9, 2006

look how far I’ll go for a pun

I turned 38 this spring, and while I don’t really have any issues with getting older (or getting closer to 40) I do have moments when I think it might be nice to be 30 again. This weekend I had a chance to relive a little slice of My Life at 30–you’d think that would be fun, right?

No. Not THIS slice.

Last weekend, Henry very nicely gave me his cold, or what I thought was a cold (you know, we’re always saying YOU NEED TO SHARE and for once he did. Dammit). My throat hurt and I felt kind of run down, but not horrible. Wade kept saying, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It’s a COLD,” I told him. “It’s not like I have strep throat. Again.”

By Friday, I though I was going to die. My cold had turned into a sinus infection; my whole face hurt and the smallest noise made me wince. Yesterday I loaded up with Sudafed and Tylenol and drank about 20 gallons of water, and I felt a little better.

Which brings me to being 30.

In the spring of 1998, just weeks before I turned 30, I got a sinus infection. I felt like crap. And then, one Sunday morning, I woke up with my eyes sealed shut with goo. You know, PINKEYE GOO. THAT goo. I dragged Wade out of bed and said, “I need to go to Urgent Care and you have to take me. RIGHT NOW.” So he did, and five hours later (yes! five hours!) I had drugs. I also had to throw away my contacts and some perfectly good brand-new mascara. Because of the pinkeye.

Last night, when I was coughing so much I could hardly speak, Wade said, “I’m worried about you. You’re not getting any better.”

“I’m fine,” I told him. “It’s just a cold. It’s not strep or anything.”

“If you’re sure,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

This morning, when I woke up with the gooey eyes, I knew I needed to go to Urgent Care. I made the boys breakfast and drank some coffee, and when Wade got up (nearly AN HOUR after the kids and I) I said, “Good morning! I have pinkeye. I’m going to take a shower and go to Urgent Care.”

He said, “Uuunnnnhhhhh . . . ” (No, actually he said, “Why didn’t you wake me up?” But really, what was the point? The Urgent Care place didn’t open until 8:00 and the kids were up at 6:30 and really, I didn’t want any company. I just wanted some drugs.)

So blah blah blah, I go to Urgent Care (in and out in 30 minutes! Whoo hoo!) and the doctor does his whole schtick and looks in my throat and says, “Whoa! You’ve got some impressive puss pockets on that left tonsil! Have you seen these?”

Um, dude? That’s the BACK OF MY THROAT you’re looking at. No I haven’t SEEN it. Sheesh.

The deal is this: I most certainly do have a sinus infection and conjunctivitis, and I most likely have a strep infection as well. AGAIN. He didn’t swab me because the antibiotic for the sinus infection will kill the strep, but in two weeks, I need to call my primary care physician (note to self: get primary care physician) and have a strep culture; when I take the boys for their well checks next week, THEY need to be cultured, and when Wade gets a minute, HE needs to be cultured.

On the upside, I guess we’ll finally be getting some culture around here.

July 8, 2006

is it wrong to admit that we laughed at them?

Henry and Charlie are in Henry’s room, dancing to The Amazing Adventures of Kid Astro.

Henry: Ow!

(music plays)

Charlie: Ooooowwww!

Henry: Great. Now we’re BOTH hurt.

Last night, Henry leapt off the sofa and smashed into the corner of the coffee table. This morning, he came in the family room and Wade said, “How’s your knee this morning, buddy?”

And Henry said, “Fine, Daddy, but I just hit my HEAD in the hallway!”

Not ten minutes ago, Charlie was running to get his DVD off the kitchen table ; he stops running and starts hopping up and down, holding his foot. “Ow ow ow!”

“Did you step on a pirate, buddy?” (There are Playmobil pirates all over our floor. ALL OVER.)

“No!” he said. “I stepped on RIGHT HERE!” and he points at an empty patch of hardwood.

July 6, 2006

one way or another, I will pay for this

Over the weekend, I scored a free pair of pants at the Gap. Okay, not EXACTLY free–I had bought a few other things recently and when I went to pay for the pants, I handed over the other receipts to see if I could get any sort of price adjustment on anything.

The guy rang up the pants and GAVE ME BACK two dollars and some change. Voila! Free pants!

It’s a good thing that the pants were (essentially) free, because they’re not exactly practical. First of all, they’re WHITE, which is totally hip right now, but still–WHITE. With two small children. Then, they’re long, which means that I will have to wear heels with them, and while I have a really lovely pair of lime-green beaded sandals that look totally fantastic with the pants, I don’t know that I will have all that many places to GO in them.

But did I mention that they make my legs look REALLY long? And my ass look small-ish? And that they were FREE?

Free seems like such a good thing, but the moral of the pants is this: free isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes, free stuff comes with hidden costs (cue forshadowy music).

Yesterday, when Leslie and I were trying to schedule a playdate for the boys (hers and mine), she reminded me that a few days a week, the theater at Penn Square Mall shows free kids movies in the summer. “This week it’s Curious George,” she said. She’s good at knowing things like that.

