Here is a snippet from a conversation Micah and I had at lunch today.
Me: “Do you think you’d like to get married someday?”
Micah: “Well, I want YOU to marry me. Because I love you.”
Me: “Aww, thanks! But I’m already married to Daddy.”
Micah: (thinking deeply look, then the “aha!” look) “Well, if another lady marries Daddy, then you can marry me!”
I explained to Micah that we don’t want to hurt the spider he saw in our basement *(see footnote for further explanation) because he helps us out by eating other bugs. Micah then explained it back to me from an angle that I had never before considered, “Yeah, so we don’t have to eat ‘em.”
*footnote: OK, I am still basically like any other normal red-blooded female in that I kind of freak out (at times, complete the full-fledged arm-waving and screeching/squealing sound that all males detest) at the sight of a spider, especially when it is in my own personal dwelling. To be more specific, especially when I am naked and defenseless in the shower, without my glasses on, and therefore unable to tell exactly how scary the spider is, or for that matter, if it even IS a spider at all. I usually just have to whisper frantically (I can’t yell, cuz I shower at night and don’t want to wake the kids) for Randy to come and save me.
Anyway, but my brother-in-law Harold has a deep love and respect for all living things and though he has not yet been able to convince me to feel bad for all the bugs that fly into and then die upon on my windshield as I drive, he has caused both Randy and me to feel a little uneasy about flippantly squishing bugs who probably mean no harm and can’t help it that they’re hideously ugly. So in most cases, we resort to getting “the cup” from Randy’s bottom dresser drawer (a plastic cup that has some sort of stiff paper inside it, both of which are necessary to escort a bug found indoors, back to where it belongs outdoors) and hope that once outside, the bug does not become outraged enough at the eviction that it brings back colonies of its friends to invade our home in mass force. But Randy (and sheer laziness on my part, frankly) has gotten me to the point where I am willing to grant an indoor-living-permit to certain spiders. The qualifications for such a permit include, but are not limited to: not being horrendously frightening looking, or overly large, or too hairy; not being located at eyeball level in a primary living/sleeping space; and not moving swiftly, or really at all. In other words, if a spider is squatting in a corner of the basement, minding his own business and ridding our house of other bugs, he’s in. But if I happen to have the vacuum out down there and he seems to be acting slightly rebellious (or I’m just in the kind of mood where I just “want things CLEAN for crying out loud”), he’s gone.
I want to write stuff, but I don’t really have anything in mind. So I’ll just start telling you random things and maybe they’ll lead into something deep and big and wide. OK?
So my parents went on vacation this week WITHOUT US! I cannot believe it. Actually I can, because they’re getting quite good at it. They do not seem at all concerned about having an empty nest (well, not quite technically empty, cuz Nick still lives there, but he can take care of himself, cuz he’s big). They’re visiting the Grand Canyon. First time ever for either one of them, so that’s pretty cool. Tomorrow is their 41st anniversary, and I think they left the state so that Trish and I wouldn’t throw another huge party for them like we did last year (I mean, why would we do it THIS year, when my baby actually sleeps through the night, when my wrists don’t hurt constantly, etc? Much more appropriate last year!!)
I plunked the kids into the double stroller this morning and off we went to take a walk. I had made sure that they each had a toy to hold, so I thought we were good. But 3 steps out of the garage and The Bean says, “Uh, uh” and turns around looking concerned. Ah yes, she is used to having 2 toys: the purple and orange car AND the Yellow Squishy Seal. She only had the car. So I went back to try to find Yellow Squishy Seal for her other hand. I couldn’t find him! So after searching very quickly in the most obvious places, I grab Red Squishy Crab (they’re kinda like cousins-once-removed. Well actually, Yellow Squishy Seal is definitely- removed, but hopefully he’ll come back soon). At which point Micah declares that HE needs 2 toys. Just as he was starting to whine that HE wanted Red Squishy Crab, I lunged for a blue non-squishy crab and thrust it at him, triumphantly announcing, “Here’s a crab!”
