home

Yappy #1 and Yappy #2

Posted on by Beth Hull

*

Good morning. It’s 4:12 a.m. The neighbors’ yappy dogs have begun to bark.

4:12 a.m. and 15 seconds: Z wakes up crying.

4:12 a.m. and 20 seconds: The Ever-Suffering Mother (hey, that’s me!) retrieves crying child and deposits her into what can now be called The Family Bed (of Pain).

4:13 a.m.: Yappy dogs still barking. [Mostly it’s the dog with the higher-pitched bark, but the other joins in occasionally if things are getting too quiet.]

4:13 a.m. and 17 seconds: Z shifts and says, quietly, “Hold my hand.”

4:13 a.m. and 18 seconds: The Ever-Suffering Mother holds her hand.

4:22 a.m.: Bark. Bark bark bark bark bark! …Bark Bark Bark BARK BARK BARK…BARK BARK! Bark bark bark bark bark Bark BARK. Bark bark bark bark bark bark bark…bark bark…bark bark bark bark bark. BARK BARK BARK BARK!

4:25 a.m.: Z and Ever-Suffering Mother blink at each other in the near-dark. Suffering together.

4:26 a.m.: Bark bark bark bark BARK BARK…bark BARK (etc.). Z shifts again, impaling the Ever-Suffering Mother with her leg.

4:27 a.m.: Silence.

4:27 and 36 seconds: BARK BARK!!!!! Bark bark bark bark BARK…bark bark! BARK.

4:29 a.m.: Silence. Z shifts, kicking leg into the Ever-Suffering Mother’s back (back still sore from the previous night’s kicking abuses).

4:29 and 12 seconds: Ever-Suffering Mother balances precariously on edge of the Family Bed (of Pain), almost out of range of the Kicky Feet.

4:33 a.m.: BARK! (etc, etc)

4:34 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother drafts dialogue for nasty phone call to owners of Yappy #1 and Yappy #2.

4:35 a.m.: Still barking.

4:36 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother contemplates scenes of graphic violence to Yappy #1 and Yappy #2. Too graphic to recreate here, but basically involving firearms, poisons, and a spork.

4:39 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother kicked again. Just punishment for her 4:36 a.m. Evil Thoughts.

4:40 a.m.: Still barking.

4:41 a.m.: Z still awake. The Ever-Suffering Mother still awake. Husband sleeps. [How? How? Must find out his secret.]

4:42 a.m.: Silence.

4:43 a.m.: Silence.

4:44 a.m.: Silence. Will it last? The Ever-Suffering Mother dares to hope. While perched on edge of the Family Bed (of Pain), the Ever-Suffering Mother puts defensive arm against lower back. Maybe sleep will finally come at last.

4:46 a.m.: BARK! BARK bark BARK barkbarkbark BARK…BARK. BARK bark BARK bark bark bark bark BARK! Bark…bark bark bark barkbarkbark.

4:47 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother hauls suffering self off the edge of bed, finds neighbor’s phone number, and dials.

4:47 and 5 seconds: Silence.

4:47 and 30 seconds:

Mrs. Neighbor: [croakily] Hello?

ESM: Hi, this is ESM, your neighbor. I’m sorry to call so early, but your dogs have been barking for a half hour and I can’t get back to sleep [Subtext: you terrible person why haven’t you done anything about those noisy pests when no other dog I know has ever been so terrible they should be put down they are a blight on our society].

Mrs. N: Oh, I’m really sorry. Mr. N just brought them inside. I apologize.

ESM: No problem. [WTF? Why would the ESM say “no problem” when it so obviously was a problem? Her internal scientists (small, confused people that they are) continue to puzzle over this behavior problem.]

ESM & Mrs. N say goodbye, hang up.

4:50 a.m.: Silence. The Ever-Suffering Mother reperches on edge of the Family Bed (of Pain).

Sometime after 5 a.m.: Both Z and the Ever-Suffering Mother fall to sleep again.

For a too-brief interlude.

And the Ever-Suffering Husband, bless him, deals with both the highly-spirited Z and the highly-dis-spirited Ever-Suffering Mother as he tries to get ready for work. He gets up early every work day, despite his own lack of sleep, to deal with an either cranky or hyperactive toddler, and a cranky or extra-cranky wife.

So, happy Father’s Day, Ever-Suffering Husband!

*Because the Ever-Suffering Mother doubted the legality of breaking into Mr. and Mrs. Neighbor’s back yard and taking picture of the Very Demons From Hell Yappy #1 and Yappy #2, Z provided the artwork for today’s blog post.