My children have only ever been to one movie in the theater. And yes, I know that kids MUCH YOUNGER than mine go to the movies ALL THE TIME, but Henry tends to spend a lot of time jumping up and down or sitting with his feet over the back of the sofa while he watches movies. Anything that even remotely seems frightening to him will send him running from the room, yelling, “I DON’T LIKE THIS!” And the real trick is that it’s often hard to tell what will strike him as frightening. (Charlie, by contrast, can watch anything; when we were in our Harry Potter phase, he would ASK to see the parts where Harry fights Lord Voldemort, and a week or so ago, he told Wade, “When I turn four, I want to watch The Lord of the Rings.” He could probably watch Psycho and sleep soundly afterwards.)

Eventually, though, we knew we had to bite the bullet and just GO TO THE MOVIES. One Sunday last spring, all four of us went to see Pooh’s Heffalump Movie. We went to one of these MegaPlex theaters with the “stadium seating,” which Wade loves; there were only two other people (a mom and a child about Charlie’s age) in the ENTIRE theater. Henry was totally enraptured and stared at the screen for the entire 68 minutes. Charlie, on the other hand, lost interest after the credits and spent the rest of the time cleaning the seats and handrails with antibacterial wipes from my bag.

It was, all in all, a good movie experience.

So yesterday, when Leslie reminded me about the free summer movies, I though, what the hell! The last time was really fun! And I told the boys I would take them to see Curious George. Hooray!

I hope my pants work out better than the movie did.

The movie started at 12:30; I didn’t want to get there TOO early, because then I’m stuck with the kids in the theater for however long it takes until the movie starts, so I had carefully timed when we needed to leave the house to be there at just the right time (shut up, I’m like that). Of course, we didn’t ACTUALLY get to the mall until 12:31, mostly because at the LAST POSSIBLE SECOND Henry decided he needed to pee again, but also possibly because I may have missed the exit from the Parkway (you know, the SAME exit I took every single day this past year to get to Henry’s school–THAT exit). By the time we got to the theater, Jack Johnson was singing and Curious George was painting the forest and there wasn’t an empty seat in the ENTIRE place.

The whole way to the mall, I had been kicking myself for not bringing a sweater, because you know movie theaters are ALWAYS cold, especially in the summer, so you can imagine my relief when we stepped into THIS theater to discover that the air conditioning was turned OFF and it was 146 degrees inside! And smelled like sweaty kids! Did I mention that there were NO EMPTY SEATS?

At least it was free.

So what do you do when you’ve hauled ass to the movies with two small children and there aren’t any seats? Why, you sit on the FLOOR, of course! Directly next to the TRASH CAN, because that’s the only spot left! And BOTH kids sit on your lap, because that’s the ONLY way they can see the movie!

The first thing I did when we got home was burn the pants I was wearing, which was unfortunate because they were cute and I liked them. But I SAT ON A MOVIE THEATER FLOOR in them, which is disgusting because the floor is ALWAYS sticky with god only knows what kind of something, and there wasn’t enough detergent and hot water in the WORLD to save those pants. I will miss them, I really will, but I don’t think I had any other choice.

Anyway, there I am, on the floor in this fucking oven of a movie theater, wondering how long it will be until my legs fall asleep and if the boys will be able to carry me to the car because I will certainly never walk again after this, and and Henry says, “Oh no! I don’t like this!”

I think we were two minutes into the movie.

I give him a hug and talk him down (”It’s okay! George and the man in the yellow hat are going to save the museum! Don’t worry!”) and convince him to sit NEXT to me, which seems to lessen my chances of being paralyzed. And the movie goes on and we have more “Oh no! OH NO! I don’t LIKE this!” and I’m whispering cheerfully, “It will all be okay! Nothing bad will happen to George! Please use your VERY QUIET voice! Okay?” He holds my hand, which was very sweet except that he was nervous and so he kept sticking his fingernail into my skin, or better yet, UNDER MY NAILS, which really REALLY hurt. About now, I realize that I can’t feel my feet any more. Curious George is getting into all sorts of trouble–Ivan the doorman thinks he smells a pet! Oh no!–and I’m wondering what on earth made me think this was a good idea and why there isn’t any booze at the free movie.

aside Have I mentioned that I hate Curious George? Yes, I do! I hate him! I hate the whole premise of the books: irresponsible adult leaves George alone and George is curious and winds up destroying an ice cream store or part of a hospital (for example). And EVERY SINGE TIME he gets off the hook! Because he’s CURIOUS!

Sometimes I just want to smack that little monkey. /aside

When George lets himself into Mrs. Plushbottom’s apartment and starts painting, Henry starts to squirm and smash his face against me, which smashes me into the trash can. When George dumps paint into her bubble bath, Henry has had it. “I DON’T LIKE THIS! IT’S SCARY! I WANT TO LEAVE! I DON’T WANT TO WATCH THIS!”

Guess what we did? As we left the theater, I looked at my watch; it was 12:55. We putzed around the mall for a little while and then went to put gas in my car (and I drove RIGHT PAST the station! the same one I’ve been going to for SIX YEARS! and Henry had to say, “Mom, weren’t we going to the gas station?” why yes we were!) and then we came home and I put on my new white pants and made myself a margarita. I don’t think I had any other choice.

It’s a damn good thing the movie was free. Sort of.