As many of us all over the world did, I watched the video of the dad who shot the laptop because his daughter is a teenage brat.
It was nostalgic, really. I also realized how much I appreciate having grown up in the era before social media.
For instance, there was no video evidence of the night I said "F*** You!" to my dad, and my sister thought I was going to die. It would be totally embarrassing if anyone saw how tough I really was... hiding in a closet.
Back then, when some kid took topless pictures of half the Senior girls, he got in trouble for DEVELOPING FILM in class. It's comforting to know that if somebody wanted to be pervy with an up-close of my chest, he'd have to go through the photography teacher.
If I had a crush on a boy, I wrote "Ryan Ashley Boys-Last-Name" a hundred and twenty times in PRIVATE. The only type of hacking that would help some busy-body find my love notes would be prying open my combination locker.
When I snuck out to a wild party, not once did I ever worry about a random video posting of my Boones Farm stupidity making it's way back to my parents.
Maybe I'm just old-fashioned. I like my private pictures on photo paper, my secret love notes folded into a triangle, and all of it stuffed into a shoe box in the back of my closet.
Sanity or Patience: choose one.
Friday, February 10
Monday, December 19
Up-Down, Up-Down
I've watched the movie Parenthood with Steve Martin maybe 5 times in my whole life, beginning when I was a tween. Every time I watch it, I seem to be in a different section of life. Tween, teen, early twenties, late twenties right after Monsoon was born, and just now in my early thirties. Every time I see it, I find something new and hilarious that I can relate with - something I never even noticed in the movie before.
There's one scene that has stuck with me since that very first viewing at the By-Jo Theatre when I must have been only 11 or 12 years old.
When life seems like a perpetual string of insanity, I think of Batty old Grandma from Parenthood, chittering about her first roller coaster ride. "Up, down, up, down, oh what a ride... Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. Hmph..."
Sometimes life does feel like that first ride, climbing a hill for far too long. It's exhilarating and uncomfortable. It makes you feel sick half way up and might even be a little regrettable, but once you finally get to the top, you only have a few fleeting moments of fear before the momentum catches you and you can't help but smile through the screams.
There are two lessons in riding twice. You know what's coming the second time around. You're prepared, and there are fewer surprises along the way.
Lesson 1 - The more you ride, the more comfortable you get.
Lesson 2 - Those unexpected twists and turns, those hidden loops and surprise falls... they were a really big part of the fun.
There's one scene that has stuck with me since that very first viewing at the By-Jo Theatre when I must have been only 11 or 12 years old.
When life seems like a perpetual string of insanity, I think of Batty old Grandma from Parenthood, chittering about her first roller coaster ride. "Up, down, up, down, oh what a ride... Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. Hmph..."
Sometimes life does feel like that first ride, climbing a hill for far too long. It's exhilarating and uncomfortable. It makes you feel sick half way up and might even be a little regrettable, but once you finally get to the top, you only have a few fleeting moments of fear before the momentum catches you and you can't help but smile through the screams.
There are two lessons in riding twice. You know what's coming the second time around. You're prepared, and there are fewer surprises along the way.
Lesson 1 - The more you ride, the more comfortable you get.
Lesson 2 - Those unexpected twists and turns, those hidden loops and surprise falls... they were a really big part of the fun.
Monday, September 19
Bad Mommy: I was never a star student
Screaming, for me, is a regular element in the finishing of course work. It's been that way since first grade - or whenever it was we started learning about math (math is stupid, by the way).
In elementary, it often went like, "I HATE math! I hate YOU! I'm stupid! I don't WANT to do it! I don't CARE!!!" At the time, I probably would rather have lived in a box and had no parents than actually sit down and think about subtracting 3 from 7.
In Junior High, it went more like, "I HATE math! I hate YOU! I'm stupid! I don't WANT to do it! I don't CARE!!!" At that time, I definitely would rather have lived in a box and had no parents. Except for the box part - I needed my curling iron and hair spray.
High School was a little different. "I hate EVERYTHING! I hate YOU! YOU'RE stupid! I don't CARE!!!" I did actually move out for a couple of days - not to a box, but it might as well have been. I still didn't care if I had parents, but they did buy my Guess Jeans, so I didn't stay gone long.
Now, as an adult going back to school, things have changed just a tad. There's less blaming of my parents, and boxes don't hold the same intrique; but there's still yelling, more eloquent "bleeping," and sometimes I throw things.
Today, Monsoon said to me, "I'm sorry you're computer doesn't work when you want it to, Mommy. But maybe you should get off those not-nice-words when you're angry."
I feel like I should probably set a better example of how you're supposed to behave while studying. Or maybe he'll make a note of not being an idiot like his mother?
Monday, September 12
Bam. Right when I least expected it.
I didn't cry the day Monsoon started Kindergarten. I fully expected to be a soggy mess. I waited all day, but the tears just never came.