My Suit of Armor

Posted on by Beth Hull

Cowboys wear tight jeans, boots with loopy embroidery, and giant silver belt buckles. Corporate executives wear suits and ties. James Bond wears a tuxedo and looks mighty fine. Chefs wear white hats and white aprons and wield spatulas. Superheroes sport spandex and capes, doctors don lab coats and stethoscopes, construction workers wear t-shirts and hard hats, and I? The writing mother?

I wear sweats.

Z knows when we’re going out because I finally put on jeans. And for some people, jeans are like, dressing down. Whenever there’s a wedding to go to, or a writer’s conference (like last Saturday and this upcoming Saturday: SCBWI Spring Spirit Conference for Nor Cal!), I’m left with a closet full of question marks. “Does this even fit anymore?” I wonder. For last weekend’s writer’s conference I must have tried on fifteen different outfits. And then, taking the all-inclusive trip into Nerdy Obsessive Land, I even got out my digital camera and took pictures of myself in the mirror. I was thisclose to uploading them on Snapfish and sending an invitation to two close friends for help in deciding what to wear when I finally got over it and figured out, “You know, I’m 29 years old. I think I can choose a professional-ish outfit. Even though none of them make me look 15 pounds lighter.”

I know that looking professional is a good thing. At least, I think it is. I actually had some success experimenting with this idea when I was a grad student at UC Davis. I’d go in for my office hours most days in jeans (sadly not sweats), a tank top, and some flip flops, and I’d do my lesson planning and work on my exam papers, and I’d play a bit of Spider solitaire here, a bit of Spider solitaire there. Towards the second half of my second year, I decided to up my professional-dress factor, and began to wear the occasional skirt. If I wore jeans, I’d top them with a blouse instead of one of my left-over-from-high-school tank tops. My Spider solitaire habit might have declined (luckily, I never kept a log of hours or games so I can’t be embarrassed now). But I noticed the change in dress, and a change in attitude. And other people noticed too. Like one of my advisors. It was a good feeling.

These days, I don’t have much reason to get dressed up (and by “dressed up” I mean something above sweats on the formal-wear continuum). I’ll toy around with some jersey dresses and leggings, just to mix things up a bit. But honestly, it takes so much more effort than grabbing the first pair of yoga pants and natty old sweatshirt I can find (usually these are the pants and sweatshirt I took off to take my shower). If we go somewhere, like the grocery store or library story time, I’ll feel like I’m exceeding expectations by swapping those yoga pants for jeans.

And as soon as we get home? Z has to wait for her milk and snack while I change back into the yoga pants.

It’s a sweet life, comfortable. But even I am starting to feel a little grubby.

The Unsung Clarkie Underfoot

Posted on by Beth Hull

A Wednesday Momming Around Entry

Clarkie

Don’t sit down. Especially with a blanket and a book or notebook. This cat has Couch Radar and she knows when your lap is easy game. Even the dinner table and the desk are fair hunting grounds for her. Your lap is her prey and she is a skilled huntress.

Clarkie (Clark) is my other baby, and she will never allow herself to be forgotten (you’ll feel the prick of her paw on your face in the morning, or trip over her as you prepare breakfast). Since Z made her screaming way into our lives, though, Clarkie has been shuffled off to the side in a classic case of Forgotten Older Sibling. Has anyone read Socks by Beverly Cleary? Because that’s what I think of sometimes with Clark, and it makes me very sad.

We feel bad for her, especially now that Z is on the move. It used to be that we’d drag a toy mouse on a stick over the bed for her to chase, or toss paper balls around the house. Now Z runs after Clark, an old paper ball held in her sticky, outstretched hand. Screaming. And Clarkie just trots in the other direction. Quickly. I can see a martyred expression on Clark’s face. I think she’s grateful that she is unable to have children, and a little resentful that we did.

Everything Zen in the Tibetan Singing Bowl

Now that Z takes one long nap instead of three excruciatingly short ones, Clark has found my lap again. As I type this she’s tucked into  my sweatshirt, twitching her ear occasionally, but I can tell she’s happy. Ah yes, there’s a purr.

And yeah, she’s obnoxious sometimes. When it was especially difficult to get Z down for her nap for awhile, Clark would wander into Z’s room, meowing loudly. It was like she had Spidey (Kitty) Sense that Z’s eyes were closing, and she just had to foil my hard work. Punishment for spawning. I could read the vengeance in Clarkie’s eyes.

