Project 52 ~ Wk. 18 {Spring Has Sprung}

Every year I beg Prince Charming to take me up to the tulip fields so I can photograph the gorgeous, glowing, electric, color-filled blossoms.. And every year he says,  

"Why would you want to drive two hours just to pull off the side of the road for five minutes and take pictures of flowers you could buy in the grocery store, then drive two hours back. What a waste."

So, I end up going with my mother.
(because what does he know?)
(nothing about electric colored tulips, that's what.)

I got a ton of pictures, and I've pulled them all up on my computer and I'm dying to get to them, but I have a laundry list of other things to do that includes but is not limited to the following:

1. Wash last night's dishes

2. Make the beds

3. Return the cool sneakers I bought for my son that he instantly hated
(evidently boys don't care for incandescent green shoelaces)
(what is it with guys and color?)
(why does everything have to be dark blue?)
(or black)
(come on...you look like a bruise)

4. Return the DVD to the library that my daughter left out of the case
 (the one time I don't double check)

5. Pressure wash the garden shed so Prince Charming and his buddy can start turning it into our new chicken coop

6. Do internet research on the kinds of dogs that are bred to hunt vermin
 (freakin' chickens)

 7. Gag that we need a dog that's bred to hunt vermin
(suburban farming is a glamorous business, my friends)
(don't let anyone tell you any different)

8. Figure out something to have for dinner that we haven't had recently,
that I have all the ingredients for,
that everyone likes
 and that only takes 5 minutes to make.

9. Force feed my daughter her spelling words because Daddy didn't make her do them yesterday while I was off gallivanting through the tulip fields.
("Hey...she didn't tell me she had spelling words.")
(I'm stunned.)
(No. Really. It's a total shock.)
(Said no one ever)

10. Uninstall the 75GB of airplane games that my son put on my computer while I was off cavorting in the flowers.
("Hey...he didn't tell me he wasn't supposed to do that.")
(Quelle surprise.)

So, as much as I would love to tell you more about how this image came to be

I've got to get to work.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 17 {Something Old}

I went down to Prince Charming's office to pick up the weed eater so I could edge the lawn at our house.  I took my camera along to see if I could get something for this week's theme.  He has a ton of old crap down there.

He followed me out in to the yard.

"Hey...What are you doing?"

"I need to get a picture of something old," I told him, turning over my shoulder.  "Wait!  Stand still!"

"No."

He never lets me have any fun.

So we wandered back to where all the flatbeds are and he grabbed up a rusty chain and laid it across the boards on the truck. 

"How about that?"

Then he took the chain and draped it down over the side of the truck.

"What about that?"

Then he walked over to another truck and came back with a hook, which he dangled in place of the chain.

"That's cool, huh?"

Then he grabbed a longer chain and hung it over the hook so it stretched down and pooled on the ground.

"Yeah, that's good, right?"

I took every picture. 

(Sometimes three times)
(Because I forgot I had it set to seven shots a second)

Then he huffed, all exasperated, and said,

"Look, I gotta' get going.  I don't have time to play around out here with this."

Now, scroll back up to the top of this story and read the part again where I pretty please begged him to forget about all that nasty work shmork and come out and help me with my picture.  I'll wait right here.

.......

.......

Couldn't find it, could ya'?  You know why?  Because I didn't ask him to come out and help me!

"Okay....See ya' later," I said, kind of thinking that I might wander a bit more and see what else I could find.

You know....like...don't mind me.
If you need to get back to work or something.
Don't let the gate hit ya'...
(where the good Lord split ya')
(Sorry.)
(Paula Deen said that.)
(I thought it was hilarious)

"Okay.  C'mon.  Let's go." Then he put his hand on my back and ushered me out of the yard.

So...evidently....this is my shot for the week from Prince Charming's office yard. 

Hope ya' like it because he took a lot of time out of his extremely busy schedule to help me get it just right.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 16 {Sweet}...Except it really wasn't

Okay.  (y'all)  Really.  Can I just....say. 

This.  About.  Killed me.

It started with us trying to define exactly what Sweet might entail.  Having spent a semi-memorable decade with Molly Ringwald, high bangs, and Miami Vice, I was leaning more toward the totally awesome in a tubular kind of way and she was more of the pink, sparkly, shiny princess sugar drops thing. 

