Barnyard
Wallace and Grommit
For some reason these 2 movies have been fan favorites in my house of late. Friday night at our house is movie night. Tater and I snuggle up on the couch and watch some sort of movie that she wants to watch, and we eat popcorn (well, she does, as it is not worth the week of pulling hulls out of my braces that would later ensue), and just generally hang out.
While Barnyard has some good messages in it. i.e. "A Strong man stands up for himself, a stronger man stands up for others." Oh yes, Tater, has repeated that line for weeks. Wallace and Grommit really has no redeeming qualities to it.
On Friday, I put my foot down, either of the above were going to be watched this week in our house. So, we went through the other movies we had. Tater's choice for friday night movie night, "Breakfast at Tiffany's" SCORE ONE FOR MOM! A movie that I can tolerate, its not animated, nothing.
On the upside, she says she likes it, on the other upside, she was asleep before it was over. Do I think she enjoyed it, eh. who cares, she says she does.
Did I enjoy it. Of course, do I enjoy it as much as the book. NOPE. No movie ever invented, is as good as the book that preceded it. Its a sad reality, that has caused me many many disappointing trips to the movie theater. I will get all excited because I loved the book, only to watch the movie, and have it suck the life out of a good book.
Now, if you start with the movie and then read the book, does it stop the life suckage, I don't know, because I don't think I have ever done it in that order.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
"Throw things, hit things, and cuddle babies"
I asked Tater, once, what does mommy do at work.
That's what she told me.
She knows that daddy puts bad people in jail, and helps kids.
Lawyers, hit things, throw things, and cuddle babies.
That's what she told me.
She knows that daddy puts bad people in jail, and helps kids.
Lawyers, hit things, throw things, and cuddle babies.
She is using her children as an excuse...
Throughout my day, there are some people, when I hang up the phone, all I can say is "well, thats 5, 10, 15, 405, minutes of my life I will never get back" when one does not bill by the hour, that is a problem. A certain orange haired litigant decided not to grace us with her presence today for a hearing. And then she will go on and on about how I am both incompetent and arrogant (yes, she called me both those things in one hearing...are they mutually exclusive, perhaps), when I say, "no, sir, I don't believe that the default judgment against her should be lifted. I have no reason to believe that she lied about her kid going to the dr. but really, how many times does she get to use that one. Perhaps I should get her a calendar for christmas. I mean, she is one of the main things that secures my job in the long term, because she is so busy suing the state. No one told her that you can't fight city hall, it appears.
On to more interesting things, because I am awesome, my child, is currently creating havoc in my home with, of all things, glitter. Why do I agree to this. Last night, it was finger painting, tonight glitter.
I can tell you exactly why I agree to this, because, it makes her sleep better. Not because its good for her fine motor skills, or because it teaches her anything. But because I value the time that she sleeps. Because it means that I can sleep. To me, that is a valuable commodity. I am not that parent...you know the one who gladly gives up sleep to spend a little more time with their child. I was never tempted to wake my sleeping child just to give her a hug. I found out a few months ago, that letting Amelia do an art project in the evenings causes me to have an easier time getting her in bed. So, I sacrifice the wellbeing of my vacuum for the wellbeing of my sleep. I'm okay with that.
Maybe that makes me a bad parent.
Really, on the list of things that could potentially cause me to be a bad parent, this is not the worst of it.
This conversation is probably worse:
A: Daddy hurt my feelings.
Me: We should sell him to the gypsies
A: We can't sell him to the gypsies.
Me: Why not
A: Because we would lose him, and he's family, and we don't want to lose family.
Oh yes, and because you asked, the blue construction paper is not lettuce. Ok, maybe you didn't ask, but amelia did.
I think that we have a glitter picture on our table for each and every child in her class, and all the siblings too.
Me: Why don't you put more things on that paper?
A: Because I don't want to.
On to more interesting things, because I am awesome, my child, is currently creating havoc in my home with, of all things, glitter. Why do I agree to this. Last night, it was finger painting, tonight glitter.
I can tell you exactly why I agree to this, because, it makes her sleep better. Not because its good for her fine motor skills, or because it teaches her anything. But because I value the time that she sleeps. Because it means that I can sleep. To me, that is a valuable commodity. I am not that parent...you know the one who gladly gives up sleep to spend a little more time with their child. I was never tempted to wake my sleeping child just to give her a hug. I found out a few months ago, that letting Amelia do an art project in the evenings causes me to have an easier time getting her in bed. So, I sacrifice the wellbeing of my vacuum for the wellbeing of my sleep. I'm okay with that.
Maybe that makes me a bad parent.
Really, on the list of things that could potentially cause me to be a bad parent, this is not the worst of it.
This conversation is probably worse:
A: Daddy hurt my feelings.
Me: We should sell him to the gypsies
A: We can't sell him to the gypsies.
Me: Why not
A: Because we would lose him, and he's family, and we don't want to lose family.
Oh yes, and because you asked, the blue construction paper is not lettuce. Ok, maybe you didn't ask, but amelia did.
I think that we have a glitter picture on our table for each and every child in her class, and all the siblings too.
Me: Why don't you put more things on that paper?
A: Because I don't want to.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
It looks like a pre school massacre happened here
After going out and drawing on the sidewalk with sidewalk chalk (why is it sidewalk chalk, when we use it for the chalkboard and for on paper, I dunno) that is what it looked like occurred at our house.
This is my fault. Totally my fault.
One afternoon Tater and I were outside playing chalk, and I asked her if she wanted me to trace her, now, being encouraged to lay on the sidewalk sounded like a grand plan to her, so we went for it. Since then, every time we do sidewalk chalk, she wants someone to "draw" her, and by that she means lay her out like a dead body and trace around her. Like in a bad police drama.
