Our cat is being neutered next week.
This evening I attempted to gently explain to five year old Darius what "neuter" means using words he already knows. I said, "Just like you, Freddy has a penis and balls. We'll take him to the doctor and he will perform a surgery that removes Freddy's balls. That way, he won't be able to make baby kitties if he meets a girl cat."
I was trying to tread carefully here, as he is not my child and it is not my place to have his first birds and bees talk with him.
"Why doesn't he want to make baby kitties?" he asked.
"Well, I don't know if he wants to or not, but we don't want him to. That's why we are taking him to the doctor," I answered.
He looked thoughtfully at Freddy's rear end. "His balls let him make baby kitties?"
"Yes," I explained. "Just like humans can make baby people, cats can make baby kitties."
His eyes widened. He reached down to his Batman costume pants, lifted up his own testicles, and said, "You mean there's tiny people in here?"
Showing posts with label Little dude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Little dude. Show all posts
December 31, 2011
May 8, 2011
How socks have to be like
This morning when he emerged from getting dressed, I giggled at how Darius was wearing his socks rolled up in this fine fashion:
He glanced down and explained: "I saw this movie once. When I was little. Um, and a kid, um, had his socks like that. Rolled up. And, um, and that's how socks have to be like."
He glanced down and explained: "I saw this movie once. When I was little. Um, and a kid, um, had his socks like that. Rolled up. And, um, and that's how socks have to be like."
On Mothers' Day
And so it is Mothers' Day.
A couple of sweet and thoughtful friends have written in the last couple of days to check on me and to pre-emptively say they knew this day would be really hard for me. Strangely, it is no worse than any other. Maybe it's because I have never really gotten too excited about this "holiday." Maybe it's because I was still so new to the idea of thinking of myself as a mother. I don't know.
Today I will wake up with Ivan and Darius.
We will wipe away the crust from our eyes and brush our teeth.
We will drink coffee and milk, respectively, and I will make sure Darius ingests some sort of fruit along with his breakfast cereal.
Today we will admire yesterday's sidewalk chalk drawings (A volcano! That is erupting! Onto the playground! Next to the rainbow!) and re-visit the lopsided hopscotch board I created for surprisingly endless hours of entertainment on the part of Darius.
We will toast bread and eat the egg salad I prepared last night, and I will attempt to convince Darius that eggs are neither yucky nor smelly (even though I kind of think they are myself).
We will paint pictures and pick flowers, and we will send him home with gifts for his own mother for Mothers' Day.
Today I will open my bedroom drawer and check on my child's ashes in the terrible little white plastic box the funeral home returned her in.
And I will go on.
A couple of sweet and thoughtful friends have written in the last couple of days to check on me and to pre-emptively say they knew this day would be really hard for me. Strangely, it is no worse than any other. Maybe it's because I have never really gotten too excited about this "holiday." Maybe it's because I was still so new to the idea of thinking of myself as a mother. I don't know.
Today I will wake up with Ivan and Darius.
We will wipe away the crust from our eyes and brush our teeth.
We will drink coffee and milk, respectively, and I will make sure Darius ingests some sort of fruit along with his breakfast cereal.
Today we will admire yesterday's sidewalk chalk drawings (A volcano! That is erupting! Onto the playground! Next to the rainbow!) and re-visit the lopsided hopscotch board I created for surprisingly endless hours of entertainment on the part of Darius.
We will toast bread and eat the egg salad I prepared last night, and I will attempt to convince Darius that eggs are neither yucky nor smelly (even though I kind of think they are myself).
We will paint pictures and pick flowers, and we will send him home with gifts for his own mother for Mothers' Day.
Today I will open my bedroom drawer and check on my child's ashes in the terrible little white plastic box the funeral home returned her in.
And I will go on.
April 19, 2011
An open letter to Glad, maker of 13 gallon tall draw-string kitchen trash bags
Dear Glad,
I am writing to express my enjoyment of this product.
Lately my partner has been into making his own falafel, and thus we have been going through an increased amount of cooking oil. I confess that am I rather ignorant of what to do with this oil once we are finished, and I feel certain there is probably something more ecologically responsible I should be doing other than dumping it into the trash once it has cooled. I was just trying to avoid pouring it down the sink and clogging up the works.
