captainmom.blogsome.com

I meant to use that url to begin with.

In the meantime, I’ll be trying to figure out how to move things over…

In light of this, there will probably be oddities here for a day or so. Because I’m not good at this sort of thing.

Anyway. I am the only baffoon in the bunch. The others are professionals. I am not. I can’t get my outfits on correctly. I put two different shoes on. Some wierd hot pant shorts thing I’m supposed to wear, and buttons up the side, keeps falling off and causing me to flash the patrons. In one scene, I decide to wade through a pool in my outfit, and all the color comes out. The coordinator of our gig is mad. You can’t see the little ribbon anymore.

We walk around swanky dining rooms, where wealthy people eat and drink. And at some point, get courted by extremely wealthy oil barons from the Middle East. They’re all dark, swarthy, and wearing super chic and expensive suits. And one of them wants to show me his 9 billion dollar estate with marble stairways, alahambra like architecture, and a back estate area full of horses. He want me to marry him.

I tell him I’m married already. He gets mad at me. And at some point, I think he messes with the brakes on my Rolls, and I crash into the gate trying to leave his American palace. This makes my husband mad.

That’s pretty much the last thing I remember. Except that as my sister models walk beautifully around the dining tables, showing off our Breast Cancer Benefit Fashion, they look like Jade off America’s Next Top Model. I look like an SNL spoof. All awkward, gangly, wooden and unphotogenic. Pretty much like it is. I can’t jut out my chin, and raise my knees that high. My knees tend to be knocked. I am unbelievably uncoordinated.

On to other bits of minor interest:

The children did this Captain the favor of cleaning out the old Previa’s glovebox. This is what we found. I testify right now, there is not one itty bitty tidbit of exaggeration here. I wish there were.

1 half City of Atlanta map
3 tire coupons
2 infant seat instruction manuals (we haven’t had an infant is 4.5 years)
Georgetown SC warning for speeding ticket 6/03
5 matchbooks
2 notepads
2 emmissions test slips, 4 and 5 yrs. old
1 friend’s CD
6 straws
2 pencils
1 pen
1 cigar cutter
something I can’t identify
other car key, missing 7 years (all this time, we’ve wondered where The Colonel’s copy was, but never duplicated mine)
1 headset
6 expired insurance cards
1 empty Ziploc® baggie
4 bills for car repairs
1 set TV antennae, in original packaging
1 TV operational manual
1 Pawleys Island summer resident bumper sticker
2 car seat registration cards
12 maps
1 Erector Set piece
1 suction cup
2 sweeteners
6 insta clears (for glasses)
somthing else I can’t identify
3 disposable pee bags
1 kids praise tape
1 broken disposable camera
1 sermon tape, 4 yrs, 1 state and 3 moves ago
1 of those see-the-baby-backwards-in-the-seat, put-it-on-the-rearview-mirror that always popped off and scared the *&^ out of me.
1 metal shoulder harness adjuster
1 bunjee cord
1 set earplugs
1 bandaid
1 Imetrex ( I don’t even get migraines)
2 antacids
3 Tylenol
4 stay awakes (cheap NoDoz)
1 Immodium
1 safety pin
3 window shades
$4.52, mostly in pennies

And, about the dreams again, after reading the Dynasty inspired episode, The Colonel reminded me of a dream I had when we were first married.

Apparently, he and I were cats. In trouble, and running from something. But we could fly if we chewed grape bubble gum fast enough. So the dream was a lot of frenetic gum chewing to get up and over the city, as cats, and away from our evil enemies. Whoever they were.

Something’s not right about my brain.

I just read our old car tale to the children, and Private Two nearly wept, and cried out, aaaawwww, that’s so sad! I don’t want the new car, take it back, take it back!

Because he just felt like it.

She didn’t listen to one word of the history lesson.

Why?

She didn’t like her teacher’s outfit.

And this, I think, is hysterical.