The morning went nothing like I anticipated, though. The bus was twenty minutes late, and then it passed our house so we had to run down the street to catch it. I got right in my car and drove straight to school, but all the surrounding streets were packed, so I had to park two blocks away. As soon as I stepped out of the car, his bus passed me. I told him I would be waiting when he got off the bus, so what else could I do? I booked it all the way to the school, half of the path being straight up a huge hill. I couldn't feel my legs by the time I got to him, but he was just stepping onto the sidewalk. I was just in time. We walked to his room together, holding hands, and when we got there, his eyes lit up and he was ready to begin his new adventure. Such a big boy.
I still didn't cry. Probably when I could feel my legs again, I'll be able to cry, I thought. A handful of people called or texted to see how I was doing (funny, they knew I was the one the worry about, not the boy). I couldn't believe it myself, but I was completely fine. Maybe I had grown and matured, too. Maybe I could enjoy the sweetness of this day, rather than finding it just a tad bitter.
Today, I was out running errands and happened to drive by his old preschool. The one he went to for 2 1/2 years; the one he started when he was barely three.
As I drove by, a memory drifted through my head of a little boy with baby-fine hair, ears too big for his head, wearing his tiny navy winter coat that went all the way down to his knees, holding my hand as we walked into that school. I saw his big eyes taking in everything new, saw his little feet pattering down the hall, trying to keep up with my pace. I felt his gentle kiss on my cheek, his short chubby arms around my neck... I heard him squeal, "Mommy!!" in his three year old voice and remembered how he would say, "I Yike school," when he couldn't make the L sound.
So this is how it happened. This is how it finally hit me, and I cried all the way home.
The morning went nothing like I anticipated, though. The bus was twenty minutes late, and then it passed our house so we had to run down the street to catch it. I got right in my car and drove straight to school, but all the surrounding streets were packed, so I had to park two blocks away. As soon as I stepped out of the car, his bus passed me. I told him I would be waiting when he got off the bus, so what else could I do? I booked it all the way to the school, half of the path being straight up a huge hill. I couldn't feel my legs by the time I got to him, but he was just stepping onto the sidewalk. I was just in time. We walked to his room together, holding hands, and when we got there, his eyes lit up and he was ready to begin his new adventure. Such a big boy.
I still didn't cry. Probably when I could feel my legs again, I'll be able to cry, I thought. A handful of people called or texted to see how I was doing (funny, they knew I was the one the worry about, not the boy). I couldn't believe it myself, but I was completely fine. Maybe I had grown and matured, too. Maybe I could enjoy the sweetness of this day, rather than finding it just a tad bitter.
Today, I was out running errands and happened to drive by his old preschool. The one he went to for 2 1/2 years; the one he started when he was barely three.
As I drove by, a memory drifted through my head of a little boy with baby-fine hair, ears too big for his head, wearing his tiny navy winter coat that went all the way down to his knees, holding my hand as we walked into that school. I saw his big eyes taking in everything new, saw his little feet pattering down the hall, trying to keep up with my pace. I felt his gentle kiss on my cheek, his short chubby arms around my neck... I heard him squeal, "Mommy!!" in his three year old voice and remembered how he would say, "I Yike school," when he couldn't make the L sound.
So this is how it happened. This is how it finally hit me, and I cried all the way home.
Tuesday, September 6
And so it begins...
Kindergarten starts today.
I'll make him chocolate chip pancakes, and we will sit at the table and chat about the exciting day ahead. I will lay out his first-day-of-school clothes and remind him to brush his teeth and use the potty before he leaves. I will take loads of pictures, of course.
I'll hold his hand in the driveway while we watch the big, yellow bus rumble up our street. We will hear it's unmistakable "screeeeech... Puffffff" as it stops. He will let go of my hand and climb onto the bus. I will wave. I might blow him a kiss, if it won't embarrass him - I'll have to remember to ask.
I'll take my mother's advice and drive to school, meeting him when the bus parks to make sure he knows where to go from there. This is more for me than for him, I know. I will walk him to his classroom. I hope he wants to hold my hand while we walk, but I'll understand if he doesn't.
I will try really hard to not be ridiculous tomorrow morning. I'll try really hard not to cry.
He says I won't be sad like the pretend parents in his 'The Night Before Kindergarten' storybook. "They're silly," he says. "They don't know the kids get to go home after school."
They are silly, I tell him.
I don't tell him I'm silly, too.
I'll make him chocolate chip pancakes, and we will sit at the table and chat about the exciting day ahead. I will lay out his first-day-of-school clothes and remind him to brush his teeth and use the potty before he leaves. I will take loads of pictures, of course.
I'll hold his hand in the driveway while we watch the big, yellow bus rumble up our street. We will hear it's unmistakable "screeeeech... Puffffff" as it stops. He will let go of my hand and climb onto the bus. I will wave. I might blow him a kiss, if it won't embarrass him - I'll have to remember to ask.
I'll take my mother's advice and drive to school, meeting him when the bus parks to make sure he knows where to go from there. This is more for me than for him, I know. I will walk him to his classroom. I hope he wants to hold my hand while we walk, but I'll understand if he doesn't.
I will try really hard to not be ridiculous tomorrow morning. I'll try really hard not to cry.
He says I won't be sad like the pretend parents in his 'The Night Before Kindergarten' storybook. "They're silly," he says. "They don't know the kids get to go home after school."
