From the monthly archives:

December 2008

Happy New Year!


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The Foot Rub

The other night, after I detached myself from the computer downstairs, Jeff and I retired to the bedroom. We were lying in bed, recounting funny Lily, Ben and Evan stories from the day. I was trying to manipulate a foot rub out of him by pathetically caressing his leg with my toes. My feet were still sore from the three hour stint in heels and I was desperate. Jeff blatantly ignored my efforts. Finally, I resorted to begging. Can you please just rub me? Puh-leeeease, Jeff?

Ugh. I am not rubbing your feet, he responded disdainfully.

Why not, I whined? You think my feet are cute. And they really hurt. Pretty please?

Your feet used to be cute, he answered. They used to be, um…uh…painted.

So, imagine them red, I retorted.

Well, he continued, they used to be cuter. Just, um… different… uh, just…

YOUNGER.

What? He defensively asked, after I shot him a look cluing him in that he’d said something really, really wrong. You’re, like, thirteen years older than when we met, he continued. Of course your feet look older. Do you think your mother’s feet are “cute?” As you get older your feet become less cute. That’s life. You know?

No, Jeffrey, I do not know.

He could have said anything: Your feet are dry, Jill. They’re veiny. They’re rough. They’re scaley. Fat, even. But old? OLD??? They are none of those things, for the record. They could certainly benefit from a good foot rub with some moisturizing lotion, but are fine, and a mere thirty one years young.

So that’s when I killed him.

The End.

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A Year in Photos

I’m going to attempt blog detoxing for a few days–hopefully I can keep myself away and come back with some actual words to share. See you all soon, and enjoy your holiday, whatever it is!

(And, a warning: It’s long, and I don’t really expect anyone other than my blood relatives to find it all that entertaining.)

Thanks, DC Urban Dad, for the inspiration…

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My son, The Joker

Alternatively titled: Why my son is no longer allowed to use markers.

(And, yes, I nearly had a heart attack before spotting the bright red marker in his brother’s hand.)

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My daughter, the Princess

My Darling Lily,

I think you may be a bit confused about something, and as your mother, it’s my duty to clear it up. You looked quite royal today, dressed for school in your frilliest purple dress for the princess party, but I have to break some news to you:

You aren’t actually a princess, kid. You did know that, right? Because your recent behavior indicates otherwise.

I do not appreciate having you scream that I am the meanest mother in the world for not allowing you to have a cupcake for breakfast. If you thought that I really wanted to bake “pink, but not strawberry flavored cupcakes with pink frosting and snow on top” at seven o’clock this morning, you were sorely mistaken. What I wanted to do was clean the kitchen, still a mess from last night’s dinner party. But, instead, I baked your damn cupcakes. You’re welcome.

Being told that you will never love me again for making you clean up your crayons yesterday wasn’t appreciated either. I am not your maid, or your assistant. You make the mess, you clean it up. Got it? You are totally capable of buckling yourself in the car. Just because you don’t feel like it, doesn’t mean you can’t. I don’t much feel like it either.

There is not “adult food” and “kid food.” I cooked enough food yesterday for a small army. It was good enough for your father and his fifteen co-workers, and pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. You, however, deemed it gross and refused to eat. Somehow, though, you still ended up with cake. That was good enough for you. Even princesses eat chicken, my love.

I adore you, Lil. You can be the sweetest little girl in the entire world. I love your imagination and creativity and thoughtfulness. You truly amaze me. But the princess act is getting old. And, remember, the queen trumps the princess every time.

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