Don’t jury-rig elevator doors when you’ve got a bunch of bombs and a forklift nearby.
Posted on February 7th, 2013
Pea has been funny, delightful, maddening, and difficult. She is five going on fifteen. Rarely a day passes where M does not have to say, “You may not speak that way to your mother,” which is annoying in that it happens almost daily, but great in that I come from a family where my parents did not back one another up and it led to all sorts of internecine strife. It’s nice to know he’s got my back.
Recently, instead of just making her apologize, I’ve been making her apologize and say she won’t do whatever it was again. Granted, she finds new ways to break rules, but it seems to be helping.
Last night, at a birthday dinner for a young lady who I met when she was just barely older than P, I told Pea (sitting next to the birthday girl) to please stop eating the birthday girl’s chocolate tart. Pea declared, “Mom, that is NOT a tart. It’s a chocolate crostini.”
Alrighty then. I know I didn’t teach her the word crostini.
Then there are days like today, where she is charming and we have fun just going to a store and vacuuming and washing the car. She talked me into buying a shirt by telling me the colors were fabulous — and then went back to perusing a coloring book while sitting in the cart basket. It’s nuts. Five? Fifteen? I don’t know.
She still hates school (not that I blame her). Remember the teacher who said she had trouble with gross motor skills? Do you know that balance test at OMSI? I watched Pea max it out (3 minutes) last Friday. (My best time is 22 seconds.) Okay, then. Not worried so much about that.
And she’s started piano. I love her piano teacher. Her studio is in a different quadrant of the city, but it’s completely worth it. Also, it’s not just piano, but it’s rhythm work crossing the midline. She loves the teacher, the lessons, she loves practicing, and this week isn’t content to practice assignments but wants to keep going forward in the book. She wants me to play for her and will order me to play particular pieces.
I have less success getting her to practice dance. She gets tired quickly (she says, which is BS because you should see this kid play tag with the boys) and to make her do it I have to do it, too. Remember how long I managed to do that balance test? Let’s just say it’s fun for everyone involved.
She is fond of saying, “Oh, my God. You guys are freaking me out!” and running away from the supper table. And she is also fond of complaining if we sing along to songs. It’s funny; I fought that battle with my husband, who used to burst into the Gilligan’s Island theme if I took too long in a clothing store. His idea of hell is the clothing store; mine is the song. I grew out of being embarrassed by it, but now mostly buy clothes online, so we’ve both won. In any case, I can’t wait until the first time he does THAT to her in public.
M is doing M things. He slices through swaths of red tape to slay bureaucratic dragons, all in order to keep people safe. The people do not appreciate this. The situations and the names change, but this is what he does. He is very good at what he does, but it is very frustrating.
As for me, I had the mother of all migraines today. On normal days, I’m writing when Pea is at school, waiting to find out about a job (I’ve interviewed twice, but my understanding is it’s a large pool, so who knows?), and generally keeping myself busy. I’m up to 14 books this year, although I’ve padded that with some Nero Wolfe.
I’m currently reading Commander: The Life and Exploits of Britain’s Greatest Frigate Captain (Edward Pellew, since it’s open to debate). Interesting enough as it is, truth being stranger than fiction, but I keep getting distracted by the extra “e” in judgment. Why does only God get the extra “e” in the US, but everyone gets it in the UK? Is the UK more egalitarian now? Why did the US publisher not fix this? And why is this bothering me today? I guess I’ll blame the migraine.
I came across this sentence, too: “On crossing the Hudson, they came to a place called Saratoga.”
Yes. Yes, there’s a place in New York called Saratoga. It’s…kind of important. A biggie. Maybe this is not common knowledge in the UK, but it’s like saying, “They came to a place called Waterloo.” I don’t mind; it just makes the reading more amusing. (At least we got a laugh out of it.)
Something fun about reading naval history and sharing it with M (who is past his naval history phase, but tolerates my reminding him of it) is that he pops up with stories from when he was in the Navy, long before I knew him. Today it was about how a bunch of unarmed bombs and a forklift fell several decks down an elevator shaft from the mess deck of the aircraft carrier. (M, who was about to eat, decided the smart thing to do was to take his tray back to the scullery and go up to the 03 deck.) Take-home message: don’t jury-rig elevator doors when you’ve got a bunch of bombs and a forklift nearby. Word to the wise.