So we set off again. We go for a few minutes, then Bean drops her car. As I hand it back to her I notice that Red Squishy Crab is not in sight. So I try to find him for her so she won’t miss him 3 seconds later and get sad. Well, I can’t find him! So we turn around, inform the kind neighbor who has stopped preening his flowers to say hi to us that we lost a toy and need to go back and find it (I did not mention to him that the toy in question was Red Squishy Crab; I don’t really know the guy at all and don’t want to be the fodder for any neighborhood rumors) and head back the way we came, looking fervently at the ground for something red (yes, and squishy, sorry but it’s a difficult word to type sometimes). We are getting closer and closer to our house with no sign of him. I am starting to feel like the “let’s take a nice walk around our neighborhood before lunch” idea was going to be more like “let’s walk up and down this same little stretch of about 7 houses until someone calls the police because of possible stalkers.” Sure enough, there he was in our driveway, rather close to the spot where I handed him to her in the first place. I did NOT get him. We turned around and, despite Micah’s earnest concern that Red Squishy Crab would be sad sitting in the sun while we were gone, completed our walk! It was very nice and we saw many beautiful blossoms, 1 gorgoeus dog, 1 decent-enough dog, 1 mom, and 2 little kids.
I’m supposed to be looking through our digital photos on the computer and figuring out which ones to get printed into actual hand-held photos that can be displayed in pretty frames or scrap-booked or even just hung on the fridge with random magnets that occasionally let go for no apparent reason. But it’s so overwhelming because Randy has this (I guess) NEED to utilize the feature on his camera that takes like 8 billion pictures per nanosecond. So I can’t just be like, “Oh out of the 3 pictures of the pretty tree, this one is the best (cuz its smile is so sweet) so I will delete the other two - done.” No, I have to get all squinty and look at the rows and rows of pictures of this tree, trying to figure out which one has the least wind-disruption, unless of course the wind makes it look prettier, and wonder the whole time: A) Will Randy be sad if I delete this particular one? What about this one? B) Why did he take this many pictures of a TREE? It’s not like it has our adorable children next to it! It’s just sitting there! I daresay 5 pictures of it would be plenty!! and C) What does he want to DO with this picture, anyway?
So it’s bad enough when it’s a tree; a subject that I can appreciate well enough, but by no means feel horrendously awful for deleting a few of its photos from our collection. But when he does this photo-rampage with our own actual children??!! I am beseiged by guilt and fear and yes, annoyance that he has seen fit to put me in this position by taking this many pictures of the child. Because the problem is, there are sometimes very teensy differences in each one of the 63 photos of the baby cuddled up with the bear. And who am I to say which ones go and which ones stay? How dreadful to push the Delete button while hovering over an image of your own flesh and blood! And what if, years down the line, we are looking at the 13 that I saved and Randy goes, “I am almost positive I took one that showed her with her left eye 3/4 closed and her right eye all the way open, but not the one where her nuk is tilted to the left of her mouth, because I see that you saved that one…” and then I will collapse onto the floor with shame (I just hope I land on the top, cuz shame can be heavy) because I unknowingly deleted my husband’s absolute favorite photo of his only daughter!
We ate leftovers for lunch today.
Micah said he wishes all 4 of us were girls because then he could wear ponytails in his hair.
We also have a Green Squishy Frog, but he’s smaller that the other guys, so I think he’s from a different family.
Randy has told me numerous times that I can delete whatever photos I want to and he will not be mad.
But I’m still scared.
She’s not scootin’ anymore! She even seems to prefer walking to crawling now.
Yesterday I used the phrase, "If I were you" while talking to Micah about which utensil to use for his fruit at breakfast.
A few minutes later he asks, "Mommy, if you were me, who would be your mommy and daddy?"
A few minutes after that: "Would Uncle Harold be your daddy?"
