The Dog Ate My Homework

       My daughter informed me that her 8^th grade graduation will be on June 10^th, and that she’ll need a new (aka: expensive) party dress for the ceremony and party. Graduation from 8^th grade? Don’t you just move on to 9th and be done with it? Isn’t that celebration enough? What do they call the grad party.....Practice Prom?  Promito? And why can’t she just put some outfit together from the clothes collecting dust in her walk-in closet? I’m told it’s a big deal and that I don’t ‘get it’ because I’m from the old days when nobody celebrated children – back when they were supposed to be seen and not heard. Well….what’s wrong with that? Now they just scream and perturb.

       Due to the fact that there are no stores in this town to shop for a party dress (unless my daughter wants to dress like Cattle Kate or someone from Little House on the Prairie), hours were spent perusing teeny bopper internet stores for something partyish but not fancy, fashionable but not trendy, and grown-up but ‘not anything that a mom would wear’. Bomb. Looks like we’ll be driving 2 hours west to the nearest shopping town I liken to Hell, where an extra large bright yellow billboard greets people with the words “WARNING TO TOURISTS: DO NOT LAUGH AT THE NATIVES”. Frankly, I think my little sweetie would look darling dressed as Laura Ingles…….

       On another note, the dog ate my son’s science project. The experiment involved the very exciting process of watching mold grow on bread, which is about as exhilarating as watching grass grow….or church…but which is apparently momentous enough for a potential ‘A’ in 7^th grade science class. The project was merely 2 weeks established with little or no mold yet visible when the pup decided to pull it off the counter and suck it down in one gulp.  40 minutes and a lot of screaming later, I was able to calm my son enough to tell him not to worry and that I’d just help him simulate the results. More screaming. Evidently ‘simulating’ is equivalent to ‘lying’ and ‘cheating’ which I’ve always taught my children to avoid. Damn. A lengthy and intricate conversation regarding the art of deception then ensued. I took on the role of ‘impatient and horrible mother’ and, telling my son it was time to finally grow up, I proceeded to crush my 12 year olds innocence with a monologue regarding careful manipulation, creative license, clever illusion and strategic monkey-business. Examples of government, law enforcement, big corporation and our lawn guy followed, as I attempted to convince the dear that fudging results for a little piece of bread is nothing compared to the guile perpetrating our society. I concluded my speech with the popular phrase uttered by all self-absorbed, arrogant and thoughtless individuals: “Besides, who would know?” I swear, there was pity in my boy’s eyes when he calmly and confidently said, “I would know, Mom.” I can't do that. I’ll start over.” Gee whiz. Such integrity. Not sure where he gets it from…..

       The dog is fine….now. A trip to the vet became necessary when the excessive sneezing, wheezing and choking sounds forced us to turn up the volume during an episode of American Idol, and demanded we wear earplugs to sleep. Seemingly, bread mold doesn’t sit well with fido and he might even possess an allergy to…..penicillin? Personally, I don’t think the vet had a clue as to the cause for the dog’s suffering, but nevertheless sent us on our merry way with 2 different forms of medication, a $467 bill, and an appointment for a $1300 canine rhinoscopy, if things don’t clear up within the next 10 days.

       Good times.
       And honestly, I wouldn't change it for the world.

Birth Day

      Today is my birthday.  I know there must be something funny about that....

     

       My mother claims that her pregnancy with me almost killed her. Apparently, she was severely sick for ten months, throwing up every hour of every day, in her body’s attempt to expel the parasite from within. She tells everyone that she weighed 12 pounds more before she got pregnant than on birthing day, and that I simply sucked all the nutrients from her, rendering her barely human. I was difficult from the very beginning, I’m always told.