I saw her. Eying Mrs. Green. Up, down, watching. And I knew she was not absorbing the intimate details of the ancient catacombs under the streets of Rome. Sure, it’s interesting that the first Christians were so persucuted that they had to dig for their lives in an effort to escape. But Mrs. Green’s outfit? Whew.

On the way home, she told me her profound thoughts. First, I asked her if that was the teacher that barked at her once for answering a fellow classmate’s question. Sho’nuff. I could just tell.

Then, she said, Mom, Mrs. Green only has 2 skirts. And they’re both ankle length. One is denim and the other is khaki. And she only wears those to teach each week. Back and forth, back and forth. You think those are the only sort of bottoms she owns? Or does she like them? And today was the first day she wore flip flops with them. She usually wears white walking shoes.

Love it. Other children are absorbing the agony of the days of the ancient Christians. My girl is sizing up Mrs. Green’s wardrobe. And not too fondly, at that.

My old Previa. Aaaah. My paid for car. The car we bought 0 down, paid out over 5 years, from Carmax, 6 moves ago. She has just been replaced.

Oh my Previa. When we first bought you, you were the first minivan I ever drove. And my hatred of such a genre of car swiftly became intense love as I experienced how far back the children could actually get. How many diaper bags and pack ‘n’ plays you could hold. You held me up, high in my captain’s chair, with excellent visibility, and played cassette after cassette after cassette of Arthur stories, and Thomas tales. We driven to Texas and back, 4 times. Loaded you with Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and beach gear. You brought our new baby home from the hospital, 5 and a half years ago, and drove us out to my parents’ lake house for recouperation time.

You’ve heard a few arguments. Seen some tears. Been present for dream sessions, when we needed to figure out where our life would go next. And you’ve held approximately 1, 260 Happy Meals in your lifetime with us. I did the math.

I’ve changed hundreds of diapers on your floors. Taught my boys how to pee in a bottle when there was no clean restroom on your seats. Taught myself and my daughter how to use a ziploc on the way home from New Orleans, shortly before the devestating hurricane, when we were stuck in rush hour traffic. You helped us travel the city before she would never be the same. Oh, Previa. We owe you so much.

You’ve seen 7 different carseats between our 3 children. Watched us leave 2 of them in dumpsters across the country when they were yarfed uncontrollably upon. You didn’t tell when I just held the children in the back, while they recovered and we found a WalMart to get another. Or when a baby was so hungry, I just crawled back there in your warmth, and nursed them.

I’d like to say you kept us cool and comfy in the heat of the southern summers, but alas, this has never been your forte. Regardless, for all the rest that you’ve done for us, we keep putting the miles on you, happy that you are ours.

But now, you have a replacement. The years have caught up with you. Your little AC motor that tried, is weakening, and we’re told it is obsolete. You need more put into you now, than maybe your financial value is worth, but never more than you are worth. And dear Previa, you’re getting a little rough around the bumpers. Rusty. But still dear to us, all the same.

We know there is a family out there, who really needs you. One that has children to cart, and very little money with which to purchase a vehicle of your caliber. And will recognize that 153, 000 miles of love doesn’t mean you don’t have more in you. You are…a Toyota.

So we bought the Mazda MPV last night. No, don’t fret. She’s not brand new. She is, however, 5 years old, instead of your valiant 15. She happens to look almost just like you. This, I think, is testimony to our fondness for you. She is not better than you, and never will be. But we felt the time had come. As she sits behind you in the drive this morning, I hope you’ll teach her a thing or two. How to not let the children fall out of the back door when they disobediently unbuckle and scramble to find the lost toy. How to keep chugging when it seems you’ve run out of gas miles and miles ago. You never let me down. How to go, and go, and go with so little repairs necessary.

And for you? We have a plan. We will invest a little TLC, and find that family you are destined to continue on with. Just never forget us, and that moment we first saw each other, that early winter evening in 1999, as you sat in the Carmax parking lot, with seemingly a beacon shining upon you.

You have served well. You have been loved. Adieu, my dear Previa, adieu.