Clarkie is infuriating in some ways, and we have to be, you know, responsible for her, and clean up her poop and make sure she’s fed. But she’s soft, and cute, and so full of love and joy, and she makes us laugh. So really, she isn’t that different from Z.

*   *   *

Writing update:
No longer rushing to finish revisions. These things take time, and I don’t want to ruin chances with this Dream Agent by sending anything less than my very very best.

Not Now, Babykins

Posted on by Beth Hull

“Up!”

“Not now, Babykins.”

“Read please.”

“Not now, Babykins.”

“Sit…down!”

“Not now, Babykins.”

“Play!”

“Not now, Babykins.”

“Go bye-bye?”

“Not now, Babykins.”

“Hello song.”

“Not now, Babykins.”

If I’m making myself sound like a heartless jerk, well, sometimes I feel that way. The above is not exactly how a day-in-the-life goes, but sometimes it feels close. Why is it such a struggle to do these three things: 1) interact with my daughter (i.e. entertain her), 2) accomplish day-to-day chores and errands, and 3) try to rescue that weakening hold on some semblance of my old, not-mom identity?

This isn’t a unique or original concern; I’m certain millions of parents wonder the same thing every day. My usual compromise is to run errands, because Z loves getting out, and if the car ride is long enough I can usually get inside my own head for a little while to just think. Then we get something done, and if I’m lucky I can think on the way home with the “Hello Song” blasting.

[I’m going to pretend she didn’t just now hurl a bowl of Cheerios across the basement floor. Which is carpeted in Cheerio-colored shag.]

[Oh lovely, now she’s picking them up and handing them to me, because she knows our floors aren’t clean enough to eat off of.]

It’s time for breakfast, anyway. Our internet connection has been fritzy the past couple of days, so I wanted to seize this rare moment of functional internet to write. The spastic internet is probably a point in Z’s favor, since it forces us out of the basement office and up to the play room, or the back yard, or the library, or the plant nursery. And maybe on the way to or from those places, I can get some me-time in.

Max the Noble

Posted on by Beth Hull

Naming inanimate objects has always been a hobby of mine. My favorite egg baby in middle school was Hester. I had a dust mop named Jorge in college, and my dwarf mandarin orange tree is named Frida. Most, if not all, of my stuffed animals had names, and now I name Z’s animals. She has a giraffe named Gerald, a penguin named Mr. Penguin (yeah, really stretching the bounds of creativity on that one), and her Duplo person is Guy. Husband named her stuffed cat Talula, and I’m jealous that I didn’t come up with the name.

I also have a clothes hamper named Max. He was  in the garage, on top of the Yard Sale pile, and I’d forgotten about him until yesterday when my friend Kristin visited. “You have an elephant clothes hamper,” she pointed out in wonder. Or horror. One can’t be sure.

Max previously belonged to my Grandma Marion, and I don’t know where she got him, or why. But grandmothers have a way of foisting their strange belongings onto their granddaughters. I still have a garbage sack filled with throw pillows Grandma Myrt started to sew but didn’t want to finish. When I look at the fabric patterns of gigantic, blazing orange peonies and kittens wearing Christmas-patterned ribbons, I have to wonder why she abandoned that particular project.

But back to Max.

I grew so attached to him throughout middle and high school that he came to college with me, and then my first apartment, and to subsequent apartments, until Husband and I got married. Now we (gasp!) shared a clothes hamper, and Max simply wasn’t big enough to contain our filth–especially since said filth collected for between two to four weeks at a time until we made a trip to one of our parents’ houses to do laundry (yes, even when we were married. We have a deep-seated and irrational fear of laundromats). Max was sent back to live with my parents, and we adopted an accordion-style, silvery clothes hamper from IKEA that I have christened Ugly.

When we finally bought our house and our parents brought all of our junk from their garages to our own, Max resurfaced, took a quick breath of fresh air, and then the garage door closed on him for months. (Anybody thinking of The Velveteen Rabbit? ‘Cause I am.) During a purge of old things, Mom finally convinced me to put Max in the Yard Sale Pile: an epic mound of…garbage, basically. But garbage I hope someone will buy, so that I can, in turn, use their money to buy more garbage.

Then Kristin mentioned Max, and I remembered our fond times together. Personified as a faithful friend, he held my dirty clothes for so many years, and now I sell him like the other garbage? I asked Kristin if she needed a clothes hamper, concealing the fact that Max was missing an ear. No, she didn’t need a clothes hamper.

But you know who does?

My daughter.

Max the Noble

Welcome back to the fold, Max.