After this week's falafel endeavors, I sighed with dread when I imagined the mess that would quite possibly be awaiting me when I pulled the oil-filled trash bag out of the plastic can. I was thrilled to be wrong. I was even more pleased after the trash bag was drug across the living room floor and thoroughly stepped on by my step-son and there was still not a leak in sight.
Not too many things are going right at present, but it is nice to know I can count on my trash bags during these trying times. I have been purchasing this brand for years; I will continue to do so in the future with pleasure.
Sincerely,
Amie
A satisfied customer in San Francisco
I am writing to express my enjoyment of this product.
Lately my partner has been into making his own falafel, and thus we have been going through an increased amount of cooking oil. I confess that am I rather ignorant of what to do with this oil once we are finished, and I feel certain there is probably something more ecologically responsible I should be doing other than dumping it into the trash once it has cooled. I was just trying to avoid pouring it down the sink and clogging up the works.
After this week's falafel endeavors, I sighed with dread when I imagined the mess that would quite possibly be awaiting me when I pulled the oil-filled trash bag out of the plastic can. I was thrilled to be wrong. I was even more pleased after the trash bag was drug across the living room floor and thoroughly stepped on by my step-son and there was still not a leak in sight.
Not too many things are going right at present, but it is nice to know I can count on my trash bags during these trying times. I have been purchasing this brand for years; I will continue to do so in the future with pleasure.
Sincerely,
Amie
A satisfied customer in San Francisco
April 18, 2011
Advice
This morning when being teased, 5 year old Darius told his father, "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all!"
February 27, 2011
The magic beam
I guess I'm pretty naive.
Somehow I assumed that once you got pregnant, you would KNOW. Like there would be this magical beam that would radiate from within you, indicating the life growing inside.
There's no beam.
I am in my third month of pregnancy now, and I still don't really FEEL pregnant. I mean, there are a couple of signs other than the obvious pregnancy tests taken at home and at the doctor. I am moody and irritable and emotional and driving Ivan crazy. I'm tired and my formerly slim feet and long toes look like pudgy sausages. I have to eat every four hours.
But that's about it. I haven't had any morning sickness, and that strangely seems to disappoint people who love to ask, "Are you puking your guts up?." I can't say that I am sorry that I have missed this rite-of-passage thus far.
Tonight, four year-old Darius and I were talking about the baby before he went to bed. A commercial came on where kids were talking about "Where do babies come from?" and I cringed. His father was in the other room, and I didn't want to be the one to make decisions about what he does or does not know about where babies come from. Of course, he immediately turned to me and asked the inevitable question after the commercial went off.
"They come out of their mamas' tummies," I said simply, praying he would leave it at that.
"Are you a mother?" he asked.
"Not yet," I replied. "But I will be soon."
He thought for a second and said, "But you have a baby in your tummy, so you ARE a mother."
I smiled. I guess I just hadn't thought about it that way.
Somehow I assumed that once you got pregnant, you would KNOW. Like there would be this magical beam that would radiate from within you, indicating the life growing inside.
There's no beam.
I am in my third month of pregnancy now, and I still don't really FEEL pregnant. I mean, there are a couple of signs other than the obvious pregnancy tests taken at home and at the doctor. I am moody and irritable and emotional and driving Ivan crazy. I'm tired and my formerly slim feet and long toes look like pudgy sausages. I have to eat every four hours.
But that's about it. I haven't had any morning sickness, and that strangely seems to disappoint people who love to ask, "Are you puking your guts up?." I can't say that I am sorry that I have missed this rite-of-passage thus far.
Tonight, four year-old Darius and I were talking about the baby before he went to bed. A commercial came on where kids were talking about "Where do babies come from?" and I cringed. His father was in the other room, and I didn't want to be the one to make decisions about what he does or does not know about where babies come from. Of course, he immediately turned to me and asked the inevitable question after the commercial went off.
"They come out of their mamas' tummies," I said simply, praying he would leave it at that.
"Are you a mother?" he asked.
"Not yet," I replied. "But I will be soon."
He thought for a second and said, "But you have a baby in your tummy, so you ARE a mother."
I smiled. I guess I just hadn't thought about it that way.
February 21, 2011
Jan is going to die.