"Why does it have to be something to eat?"  I asked her.

"Because.  That's what's sweet."

Oh.  Well alright then.

I showed her a really wonderful image that I got of her running through the beach grass with her kite.  It was vintage and simple and lovely.

She took one look at it and said, "No, that's not sweet.  I can't eat that."

She keeps me honest.  You have to love that.
(you do have to love that, right?)

"I want to try doing something with S'mores," I told her after school the other day.

I was envisioning something dripping and sticky and chocolate clouds of wonderful.  She came out in her turquoise, chartreuse and purple, one-shoulder, salsa summer dress

(thank you, grandma)

and announced that she was ready to pose for the picture.

"Uhhhh....what are you wearing?"

"My dress."

"No.  That's not going to work.  Just put on what you wore to school."

"I'm not changing.  I want.  To. Wear.  This."

Seriously? 

"Well, you can't wear that in my picture."

"MOM!"

"Fine.  I'll just ask your brother to pose for it.  He'll be fine."

Ugh!!!!  You're making me crazy!!!!  I want to wear my dress."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Go change."

"I'm.  Not.  Changing."
 
I was fairly certain I knew how to break this little spirit and move on already.

"If you don't change, there's no S'more for you,"

and then I crossed my arms and raised one eyebrow.  Take that, punk.

"Fine.  I'll just have cheese crackers, then," and she climbed up on the counter in her electric green salsa dress and grabbed the cracker jar out of the cabinet.  She opened the jar, pulled out a cracker, turned to me and popped it in her mouth.  Then she said, "Bite me."

No.  That's a lie.

What I know she meant to say was "Take your picture and shove it, Mamasita.  If you want me, these are my terms.  Salsa dress or nothing."

At which point I had to sit down and put my head between my knees, and for the briefest of moments was certain I could hear my mother cackling,  "That's what you get!" which I've never understood because I don't have any recollection of being that kind of odious and unpleasant.

I turned on my heel,  and walked

(stomped)
(stormed)

calmly

(seethingly)

into her room

(I am the parent.  I am the parent.  I am the parent.)

and pulled out one of my favorite dresses that she owns.  It's so cute and rustic and for the last three closet clean-outs I've categorically refused to even think about getting rid of it.  It's more of a tunic now than a dress, so I grabbed some pink legging shorts to put on under it.

By some twist of magic unicorn fluff, we were finally able to agree that this would be an acceptable outfit,

(Bridgit Mendler CD in the car for the next five rides)

and she finally started in on the S'more.  I had this idea in my head that the chocolate and marshmallow would combine into this wonderful, oozy, ooey mess that would drip from her face to her hands to the plate and be the embodiment of sweet and art.

I pointed the camera at her and waited. 

She bit into the graham crackers and stopped mid-chomp, looking at me. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'nn wuting hor you do dake da hicture."

"Well, I'm waiting for you to take the bite."

She put it down and licked her fingers.

"Take the picture and I'll take a bite."

My point, gentle friends, is that this picture was nearly the end of me.  The.  End.

The End.

 

   

Project 52 2K13 ~ Week 14 {Blessings}

This is my son.  He's 11.

Yesterday he was 10.  Last week he was 6 and the week before that he was just a little smoochie bundle whose entire body fit in my arms between my shoulder and my wrist.

He's grown up now.  Well, as grown up as a boy can be and still be reduced to a puddle of hysterical laughter at the words underwear, naked and wee wee.

When he was little he would tell me that he wanted to drive a garbage truck when he grew up.  I would hold his chubby cheeks and kiss his sweet nose and gaze into his charming hazel eyes and say,

"Aim higher."

Then he wanted to be a firefighter,

(mostly for the siren and the hose)

but I told him, "No.  That 's too dangerous.  You can do something safe.  Like walking."

"Walking!?  That's the most boring thing ever besides yoga!"

Now he wants to be a pilot.  He spends hours flying airplanes on his simulator game and every time we fly somewhere we have to stop at the cockpit on the way off so he can discuss the landing with the pilot.

