Monthly Archives: August 2012

August 17…

No one becomes a grandfather, without first being a little boy.

Then and now…

Happy Birthday to my Daddy!

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Remembering those memories, part II

If the Valentine’s story was not enough, I also found this, a true and vivid picture of my exemplary job as a mother. Entitled “Our day at the pumpkin patch,” this one came from October 16, 2007:

Here’s a little story about a day in the life of this Mom and her boys.

 Yesterday, we all head over to the fabulous Dollinger’s Pumpkin Farm for an afterschool field trip.  First, we rode the train.  It sure was nice of the Pumpkin Farm Lady to put me, Hank and George in the caboose.  The caboose that was designed for 5 year olds.  I was sooooooo excited that I got to crawl into a tiny little car while attempting to drag George behind me.  Good thing I was wearing my low-rise jeans so everyone could get a good look at my crack!
So, after the ride, and after I gracefully squeeze my way back out of the caboose, we head over to the pumpkin patch and park.  Hank wants to touch farm animals.  Well, you can take the girl out of the suburbs, but you cannot take the suburbs out of the girl.  “No way, man, that’s disgusting” I announce to my child.  Naturally, I say it loud enough for all to hear.  The other mothers, whose children are practically embracing the goats, look at me in disgust, as I have just announced that I am better than they are.  I slink away.
Off to the playground.   While Hank is off running around with his friends, me and George explore the playhouse.  Little Thomas, a preschooler, decides to play too.  Thomas thinks that pushing an 18 month old is FUN!  “Don’t do that,” I say nice and stern to Thomas.  I look around.  His mother cannot be found.  I assume she is off smoking a cigarette somewhere (what else would a woman who is 7 months pregnant be doing?).  Thomas pushes George again and tries to slam the door of the playhouse on him.  I turn into the protective Mama bear.  I yell at Thomas loud enough that his mother looks up from taking another drag with one hand while rubbing her belly with the other.  Thomas runs away.  I smile with satisfaction, hoping that the pregnant slacker smoker will say something ridiculous like “don’t yell at my child!”  She does not.
Hank has now disappeared to the sandbox, where he is pretty much taking up all the room and the smaller children cannot play.  “Come out of there!” I shout.  “Go play in the haystacks with your friends!”  He obeys.  Hank runs to the haystacks, where he, Kyle and Nickolas decide to play king of the hill.  Hank is doing quite well, he even pushes off a 4th grader!  Woo hoo!  Well, Kyle has had enough of losing.  He gives Hank a good old heave.  Hank tumbles over the side…. and promptly screams bloody murder.
Ever the loving mother, I snap at him to stop screaming and calm down.  His cries are more of annoyance than pain, and he is clearly just having a fit.  “Knock it off or we’re leaving” I growl at the child.  A few teachers come over.  “He’s fine,” I let them know.  Well, he won’t quit his complaining, so off we go, NO PUMPKIN FOR YOU!!!!
During the ride home, the wailing really revs up.  “Calm down, Hank” I nag over and over.  Halfway home, I turn to look at him.  He is crying silently, in sheer pain.  “Oh crap” I say.  We wait at home for half an hour for Jim to get home from work, then I get Hank back in the car to travel to the mystical city of Kankakee, to a wonderous place called the ER.  The radiologist calls him in, and there on his wrist, obvious enough for even me to see, is a crack.  The child has broken his wrist.
Out of guilt, he gets McDonald’s.  Out of pity for myself for being the mean mother, I too get McDonald’s.
And that is what a day at the Pumpkin Farm is like for the family.

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Remembering those memories

A friend of mine on the facepage made a suggestion to me and some other gals: Wouldn’t it be fun to post some side-by-side pictures of our kids, then and now, just to really see how much they’ve grown?

Uh, YEAH! I thought to myself. And *joy of joys* Jim just bought a fancy new scanner/printer so I can use all those photos I have on film (since I am a total hag).

BUT WAIT! I might have some pictures of the boy as a baby after all, saved in a file in my e-mail. So I start scouring through the old e-mail folders. And what I discovered is, I was blogging before I was blogging.

Here, a story I wrote and sent to some relatives and friends about the special men in my life, back on February 15, 2005:

After a long two weeks of working several double shifts at the United Center, I finally had Monday off.  And how perfect:  Valentine’s Day!  I decide that because he is such a good man to put up with me and all my “special moods”, I should make Jim a nice dinner.  So, after running a few errands and a quick visit to Grandma’s house, I decide to get started.
First, I put Hank at the table for a late lunch of chicken nuggets, corn and milk, yummy!  Then I pull some frozen whiting out of the refrigerator, planning a delicious meal of broiled lemon-peppered fish, garlic mashed potatoes and green beans. A smile crosses my face as I realize we even have an unopened bottle of wine, hooray!
I turn to check on Hank, still happily eating his lunch.  But he is instead picking his nose.
“Stop that,” I say, in a motherly tone with no profanities at all, of course.
I turn back to my fish, which I realize I still have to scale.  But, that’s ok!  I look again at Hank, his pointer finger wedged far up his right nostril.  “Stop that,” I hear myself say again.  Ahh, these two pieces of fish are perfect.  I better check on him one more time.  This time, pointer finger and thumb wedged into that tiny right nostril.
“That’s it,” I say, walking over to him.  It is then that I notice there is something in his nose.  I lean over, and upon further inspection of my beautiful child, it is not simply a little snot, but several pieces of corn wedged up his nose.
“Mumble, mumble,” I say.  I proceed to push on the sides of his nose, sending kernels of corn shooting out of his nostrils as if they were tiny cannons.  At one point, he sneezes, sending two yellow bullets out of each nostril, landing on my shirt.  After several are ejected, I look into his nose, only to see one piece that is hopelessly lodged deep inside.  He is now crying, coughing and a little bit scared.  So into the car and off to the ER we go.
The ER is completely congested with cases of the flu and a few broken limbs.  “My son shoved corn up his nose,” I say as quietly as possible to the triage nurse.  She makes me repeat myself, louder.  She laughs.  I sulk away to a seat, realizing at this point that I hurried out of the house, and my hands still smell like raw, unscalled fish.  About an hour later, not having been called yet, my angel points to his nose.  I look up, and joy of joys, that kernel has worked its way down, enough for me to squeeze his nose and send the last bit shooting out.  Several people around me laugh.  I consider making the child eat the remaining piece of corn, but, fearing that he will think it tastes good, I wrap it in a tissue instead.  It is at this point, our name is finally called, but we do not need to see the doctor.
Upon our arrival at home, Jim was forced to order and pick up his own pizza.  The wine remained unopened and the fish went back into the freezer.  Valentine’s Day has never been so romantic.
Love, Marney
PS, there was no lesson learned by young Hank, by the way.  Just a few hours after this incident, I caught him trying to shove Cheerios up his nose.  Boys are gross.

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