During my summer jobs in college, I worked for numerous camps for kids of varying ages. One of these was Energy Express, a six-week reading and nutritional enrichment program for rural children in West Virginia. Because we spent so much time immersed in children's literature--reading it, writing about it, drawing scenes from books, acting out our favorite stories--I developed a real appreciation for kids' books at this time. I started accumulating a small collection I wanted to save for my own kids around 1996.
These have come in very handy since Darius spends so much time with us, and we generally read at least one book together before bedtime. He tends to pick the same stories over and over, so last night it was a pleasant surprise when he chose a book we hadn't read before: How Smudge Came.
It had been at least a decade since I'd read the book, and I honestly didn't remember much about it other than a girl finds a stray puppy. We snuggled down in bed under the covers and I began reading. Darius likes to ask a lot of questions about the story and the illustrations, so it ends up being a slow process. As we read and discussed each page, Ivan was moving around the room, getting ready for bed. Then I got to a page where another character is introduced and read:
Here's Jan, who isn't very old, but he is ugly with disease and he is going to die.
Ivan froze and said, "What the hell are you reading?" Darius turned to me with wide eyes. Apparently unable to muster any sensitivity and compassion at such an unexpected turn in the story, I burst out laughing.
As it turns out, the story is about a girl with Down's Syndrome who lives in a group home. She rescues a stray puppy in a snow storm and tries to hide him in her room. She cleans for a nearby Hospice facility during the day, and takes the puppy to work with her to meet the residents. The story ultimately has a happy ending, but it understandably brought up a lot of questions for Darius. We ended up having a conversation about death, dying, and Hospice right before turning out the lights for the night. Lovely bedtime topics for a small child.
Oh, yeah. I'm really a natural.
These have come in very handy since Darius spends so much time with us, and we generally read at least one book together before bedtime. He tends to pick the same stories over and over, so last night it was a pleasant surprise when he chose a book we hadn't read before: How Smudge Came.
It had been at least a decade since I'd read the book, and I honestly didn't remember much about it other than a girl finds a stray puppy. We snuggled down in bed under the covers and I began reading. Darius likes to ask a lot of questions about the story and the illustrations, so it ends up being a slow process. As we read and discussed each page, Ivan was moving around the room, getting ready for bed. Then I got to a page where another character is introduced and read:
Here's Jan, who isn't very old, but he is ugly with disease and he is going to die.
Ivan froze and said, "What the hell are you reading?" Darius turned to me with wide eyes. Apparently unable to muster any sensitivity and compassion at such an unexpected turn in the story, I burst out laughing.
As it turns out, the story is about a girl with Down's Syndrome who lives in a group home. She rescues a stray puppy in a snow storm and tries to hide him in her room. She cleans for a nearby Hospice facility during the day, and takes the puppy to work with her to meet the residents. The story ultimately has a happy ending, but it understandably brought up a lot of questions for Darius. We ended up having a conversation about death, dying, and Hospice right before turning out the lights for the night. Lovely bedtime topics for a small child.
Oh, yeah. I'm really a natural.
February 14, 2011
The remains of the day
All in all, today can suck my left nut. There are a few things worth mentioning, however.
As he does most every weekend, Darius spent the night with us. This morning when he found me crying over an email I had received, he studied my face, reached up and touched a tear that trickled down my cheek, and then hugged me. It is really something to be loved by a child.
This evening, a very thoughtful friend asked to knit a hat for the baby after I'd mentioned how much I enjoy looking at the little owl and hedgehog hats on Etsy.com. She said she couldn't promise it would be without flaws, fit a newborn, or even resemble a woodland creature, but that she was up for the challenge. Her kindness meant so much to me, and I (shocker!) cried again. (I have to meet my hormonal quota of at least 27 cries per day, after all.)
During my recent bouts of insomnia, I have been enjoying listening to music on Playlist.com as I catch up on reading friends' blogs; research pregnancy, health, and nutrition; and generally sit in the dark basking in the glow of the computer. At present I sit here listening to Alice Cooper's "Poison." I am taken back to a very specific summer day around 1990 when I sat in the bathtub shaving my legs ankle to hip and singing along with that song on a mix-tape I'd made off the radio.
I want to love you but I better not touch
I want to hold you but my senses tell me to stop
I want to kiss you but I want it too much
I want to taste you but your lips are venomous poison...