(Did you know that the landing is where the pilot's skills are really shown off?  So if you want to thank the pilot for a nice flight, tell him it was a good landing)
(little bit of airplane trivia...you're welcome)
(that's what I'm here for)

He's growing up way to fast.  I've asked him over and over to stop, but he won't.  I even threatened to ground him.  To take away his screen time.  To never let him go anywhere or do anything and only eat dirt and twigs and bugs forever and ever amen.

And he said,

"Moooommm.  Even when I'm all grown up I'll still be here with you," and he put his hand on my heart.

"You will?"

"Yes.  I'll always be with you.  You know I love you more than I say I do."

And then I cried and sobbed and held him and kissed him and called him my little smoochie.

And he said,

"Mom, stop.  I can't see my game."

But it was okay because I know that if nothing else....I'll get a great rate on airline tickets.

Football. The End.

We go through this every year.  We can usually get through January just fine, and maybe a couple of weeks in February, but after that the ripples start cutting the surface of the water.

The piranhas are beginning their circle.

It's slow at first.  Small.  I'll start feeling it when I'm walking through the hall at my kids' school.  Then again when we're at the park.  Its even been known to show up at the grocery store.

I dodge it as best I can.  Avoiding eye contact.  Finding something really interesting on the ground to look at.  Pretending to be totally confused by whatever list I happen to have in my hand.

(Let's see.....What's on sale?)
(Uhhhh...was that the white or the dark?)
(How many different types of nails could there be?)
  
But, it doesn't matter.   It never works.  They can smell the blood the minute I enter the building.

It usually starts with some mindless chit chat about crap I don't give a rip about,

(small talk is not my superpower)

and despite my stellar attempts to feign interest, we end up with a lull in the conversation.

Then with a head tilt and a voice lilt the dreaded question rears it's gi-normously wretched PTA-mom head:

So....are your kids playing any sports this spring?

That sound you just heard was my inner core exploding and oozing slowly out of my ears.

The only questions that are more gaggy are

Did you get on the scale today?
How much did you spend?
Where is that thing that I haven't thought about in the last 26 years, but could really use right now?
(because the answer is:  I threw it away last week.)
(Every time.  Every.  Time.)
 
See, here's the thing:

We play football.  The End.

Football is a punch you in the junk, rip out your throat, Every. Freakin'. Day. onslaught of never-ending practice and laundry and bureaucratic garbage that lasts from the beginning of August all the way through to the middle of November.

And it's not just football, either.  It's cheer now, too, with Competition, which, actually, technically, outlasts football.

Eet's niyghts, weeeekendz, hahlidays.

(wait...that might be Kindergarten Cop...)

It's two kids, with two activity schedules, going in two different directions, with 147 pieces of equipment that all has to be hand washed in Moroccan oil and hung to dry over a field of butterflies so it doesn't shrink or pill or wrinkle or melt or fade which would make the coach look so so bad,

for three and half months, which doesn't sound like a long time, but it's really almost 33% of the year.

Imagine not Facebooking for 33% of the year.

Or not driving your car for 33% of the year.

Or not having to hose chicken crap off the back deck because Prince Farming says free ranging is soooo way cool for 33% of the year.

That last one might only apply to me.  I don't know.  It actually doesn't sound too bad, now that I think about it.

My point is 33% of the year is a long time.

And it is all we can do to get through it without being banned from practice for fighting

(Prince Charming)
(bet that coach didn't think you were so charming, huh?)

or ostracized by an 11 year old for critiquing my daughter's sloopy arms

("It's hard to be the base, isn't it?  I know.  You're doing great!")
(You know what!?  Little ponytail...swisher.  I had....a....My team got Superior!  Okay?  Twice.  I know what I'm talking about.)
(And drill is not that different from cheer.)
(except that it is and drill rules all)

or discouraged from taking pictures by the president of the league because he said some parents last year complained even though no one ever said anything to us except, "Wow!  We love those pictures!" and "Be sure to get my kid in there!" and "How can I get a copy of that?"

(It's fine, really.  I'm over it.)

By Thanksgiving we're all on the floor with our tongues hanging out muttering,

"Remember this next year.  Remember this next year."