Randy got to redeem his birthday present yesterday. His birthday was over 2 months ago, but he never seems to want something easily attainable, like containers or something. No, he wanted to go skiing (or as Micah calls it, skeeting).
Back in high school we used to go skiing together. Not a lot, but enough to reach a level of proficiency I shall now call stupidity. The type of skiing where you don't really know any true techniques, but you've figured out a way to go down the mountain at a speed that is truly well, speedy, and maintain an upright position the majority of the time. So that was what we were capable of 13 years ago. We loved it! It was really, really fun! You get to be all bundled up with your most favorite person in the world (well, not bundled with them in the same jacket, I mean. Usually not, anyway), feeling the refreshing winter air race through your hair, performing feats of wonder so fantastic that you can't possible imagine ever NOT wanting to do this for the rest of your life.
For the past 13 years, off and on, Randy has hinted, suggested, and downright begged for us to go skiing again. For lots of reasons (going to college where mountains haven't been invented yet; more financial responsibilities; my body being pregnant, injured, or just plain afraid of being a bit less invicible now than in high school; and not knowing how to convince a small child to trade in a pacifier for a lift ticket, to name a few) it just didn't happen. Until he pulled out the ultimate weapon: guilt. When I turned 30 he threw me this fabulous suprise party with my girlfriends, worked really hard to produce this amazing photo of the kids to hang in our living room, and just plain made me feel really special. So a few months later, when it was his turn to be 30, he stated that THE ONLY THING he wanted was to go skiing together. How could I possibly say NO? (Other than that I don't want to die yet?)
So we arranged for my parents to take care of the kids, and we went to the Big, Cold Mountain. He assured me that we'd do the bunny slopes for as long as it took for us (meaning me, since I was more nervous about this) to feel comfortable. So I follow him to a lift, get on without incident, and realize as we are about half way up, that this particular lift only services intermediate and black diamond slopes! I seriously almost cried. He didn't know this was the case, of course, and felt badly about it, BUT not enough to take my whining self to the ski patrol hut at the top and request that the nice man put me in one of those little sled things and haul me to the bunny slopes, where I belong (though I begged many times).
So let's just say that the first run of the night was NOT fun. After that, however, we had a great time! We really did. Even when we had a miscommunication situation while attempting to board the lift, that ended with us standing there, legs entwined, while the lift smacked into us, causing him to end up with a puffy nylon wife-wad plunked onto his lap as we started up, then when we tried to untangle our legs, his ski popped off and sat laughing at us from below while we rode up the rest of the way trying to figure out how to solve this problem. (I was on my way back down to be the hero who picked up the prodigal ski, rode up with it to my stranded man, and saved the ski trip, when I was stopped by yelling from Randy and the nice man about 8 cars behind us who somehow got the naughty ski and brought it up for us).
Anyway, though we had a great time, I noticed some differences between what skiing was like for us when we were dating and in high school compared to what it is now that we are married and attempting to raise kids.
For instance, Back Then riding the lift was basically a fabulous opportunity to sit really close to each other. Now it is the only chance we have to carry on a completely uninterrupted conversation for more than 38 seconds. (though the sitting really close part was not unappreciated 
).
Back Then, the conversation at the top of the slope would consist of, "Same run as last time? Awesome - see ya at the bottom! Have fun!" Now, the conversation at the top still does cover which run we're doing, but it also has something in there about being careful, muscles, joints, pain and stiffness, etc along with it. Furhtermore, the conversation continues, in fragments, the whole way down the mountain because it's so great to talk, just the two of us without either being half asleep getting ready for bed, or worried about Randy getting fired for too many personal calls. So we'd ski across to the right, and then we'd stop and discuss our mortgage a bit, then we'd go to the left and stop and discuss preschools, then we'd go back to the right and move into taxes, and so on. What made it even more fun was that usually one of us would have a new topic before we actually got to the other side, so we'd just yell something out while we were both still skiing, and the other person, who was loaded down with hats, hoods, etc. would yell back, "What?" and stop early to catch it on the repeat. Let's just say it took us a while to get down each time, and we were thankful that it wasn't too crowded because I'm not sure that we really wanted the input of other skiers on how we can save more money, or whether or not our kids will learn to ski someday.
