We're alone in the dark.
I am playing Beweled Blitz. Wonderhubby has rolled over and is snuggled up to his favorite pillow, preparing for sleep.
The TV is on.
And the cast of "Law and Order: SVU" has stopped for a brief word from our sponsors.
As the commercials wind down, we hear John F. Kennedy giving a speech.
Suddenly Wonderhubby sits bolt upright in bed.
"Three Jews go to the moon??????????"
What?
"Three Jews go to the moon," he repeats. "That's what he said!!!"
I think not. We pay dearly for DVR and the ability to back up live television just for this very reason. SO BACK IT UP, DUDE!
So he does, finding the beginning of the speech that President Kennedy gave in 1962 at Rice University, apparently with the express purpose of selling Omega watches in 2009.
"We choose to go to the moon ..." the president intones in that familiar New England cadence.
And I wake up the neighborhood with my hysterical cackling.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
A father. A dad. A daddy.
Crossposted at Mid-Century Modern Moms
I wasn't going to write about Michael Jackson.
Really, truly. I wasn't.
But there is one thing about the whole circus that was the life and death of Whacko Jacko that simultaneously touched and broke my heart.
His daughter's speech at his funeral.
The simple words, spoken through her tears and sobs, spoke volumes to many. It did for me -- but those volumes had nothing to do with Paris Jackson.
It's about MY daughter.
My member-of-the-Dead-Dads-Club daughter.
The Roo-girl walked into my room the day after Jackson's funeral just as the "Today" show was running the clip of a sobbing girl telling the world how her daddy was the best father in the world.
Roo stopped dead in her tracks. Transfixed. Unmoving.
Because Roo-girl's father died when she was a few months shy of 4. She really doesn't remember him much. She remembers that he loved her. But her memories are tempered with the knowledge that he was unspeakably cruel to her mother and her brothers.
I feel dreadful about this, but there are things about her father that cannot be forgiven. She doesn't know it all -- and right now, doesn't need or want to know.
Meanwhile, she is fortunate to have a stepfather who loves her and treats her like his own. She freely acknowledges that Wonderhubby is her dad.
But she watches a friend run across a room -- crying "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" -- and jump into her father's arms ...
And she wonders what that is like.
So Paris Jackson tells the world that her daddy was the best father in the world and she loves him so much.
And I die a little inside.
I wasn't going to write about Michael Jackson.
Really, truly. I wasn't.
But there is one thing about the whole circus that was the life and death of Whacko Jacko that simultaneously touched and broke my heart.
His daughter's speech at his funeral.
The simple words, spoken through her tears and sobs, spoke volumes to many. It did for me -- but those volumes had nothing to do with Paris Jackson.
It's about MY daughter.
My member-of-the-Dead-Dads-Club daughter.
The Roo-girl walked into my room the day after Jackson's funeral just as the "Today" show was running the clip of a sobbing girl telling the world how her daddy was the best father in the world.
Roo stopped dead in her tracks. Transfixed. Unmoving.
Because Roo-girl's father died when she was a few months shy of 4. She really doesn't remember him much. She remembers that he loved her. But her memories are tempered with the knowledge that he was unspeakably cruel to her mother and her brothers.
I feel dreadful about this, but there are things about her father that cannot be forgiven. She doesn't know it all -- and right now, doesn't need or want to know.
Meanwhile, she is fortunate to have a stepfather who loves her and treats her like his own. She freely acknowledges that Wonderhubby is her dad.
But she watches a friend run across a room -- crying "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" -- and jump into her father's arms ...
And she wonders what that is like.
So Paris Jackson tells the world that her daddy was the best father in the world and she loves him so much.
And I die a little inside.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Weekly Winners: July 4-11
A.n.y.w.a.y.
This is my daughter.
This is why my hair, underneath the lovely reddish tone, is severely gray. And why I will bake cookies for the girls in the back of the stunt who have their arms in the air.
Yes, they caught her.And then I started breathing again.
Go --->here<--- for weekly winners that don't make my heart stop.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Happy birthday to my baby girl
From this ...
to this ...
... in the blink of an eye.
Happy 15th birthday to my baby, my shopping buddy, my dancing queen, my snuggle girl, my partner in crime, my Roo-teeny.
I love you from the bottom of the ocean to the top of the sky and all the way around the world.
Mom
to this ...
... in the blink of an eye.Happy 15th birthday to my baby, my shopping buddy, my dancing queen, my snuggle girl, my partner in crime, my Roo-teeny.
I love you from the bottom of the ocean to the top of the sky and all the way around the world.
Mom
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Putting the squeeze on
The Roo-girl has had some problems with back pain.
This is probably inherently obvious, considering the kinds of things she does to her body on a regular basis.
But after a foray with a chiropractor (I know people swear by 'em, but I was weirded out by the whole thing), therapeutic massage (worked REALLY well!) and, ultimately, a visit to an actual primary care physician, we have determined it is basically muscle strain.
And she was referred for physical therapy.
