The death of kindness

Okay, I'll be the first to admit that I will never be confused with that cheery optimist with a glassy grin that we all know in some form. Not me. I do, however, hold a special place in my heart for kindness. Decency. Helping your fellow human (or animal if you will). What the hell is wrong with everyone, though? I mean come on already! I'm sitting in line waiting to pull out at a stop, I see someone pull up needing to merge in my lane. Do I gas it forward so that I can get out quicker because it's a 'dog eat dog world' or do I give up the 10 seconds it will cost me in wait time to let the merger enter? I let the merger enter. Does said merger wave a hand in gratitude. Nope. What set this latest rant off was a string of inconsiderate acts today that, to be honest, really had me wanting to run my car over them. Some skankoid at the mall walks out directly in front of my moving vehicle causing me to actually swerve! in the road as she gives me this bitch in a minute look. Oh, if I could've. Last weekend an elderly man (with a walker no less!) and his wife were crossing the pedestrian walk, and I was waiting patiently for them to make it across. Out of nowhere, this red car darts into my lane swerving to miss the old folks as she's gunning through at about 40mph. Completely oblivious. And door-holding? HA! No pleases, no thank-you's, no have-a-nice-day's, no excuse me's. Nothing but me, me, me. I'd never noticed this attitude more than when I'm out with my two kids in a stroller. I would fall over in shock if anyone EVER held a door for us.

I just don't get why helping other people isn't an innate act. Why do we, as a culture, have to be mandated to be kind to the handicap? Because some jackass probably swiped the last parking space close to the building away from someone in a wheelchair because said jackass didn't give a rip about anyone else. Why do we have 'programs' that provide shelter and food to the less forunate? Because there are human beings out there who wouldn't give a crumb to another person out of pure selfishness. Why do we, as adults, have to be forced by law to be considerate of other people?! This is ridiculous. My three-year-old says please and thank-you as easily as I he says anything. And grown-ups are amazed at his politeness. Maybe he should teach a workshop.

Blessings

1) The MAN allowed me the rare pleasure of rocking him to his favorite song

2) Beans was just her bubbly lil' self

3) E came home early to reroute the water (and has a free day! Friday)

4) the weather feels fallish

5) I survived the in-laws with no obvious mental or emotional trauma

6) fall pictures are back and beautiful

7) The MAN laughed and was in a great mood

8) Beans didn't spit up ALL day! wahoo!

9) the well is functioning again - no more mineral water!

10) family nearby to help keep us dry from the rain (!) when picking The MAN up from school

Nesting

It seems as though it is no where to be found; a change of season, that is. I am so absolutely, ridiculously, exhaustingly OVER summer and it's humid heat and thick air. Fall seems to usher in only to be usurped by the high temperatures again. Halloween is only a few days away. What's more? Thanksgiving is next month and the last week here has only seen one, yes ONE, day out of the eighties. The leaves are gradually beginning to loose their hold on the branches and tumble carelessly about the yard. I love fall air, the swirling leaves, the snap of cold, the smell of embers outside (not that I'll be smelling very much of this due to the drought conditions), warm vanilla and pine smells. It's one of my most favorite things about living in podunk. Silence and wind. Wind that builds its momentum as it cascades through the cedars and shakes the creaking limbs. The first time I heard that aching cry, I felt certain the towering tree was coming down. Now, I like to walk the drive to hear the chorus of cedars.

Nature, at its most elemental state, knows that the time to prepare for the coming winter is here. I wish the climate would get on board, though! The squirrels know it's that time of year to build their storehouses. How do they know this? Little has changed to signal the coming of fall and winter. I think about my grandparents and the generation of nature speakers to which they belong. People who could feel seasons in the air, smell frost long before its crispy blanket covered every living thing in sight, and taste a rain storm before the first cloud darkened the afternoon sky. I think a part of our connection with nature, the part that is of nature, is still there. It's how I know it's time for fall, time for preparation, nesting, and celebration despite the fact that my environment is stubbornly sending out a different message altogether.