So we had a good, cold time skeeting, even though it was a very different type of feel than back when we didn't feel horrendously guilty for still being awake at 10:30.
Oh, and Randy, if you only want one thing for your 31st birthday, I'm all for skiing, but please remember, I wait for the lift on your LEFT side.
This is the blog post I have been putting off and putting off for a long time now. Randy bothers me about it almost weekly, but I have been able to avoid doing anything about it until now.
Then it happened. Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, it became obvious that I was going to have to write it. Because, just when I thought I was safe, he tells me, "My mom sent us an email asking if we ever watched 'The DVD'". (A DVD she got me for my birthday.) He said this rather triumphantly, since he knew that he won: I have no choice but to blog about this now.
My birthday was 3 months ago, and my very thoughtful mother-in-law took great pains to have a dvd shipped to me special (she is currently going to school overseas, so this is no small feat) and I was touched by the kindness. Now, I wish I could say that it came, we watched it, it was our absolute favorite movie, I told her this in a nicely decorated thank-you note, and that was that. However, as you know, nothing is that simple for me.
Here's the problem: it wasn't very good. I tried really hard to like it, I really did! And the whole time we were watching it, I was like, "Self, please PLEASE like this, because you will need to tell Randy's mom how much you liked it so she will know how much you appreciate the effort." But, just like the funky too-spicy peanuts my dad bought one vacation while I was in high school and ate the entire bag of, hoping that sooner of later they would get better, we just didn't really like the movie. It was supposed to be funny, and I REALLY wanted it to be. Because the pressure was mounting: I'm going to have to acknowledge this gift. I do not lie about things, but I do not want to hurt feelings either.
The movie ended, and we realized that it never did get better. All that was left were the empty peanut shells of hopefulness, jingling around in the bottom of the bag, while we sat on the couch discussing what I should say to my mother-in-law. And the only thing I could think was, Maybe I could blog about it, and then, because she is so kindhearted to me that she reads my blog, I could tell my mother-in-law in an offhanded sort of vague type of way that I am very thankful for the gift, but
but what? What do I say? That's the whole problem, and why I've avoided this for so long. How do I come right out and say, "I didn't really like the movie you got me for my birthday." OUCH! I can't say that!! That's too blunt. So I'm not saying it. In fact, I'm crossing out that sentence right now.
So, by choosing to be a wuss about it and not do anything at all (always knowing deep down that Randy's nagging would eventually force me to blog about it I guess) I appear REALLY ungrateful. Wretched!
What should I do? How do I get myself out of this web of wretched wussiness?
All I know, is that I am definitely planning to write "thank-yous" for Thanksmas (early Christmas that we just celebrated with Randy's family) gifts. I actually tend to enjoy writing thank you notes and the last thing I want is to get an email 3 months from now asking if I happened to like anything that I received!
So, to all of you who have given me anything and I have not thanked: Yes, I loved it. Whatever it was, was the best gift ever!
OK, I just finished my last post, and that's normally all I can do for like weeks, but I HAVE to tell you this!
Randy presented a dictionary to himself. I'm totally serious.
I just looked something up in our Big Fat Red Dictionary when I spotted some writing on the front page as I closed it. I looked closer and this is what I found:
Presented to: Randall David Miles
By: Randall David Miles
Date: August 27, 2003
WOW!
"Just too white and nerdy" is for some reason going through my head right now…
So the other day Micah says,
Oh, wait I cannot tell you what he said yet because it requires a little bit of background info that you may or may not want to know. The brief version is that Randy and I call each other "Taters" and Micah knows this and sometimes tries to summon us via that name himself.
