Music Tames the Savage Beast

The kids started school this week, so I've had to get them up at 6:30 each day. I wake up at 6:00 myself, which is just awful for me because I'm nocturnal. I mean, I really am. If I could sleep during the day, I'd just as soon stay up until 6:00 AM rather than wake up before the sun has risen. I try to adjust the best I can when I have to go to school or work, but I never feel fully myself unless I'm on a healthy schedule of staying up until 4:00 in the morning and waking up at 11:00 or so.

So I can't blame Layne for being cranky in the mornings. We normal people hate it (those bizarre bastards who actually enjoy waking up at 6:00 AM... that's just suicidal). But unfortunately, it's those bizarre bastards who rule the world, so the rest of us have to stumble out of bed with bleary eyes for three hours. And some of these bleary-eyed fellows, like my dear little cousin, get mean.

Yesterday morning, Layne did not want to get up. It took half an hour of attempts to finally get her to even open her eyes. Then she started yelling at me, "Why do you have to wake us up so early? You're stupid." Well, well, well. "Good morning, Layne, what do you want for breakfast?" "Shut up." Like she was possessed by some anti-morning demon, dressed in pajamas with her hair all matted in the back. Usually she reverts back to her friendly, nice self when her feet hit the floor, but she kept her mood all morning as we were getting ready, grumbling every second of the way.

She started eating cereal out of the box and refused any milk. Then she got mad at me because she didn't have any milk in her cereal. Then she didn't want to get dressed or brush her teeth... Finally, I got her out the door and into the car, running a few minutes late already. "Seatbelt," I said, as I started up the car. Of course, she rolled her eyes.

Then I flipped through the radio stations trying to find something good and maybe even... cheerful. The first song was something stupid, like that Bubbly song that I really, really hate, and I vetoed that. Then some people talking about boring stuff like frappaccinos at Starbucks or how bad french fries are for us yada yada yada. And then, I heard it. On the rock station I rarely listen to.


On the day I was born...


My hand paused on the radio dial. My and Layne's song. We sing it whenever we're on the highway and it comes on the radio. Was she in too bad a mood for Bad to the Bone?

... the nurses all gathered 'round...

I slowly turned in the driver's seat to look at Layne. She stared me dead in the face. After weighing the consequences, I dared to raise my eyebrows to let her know I was bad to the bone. She couldn't help it and started laughing, but she tried to be angry still. "What?"

And just like that, Layne's mood was cracked that morning. Just like all the other terrible things that come to an end.






When I walk the streets...
kings and queens step aside...

The Games

Cameron is obsessed with playing video games. He's been like this for years. He'll play them for hours and want you to watch him, play games with him, and buy him new games.

The whole game thing, I just don't understand. It's weird, and I can't say I like it that much. I mean, I think playing a game is okay for like five minutes, then I'm like, okay, this is actually kind of stupid. To me, it's like watching T.V., or pretty much doing anything for hours at a time. I get bored. And if you're one of those people still obsessed with games past the age of thirteen or something, it just gets kind of creepy.

But whatever. The point of it is, Cameron has reached game desperation at the age of 12 by trying to sell his stuff to get money for new game-related "things." His Nintendo DS broke somehow, and he's trying to get money to buy a new one. He just came up to me with this random cookie tin that he uses to put some of his cards in, and asked me, "Hey, uh, do you want this ... for three dollars?" "Um, no." "Okay, okay. You force me to raise my price to four dollars. Do you want it now?"

And now he's scavenging the house, looking for dropped quarters.

I took him and Layne to the library a couple of times because Layne likes to read. I asked him if he wanted any books, showing him some of the comic books. Cameron just gave me this look and said, "This is so lame. All these people here, in this place, to read." He couldn't comprehend an entire structure dedicated to the purpose of reading. And he kept looking around him like it totally freaked him out that people came to the library in mass numbers.

Haha.

Oh, kids.

The Midnight Chef

I like to eat (obviously, if you know me). I'm like a teenaged boy when it comes to food. And the older I get, the less I'm expected to eat, especially since I'm a female. So it always amazes me when I encounter someone with a food sense greater than my own. Cameron has the gift.


A while back, it was late at night and the kids were asleep, and I got hungry while watching T.V. (I know, very strenuous. You can't judge.) I started to make something quiet, a peanut butter sandwich, and as I took the peanut butter out of the cabinet, the cabinet's door made a small squeak. I turned my back to get some bread, and when I turned around again, Cameron was standing right there behind me, and I jumped.


"What are you doing?"
"I think I'll have a sandwich, too."
"... Uh, weren't you asleep, Cameron?"
"Yeah. But I heard the cabinet door open."

And he proceeds to take the butter knife from me and makes himself a sandwich, eats it in two seconds, and then goes back to sleep.



You have to love a kid like that. And he's not even thirteen. Makes me feel a little better about my appetite.

This Robot on the Playground Told Me...

Something I forgot to add:





Layne asked me where all the trash goes.


"You know, the trash people take it to the landfill..."
"No, I mean, what happens when the landfill is full?"

