I just picked up a ten pound, 21-day aged, hormone-free, fresh from the producer standing prime rib roast. I rinsed it, patted it dry, swaddled it in three layers of cheese cloth and set it at the bottom of my fridge on a rack. It will sit there until Christmas Day, getting more tasty and beautiful by the moment - or so I’ve been told.
Fear me.
Not because they were casually dressed, front and centre and holding a camera, whereas I haven’t showered today (thanks to my hot water tank for exploding last night), arrived just in time, looking harassed and stressed (because I am - work is insane right now), and parked myself in a chair in the corner.
Not because I didn’t have my Buddy there (thanks again to my hot water tank for exploding last night, requiring one member of our household to stay home and wait for nice fixit people), or any other stars-in-alignment rationale.
No, the reason I hate sharing events is because Rosebud always goes to ex and girlfriend first.
The thing is - I know *why* she does it. She doesn’t live with them, and only has one overnight with them a week. Therefore, they are the speshul parents - the ones whose attention she gets more rarely, and therefore, covets more.
They’re also the parents who don’t have to poke the child awake every morning, wrestle her into clothing, and shuffle her occasionally unwilling body off to school. They don’t have to fight with her about what’s appropriate and what isn’t. Or about what she can have and what she can’t. They can afford to indulge her every whim, because we’re there to do all the discipline.
So yeah - I know why I get to be second fiddle at shared events. I understand it, and can even appreciate that, on one level, this means that I’m such a constant in her life she doesn’t even think about it. I know that this means she feels secure and safe with my love.
But in no way does that make it suck less.
All that said - Juniper and I were able to watch the concert together, and appreciate the awesomeness of our youngest family member together. When she finally did run over to us, yelling “Group kiss, group kiss!”, my joy over being with my girls was pretty much complete.
My kids are pretty much awesome all over.
On Sunday, my Buddy turned 35.
Pfft. Took him long enough*.
For his birthday, he got fed kielke and trappings on Friday, pizza and beer on Saturday, and my mother’s famed chop suey (with three kinds of meat!) and blueberry pie for Sunday.
See how I didn’t cook a meal for him? It’s ‘cause he gets my food every *other* day of the year. This time of year, he gets everybody else to cook for him.
He was also gifted with a Halo 3 special edition Xbox 360 Elite, which has replaced food, air and me on his hierarchy of needs. Temporarily, of course.
IT IS TEMPORARY, RIGHT HONEY?
To compensate, I’ve taken up crocheting again. Not by any pattern of any kind. I just started making a string to see if I remembered how to do it, and the next thing I knew, I’d created six or seven rows of the same pattern, three up, three across. I have no idea what I’m making, but apparently I like it that way, just fine.
I also gave him as much of the weekend as possible for his own entertainment. Which meant that I had to do more running and bending and lifting than I’ve done in quite some time, but you know what? 1) I’m extremely grateful that my spine came around in time for me to be able to do it and 2) It was entirely worth it.
That man. He draws me pictures and puts them in my lunch box. He pats my head when I’m sad and my back when I’m proud (the rest of the patting has been censored, for your comfort). He is a tremendous father and caregiver to both our girls. He is funny, sweet, kind and clever.
I’m incredibly grateful to have him in my world. I still love looking at him. I miss him when we’re apart. I’ve had to change everything I understand about the world because of the love he’s given me, and I regret not an inch of it.
Which is probably why I (mostly) put up with his ageist remarks against me.
That’s all I’m saying.
* Yes, he’s approximately seven and a half months younger than me, and yes - he does like to hold it over me. Like you, I am also amazed that he survives such antics.
Note to self: I encourage the use of cold medication in the night, when troubled by dry hacking/post-nasal drip. I especially encourage the use of cold medication with a sleep aid. However, I do not encourage the use of cold medication with a sleep aid at 3:00 am or later, no matter how desperately you’d like to go back to sleep. Your attempts to wake up a mere three hours later will be ludicrous at best.
Which is why my best, today? Not so much.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZonk. . . .
Over the past couple of days, Rosebud has been applying some heavy duty emotional grind to her mother (and really, all of her beloved and loving family). It feels like being inside a keg of suspicious looking black powder in a room full of nervous, lighter-bearing pyromaniacs. You just never know what’s going to set off the explosion. After a while, you become conditioned to flinch at everything.
So that’s been our last couple of days with the spirited, one-of-a-kind child that is Rosebud. However, I think she’s doing her infamous mind-melding trick again. Like any child this well-versed in tyranny, she senses when she’s pushed her loyal subjects too far.
She then throws them a bone.
Last night, halfway up the stairs to bed (typically a raging minefield, with the black powder and aforementioned nervous pyros), she decided to take matters into her own hands.
Rosebud: You be me, and I’ll be da mama.
To reinforce this, she put her hand on my back to gently encourage me up the stairs.
Rosebud: Okay honey, it’s time for bed.
If you could resist this opportunity, you’re a better woman, mother and human than I will ever be.
Me: But I don’t WAAAAAAANNNNAAAAAA GO TO BED!!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
To my surprise, this was precisely the response Rosebud was after. Apparently, she sensed that I might feel better if I could play the role of recalcitrant child.
To be able to whine loudly and have it elicit giggles and encouragement? Oh hells yeah, it was on.
All the way up the stairs, through the toothbrushing process, the final potty break and the pyjama donning, I carried on with my tantrum. At full volume. Until my throat hurt.
Damn, that felt fan-fucking-tabulous. Must do it again some time.