My Old Car

Our Motto

Wear and Tear, Private 3 style

Old Mobile Mission Control, and Max

Our miles together, starting at 63K

The New Car

My New Mobile Mission Control

the cup holder that will hopefully prevent so much spillage. right.

the yet undefiled back seat. today.

May we travel the many miles together, as well as our time with my Previa.

I think it may have started with what is now my new favorite show, Shalom in the Home, and is hosted by my new favorite person, The Rabbi Shmuley. Love him.

For instance.

Parents today are guilty of believing that they can have healthy children without having a healthy family environment.

There are no bad children. Only bad parents. When our kids act up, it’s time to look in the mirror.

Have you really been successful if the people who mean the most to you, think the least of you? (or don’t think of you at all?, my addition)

These, I’ve just learned, are called Shmuleyisms. Wow. He has his own isms.

So, last night’s show. Girl gone so wild. Bad, bad behavior. Only 9 years old. A little demon. She literally growled. But then, her parents were beasts. Well, one beast and a beat up, defeated, TV addicted Mom.

This kid is 9. She hits her parents. Yells at them. Talks back like I’ve never heard. And I thought I was a rebellious teen. Whew. She makes my angst ridden youth look like Gidget. And her Mom just sits there like a punching bag. And the Dad says something brilliant like do something. Anyway, you get the picture.

Just let it be know that The Rabbi Wonderful had their number, and got right to business. Love him.

So, my dream? My gentle, bright, albeit hard-headed 10 year old was out of control. Sneering at me. Grabbed my wrist with one hand and hit me with the other. Defiant beyond imagination. And. I. was. furious. (that’s probably what got me about last night’s show…they didn’t seem to give a rip their child was on route to total head spinning and yarfing pea soup)

And then I was sad. Devastated. But before I could exact discipline, some sort of party suddenly happened at our neighbor’s (that partially morphed into an attempted “intervention” by our old church people that we divorced) and I had to send the defiant Private home. To wait. While I told those church people what they could do with their intervention. And then when I got there, I realized he was having a party of his own. With like, 15 other kids off all ages, I’ve never even seen before. And when I asked him where his siblings were, he just shrugged. Oooooh, I was mad.

Now, in the real world, he would not be home alone, especially in charge of his siblings. Nor would he ever have a friend over without my being home.

So all the kids were like, Mo-o-o-m, chill, let the guy live a little (did I say he’s 10?), and I’m all like, chill? Did you say chill to me? I’ll chill you, you jerk, or some equally dumb sounding comeback. Yeah, I was scary.

But then, the really interesting part. To me, at least. And it’s my blog. Everything morphed, and I had a gravely ill infant in NICU, while wearing evening wear befitting Dynasty.

Is that Heather Locklear?

And I arrive back home bearing concerning news, but there are people I vaguely know. Acquaintances lounging all over our home, the gardens, the fountains and pool. While my cook serves them drink after drink (we’re living some sort of Danielle Steele scene). And my husband, who looks like my husband, but is not my husband, is cavorting around his home office desk with a very young and perky (read boobs) assistant.

I am so devastated. Again. As I try to tell him we need to talk about John (the child’s name), his assistant fake plants a kiss on him, and leers at me (was some sort of weed in my burger last night?). I just walk out, with my husband trailing after me, offering weak it was nothings.

I retreat to my dressing room. It is larger than the first floor of our current home. Filled to the rafters with designer clothing. Multi-hundred dollar shoes. Furs (I don’t even care for furs). Dressing gowns of silk. Diamonds.

And I start to rip it all apart in a fit of rage. But hear some women chattering. So I hide behind the Chinese imported armoir, and wait. They’ve come in to try my things on! They don’t think I’m home! And here I am, grieving my ill infant son (have I seen too many soaps?)! They’re getting silk robes and ascots out for their husbands! The indignity!!!

