Multiple ambulances, fire trucks and cops sped by our house a few hours ago. They were so loud and so bright and they just kept coming… we were sure the Peanut would wake up. We went to the news to see what was going on, but we’re not in a big city, so we came up with nothing. But then the Chop pulled out his phone, said “I have a police and fire scanner APP,” and we proceeded to listen in (along with 71 other people).
A three car accident, teenagers it sounds like, and two LifeFlights were called in. One cop on the band gave another the address of one of the kid’s parents and told them to go tell them. He gave turn-by-turn directions and we were surprised to hear that the parents live just a few streets from us, on a road we take walks on almost every day.
Is it normal for the cops to say names of people involved in accidents over the radio? What if her parents were listening and heard them say their name? Is it normal to give out the full address and directions? Shouldn’t the band be protected in some way?
I felt like such a voyeur, and it was so interesting, but my god, I hope I never hear my name.
I hope I raise a child who says “thank you†to the bus driver when he gets off the bus, “please†to the waiter taking his order at the restaurant, and holds the elevator doors when someone’s rushing to get in.
I hope I raise a child who loses graciously and wins without bragging. I hope he learns that disappointments are fleeting and so are triumphs, and if he comes home at night to people who love him, neither one matter. Nobody is keeping score, except sometimes on Facebook.
I hope I raise a child who will stick up for a kid who’s being bullied on the playground. I also hope I raise a child who, if he’s the one being bullied, fights back. Hard. Oh, and if he’s the bully? I hope he realizes that his mother, who once wore brown plastic glasses and read the phonebook on the school bus, will cause him more pain than a bully ever could.
And I hope that if my child turns out to be a colossal screw-up, I take it in stride. I hope I remember that he’s his own person, and there’s only so much I can do. He is not an appendage to be dangled from my breasts on the cover of a magazine, his success is not my ego’s accessory, and I am not Super Mom.
One of my favorite things about the Porkchop is his excellent taste in music – and his ability to find new music know I will like it, and either buy it or send it my way. He introduced me to this band today, a group he stumbled upon while looking for a video for a sobbing Peanut (he woke up from a very short nap in tears).
They’re awesome and have a great story. A small group out of Canada who created loads of low budget videos, posted them on YouTube and parlayed that into a record deal with Columbia. I love stories like this.
Regina’s bare skin is the same color as her fur! It’s a crazy kaleidoscope of mottled grey, black and white. You wouldn’t even realize she’s been shaved unless you were right next to her.
Drugged dog whining is more sad and pathetic than normal dog whining. Also, groaning. It’s very sad.
I don’t “slowly come to a stop” at stoplights, according to the Porkchop. Apparently I’m a jerk-and-go driver? Driving the two of them home from the vet, both in the far back (sans seatbelt), was a pain in the butt. FOR ME!
The Peanut really missed his dog. And eight weeks to a dog AND a baby are an eternity.
My mother saved so much more crap from our childhood than I realized. Penmanship exercises (those didn’t take), spelling homework and nine million pictures of Christmas trees are just a few of the items I’ve told her to toss. Because seriously.
Maurice Sendak wrote more books than I realized. All interesting, all telling of his own youth. He will be missed.
The surgeon called after Regina’s surgery with the verdict: one completely ruptured ligament, one half torn ligament and a torn meniscus. She did well and gets to come home tomorrow, but apparently the “keep her chill” instructions are more like “crate her in a tiny space for eight weeks and omg, don’t let her run, jump, walk, hang out with the baby…” The Chop and I are now far more stressed than we were before – keeping her in the house is one thing, keeping her locked in a small space is something completely different. Especially because she has a rather high-pitched whine that she likes to employ when she’s feeling mistreated, sigh.
After a week of gray, overcast and sometimes drizzly weather, today was the first day of sun. And it was glorious. The Peanut was beyond excited to go to the park and getting away from the sad sack dog made the Chop and I immeasurably happy.
This is really the one reason I will never move back to the Pacific Northwest. It rains so goddamn much that people literally want to kill themselves. No thanks, all set.
The Peanut has, of late, begun to realize just how funny he can be. It’s dangerous. Usually he just mimics our faces, but now he’s starting to come up with his own.
I Skype my mom every day. It’s always entertaining and I like helping the Peanut know her. She’s currently emptying their garage and attic of stuff, and so has taken to showing me boxes of my stuff over the computer. Artwork, schoolwork, stuffed animals… and today, all the cool hats I made in grade school.
The Peanut had his qualification appointment for early intervention today. Four women showed up, played with him, talked with us, watched him eat and after two hours presented us with their recommendation.
Both the Chop and I have talkative families who love food, so I never really considered that our kid would have any sort of speech or feeding delay. When he wasn’t that interested in other foods, we just assumed he was picky – the Chop is picky – and when he refused to eat things, we just assumed he was strong-willed (which he is, lol).
He tested above his age for social, motor and cognitive skills, but qualified for the program with his adaptive and communication skills… ie, food and words. We wanted him to qualify, because the program looks awesome – if the women who showed up today are any indication – but it’s still a tough pill to swallow.