I remember thinking how terribly exciting such sensations sounded to my 13 year old ears, and imagining the the best kind of love was like that: desperate, wild, clinging.
I was so wrong.
It is a partner who knows *exactly* how you like your coffee and makes it for you every morning. It is snuggles and sleepy murmurs of 'I love you' under the covers in the middle of the night. It is someone who always washes the dishes for you. It is the person with whom I can spontaneously burst into singing Kool & the Gang's "Joanna."
This. This is the best kind.
As he does most every weekend, Darius spent the night with us. This morning when he found me crying over an email I had received, he studied my face, reached up and touched a tear that trickled down my cheek, and then hugged me. It is really something to be loved by a child.
This evening, a very thoughtful friend asked to knit a hat for the baby after I'd mentioned how much I enjoy looking at the little owl and hedgehog hats on Etsy.com. She said she couldn't promise it would be without flaws, fit a newborn, or even resemble a woodland creature, but that she was up for the challenge. Her kindness meant so much to me, and I (shocker!) cried again. (I have to meet my hormonal quota of at least 27 cries per day, after all.)
During my recent bouts of insomnia, I have been enjoying listening to music on Playlist.com as I catch up on reading friends' blogs; research pregnancy, health, and nutrition; and generally sit in the dark basking in the glow of the computer. At present I sit here listening to Alice Cooper's "Poison." I am taken back to a very specific summer day around 1990 when I sat in the bathtub shaving my legs ankle to hip and singing along with that song on a mix-tape I'd made off the radio.
I want to love you but I better not touch
I want to hold you but my senses tell me to stop
I want to kiss you but I want it too much
I want to taste you but your lips are venomous poison...
I remember thinking how terribly exciting such sensations sounded to my 13 year old ears, and imagining the the best kind of love was like that: desperate, wild, clinging.
I was so wrong.
It is a partner who knows *exactly* how you like your coffee and makes it for you every morning. It is snuggles and sleepy murmurs of 'I love you' under the covers in the middle of the night. It is someone who always washes the dishes for you. It is the person with whom I can spontaneously burst into singing Kool & the Gang's "Joanna."
This. This is the best kind.
October 27, 2010
The haps
Dear Diary,
It's been awhile since I wrote. Since I broke my rib, things have been kind of slow. For the past couple of weeks I have been taking a lot of drugs and sleeping and wishing for the pain to go away. Things are still plodding along, though.
Early Friday morning, my little yellow bird Petey passed away after a sudden and very brief illness. I held Petey and had her beside me during the last hours of her life, and I cried and I cried when she was gone. There is no sweet little yellow bird swinging enthusiastically in my life anymore, and her boyfriend Sammy is quite lonely and inconsolable.
Ivan and I continue to navigate the challenges of life together. This rainy weekend Darius stayed with us and we (well, Ivan) carved jack-o-lanterns. I roasted pumpkin seeds even though I was the only one with a taste for them.
I continue to struggle with terrible anxiety. I am anxious about everything! Past, present, and future--I do not discriminate. I start the morning with intense fear and dread. I beg Ivan to hug me and tell me everything will be okay.
It will, won't it?
Love,
Amie
It's been awhile since I wrote. Since I broke my rib, things have been kind of slow. For the past couple of weeks I have been taking a lot of drugs and sleeping and wishing for the pain to go away. Things are still plodding along, though.
Early Friday morning, my little yellow bird Petey passed away after a sudden and very brief illness. I held Petey and had her beside me during the last hours of her life, and I cried and I cried when she was gone. There is no sweet little yellow bird swinging enthusiastically in my life anymore, and her boyfriend Sammy is quite lonely and inconsolable.
Ivan and I continue to navigate the challenges of life together. This rainy weekend Darius stayed with us and we (well, Ivan) carved jack-o-lanterns. I roasted pumpkin seeds even though I was the only one with a taste for them.
I continue to struggle with terrible anxiety. I am anxious about everything! Past, present, and future--I do not discriminate. I start the morning with intense fear and dread. I beg Ivan to hug me and tell me everything will be okay.
It will, won't it?