       Yet I wonder if it ever occurred to Mom that maybe I wasn’t particularly happy in there myself?! Some people may like the concept of a womb, but to me, it just seems overwhelmingly confining. Squishy. To begin with, our souls are stuck in this teeny body with all these annoying limitations…and then we’re placed in a small round area where we’re supposed to grow and develop into something functional. There aren’t even any corners to hide in or turn….or paint yourself into. Smooth and round. Safe and controlled. Yawn. No wonder I was a fussy fetus....I get bored easily and like adventure! Just how much fun can one have in a room with no view and maximum security? How can a soul thrive in a container? 

        To top it off, everyone then makes this big deal about being born, when in reality, you simply exit from the dark and painful ‘canal of false hopes’ still imprisoned in a body, but now in yet another container called Society. Your new container now bombards you with information and attempts to control and shape your brain in ways that are often ridiculous and filled with even more limitations. Sheesh. Damned either way. Hey, wasn’t there some kooky Czechoslovakian scientist who researched PTSD in babies their birth experience? Hmm. Well, it's no wonder I’m ‘difficult’. And no wonder I’m occasionally cynical about the world as well. Just think, the light at the end of my first tunnel turned out to be fluorescent buzzing ceiling lights in a drab rose colored room filled with screaming, overly excited people who wouldn’t leave me alone, but rather poked bulbous suctioning devices in my nose and shook and spanked me until I cried. Whew. Good thing I only had to do that once.

       But it’s just when my poor mom thought the nightmare of pregnancy would end that I ultimately displayed my petulance. All the commotion of those frantic trips to the loo must have made me a little cranky, because, at the magic 40 weeks, I decided to be obstinate, stay an extra 15 days in utero, and gain a couple of more pounds so that I would pushing the 10lb mark on exit day. Ouch (sorry, Mom). But who could blame me? It was 1966…..and people were wearing flowered corduroy pants, for god’s sake.

       And so I dissented right to the end, deciding to campaign for an additional 18 hours during labor, while endeavoring to assert my opinion. I know I fought hard, challenging the entire process, because I have actual evidence that a struggle took place. It’s my head….the sides of which I swear are still indented from where that bloody doctor pulled at me with those barbaric forceps. No wonder I get migraines. I probably would have had a nicely rounded head, if I hadn’t been forced down that canal against my will to begin with, and then viciously plucked out with large merciless tweezers. As it stands now, it’s sort of a long and narrow noggin, indented above my ears and best described as….oblong? Peanut? Corncob? It’s a shape that is great for putting through railings (something I was quite proud of as a young ‘un), but not so great for the puffy-height-enhancing-face-lengthening-flip-up-dos of the 80’s. Thank god the bob came back.

       In any case, I do hang onto a great black and white ‘1-hour-old’ photo of myself that serves as a reminder that I have feistiness about me. Whenever I need to feel strong or muster up some courage, all I have to do is focus on this photograph for about a minute or less. In it, my arms are raised high above my head, and my fists clenched so tightly that my chubby fingers almost disappear against the white background. My eyes are two swollen slits, closed tightly, in an attempt to will myself back into the womb…or maybe another universe altogether. I don’t seem to have a neck, but rather two chins, both of which are pressed so hard against my chest, that my very large bottom lip is forced downward in protest from it’s lesser upper companion. My head is huge, (ballooned with rage I guess), very pointy on the top, and I can see the offending prominent indents on my temples from those prehistoric tongs. I am definitely in disapproval of something. I have an objection… and I could possibly be lambasting all those within earshot too. Yup. Feisty.

       Today, during my birthday call where my mother reminisced about her horrendous pregnancy and labor (speaking of PTSD) and reminded me that I was difficult and stubborn from the moment of conception (an annual conversation), I told her that I was not planning on changing anytime soon. I like who I am, and at 44 I feel that my personality is pretty much set in stone, although maybe a little more polished (?)...Besides, according to Roger’s Thesaurus, ‘difficult’ and ‘stubborn’ can translate into ‘intricate’ and ‘committed’ or ‘original and ‘steadfast’, right?

       Hey, give me a break. I think I might have PTSDD: Post Traumatic Symptoms of Delivery and Dispatch.