Cranky: Everywhere I have been so far has involved cranky people. Every place I look, there is contstruction going on. When Nick sees the big cranes, he yells "Cranky!" (the name of the big crane in the "Thomas" series who happens to not only have a large hook, but be, what do you know about this... cranky!
Pants: I am irritated that my one good pair of sweat pants now has paint stains. Nick is now in underwear full time, causing me to change his pants at least twice a day. And Sophie got about a million compliments today for her leopard skin stretchies, which Nick refers to as her "Baby Jaguar pants".
Despite running into several Valley snobs who looked at my kids like they were about to vomit in their latte, I managed to have a decent day. My morning started out with Pipsqueak remarkably sitting in her highchair for 45 minutes, babbling to Sesame Street with Nick (reminder to self: Those dumb Replay TV people need to fix our signal so that my son can actually watch Nickelodeon again. For some reason, all we get is choppy blocks worth of animation due to the signal and our Chatsworth winds. Either they need to do something to accomdate this, or send me a child psychologist to explain to my son why Dora's head is always getting chopped off mid show.) While the kids happily slipped into a TV coma, I was able to sip my coffee and actually read. The book of the month: Anita Shreve's "Light on Snow". A friend loaned it to me on Monday. I had no idea what it was about, except that I told the universe that I needed to start reading again, and lo and behold, this book appeared in my lap. So far, I'm not overly impressed with Shreve's writing, but the story about a baby found in the woods is none the less sucking me in.
There is irony in my self-imposed alone time from my babies, only to find myself reading about an infant who desperately needs a mommy. I'm telling you, no matter how much I attempt to establish myself as someone seperate from my kid connection, it's like my breasts emit Mommy radar and any creature or subject matter regarding humans under 3 feet find me. Even before I had kids, I found myself in this midget kick, quite by accident. First there was Armistead Maupin's "Beyond the Moon" about an ex-little person actress and her journey toward love with a six six black man. Wacky, but actually quite good. (If any of you haven't yet read the serial Maupin is famous for, "Tales of the City", run out today and buy it. You won't be sorry.) Then there was "Stones From the River" about a how a little person learns to deal with her condition by helping other unwanted humans (World War II Jews) find shelter in her cellar. And of course, any book about a fat woman with a super personality, a guy with pimples who asks out a determologist, or a teen in a helmet who wants to join the swim team has me crying and rooting for their success.
I suppose something about my six one frame finds solace in other people who manage to move ahead in life despite looking different. Not that being tall is such a big deal now, but as a kid, it sucked. I was always the one in the back row for school pics. The last to be asked for a dance. And as luck would have it, the worst at any sport involving a hoop or a net. The moral: I could have shrunk (figuratively) and stayed this quiet kid. But I figure I'm going to be seen anyway, so I might as well develop a style and a personality. Get some perspective.
Which leads me back to Cranky Pants. I'm tired of people with no perspective. If my kids are being loud, but you see me trying to contain them, can ya not utter the death sigh in my direction? Perhaps your mother didn't adequately care for you, or you were born forty years old fully potty trained, but my kids are real kids and some days they just want to stand on a coffee house chair and spit in the porceline cup. I see it... I'm on them. How about if I'm looking particulary flustered, you smile? Or God forbid, hold the door for me, or even offer to help? I know my children aren't your problem, but if I saw someone in need (particulary a midget, a fat person, a kid with a helmet and most especially, a fat, pimply midget with a helmet dripping wet from her swim team failure), you bet your sweet leopard skin pants I'd pick up the cup they dropped.
It's only 3:15, so maybe I'll meet some happier folk at Part Two of my day: The McDonald's play area. Of course, I have to wake Sophie from her nap to be on time, so perhaps I'll have crankiness in my own family. So far, my house is a sty (since I actually relaxed first thing in the morning rather than do chores like Martha Stewart at a craft sale). I still need to fix dinner, and I have yet to make my writing goals for the month. This, combined with me most likely having to change into my bigger jeans after I indulge in a Big Mac will make yours truly the Cranky Pants.
Life is such a beautiful full circle. One beautiful, fat, cranky circle.
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