So, the idea of climbing back on the baseball or soccer or ballet or track or, truly, any spring bandwagon that doesn't involve 3 glasses of wine and a good Netflix line up is really not on our radar.

Although, I usually just shake my head and say something like,

"Oh yeah...no.  We're taking a break this year,"

and then find something really interesting on the ground to look at.

 

Naked Vampires Are Not A Sin (...They're not)

I was fairly conflicted this Easter.  I usually am when it's about religious holidays.  Mainly because I'm not that religious.  In that dress up and go to church and don't drink and don't swear and praying for a parking space is selfish kind of way.  You know?

As I've gotten older I've become more aware of the true meaning of these holidays, and it makes me feel like maybe I'm missing a big part of what's going on and maybe I should be doing more to celebrate than just making grapefruit and thyme Bellinis.

(which are not for anyone who has any kind of affliction to thyme)
(which I do)
(which is why I should have left it out)
(hindsight)
(still drank the pitcher, though.  Waste not and all that...)

We did the whole ham thing and I made, quite possibly, the best creamy scalloped potatoes

(Taylor Swift moment)

....like....ever.

My daughter and I dyed eggs and I got a little territorial about my egg that I'd wrapped rubber bands around and colored orange which ended up looking like a football.  Kind of.  A spider web maybe.  Not really the Martha Stewart display I'd seen at all.  I guess you have to do more than one for it to look right.

Anyway, she wanted to put a sticker on it that was a picture of half a pink Easter egg shell with a little fluffy chick sitting it.  And I said no.  So, to get back at me, she got territorial about the egg she dyed purple and drew butterflies on.  I wanted to take a picture of it and she wanted to eat it.  I've known my daughter a while now and I kind of know what gets to her.

"You are the most beautiful model ever.  I would be so happy to take a picture of you holding out this egg you made.  It's the most beautiful egg ever."

And snap.

(Doesn't that look wild?  Like I cut it out of the picture and just pasted it here?  It's 'cause her shirt was white.)
(No magic.  Just pics.)

I feel like I'm getting off track.

My point is that on this Easter Sunday, I felt really horrible sitting down after dinner to watch four episodes of True Blood.

(really, it was during dinner)
(It's only On Demand for the next five minutes so I felt an extremely pressing need to get through all twelve episodes this weekend)

I love this show.  It's creepy and sexy and weird and could totally never happen, but I love it.  Normally, eating dinner and watching TV is not a big deal on Sunday night.  We kind of let loose on the weekends.  We stay upstairs.  The kids stay down in the playroom.  If they try to come up, we kick them back down and shut the door.

Don't judge.  It's not nice.

These particular episodes of the show were especially....ummmmm.....ghoulish?  Satanic?  Of the devil?  And every time they took their clothes off or said "G**dammit!" I would roll my eyes toward to ceiling and say a silent

"I'm sorry."

When Jason Stackhouse took the Lord's name in vain I nearly threw my neck out.

It's just entertainment and it's all completely fake and I know the Lord knows that and He really just wants me to be happy and have some fun, it just felt really wrong.  Like I was doing a disservice to my children by allowing them to sit downstairs eating lemon meringue pie and laughing their jelly bean stuffed heads off at Wreck-It Ralph while we enjoyed ourselves with champagne and demonic vampires.

And maybe we should have been sitting all together at the computer Googling passages from the Bible

(because I don't really know any off the top of my head)
(except Psalm....)
(Matthew 6:9.  The Lord's Prayer)
(which I just Googled because I thought it was a Psalm)
(this is what I'm saying.)

As I climbed into bed last night I sent up several more silent prayers.  For my children.  For my beloved.  Thankful for the fortune of our life.  Our health.  Our bounty that allowed us to celebrate and give to our children in ways that made them feel happy and loved.

My love for the Lord and the grace I feel in my connection to Him is about more than just my knowledge of Bible verses.  I know that. 

("He's in here!  He's in your hearts!")
(Don't you love when you can quote Footloose and talk about God in the same breath?)
(That's why Footloose rules all.)

And I didn't feel at all guilty about the teeny, tiny, little request that I made that True Blood On Demand will last more than just the weekend.

(2 episodes left to watch)
(this show kills me)