They are silly, I tell him.
I don't tell him I'm silly, too.
Monday, September 5
Enemim King
Hello, my name is Ashley and I'm a chocoholic.
My dad gave me half of his Hershey bar when I was barely old enough to eat jarred mush. My mom once picked me up from Kindergarten with an unopened pack of M&Ms in her winter coat pocket, and the first words out of my mouth when I closed the car door were, "I smell chocolate." I can tell the difference between brands of chocolate used in homemade ice cream (FYI: the Valrhona was better than the Ghirardelli). My husband makes me brownies when I'm having a bad week - and he knows not to eat more than one. The rest of the pan is mine. I'm ashamed to admit that I have eaten an entire devil's food cake on more than one occasion. I can honestly not remember the last time I went an entire day without chocolate in some form or another.
So the other day, after Monsoon played the pretty funny joke on me, I was going to need a quick choco-fix or I was going to lose my cool. I ran to the cupboard, knowing all I had were a couple measly bags of chocolate chips. I had to reach up to get them, but when they came down, something else - something bigger - fell on my head.
It was the biggest bag of M&Ms I've ever seen, a parting gift from a coworker before we moved, and I had completely forgotten about them. It was like they were glowing under the florescent light above the kitchen sink and I could almost hear angels singing on high as I stared down at the unopened bag. Of course the boy walked in before I could regain my composure (or hide them), so I poured us a bowl and we played Rummy while we snacked.
After a while, he said, "There's only one left, Mommy. Do you want it? Or can I have it?"
"Monsoon, there are 4 M&Ms left in that bowl."
He looked at me like I was an idiot, rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah. I eat them four at a time."
Apparently this addiction is genetic.
My dad gave me half of his Hershey bar when I was barely old enough to eat jarred mush. My mom once picked me up from Kindergarten with an unopened pack of M&Ms in her winter coat pocket, and the first words out of my mouth when I closed the car door were, "I smell chocolate." I can tell the difference between brands of chocolate used in homemade ice cream (FYI: the Valrhona was better than the Ghirardelli). My husband makes me brownies when I'm having a bad week - and he knows not to eat more than one. The rest of the pan is mine. I'm ashamed to admit that I have eaten an entire devil's food cake on more than one occasion. I can honestly not remember the last time I went an entire day without chocolate in some form or another.
So the other day, after Monsoon played the pretty funny joke on me, I was going to need a quick choco-fix or I was going to lose my cool. I ran to the cupboard, knowing all I had were a couple measly bags of chocolate chips. I had to reach up to get them, but when they came down, something else - something bigger - fell on my head.
It was the biggest bag of M&Ms I've ever seen, a parting gift from a coworker before we moved, and I had completely forgotten about them. It was like they were glowing under the florescent light above the kitchen sink and I could almost hear angels singing on high as I stared down at the unopened bag. Of course the boy walked in before I could regain my composure (or hide them), so I poured us a bowl and we played Rummy while we snacked.
After a while, he said, "There's only one left, Mommy. Do you want it? Or can I have it?"
"Monsoon, there are 4 M&Ms left in that bowl."
He looked at me like I was an idiot, rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah. I eat them four at a time."
Apparently this addiction is genetic.
Saturday, September 3
A Good Joke, Huh Mommy?
Monsoon wasn't feeling too hot the other night, so I gave him a cool, wet compress to put on his forehead. He thought it was awesome and it helped him enough so that he could go to sleep.
The next day, I told him I was going to take a nap. "Go ahead and play, I'll just lay here on your bed and sleep for a bit." Of course I would loved to have taken a nap, but I didn't actually intend to.
I hadn't closed my eyes for an entire minute when I heard him sneak close to me to check if I was asleep yet. I kept my eyes shut. He got excited and quickly left the room, whispering, "I know what I can do for Mommy!" with a giggle. Then I heard the bathroom water running.
How sweet, I thought. He's going to give me a cool compress to help me sleep. I love that kid!
So I waited, keeping my eyes shut, barely able to suppress a grin when I heard him creep back into the room.
He lifted the sopping wet, ice cold wash cloth over me, and squeezed it as hard as he could.
Then he cackled. "That was a pretty good joke, huh Mommy?" More cackling.
I just don't know where he gets this demented sense of humor.
The next day, I told him I was going to take a nap. "Go ahead and play, I'll just lay here on your bed and sleep for a bit." Of course I would loved to have taken a nap, but I didn't actually intend to.
I hadn't closed my eyes for an entire minute when I heard him sneak close to me to check if I was asleep yet. I kept my eyes shut. He got excited and quickly left the room, whispering, "I know what I can do for Mommy!" with a giggle. Then I heard the bathroom water running.
How sweet, I thought. He's going to give me a cool compress to help me sleep. I love that kid!
So I waited, keeping my eyes shut, barely able to suppress a grin when I heard him creep back into the room.
He lifted the sopping wet, ice cold wash cloth over me, and squeezed it as hard as he could.
Then he cackled. "That was a pretty good joke, huh Mommy?" More cackling.
I just don't know where he gets this demented sense of humor.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