This is my fault. Totally my fault.
One afternoon Tater and I were outside playing chalk, and I asked her if she wanted me to trace her, now, being encouraged to lay on the sidewalk sounded like a grand plan to her, so we went for it. Since then, every time we do sidewalk chalk, she wants someone to "draw" her, and by that she means lay her out like a dead body and trace around her. Like in a bad police drama.
What I learned today...
A) I am not particularly interesting. I came back over here, after I was prompted to post, because someone found this thing, with its one paltry post, and found it funny. Unfortunately, I am not all that funny, and while I am massively inappropriate, I lack in memory power to get those things from my mouth to blog in any sort of a timely fashion. Perhaps, I should resolve to try and write something each day. Even if its not interesting, or coherent, or funny, or creative.
B) I should keep my face closed when it comes to the interwebz. The interwebz is not be best place to make your position known. Or to try and describe a position. Oh well.
C) All of my interesting stories have to do with Tater. Fortunately, she is full of interesting stories, and learns really cool stuff. Unfortunately, most of it comes out in the ear shattering, pencil through the eye into my frontal lobe, whining tenor of car that needed brakes 3 months ago, and are to the really harsh part of the squealer pads. I have not figured out an effective way to address this. George says ignore it. I say, I CAN'T its like a drill bit to my brain. She will grow out of it sometime in the next 20 years, I hope. Unfortunately, that means that I would have to talk about her all the time, and a certain amount of pride makes me avoid this. By pride I mean, the voice, meek and mild as it is, in the back of my head that says, YOU ARE NOT JUST A MOM! (it shouts it in all capital letters, really).
Most inappropriately, today, while I was out looking at houses, I told George that I would be thrilled to move out of our apartment, because then, the overwhelming urge to smack him, the one that I have so successfully fought, every time he stands in my way, in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the living room, in the bathroom, well, basically everywhere, in our much too small apartment would hopefully subside. Probably not wise to verbalize that feeling. But, hey, I can't expect him to be a mind reader, right?
If we are lucky, there will be a need for a first floor, 2 bedroom apartment in our complex, sometime before our lease is up, and we will get to move a bit sooner, I would love to be in something different before Christmas.
What I really wanted to say today, that George made me keep to myself.
Hey, Lady, put down the hoho, get your kids out of the car, and for the love of those children take those stupid stick things with their names on them, off the back. Especially when you have a personalized plate. You know, those stickers that scream, "HEY, Perpetrator, LOOK HERE, I have 3 kids, their names are ..., they got to school at ... (what you think that mr. Perpetrator did not figure it out from the Honor Student Sticker on your car), and mom and dad's names are ..." "Please, go to their school, tell them that mom crashed her van that looks like ... and sent me to help get you to the hospital where they are." Sure, there are no reported cases of this happening, but seriously, do you want to be the first? And its not like Mr. Perp will have to follow you home, because for $10, and without even having to go to any state office (cause we know Perp's don't like the state) he can put your personalized tag in the data base and it will kick out your name, your address, hell, I don't know maybe even your telephone number.
George told me that it was only okay to tell these things to friends. He is a bit of a spoil sport.
B) I should keep my face closed when it comes to the interwebz. The interwebz is not be best place to make your position known. Or to try and describe a position. Oh well.
C) All of my interesting stories have to do with Tater. Fortunately, she is full of interesting stories, and learns really cool stuff. Unfortunately, most of it comes out in the ear shattering, pencil through the eye into my frontal lobe, whining tenor of car that needed brakes 3 months ago, and are to the really harsh part of the squealer pads. I have not figured out an effective way to address this. George says ignore it. I say, I CAN'T its like a drill bit to my brain. She will grow out of it sometime in the next 20 years, I hope. Unfortunately, that means that I would have to talk about her all the time, and a certain amount of pride makes me avoid this. By pride I mean, the voice, meek and mild as it is, in the back of my head that says, YOU ARE NOT JUST A MOM! (it shouts it in all capital letters, really).
Most inappropriately, today, while I was out looking at houses, I told George that I would be thrilled to move out of our apartment, because then, the overwhelming urge to smack him, the one that I have so successfully fought, every time he stands in my way, in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the living room, in the bathroom, well, basically everywhere, in our much too small apartment would hopefully subside. Probably not wise to verbalize that feeling. But, hey, I can't expect him to be a mind reader, right?
If we are lucky, there will be a need for a first floor, 2 bedroom apartment in our complex, sometime before our lease is up, and we will get to move a bit sooner, I would love to be in something different before Christmas.
What I really wanted to say today, that George made me keep to myself.
Hey, Lady, put down the hoho, get your kids out of the car, and for the love of those children take those stupid stick things with their names on them, off the back. Especially when you have a personalized plate. You know, those stickers that scream, "HEY, Perpetrator, LOOK HERE, I have 3 kids, their names are ..., they got to school at ... (what you think that mr. Perpetrator did not figure it out from the Honor Student Sticker on your car), and mom and dad's names are ..." "Please, go to their school, tell them that mom crashed her van that looks like ... and sent me to help get you to the hospital where they are." Sure, there are no reported cases of this happening, but seriously, do you want to be the first? And its not like Mr. Perp will have to follow you home, because for $10, and without even having to go to any state office (cause we know Perp's don't like the state) he can put your personalized tag in the data base and it will kick out your name, your address, hell, I don't know maybe even your telephone number.
George told me that it was only okay to tell these things to friends. He is a bit of a spoil sport.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)