Diary of a Curmudgeon

It's probably no secret to you that I'm no fun. At least, I'm not the loud, boisterous, crowd-loving, outdoor activity enjoying, up-all-night-sleep-all-day kind of fun that our culture tends to value. And, I'm not sorry. Sometimes, I tend to be a bit too cautious. And territorial. And controlling. And set in my ways, also known as, "correctly."


I don't know what I'm going to do when the kids get involved in extra-curricular activities that require me to act cheerful and pretend I'm having a good time for their sakes. I'm still hoping that they'll all be into the arts and I can enjoy their activities in earnest.
Given the new kid's energy level and preference for watching grown men knock each other down to get a ball, I think I'll have better providence with the other two.


Anyway, four days from now, we will celebrate our fine country's independence and I will become Grouchy Smurf.


There will be fireworks. I hate fireworks.
There will be potato salad and baked beans. I hate potato salad and baked beans.
Everyone will be dressed in red, white, and blue. I hate dressing like everyone else.
It will be hot. I hate hot.
We will sweat. I hate sweat.
There will be barbecue. I could eat my weight in barbecue. (For my yankee and Canadian friends, that's smoked pork with heavenly sauce on it, not hot dogs on a grill.)


Oh, please understand that I love my country and am very thankful to have this day to celebrate. I just don't understand why we have to set ourselves on fire and terrify children and dogs until the wee hours of the morning to celebrate it.
Mayonnaise does not belong on potatoes, and pinto beans should not be sweet. Ick!
And, at the tender age of 37.5, I am at least 40 years too young to wear the ladies' required uniform of a blue denim shirt with American flag appliques, and denim capris that are a completely different color of blue.


No one should be forced to sweat. Ever. It's cruel. It's disgusting.


Don't fret. I will have fun. After we go eat some barbecue (again, pork covered in yummy stuff. Not burgers on a grill), I plan to watch the Nathan's hot dog eating contest. Then, I will eat my veggie dogs and my salad while DWH has his chili dogs and baked beans.
After that, I will spend the rest of the night trying to get my children to go back to sleep and explaining that the noise is just fireworks and it can't get them.


Oh, and, Hey kids! Get off my lawn!

Tie a String Around My Finger, Part 2

There's a movie, and I'm sorry but I don't remember the title, in which Sarah Jessica Parker's character says something to the effect of this: If you want to know how it feels to be a superhero, all you need is to be the mom of a two-year-old boy.


I could not have said it better myself.


And, I might need reminders one day that, when he was two, my Little Buddy was my best little buddy in the whole wide world.


I will want to remember the sweet way he flashed his gap-toothed grin whenever he laid eyes on his mom. I'm going to smile when I remember the time we ate lunch at McAlister's and he spilled some applesauce on my arm, and immediately grabbed a napkin so he could clean off my arm for me. I will remember how he warmed my heart every time he would hug me from behind when I sat on the floor, the way he saw his Daddy hug me in the kitchen.


I want to have a picture in my mind of the sweetest boy in the world, hauling around his blue pillow with the whale on it with one hand, while sucking the middle two fingers on the other.


When he gets older and his voice deepens, I want a clear auditory memory of his toddler voice, calling his sister, his hero, to come and play with him. I'd like to remember how he loved dinosaurs, rocket ships, and robots (is there a future scientist in our midst??) and how he switched loyalties from Batman to Spiderman in an instant. I hope I can always hear him saying, " 'Ook, Mom! It's Dark Bader!"


What a wonderfully thoughtful, intelligent, loving little boy.


He, too, will someday want to borrow the car and will eventually drive it away. But, right now, in 2014, when my Little Buddy is two, I get to be his SuperMom.


Who could ask for anything more?

Tie a String Around My Finger

This is a reminder to myself that once upon a time, when Sweet Pea was four, she called her bathing suit her "baby soup," and I didn't correct her because I thought it was adorable.


This is a reminder that she did her best to irritate her daddy by pretending to be an Auburn fan, and that she was the greatest source of entertainment for her baby brother.


This will also remind me that when my girl was four, she loved her two-year-old brother more than anyone else in the world.


And she actually wanted to go to the dentist because she was afraid of having green teeth like in the movie she saw at preschool and she loved grilled cheese but didn't like cheese and she named her dolphin bath toy Junie B. Jones.


Because, in December, she will be five and she's just going to keep on going to six and seven, and way beyond that. She's going to go to prom before I know it and she won't call her bathing suit her "baby soup" anymore.


So, I want to remember how cute it was in 2014, when she was four and wanted to put on her baby soup and go to the pool, where she would wear her swimmies like Peppa Pig and then use her Minnie Mouse towel to dry off.


So, this post is a string around my finger so I'll remember all of that when I'm old.


Next, I want to tie a string around a finger for my Little Buddy, who's two right now, but will be three before I have time to blink and then...