A few exercises and some tricks on how to get out of bed in the morning were the first order of the day.
Interestingly, she was told that one leg is a little shorter than the other -- because her pelvis is slightly tilted out of alignment. Wonder how THAT could be?
Ah well, anyway, the guy in charge of her treatment explained a simple exercise that she could do to untilt herself on her own, plus a few other things to strengthen her core.
I had been sitting off to the side, quietly minding my own beeswax.
Until he described yet another exercise.
"Squeeze your muscles together like you are stopping the flow of urine," he told her.
And I promptly fell out of the chair laughing.
Yes, my daughter has been instructed to do Kegel exercises.
I do have to say that it took ALL my self-control not to tell her that her husband would appreciate it later.
This is probably inherently obvious, considering the kinds of things she does to her body on a regular basis.
But after a foray with a chiropractor (I know people swear by 'em, but I was weirded out by the whole thing), therapeutic massage (worked REALLY well!) and, ultimately, a visit to an actual primary care physician, we have determined it is basically muscle strain.And she was referred for physical therapy.
A few exercises and some tricks on how to get out of bed in the morning were the first order of the day.
Interestingly, she was told that one leg is a little shorter than the other -- because her pelvis is slightly tilted out of alignment. Wonder how THAT could be?
Ah well, anyway, the guy in charge of her treatment explained a simple exercise that she could do to untilt herself on her own, plus a few other things to strengthen her core.
I had been sitting off to the side, quietly minding my own beeswax.
Until he described yet another exercise.
"Squeeze your muscles together like you are stopping the flow of urine," he told her.
And I promptly fell out of the chair laughing.
Yes, my daughter has been instructed to do Kegel exercises.
I do have to say that it took ALL my self-control not to tell her that her husband would appreciate it later.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Too kool for skool
When you're in the midst of raising teenagers -- and dealing with how embarrassing they find you -- it's hard to get perspective on your worth as a person.
Granted, I don't feel I have done my job as a parent if I haven't embarrassed at least one child every day, but really, it can be brutal on your self-esteem to have your VERY BEING squashed by those little pishers.
So imagine my surprise and delight to find Danni, one of my colleagues, who is not quite a year older than Drummer Man.
And who finds me cool.
I talk about the Roo-girl and all my efforts for the cheer team on her behalf.
"Coolest mom ever," whispers Danni.
"How do you make Lady Gaga cry," I ask all my co-workers. "Poke 'er face ..."
"Coolest mom EVER," Danni says to no one in particular.
My phone rings. It's Wonderhubby. This is his ringtone.
"COOLEST MOM EVER," crows Danni.
I usually shrug and laugh. It just tickles me that this 20something finds me a cool mom.
During my staycation last week, I had lunch with an old newspaper colleague -- actually a longstanding friend of almost 30 years. The girlfriend who made this.
I told my friend about being the named the coolest mom ever. As the mother of a 17-year-old know-it-all daughter, she could definitely relate, and we laughed about how clever we are when we embarrass our girls.
She asked about my family -- about my mom. We talked about how active my parents are, how they are going to be 80 next year, and about the pole-dancing grandma and her CFM shoes.
She laughed as I recounted the horror of my siblings and my children over the shoes and the g-string.
And then she grinned at me.
"Coolest mom ever," she said.
Touche.
Granted, I don't feel I have done my job as a parent if I haven't embarrassed at least one child every day, but really, it can be brutal on your self-esteem to have your VERY BEING squashed by those little pishers.
So imagine my surprise and delight to find Danni, one of my colleagues, who is not quite a year older than Drummer Man.
And who finds me cool.
I talk about the Roo-girl and all my efforts for the cheer team on her behalf.
"Coolest mom ever," whispers Danni.
"How do you make Lady Gaga cry," I ask all my co-workers. "Poke 'er face ..."
"Coolest mom EVER," Danni says to no one in particular.
My phone rings. It's Wonderhubby. This is his ringtone.
"COOLEST MOM EVER," crows Danni.
I usually shrug and laugh. It just tickles me that this 20something finds me a cool mom.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
During my staycation last week, I had lunch with an old newspaper colleague -- actually a longstanding friend of almost 30 years. The girlfriend who made this.
I told my friend about being the named the coolest mom ever. As the mother of a 17-year-old know-it-all daughter, she could definitely relate, and we laughed about how clever we are when we embarrass our girls.
She asked about my family -- about my mom. We talked about how active my parents are, how they are going to be 80 next year, and about the pole-dancing grandma and her CFM shoes.
She laughed as I recounted the horror of my siblings and my children over the shoes and the g-string.
And then she grinned at me.
"Coolest mom ever," she said.
Touche.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Cheerleading -- just another word for drama
There is always drama in cheer.
Let me say that again.
THERE IS ALWAYS DRAMA IN CHEER.
(Continued at Mid-Century Modern Moms)
Let me say that again.
THERE IS ALWAYS DRAMA IN CHEER.
(Continued at Mid-Century Modern Moms)
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