Dream Snatchers, Time Wasters, Excuse Makers

So last week was a book wasteland. Bought a couple, thought they’d be good… but no dice. Life’s too short for bad books… So instead, here it is, a bad blog 😦

Did come up with the opening line, tho. For the anger project. “My family excels in the fine art of the polite fiction.” See, and I’ve already written it here, where it will remain safe and sound, until I can find a mother’s helper to come in and help me so I can start writing the darn thing. Actually, that isn’t true. It was, at one point. It’s not anymore. Ray has grown so much, and with the Skylanders I might not see or hear form him for a while if I set him infront of the video game. That probably makes me a bad mommy. However, finding a little time for myself, especially when it pertains to writing… That is a very good thing. How does it help him to keep putting off my dreams? (BTW– he has not snatched my dreams… I just liked the way that title sounded).

Anyways, I JUST finished a cute little cozy mystery and reading one of the BEST ROMANCE NOVELS ever! I mean ever! Coming from someone who reads as much as I do, that says a lot. The reviews will be up on those by Sunday. Saturday night if I can 🙂

What are the biggest excuse makers you have with your writing? How do you over come them?

 

PS– We’ve started doing shared stories, the princeling and I. And tonight he asked me to start writing them down. How cool is that, to be writing stories off the cuff with your 5 year old and hearing him say “and then…” with the special tone of voice that throws the story to the next person. AWESOME!

Music at the Museum

Different segments of the arts often intertwine. Music, paintings, sculpting, words used in both poetry and prose… they all influence each other. Many times an author has a “Play List” included in their Author Notes, and our words are often bound with a work of art on the cover.

The Haggin Museum often has a music program held in the room with the thirteen naked ladies. (I don’t know the name of the painting, but suffice it to say that it is a hallmark in my life, is much prettier than “thirteen naked ladies” implies and I have postcards and the magnet of it.) The first time I went with my father, it was for a talk on the Stockton Opera by Jaffe, with musical selections on the piano as well as a soloist.

My father cried. Happy tears.

We went yesterday to hear the Divertimento String Quartet. The first selection that they played was everything I imagined: so light and airy that if you closed your eyes you could see the pretty girls dancing across polished wooden floors.

The second piece…not so much.

The piece was played well, but I have to say I’m glad that Velickovic gave a little talk about it  before hand, explaining the strife and anguish, the political climate of both the country and the composer at the time it was written.

Because that piece took my anger and amplified it right out of context.

Have I mentioned lately that I have anger issues?

We ended up leaving, right after the second piece was finished. It had nothing to do with the performance, but I had to pick my son up from his other grandparents and quite frankly my father could tell I was ready to pop a cork.

At the first movement washed over me, I thought of scenes such as to be found in swords and sorcery. As it escalated, so did my pissed-off-itude. I started thinking of the piece I kept starting to write, what I wanted it to be and what it keeps ending up being. And until yesterday, I have to tell ya, I had no intention of every really writing it.

It’s a rock opera using Bon Jovi songs. Originally intended as The Mommy Monologues,  I was going to talk about raising my little ray of sunshine.

The best intentions…

It keeps coming out as the Meth Monologues. As in my husband was a meth addict and I’m still pissed off not only at him but also at myself and want nothing more than to beat the crap out of something. I have always dealt with my anger through my writing. Always.

Still, I have tied my fingers into knots, trying *not* to write that story.

There are a million reasons why it’s not a viable project: I’ve never written a play, could never in a million years get the permissions needed to stage it, and even if I did it would be too hurtful to ever allow my son to see it.

It’s not a viable project.

But apparently, it’s what I need to write. I’m tired of keeping the crap  inside, battering at my fingers every time I sit down to write.

Maybe then I can start to forgive myself.

Potty Training, Potty Mouth & Preschool

Ray started back to preschool yesterday.  He was sooo excited when I picked him up: “I went to school today. I go again! Can I go again? I went to school today,…” He grabbed my hand, took me over to his backpack and showed me all the papers stuffed inside. Papers for me to fill out. SIGH. But he’s happy happy happy now that he is back in school.

Talked with his teacher about the state of potty training. He still won’t go on his own. We’ve tried bribery. We’ve tried praise. It just won’t take. I’m out of ideas. Right now his potty training is an adult remembering that he needs to go every so often. And poo? Don’t even think about it. He gets hysterical if he can’t run in the room and hide to do it.  There’s nothing quite like getting thrown out of a room so that: “I hide. Need to go poop. GO!” He becomes a little dictator. When I told teacher about it, all she said was “He’s very private.” That’s fine— be private all you want. But can’t he be private on the potty? Where I don’t have to clean up the mess?

And then there’s the potty mouth. Currently, his favorite words start with a**. As in spank that a**, punk a**, etc etc. There’s also the s**t word that just made an appearance. Normally, I tell him “I can’t hear you when you talk like that,” and then proceed to ignore him. Works rather well. But yesterday, on the way home, he started yelling at the other drivers for me. “You drive like s**t! S**T! You bad driver!”  And on and on…. I tried to tell him I couldn’t hear him… Really I did. But I was too busy laughing. That high, sing song little boy voice cussing out drivers on the road (and no, I didn’t start it), was too much for me. I laughed until there were tears in my eyes. Baad mommy. You’re not supposed to laugh.

And no, I’m not the cusser. If I was, he would be dropping the F bomb, which is my favorite in times of stress.

Oh, my little man. If only the potty training worked as well as your potty mouth!

Working Poor– Kid Tip #1 (The Happy Meal Switcheroo)

When Ray and I lived with my dad, I got us into a really bad habit. We’d stop at Sonic on the way home (a half hour drive) for french fries, drinks, and a toy for Ray. When I realized how much I was spending (about $70.00 a paycheck on NOTHING), I freaked out.