(The longer version, for those of you who are brave enough to delve that deeply into our marital issues, is that, well I can't remember all the details, but I became very enamored with Smeagal - sorry if I spelled that wrong, I actually am 1 of only like 3 Americans who only consented to watch the LOTR movies because I was promised popcorn. Anyway, I love how he goes, "What's 'taters' Hobbit?" And they respond with "PO-TA-TOES" So Randy and I started calling each other "PO-TA-TOES" as a Proper Nickname, or "Taters" as a more Informal Nickname. I even mailed him a letter addressed to Potatoes R. Miles a few years ago. So anyway, we call each other "Taters" now. Or just "Tates" if we're in a big rush.
So the other day Micah goes (and I still do not know what on earth he was referring to)
"Taters, that is expensive and hilarious"
Huh?
I think he was talking to Randy, but it's hard to tell seeing as I wasn't looking at him when he said it and Randy was in the other room. Oh yeah, and I suppose that it's a little confusing since he used the Informal Nickname, rather than, as would be expected when addressing one in a position of authority, the Proper Nickname, but that's besides the point.
The point is, um, I'm not quite sure what the point is, but I'm trying my very best to make it right here in this paragraph. Oh, the point is that Micah picks up these adjectives from us and maybe he thinks he knows what they mean or maybe not, but he feels mighty great when he can string a few together in a robust sentence, which he speaks with the utmost confidence.
I personally find it to be mighty hilarious (and perhaps, if I blog about it to the point where he someday needs therapy, expensive).
This isn't at all related to the previous, but I have been wanting to blog about what happened this past Spring when I went to buy sand for our little turtle sandbox for quite some time now. I seem to get such a kick out of making fun of myself, that I earnestly look for opportunities to do just that. And for some reason that I probably don't want to explore too deeply, people seem to really enjoy reading about it. "Hey, check it out! Shari did yet another Horrendously Dumb Thing! I wonder what her average HDTs per day is."
So I've never purchased sand before. I don't know how my sandbox got sand in it when I was growing up, but it was just always there (so thanks Mom and Dad!!) I never stressed about it or wondered how much it cost or how it got from the sand factory to my personal sandbox. I just played with it. And I wanted Micah to be able to do the same. So using my Big Smarts I finally came to the conclusion that sandbox sand was probably to be found at Toys 'R Us since it is generally used by small children as a plaything (many probably also use it as food, but that's a topic for another time).
So I go there one afternoon (the kids and Randy didn't join me for this one) and ask the Nice People of Helpfulness where I can get the sandbox sand. They tell me that it comes in 50 pound bags and I can pay for a little ticket and then drive around back, hand some other Nice People of Helpfulness the ticket, and they will give me the sand. Well! I suspect that at this point a normal person would be able to guesstimate what 50 pounds of sand amounts to, purchase an appropriate number of Special Tickets, drive around back, put the sand into their car, and drive home to fulfill their own dream for their child's happiness. But not me. NO. I guess that any spatial relations skills I did have, seeped over to Randy (as if he needed more) while we slept or something. Because I was thinking (and thank goodness I didn't VERBALIZE this to anyone in the store), "Wow! 50 pounds of sand for only $5.00! What a deal! I'm really glad I don't have much stuff in my trunk. I'll have to try to make as much room as possible for this bag. I'm glad they have nice strong people to load it in for me so I don't hurt myself trying to manuever such a HUGE bag."
So I clear away this enormous space in my trunk, drive all purposefully around back and hand in my ticket. I can hardly contain my excitement as I await this mammoth bag of sand that the strong man will bring… when he comes out with this itty bitty bag that's like smaller than a standard bag of catfood and plinks it into my gaping trunk space. It's like using an entire 2-burner skillet to fry a single crouton.
Come to think of it, purchasing sand was kind of (drum roll please) expensive and hilarious.
The Bean is making strident advances in the technologies of locomotion: