Sketchy Bedtime stories

Are the German lessons leading to her nudist behavior?

Last night when I put my daughter in the bath I noticed a bruise on her back. I asked her, "when did you get that boo boo?"
She said, "tomorrow."

I replied, "No. that can't be right since tomorrow has not happened yet."

She said, "tomorrow!"

I thought about tomorrow already existing, and how an impression from then could appear now, and how life is if tomorrow already had been. After a minute, I picked up my phone and read Twitter while singing a song about 4 little ducks while frequently telling my kids to not splash so much.

Per usual routine, after baths and getting the baby in bed, I read to my daughter from a book of stories by Hans Christian Andersen. She really likes reading The Ugly Duckling. The first few times reading it I was skeptical since the ugly duckling has a dreadful start filled with terrible abuse; hunger, death and sadness, but the ending is so beautifully endearing I am a sucker for it as well.
Even though this story reads rather violently, it is the least offensive racially. Two other stories we read often, The Sheperdess and The Chimney sweep as well as The nightingale use the word Chinamen so frequently I am dumbfounded. I replace the word with Chinese man, but still that seems awkward, as it is othering a particular culture. My favorite part of The Nightengale is when the emperor threatens to punch everyone in the stomach after eating their supper if they don't find the bird. Thats hilarious, so worth doing some word swapping for. There also seems to be a fascination with Chinese people nodding. It is referenced once in The Nightingale, and frequently in The Sheperdess and The Chimney Sweep. The book really demonstrates how much more global we have become. The Far East is not foreign anymore, and I would have never associated excessive head nodding with Chinese culture, but an 1800's children's writer from Denmark, would see things much differently.
My daughter is not allowed to watch her TV show this week because she acted absolutely diabolical when I drove her to school on Thursday morning. In times where she isn't under punishment I will let her watch some Youtube videos when I am cooking dinner. I like to play her German nursery rhymes because it is good to start her on another language. I hear her singing these German songs in her car seat and it makes me laugh to myself because we both don't have any idea what she is saying. At the end of each video the screen populates with videos of similar liking, and she chooses another one. What I think is rather uncommon, but her absolute favorite youtube video, is bound to pop up after just a couple 2 minute nursery rhymes.
The video is a Disney Reviewer, and she insists I click on it every time. These videos bug me because they are 10 minutes long. The reviewer is anonymous, and apparently has the most hits on YouTube. This reeks of conspiracy theory. I thought that the reviewer was someone in China because she seems to have a Chinese accent, but since her hands are all thats seen, I was unable to get a sense of how often she nods (just kidding! its a great mystery to everyone, as the article says, which really only adds to the conspiracy theory).
All my daughter's Christmas presents from Santa were products that she watched on Disney Reviewers videos. She makes dresses out of play doh for little Disney dolls, and my daughter can watch this for hours! I have to stop the madness after 10 minutes though because it seems like a bizarre source of entertainment. Then again, we are reading a bedtime story about a swan whose life begins in the most dreary way imaginable; runs away from home after enduring horrific bullying, watches wild geese get shot dead in front of him, freezes in a lake, and finds himself getting kicked and chased by humans.

Mom's German lesson: Bier ist gut

Big mistake... Huge

Last night I made a big mistake, huge! Baby George started crying around 2:30am. Usually he is a baby I can brag about; sleeps like a champ and always happy. For the last week he has been a real son of a ... Wait, never mind, a real pain in the neck, and has not taken a nap. He walks around his crib, throws all his toys, shouts and talks to himself for an hour and a half. 

Attempting to move his nap time to 30 minutes later kind of worked, except he fell asleep when I'd usually go get him up, and was sitting up with his head nodding to the side every couple minutes rousing him enough to have his eyes pop open but then shut back to sleep again.

Last night he started crying at 2:30, and usually I'd just let him cry for a minute and he drifts back to sleep. Since we have awful colds right now, I became worried about him crying. Also, before bedtime he was playing in a laundry basket and fell over onto his head, so I was paranoid he needed extra TLC.

I went into his room, which likely surprised him more than anything.  He came in my arms and snuggled, such a nice moment, for about 5 minutes, then he thought it was party time.

He sits up and with his eyes twinkling, gives me this huge smile. I swallowed hard and thought, oh fuck, I've been bamboozled by this baby!"

For the next 3 hours I worked on getting him back to sleep. My daughter woke up around 4 and joined in on the shit show. When evey one was back to sleep a little after 5, I was hopeful we'd get to sleep in; a fruitless expectation.

Today my lungs feel like they're full of spider webs. My kids must feel awful because, even though it's much less than they'd drink when healthy, they are drinking milk in this horrible flem state.

Yesterday, I thought I had a pimple on my jawline. I figured it was caused by reading books with the kids in my lap, their heads resting on my chin, or from all the yogurt I have been eating lately. I'm supposed to be nondairy since it gives me monster zits, but each day I'm eating their leftover yogurt. They open a yogurt and take one bite, and then I'm forced to eat it in order to avoid wasting $2. Thriftiness trumping vanity.

I was pinching this horrid pimple hoping to pop it, but it didn't do anything but make it hurt. All night as I was trying to get George to fall asleep he kept smashing his head into it. Now it is purple and hurts so badly to the touch.

Presently, I don't think it is a pimple at all, but a swollen gland from my cold, and pinching it was way more stupid than pinching a pimple. I have spent all morning worried that pinching a gland will lead to thyroid issues and I'm going to gain 200 pounds. 

Luckily, because George had the worst night sleep ever last night (no joke, it really was because even as a newborn he slept through the night; perfect baby) he finally took a nap today. Hopefully this is going to ripple us back onto our normal schedule that went to shit from 3 weeks of travel for the holidays. Not worth blowing a gland over, but a welcome backlash to being up all night.

Hair Care and the Memories

Hugging through hair brushing!

Convincing my daughter to brush her hair is so much trouble, I often find myself letting her get her own way, and not brushing it. This only makes her hair 100 times worse to brush out when it is the tangled rat’s nest she so enjoys to fashion. Presently, I am brushing her hair daily, putting up with the tears because I am hopeful, as each day passes she will get more used to it, and enjoy it. I try my best to not pull on her tangles, and I brush her hair as gently as I would brush a really old persons hair, hair so fine it would pull from the scalp with a light tug.

I remember visiting my grandma shortly before she died. I was with my sisters and we were all chatting. My grandma was always a vibrant woman, but by the end of her life she was one foot out the door. She became confused, and not very good at communicating. She asked me to tweeze hairs from her chin, and I did it. I think I took the job too seriously, and went at it full speed ahead. I noticed her wincing in pain, but I figured it was a natural pain, like what I feel when I tweeze.

My sister told me to stop, and when I looked at my Grandma she had a terribly angry expression on her face, like she was ready to slap me. I am not sure if she wanted to tell me to stop, and couldn’t manage to do it, or if she forgot that she asked me to begin tweezing in the first place, but she was vehemently angry towards me, and I felt awful.

The last years of her life I was remember receiving a couple looks of disdain from her. Once we went out to a big family dinner the night before a funeral for my aunt who unexpectedly died. I was talking about a summer internship I was working on, and perhaps I sounded conceited, or trying to be overly impressive. I remember talking about how I felt fat (I know, at this point in my life, it was a stupid thing for me to say and not because I was much slimmer then I am currently) but I felt her eye roll and her amusement with the conversation extinguish. 

I don’t want these memories to have a strong impression on me because they make me feel like I had failed to be remarkable to her. She had 25 grandkids, so there really are only a few slots for the people who she considered to be kindred.

My life was rocky last year at this time, and I dreamt about her twice. In one dream, I was on a kayak and came up to the back of her house, which is on water, and I saw her sitting on the couch through the living room windows, her face was in her hands and she was crying. She came to the dock and looked young, her hair was beautiful and she was wearing a gorgeous dress. In the other dream, I was standing in my kitchen, trying to decide how much rice to make. I was staring at the back of the package and she came around the corner, and I just hugged her and started crying so hard into her shoulder. She was a very short woman, not even 5 foot, so my face came down into her shoulder like a child held in their mother’s arms. The dream was comforting maybe because I cried all the sadness that had built up in me. I woke up sobbing, and soaked from tears, but the hug from my grandma was as if she was saying, “everything is going to be ok.”

When my mom brushed my hair as a child it was always torturous. She would put my hair in a ponytail every day and I would complete the look by accessorizing it with a headband. I don’t remember ever recoiling in pain, or making a fit with tears and screaming, but I still recall the dissatisfaction I had with the job. I remember thinking, why can’t she figure out how to do a French braid? During a sick day, probably around 2^nd grade, my mom put my hair in curlers. As I looked in the mirror, bouncing a curl, my mom came in from behind and brushed the curls out. I didn’t want her to brush them out, but she told me it is how hair should be. Begrudgingly, my romantic Shirley Temple curls when to a poufy wavy fro, eighties hair.

I probably gave her a look similar to a look my grandma gave me, and let her carryon with the way she wanted to style my hair. And now, almost 30 years later, I think about why she wouldn’t style my hair the way I wanted her to.

She survived!

Rise and Shine

I was up most the night last night, laying next to my daughter who has a cold. She rarely gets sick, but when she does it is like I'm dealing with a terminally ill patient. She wakes up frequently and the discomfort from congestion leads her to scream at the top of her lungs then roll over and fall back to sleep. So every hour or so last night I violently awoke to my daughter yelling. The jarring and sporadic bursts of short sleep made me especially irritable this morning. 

At 7, Kiki's usual wake up time, she was surprisingly spry and jumped out of bed and began playing with her toys. I laid there paralyzed from exhaustion and she started to decorate me like she would a Christmas tree. Placing the crown on my head she said, "Princess mommy is trapped in the tallest tower." Too groggy to talk, I thought, "I wish!" 

After 10 minutes of unsuccessfully trying to enact some untapped magic within so I could make myself disappear I relinquished to the present forces and engaged in the make believe game of trapped princess. I asked my daughter to make me imaginary coffee and cook me an imaginary breakfast burrito. She happily toiled away at her little kitchen. After a strong cup of fake coffee I was ready to get up and make a pot of real coffee.

Running Skirt Serves Purpose

Running shorts under the skirt make sure you don't show your badge if you fall down

My daughter started watching a cartoon about a cat sheriff. It's a cute show where the animals speak in an old western accent saying things like "reckon" or "partner" and they break out in song, some really catchy country music. I have an old brown sweater vest I gave to her to wear, just like the cat sheriff. The vest hangs past her knees, but she doesn't seem to mind, as now in her mind she IS the cat sheriff. Everyone else in the family is a character from the show. I am now called, "Priscilla," which is a pretty great name. At the playground, my daughter calling me by a first name, only adds to the speculation that I am my super pale white-haired daughter's nanny.

The intro song to the cartoon is the sheriff cat singing, and in it, she points out the badge on her vest. My daughter, similarly, points out the imaginary badge on her vest. However, when she says badge, it sounds more like "vag," pronounced "vadge," like vagina. I tried correcting her a couple times, but I don't want to make her feel like she is doing something wrong, since she isn't. I can just imagine her at preschool talking to her already skeptical teachers about her "vadge."

I call her my Little Lady since she turned out to be a super feminine gal. Her stance on only wearing dresses and skirts is bordering on anti-feminist. Her fascination with make up is pretty fanatical. I can lure her from the edge of any meltdown with the promise of using lip gloss. If it weren't for her gut busting appreciation for poop jokes and desire to strip down to her underwear whenever seeing water or a sofa, she might be able to join the lady advisors overseeing Kate Middleton. 

My daughter gets her super lady sensibilities from my mother. My mother takes 2 hours to get ready for the day and she inherited this beauty process from her own mom, my grandma Jackie, who takes 3 hours to get ready. When I'm at my parents house my daughter stands next to my mom and participates in the entire beautification process. 