OMG! What am I doing? OF COURSE IT”S QUICK AND EASY. Of course it made Ray happy!

But it wasn’t what he needed. Or I needed. I needed my money. To save up to move out. Sonic should be a treat, not a thing where the drive through lady knows us by sight. (“oops, no ketchup.”)

Bur I had spoiled him. I had done this, not Ray. And I really, really DID NOT WANT A HALF HOUR CAR RIDE OF SCREAMING. Gives me heebee-jeebies just thinking about it.

So. What’s a mom to do?

Think outside the box. Or, really, back inside it.

I took an old lunch box of Ray’s, and filled it wit 2 juice boxes ($2.00 for 10, or… well heck, you do the math). A snack for the ride home (chips, grapes, popcorn, fruit snacks, what ever was on hand) which again was really cheap.

I then took a bunch of his “small” toys. Anything that wasn’t in constant play was up for Mommy grabs. And I stole them. Yes, I did. I took them, put them in a bag, and hid them. One a day would come out, be played with and then recycled back into the bag.

Home made “Happy Meal” that led to Happy Rides home. WOOHOO!

BUT— BUT!

We still have happy meals. We make them at home )$3.98 for a bag full of chicken nuggets, $2.00 for bbq sauce, and mandrin oranges, grapes, whatever we have handy. MEGA CHEAP.

Now. Don’t think I’m heartless. If Ray is really good during the week, he gets a real live McDonald’s Happy Meal. $5.00 per week, $10.00 per pay period.

So.

Be HAPPY! Get Creative! Think outside (or inside if need be) the box. Just because we’ve spoiled our kids doesn’t mean that we have to let them stay that way. And it can be done with out parental pain. Maybe not all the time, but a good portion of the time.

The rest of the time, I’m sorry to say, you’ll wish your ears could bleed and you could just get it over with.

Got any tips? SHARE WITH ME!

Lets make those pennies cry cold copper tears! Yah Baby!

Oh the Joy!

So today we had the talk. Ray Ray and I, that is. You know the one… Starts with “Why do I have a hole in my belly?”

“That’s your belly button baby, that’s where momma gave you all her love when you were inside her tummy.”

“In your tummy?” Eyebrows drawn close, lips pursed.

I nod.

“Did you spit me out?” Hack Hack, pretend throwing up.

Sure, baby. Mommy threw you up after 2 days of back labor.

Ain’t kids grand?

Bakugan’s– a learning tool

One of Ray’s newest obsessions is the little bakugans. They are small little balls that when popped on their card (magnetic, I think), pop open transformer-esque. He has 3 of them currently, and loves them. He will not allow us to play with them– the child who will normally share whatever he has, no matter how well loved the item, has grown selfish.

YAY!

(He’s acting like a normal 3 1/2 year old here, excuse me while I wipe a tear from my eye.)

But there’s something more, too. These little toys need someone who will fiddle with them, and employ fine motor skills. Which, if you remember, motor skills is the place where Ray has the slight problem. The Dyspraxia affects both fine and gross motor skills. So here he is, gaining dexterity, expanding his brain power as he figures out how to put them back together….

Oh, and the imaginative play is active, too.

Bakugan’s rock for Ray. In more ways than one. 

YAY Bakugan!

Well no wonder that kid can’t talk

I am a very creative soul. Which has become glaringly apparent when I’m talking with Ray to and from day care.

There’s the Giant’s bed. As in, the bed for a giant. Bales of hay, piled high with a blue tarp folded haphazardly at the edge. And the cows.  Ray will point and say  “Cow! Moo…” with the moo soft and gentle. He also calls horses and the occasional goat & sheep a cow. Oh well, that will come in time.

The really sad part are the bumples. Yes. A bumple. The word popped out of my mouth before I thought about it and it has stuck. A bumple is a rail road crossing, that makes the car go “bumpity-bumpity-bump”. A Bumple.

Of course, I’ve also invented a whole new category for relatives. The Auntie Cousin. Yup. You heard it. Because I was a mid-life baby, and so was Ray, many of his cousins (the first kind), are the age that his aunt’s and uncles should be. Leyla is around alot, he loves her to death (he hugged the phone last night when she was talking to him)… Well, cousin just doesn’t get it. She’s an auntie. Sooo I invented the Auntie Cousin.

Now, I don’t really think that my bad language habits are going to hurt him. But it sure will make life interesting for his teachers when he starts pre-school (for communication disorders) on July 28th.

HEHEHEHEHEHE.

And really. Since we’ve been taking these super-sized morning trips? The whole 2 weeks? He has mastered up and down (via overpasses and the game we play with going “up-up-up” and “down-down-down” complete with sound effects), learned the word cow (and sort of what it is), the sound it makes, and all sorts of interesting things. He has blossomed.

So who cares if I make language more interesting? It’s the gift of a talented soul.

Right?

Right!

Sicky-Poo

Haven’t been on line lately because not only has Ray been sick, but so have I.

Cute story: I was laying on the couch, and Ray was playing with his cars. Bri was back, taking a nap. Ray went back in the bedroom, I assumed to bug Dad but not quite… He stole Bri’s blankie, brought it out and covered me up. He then went and got a diaper wipe and wiped the bottom of my foot.

I’m not sure where the wiping of the foot came from, but the next day… Darned if he didn’t do the same thing.

Awwww…. What a kid!

Of course, I was much sicker than him, and he annoyed me… But thankfully, Auntie Becca came over to take care of the two of us while Daddy was at work. God Bless Auntie Becca!

More later,

Sneeze.