I wait for them to leave, and think. I know. I’m stopping this outrage right now (apparently, we just live some sort of lifestyle, like in that 80s movie about the weekend at Bernie’s, where people just mooch off us all the time, whether or not we’re actually hosting anything). So. it. has. to. stop.

I charge into the main house, and begin ranting everybody out! Out, out, out! You too! And put down that vase (although, I said v-a-a-z).
And some prissy guy was passed out in a green cashmere dressing robe of my husband’s, so I just jerked off of his body, and pushed him out the glass doors, naked. Yeah, that’ll show’im.

At this point, I realize I have some repugnant teenage children, like a boy and a girl, who have their friends over, and have become stricken by my looney behavior. Tough shit, I scream to them. It’s time to pull a little weight around here (I don’t really scream those sorts of words to my real children, of course, desperate times call for desperate measures).

I only allow my mother to stay. Although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why she’d ever allow such a thing to be going on. This dream mom must not represent my mom, cause she’d be putting a smack down on that silliness, and jerking a knot in my husband’s something.

And then I start deliriously laughing and stating that I feel soooo much better. It was time to clean house. Get rid of those moochers. At this point, my husband murmurs something about institutiolizing me, but I remind him that all this is my name, and he can’t get to it, for some reason or another, if I’m put away, so he shuts up. And I get to picking up the mess, and formulating how to start over.

Then, I remember our infant son, John, and begin to cry beautifully, and tell my husband what may be wrong. This brings us together, and he abandons his ridiculous behavior with that bimbo, we fire her, and reclaim our life together.

I really did dream all of this.

Man, I’ve got to stop watching Lifetime. Or, start trying to get this stuff published, and produced for Lifetime. Maybe starring Judith Light, or Meredith Baxter Birney.

Here is a sample, there is more:

How does a homeschooler change a lightbulb?

First, Mom checks three books on electricity out of the library, then the kids make models of light bulbs, read a biography of Thomas Edison, and do a skit based on his life.

Next, everyone studies the history of lighting methods, wrapping up with dipping their own candles.

Next, everyone takes a trip to the store where they compare types of lightbulbs, as well as prices, and figure out how much change they’ll get if they buy two bulbs for $1.99 and pay with a five-dollar bill.

On the way home, a discussion develops over the history of money and also Abraham Lincoln, as his picture is on the five-dollar bill.

Finally, after building a homemade ladder out of branches dragged from the woods, the lightbulb is installed.

And there is light…which begins a Bible study on the days of Creation.

You Know You’re A Homeschool Mom When…

When a child busts a lip, and after seeing she’s okay, you round up some Scotch tape to capture some blood and look at it under the microscope.

You find dead animals and actually consider saving them to dissect later…

Your husband can walk in at the end of a long day and tell how the science experiment went just by looking at the house…

The only debate about the school lunch program is whose turn it is to cook…

Your formal dining room now has a computer, copy machine, and many book shelves and there are educational posters and maps all over the walls…

You have meal worms growing in a container….on purpose…

You take off for a teacher in-service day because the principal needs clean underwear…

Your honor student can actually read the bumper sticker that you put on your car…

You live in a one-house schoolroom.

Her piece, and reference, is here.

Good stuff over there.

But I must add an addendum (sp?) now. At the time of that post, I was early in my recovery. Like maybe only 36 day tokens in. About 2 months more, after the DTs had subsided, and things got back to more normal, I added a few links to people I really do write outside of the blog, have much in common with, and feel encouraged by. And I don’t go there every day. Just maybe a couple of times a week. And I enable comments a while after that, just ‘cause I wanted to see if I’m really recovered. And you know what? I am.

Mostly.

I also taped little index cards around my house, in places I would see them frequently (like in the pantry, the bathroom, beside the coffee maker, and on the fridge and washing machine, and computer) saying I have right now. Cheezy, maybe. But it really does help me remember how I want to spend the bulk of my time, and it ain’t slumped over this laptop. It’s living life with my children, husband and all the other real people, to me, in my life.

I’m all verklempt.