My daughter gets a bit sensitive when I pick her up from school in jogging clothes. She always asks me, "are you sweaty?" If I am, she will shriek and scream, "don't touch me." It's a bit much, but my mom is the same way. To her, wearing jogging clothes in public when not jogging is as wild as wearing pajamas. She actually thinks jogging is pretty ludicrous, and likes to blame any affliction or illness I have on "that jogging." My mom bought me a jogging skirt, which I laughed at and tucked in the back of my closet. It seemed unnecessary to put a skirt over running shorts, but lately it comes in very handy because I can pick up my daughter from school wearing it, and she is so proud of me for dressing like a lady by wearing a skirt. 

George is making out with himself

Miso Purdy and Phone Obsessed

I see you George, even when Im captivated by information that seems to be constantly updating but never changing

A resolution to not sit on my phone during idle time was easily settled upon after being in Mexico for the first week of the New Year. I did not pay to get an international phone plan, so I spent a week without a phone. The phone was zipped up in the side pocket of my carryon bag, unbeknownst to the hotel staff, hiding in plain sight, and I carried on my week of relaxation just as I normally would except I didn’t have a phone always in my hand or within arm’s reach.

Since I didn’t have my phone on hand I went the entire vacation without taking a single picture. The trip was very enjoyable, but didn't need to be memorialized in digital print, as we spent the most of the time in the pool, or next to the pool, or at the beach below the pool. Had I had a camera, and been taking pictures with the same frequency I do back at home, I would have 300 pictures of the same thing. The only time I did wish I had a camera was when I went to Señor Frogs. They have bar stools where the backs are butts in different varieties of undies, with tattoos or kiss marks. Very cute, especially when a baby is sitting in the chair. So I lined up with the kids in the bar stools and asked my sister to take our picture. We were all set to say cheese, and my sister said, "Where is your camera?" I told her I didn't have one and to use hers, but she didn't have one either. Truly a great moment lost forever because my sister was also on a week without a phone and too bogged down to carry along a bulky camera as well.

Another reason a camera wasn't necessary is my not being as picture perfect as I'd hope to be. I'd be haunched over spraying sunblock on the kids and my dad would come up behind and take a great photo of my kids face next to my bright and shiny butt. To wear mascara, even waterproof, is not too appealing because by the time lunch rolls around there will be black makeup smudged down my cheeks giving the impression I have been crying over a bottle of vodka all morning. And my hair, which is a totally different life force in the Caribbean climate is always wet. If I tried to blow dry my hair in Cancun, it would take 4 hours, and I'd probably need to use a blow torch. I took a shower and went to meet my little sister who immediately grinned, and told me my hair reminded her of The Predator. I think she could sense my reaction to punch her in the stomach, and she said, "That's a compliment!" Being compared to a murderous monster from a childhood movie is never a compliment, but I was easily swayed to relax as it is the vibe pulsating through the resort.

I did bring a camera on the trip, but every time I went to leave the hotel room, and would see my bulky camera bag, I’d look down at my enormous beach bag bursting with diapers, shovels, floatation devices, sunscreen, water bottles, towels, changes of clothes, and I’d say to myself, “The camera is not coming. I will just hide this in plain sight under a pile of dirty laundry.” 

The camera bag is the size of a child’s lunchbox and when the camera is not in the bag it hangs from my neck with the mindless undulations of a set of large non-bolstered women’s breasts. So I smack a thousand dollar camera in my kids’ face when I am going into give them a kiss, making me feel quite guilty and them utterly confused. At least it wont cost me anything to smack the camera into some doughy flesh, but it will cost me greatly, if I swing around to get my stroller from rolling into the street and hit my camera onto a bus billboard of a woman wearing a thong bikini getting great relief from the scorching sun thanks to her very refreshing Fanta cola. Who am I kidding? If my camera broke, I’d hardly notice it is missing from my life, since I can’t be bothered to use it once I got an iPhone. Since getting an iPhone my camera, that 3 years ago was the height of technology, has been shelved, practically shunned. As if it were on a giant tripod where I drape a black sheet over my head to snap the shot, the piece of equipment has become terribly outdated to me now.