[uncomfortable, embarrassing moment]

"Well, you see, they kinda dig another hole."
"Okay, but what happens to all that trash in the other one?"
"Nothing. It sort of just, well, sits there."
"Forever?"
"Well, some of it is biodegradable..."


[Damn you, Wall-E!!!! The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, Tooth-Fairy, sex questions I expect. Pollution? Political platforms? Embarrassment for the human race? Geez, man. The kid's not even ten. I'd sooner tell her the difference between boys and girls than that the planet's gonna die soon.]

Laughter in the Time of Danger...

So I've been noting some of the differences between kids and adults (even if the kids swear I'm not an adult yet myself, and I usually have to agree). One thing I've noticed is that by the time you're an adult, you're expected to have moved past laughing at slapstick comedy and people falling down. You're supposed to make sure someone who gets hurt is okay before you laugh hesitantly and delicately "with" him, and then quickly change the subject. Kids, however, get to laugh guilt-free at all the things we adults wish we could publicly laugh at: someone with weird eyebrows, toilet paper on the shoe, the fake-blonde woman who trips down the stairs in the mall...

This all comes to mind because the other night, it was about two o'clock in the morning, and I was in a really bad mood. The kids couldn't fall asleep and kept keeping me up, too and a lot of boring adult crap had happened earlier that day so I just wanted the day to be over. The kids and I had been camping out in the den on the couches, but since they were giggling, I went to sleep on the couch in the living room, adjacent to the den. It was one of those moments when I had just relaxed enough to start having those crazy half-awake/half-asleep thoughts and was beginning to drift off when, out of nowhere, the kids' black cat Shadow jumps from the floor onto my arm, then onto my neck, digging its claws into me, then proceeds to jump over the back of the couch and haul ass into another room. In my head I was like: You motherf****** cat! You just ripped out my f****** jugular vein! After all those times I've refilled your motherf****** cat bowl! See if I ever do that again you damn cat!!!

Of course, I can't yell out those things anymore, so I just yelled, "You ... stupid (the only acceptable word I could find) cat!" And the kids came over to see what I was yelling about and why I was sitting up. "Your cat just tried to kill me..." They both nodded and didn't say anything, turning their faces away from me so I couldn't see they were starting to laugh and trying to hide it by biting their lips. I huffed and went to sleep in Layne's room (after examining my scratches to determine it looks not only like I am a self-mutilator, but that Jack the Ripper got a hold of me as well). As I heard the kids laughing through the wall, I had to laugh, too because it was pretty funny. Something about a cat named Shadow leaping onto my neck in the middle of the night and then tearing down the hall not to be seen again, all for no apparent reason, has to make me laugh. And that's what I get for my bad moods anyway. One day when I have some time I'm going to write a kids' story with a character in it who is me when I'm in a bad mood... she's going to be like the Trunchbull. I guess I'm not that bad, but I always feel guilty when I'm not completely understanding with kids. They will have that look in their eye that says, How can you yell at us when you are one of us? You know you want to eat this cake before dinner, too!


And I am reminded of a time completely unrelated to all of this, when my older brother and sister planted a banana peel in the hall, waiting for me to walk by and trip on it. I was probably eleven or something, still in that hazy daze that lasted until I was about fourteen, when I would trip over everything because I hadn't learned to balance the crazy dreaming world in my head with the harsh reality of sharp objects in the material world. There was a joke that I once tripped over a penny. Anyway. I was walking along, probably thinking of this "really cool" book on aliens or something, when I slipped on something, my feet flew out from under me, and the back of my head hit the floor. I got up from my near-concussion and saw that I was lying near... a banana peel. Even a spacey girl like myself had to rub her head and think, WTF? Did I really just slip on a banana peel? Where did that even come from? ---NOTE: I am laughing really hard by myself right now because I am remembering how weirded out I was by the fact that there was a banana peel lying in the middle of the hallway--- Before I could think too long about it, my brother and sister came out from behind their hiding place, laughing hysterically. And begging me not to tell our parents.


That was also pretty funny. When you think, or don't think, about it.

Jealous of Youth

08/13/08 update: Someone in a British accent left a message on my uncle's answering machine that he played while the kids were in the room. It was weirdly cryptic and basically only said, "This is the Agency calling, please return this call" and left a phone number. Layne said, "It's the CIA!" I'm starting to wonder myself... Who am I working for?



So I have this habit of kind of tweaking reality for my cousins to make things interesting for all of us. And due to this habit, they now believe not only that I am psychic, but also a secret agent.



The psychic thing's pretty true and has happened accidentally for ages, but I really freak them out when they think I can read their minds - and telepathy in others is a fear of my own, nonetheless. So when I told Layne I am psychic for the millionth time, she invariably said, "Prove it," and I told her I would read her mind (NB: reading minds is not directly related to psychic ability, but for entertainment purposes, I have been liberal with paranormal truth). She scrunched up her face and concentrated hard, and I guessed, "You're wondering, Is she really psychic?" Her eyes widened and she nodded. "Now you're wondering, Is she really, really, REALLY psychic?" She nodded again. "Now you think I am crazy and I'm freaking you out." She then said, "Oh my God, you really are psychic! Get away from me!" And I succeeded in freaking us both out.