Love,
Amie
August 30, 2010
Bump in the night
Last night Darius spent the night with us. He likes sleeping on my Aerobed and in my sleeping bag, and we set him up a bed in the living room. After giving strict instructions to come get dad if he had to go potty, we all went to sleep. About an hour later, he jumped out of bed in terror and came running into the bedroom crying from a nightmare. Ivan and I sprung out of bed immediately to comfort him. I wrapped my arms around him and stroked his hair, while Ivan said, "It's okay, buddy. Do you want to climb in bed with us?"
Somewhere during my half asleep confusion, I remember looking at Ivan and thinking, "Yes, I want to do this with you."
As Spiderman
Behind the mask
Somewhere during my half asleep confusion, I remember looking at Ivan and thinking, "Yes, I want to do this with you."
As Spiderman
Behind the mask
August 9, 2010
Let down
This weekend Ivan and I had his four year old son Darius stay with us. All of my fears are alleviated. We had a wonderful time. I adore Darius and I think he rather likes me as well. And I love Ivan even more after seeing the Dad in him. I'm trying to think of the best way to articulate this to him. I think it might involve whispering under the covers under the dark of night.
This morning felt quiet--no little feet running in to tell us, "Guys...wake up!" We drug ourselves out of bed and into the shower to begin our morning routine. Incidentally, how can this feel routine when it hasn't even been 6 weeks yet? How have I become so accustomed to and content with this way of being so quickly?
All I know is that I am at my desk and I feel lonely. Neither of my boys are here and I miss them terribly.
This morning felt quiet--no little feet running in to tell us, "Guys...wake up!" We drug ourselves out of bed and into the shower to begin our morning routine. Incidentally, how can this feel routine when it hasn't even been 6 weeks yet? How have I become so accustomed to and content with this way of being so quickly?
All I know is that I am at my desk and I feel lonely. Neither of my boys are here and I miss them terribly.
August 2, 2010
"I don't have to listen to you."
Ivan told me last night I should write a new blog entry. I dismissed this idea, because I don't want to make everyone barf by reading how happy I am.
We are busy trying to fit into my apartment and putting off our major cleaning day. Cleaning needs to come soon, though, because his son Darius will be staying with us in the near future and--though he is just a kid--I don't want the place to be a disaster.
I confess that I am nervous to meet Darius. I hear he's a sweet and easy-going little boy with a penchant for Spider Man, but all I can hear echoing in my head are future fights that end with, "You're not my mom! You can't tell me what to do!"
Oh god.
I look around my house wondering how to entertain him when he visits. Mostly I come up with the fact that I need to buy popsicles, except I think those might be more for me than they are for him. I have a neglected game of Hungry Hungry Hippos that might go over well. There is a small park near my house that he already likes. I kind of want to gather up and add to my art supplies for some fantastic creations. (Again, probably more for me than him.) I would like to find kid-friendly recipes so that making lunch and snacks could be an interactive experience.
I am remembering trips to my auntie's house as a kid because they were always a special treat. She had paints and cotton balls and watercolors and story books, and we could create and pretend to our heart's content. I would like Darius to feel this way when he visits us.
I am trying not to be daunted by this.
I have many years of experience in taking care of infants and small children; I just hope I'm not too self-centered to be able to do it these days.
We are busy trying to fit into my apartment and putting off our major cleaning day. Cleaning needs to come soon, though, because his son Darius will be staying with us in the near future and--though he is just a kid--I don't want the place to be a disaster.
I confess that I am nervous to meet Darius. I hear he's a sweet and easy-going little boy with a penchant for Spider Man, but all I can hear echoing in my head are future fights that end with, "You're not my mom! You can't tell me what to do!"
Oh god.
I look around my house wondering how to entertain him when he visits. Mostly I come up with the fact that I need to buy popsicles, except I think those might be more for me than they are for him. I have a neglected game of Hungry Hungry Hippos that might go over well. There is a small park near my house that he already likes. I kind of want to gather up and add to my art supplies for some fantastic creations. (Again, probably more for me than him.) I would like to find kid-friendly recipes so that making lunch and snacks could be an interactive experience.
I am remembering trips to my auntie's house as a kid because they were always a special treat. She had paints and cotton balls and watercolors and story books, and we could create and pretend to our heart's content. I would like Darius to feel this way when he visits us.
I am trying not to be daunted by this.
I have many years of experience in taking care of infants and small children; I just hope I'm not too self-centered to be able to do it these days.
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