When not on vacation I take about 10 pictures a day, they are mainly of my kids with a selfie or landscape here and there. Probably too many selfies than I am willing to admit to, but I have this condition, it's called Miso Purdy, and I can't help my selfie tendencies. The cell phone camera has made picture taking so convenient, thoughtless, and possibly even reactionary to anything that gives off feelings of joy that it has become less a mechanism of capturing a unique memory and more a tool of cataloging a living life. The idea of taking a picture with an actual camera to freeze a memory more meaningful than a moment where I say, “awe, how cute!” is as preposterous as not carrying around a phone at all.

I think George suffers from Miso Purdy too.

Since returning home I have not been loyal to my resolution. I would really benefit from some type of app that would not allow me onto certain sites during day time hours, or even better, I'd benefit from some self control. I don’t know what it is, but this phone is like crack. I actually have no excuse to even own one for more than entertainment reasons aside from GPS, as I am not working a job where I need to be in constant communication, or read urgent emails. Im still riding the waves of relaxation though, as I don't really care too much. Next month, I can really tackle this issue, along with the self control, and I might as well bump flossing my teeth to next month as well, since they all seem to be intact and functioning well. It's all good.

Where my Frauda and WayBans at?

Don't got my Frauda, but I am tan!!

I am in Cancun, and today we intended to get a bit of the local life, but we never actually found it. The local life does not seem to exist, and every tourist is forced into a trap of indignity with overpriced food, and watered down drinks. This complaint does not come heavy handed since I am floating on a cloud made of nacho cheese sauce and Dos Equis (not a fart cloud, sucio.)
Most resorts here are "all inclusive" so they basically stuff food down your throat all day and whatever room is left is to be filled with beer. Now I see why people do not leave their all-inclusive compound, it is not because a drug lord's henchmen will snatch your fanny pack right from your belt, but because leaving means shelling out gobs of cash for shitty food you could get back at the resort.
I am going to do some more yelping, and get to the bottom of this. Until I get the inside scoop though I will rely on my trusty bracelet that allows me to retrieve any food I want, as long as it is available on one of the many buffets provided, and wash it down with beer.

Got wristband? Got nachos!

The food is good, and I do enjoy the options, but I reckon if someone were staying here for longer than a week it could get a bit tiresome. Where is the quinoa kale salad, didn't that shit originate in South America? Today I had to put on the brakes because I ate nachos 4 times yesterday, in between meals. When I put on my bikini this morning, I had a nacho reality check. If given the choice, I'd rather have beer, so I decided to pick the better of the two vices for my bikini body's sake.
My mini fridge is restocked every day with 4 mini bottles of beer. They are hilariously little, and can be consumed in maybe 3 large gulps. Its good for me though, since I chase 2 kids around the pool all day long and a hangover would make this not as fun as it is. The fear of children drowning does make lounging with my eyes closed and listening to the waves impossible, but there is nap time and I make up for all lost tanning then. I can crack open the little beers after I put the kids to sleep since I have to be room bound from 8pm on.

On my quest into town today I passed a "luxury mall" on the bus ride and this seems like the perfect location for overpriced mediocre food. My ultimate goal in Mexico is to tan, and my second goal is to score some Frauda purses and WayBan glasses but so far the latter is not happening. I think the luxury mall is likely killing the knock off market since they strong-armed the Mexican government into cleaning up the counterfeits or these stores wouldn't keep shop. It's quite sad really because it is cutting the middle-class-man from the equation. Some people just want a Louis Vuitton, even if is says Luis Button, because its a status symbol; I am middle class and I buy knock of shit.
When I was in Mexico as a teenager buying a fake handbag was pretty easy as all the markets carried them, now it seems IMPOSSIBLE. I ask and ask, in shitty but understandable spanish, but it is like going down a rabbit hole. It is always my Grandma, sister and I who go on these hunts, and we find ourselves in too many dark alleys to make it seem like casual shopping. Like 3 crackheads jonesing for a score we will follow any beer bellied Mexican in a wife beater down a dimly lit hall to find the purses he claimed to have, but falls very short on his promise. I will never confuse a neon plastic beach bag that says "I am in Cancun Bitch" with a Gucci, but he is judging my mental abilities on some pretty poorly spoken language.
Tomorrow I am going to Isla de Mujeres, so maybe I will get lucky there! As for now, I am happy to report, my tan is coming along splendidly!