But something I'm pretty sure isn't true is that I'm a secret agent. I don't really know how that came about but one day when they asked me how I could translate this Spanish sign, and it slipped out, "That's because I'm a secret agent." Now these kids want evidence, so they didn't believe me. Over the course of the summer, I have shown them my passport (which are now equipped with electronic devices and appropriately mention Homeland Security) and I went to the CIA website and left the window minimized at the bottom of the computer screen. Then I heard them whispering and speaking skeptically, but they half believe it. And I make sure not to convince them too much, I always say, "Maybe I am or maybe not. Do I seem like a secret agent?" And my reflexes are kind of fast sometimes (surprising I know, but I once saved one of the Polish kids from tumbling down into this hedge when he was running around on a sloping pyramidal garden). I also once caught a wobbling plate of food before it fell to the ground, and Cameron asked how I did that (the poor kid was probably thinking of Spiderman, he loves superheroes) and Layne said matter-of-factly, "Because she's a secret agent..."



And that's the warped sense of reality I feel every kid needs. They don't really believe, but they want to believe, and that's important.



And now I'm thinking the government really will be involved in this because of all the target words I've mentioned in this post. Homeland security, secret agent, CIA, passport. Ha.

Laura Ingalls

After a two and a half month relapse, I have returned. I figure I might not be in Poland, but I'm still taking care of kids. And I want to write about some of the funny things that have happened involving them because I need to concentrate on the good stuff lately.





For purposes of summary, the not so good stuff (not good at all), my close aunt Laurette- the mom I never had - died, and I came back here to help take care of my two little cousins who are only twelve and nine. I've been living with them since the beginning of June and watch them while my uncle is working. During this time, I've transformed from this college slacker (life slacker) into this modern-day housewife who happens to know nothing about housewifery. Among some of the lighter differences in my life are:

• an acquired fascination with Lifetime movies (fact: watching a preview for one, I actually said, "Oh my God!" aloud at the twists of plot and then looked around to see who heard)


• a detailed knowledge of every Disney character created since 2004 (I hum Miley Cyrus songs around the house)


• an invisible aura of pseudo-motherhood enveloping me (Seven random kids under the age of 12 gravitated towards me at a swimming pool and one of them called me, 'Mom')


• and today's topic of conversation following this list: Moderate cooking skills.

That's right. Half the brain of a kitchen project that once lit an omelet on fire, I have been forced to undertake the unthinkable task of cooking. It's been a slow process, but I have managed to move past the peanut butter sandwich stage and onto such grandeurs as tacos and chicken. Now, I'm not saying I am a good cook by any means, but the kids eat my food which I feel is an accomplishment. I almost shed a tear earlier when Cameron told me I cooked bacon to the exact crispiness he liked (Women Studies 101 echoed something about housewives' finding fulfillment in brainless tasks of an impersonal nature. But I created that bacon my friends, and it was like art. It meant something, something real).

So I've found myself enjoying cooking a little, and I like to make something the kids ask for.

And then Cameron wanted wings.

Which led my uncle to buy this five pound bag of raw whole chicken wings, and led me to almost vomit at the thought of touching raw and bloody chicken. After doing a little squeamish and immature dance of I'd-rather-do-anything-but-touch-this-chicken, I sucked it up and opened the bag. Thus I learned when they say "whole chicken wing", they mean it. It was disgusting, this huge featherless wing from a chicken with loose skin all hanging off it. Gross.

I turned my back to the kids (they're so young! So innocent! They don't have to touch raw chicken!) and after washing the chicken, picked up a big knife to, I quote from the bottle of wing sauce, "Remove the wing tips at the joint." And I encountered the problem of determing which part of the wing was the tip. Ha! I'm stupid, I know. But the whole raw, featherless thing threw me off. After careful consideration and a humbling Googling experience with graphic depictions of violence, I determined the part that was the tip was the part that I never found in the box of wings from Dominoes, the weird little, uh, tip thing. And Google also said to cut off the extra skin around the joints.

Keep in mind that while I eat like crazy, love horror movies, and love my cousins, the thought of touching not only a dead animal, but a featherless naked-looking chicken wing terrifies me. And snapping part of this animal off the other parts of him, then dissecting him at the joints revolted me. But, I'm a big adult now, so I took the butcher knife and kinda as least Jack Nicholson as possible hacked away at the poor chicken wings and snipped-snipped that skin the chickens never even got the chance to tone.

I was left with suitable split chicken wings and the feeling I was now less of a human being. I quietly cleaned the cutting board and counter, even scrubbed the stove in case half a molecule of raw chicken happened to quantum leap ten feet across the kitchen. Then I put the chicken in the refrigerator and went to be alone for a while. I didn't want the kids to see me like this...

Just kidding about the last part. But I swear I saw it in the kids' eyes, they don't want to grow up just yet and be responsible for sawing apart poor chickens.

And that's what I'm doing these days. London doesn't sound half-bad, eh?