Ants Marching...

was that Dave Matthews or Blues Traveler? I don't remember, but the song was biting at my ear when I saw the community of ants overtaking the kids' bathroom this morning. The MAN dashed out of there like lightning when he saw them. I ridded us of the bulk of them with my handy dandy Shark, sucking their scrawny, red forms into oblivion (aka the dust bag). When I was making Bean's breakfast, the older one yells out "I got one!" I looked over and saw him stomping ants like Michael Flatly. I reminded him he had no shoes on and that those ants he was so passionately killing were likely all over his feet. Well, that sent him into orbit. E came home to meet with an exterminator about the problem. Long story short, we'll (see E) be spraying tonight. Fingers crossed.

Beam me up, Scotty!

Yesterday's lack of a post was due to an absolutely crazy day that included lunch out with a sippy cup fit, a bit of a stomach bug topped off with a chimichanga, a much anticipated (see dreaded!) trip to the pedi for a flu vaccine, and dinner with the 'rents while E was in a late meeting. The MAN was terribly brave during his shot. He's normally psychotic when it comes to doctor visits - usually complete with chants of "I'm good, I'm not sick..." followed by charges of others he knows who are "sick" and do need shots - our dogs, his baby sister, me! Not this time, though, probably due to the method used for the vaccine clinic. The children were herded like small cattle into a shot room, injected, and sent on their more common than not screaming way. Not so, for the MAN, he was far more upset about his nurse seeing his Elmo big boy pants than the needle. I held his hands when she came at him with the syringe and he looked panic stricken. I began to count -- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 -- and she was finished. He frowned and was on the verge of eruption, but fought it back. Pretty stinking impressive!

This morning when we awoke, I was helping him get dressed and he asked where his sticker (the band-aid) was. I told him it had fallen off, and he said "when it hurts, we can get a new one!" So I said okay. He asked where the hole was, and told me he didn't have one. I said, "yeah, you do. It's right there," as I pointed at a teensy pin-prick on his upper thigh.

He looks at me and deadpans, "that's where I put the food in." *twilight zone theme song*

Man versus potato

Should I say strong-willed-three-year-old versus potato. My older child, the MAN, literally survives on a handful of foods and air. How he manages this is beyond me, but despite his meager diet, he thrives. He generally prefers fishsticks for dinner. Fishsticks or chicken(s), fishsticks or chicken(s), and so it has gone for the past two years since he bid a sorrowful fairwell to pureed baby food. I've tried to introduce new items to his preferably bland diet. My husband and I refer to it as the diet of white. If it's bland, white, and consists mostly of starch and carbs, then he loves it - he even believed white to be a flavor. Several months back I was determined to make him eat carrots. I was told that the best method was to just keeping serving the carrots, night after night, meal after meal. So carrots it was. He never ate a single, stinking carrot. Ever.

Onto the battle royale. Tonight we had baked potatoes. I made the MAN a potato, assuming erroneously that he would be delighted with it's white fluffiness. He was terribly repulsed at the sight of it's brown peel and it's little foil wrapping, and immediately refused it. Tonight, I did the unthinkable. Never make food a battle. Hmph! Unless said parent is leaving for the gym, and said parent's other half is being left home to contend with the vile, potato-slinging youth. The MAN was told that dinner, for him anyway, would not end until he took one bite of potato. One hour and a half later, after tears, throes of angst, blood-curdling screams, and threats of anarchy, I got a call from E telling me that the MAN ate a bite of potato. Dried out, crumbly, two-hour-old potato that barely measured a teaspoon. I'm sure that showed him how yummy potatoes can be. Anyway, he was said to have been extremely proud of his brave feat...eating said potato. I should probably add that until the age of 17 or so, I lived strictly on peanut butter sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and syrup, peanut butter and raisins, prunes, marshmallow fluff, bakers chocolate, etc, etc. What's the old proverb about people and their glass houses again?

The maiden voyage

Well, for days now the google email has sat in my inbox. All that was required of me was a quick click to activate my google account and what would be, and now is, my blog. Ah, the commitment of it all. I'm certainly not one for commitment, hence the hesitation. Finally, my curiousity and overwhelming need to release all these pinball thoughts got the better of me. So here I am. Blogging. Committing. Sort of. Hopefully, this will be a cathartic experience. I could find a therapist, but it's others in my life who need therapists, so why spend my money on fixing me?! This is a joke, of course; but then again, maybe not so much! I could always journal. I want to journal. I plan to journal. I don't journal. It's the whole paper and pen thing. I think I'll be more efficient with a keyboard. We shall certainly see!