Dear Education Department,
Perhaps more people would be willing to come work for you if you made the process of getting certified less confusing, expensive, and unrewarding. Also, it would be really nice if you had your phone operators at the certification office remove the bugs that have crawled up their collective asses, because every single one of them was pissy and unhelpful this morning. Don't want to answer the phone, ladies? GET A NEW JOB.
Sincerely,
A Frustrated Teacher
Many things to blog about. Many, many things. But the pain in my tooth is killing me. It took a Darvocet to stop the throbbing in my face. The very same Darvocet I was given for MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY. Luckily, I have an appointment to get the tooth removed next Wednesday. Because I'm still nursing Superbaby, I will be awake and coherent for the duration. Believe me, I am okay with this because toothaches SUCK. A lot. In fact, I'm considering getting' all liquored up and finding some pliers.
Also, I'm in the middle of an online adolescent psychology class that is really boring, but necessary. I am totally getting an A.
I owe Will a birthday letter, and Superbaby had his 2-month check up. The boy weighs nearly 13 pounds and he can roll over. Genius! I am still looking for a job. Or a winning lottery ticket. Oh, and I won the contest over at Letter B's place (link in the sidebar).
Maybe I will get to it tomorrow. I'm off to check on my fussy, post-vaccinations baby.
Now is the ideal time for me to be looking for work.
Exhibit A: Yesterday I received a call from a local private school, whose director very kindly called me to tell me that the resume and cover letter I sent them were addressed to someone else. She just wanted me to know.
Exhibit B: Today I got an envelope from the elementary school where Gus will be attending kindergarten in the fall. Inside? The mortgage statement and pay stub I had brought in to prove we really do live where we say we do. Apparently I left those with the person that took my son's paperwork.
So not only do my clothes not fit--I HAVE NO BRAINS LEFT IN MY HEAD.
As you were.
Today Gus invited every boy in the neighborhood over for cupcakes. They had been riding bikes up and down the street, but suddenly it got eerily quiet, which is when my neighbor informed me they'd all gone into my house. This is a scenario fraught with inherent problems:
1. No adults were in the house. I was in the neighbor's yard because the boys had been playing outside. Also, I was nursing Superbaby and not exactly highly mobile right at that moment.
2. There were seven boys (including some random kid from a few blocks over I had never seen before in my life) and three cupcakes.
3. HE'S FIVE. He is not the boss.
Last night we went to my parents' house for dinner, where we dined on a giant baked ziti (courtesy of the lovely and talented MamaDaisy). While we were eating, my dad decided to tell us the story of Charlie Powell and the toboggan*.
Apparently when my dad was a kid in the fifties, one could play Games of Doom pretty much anytime one felt so inclined. Which is how my father and his three brothers all made a plan to get on a toboggan behind the unwitting Charlie Powell (why he got to steer we'll never know), after making a pact not to jump off NO MATTER WHAT.
Poor Charlie.
Every single Ashley boy bailed out before the first turn, so when Charlie yelled, "LEAN!" there was no one there to lean with him. He veered wildly off course, into the forest, and ultimately into a tree. The kid broke his arm, but all the other boys had to offer was, "Charlie! You broke the toboggan!"
Do you see now why men could be considered space aliens? WHO DOES THAT?!
I'm assuming my father was the leader of the pack. As the oldest Ashley brother, I'm sure the others all looked to him for guidance and inspiration. The Ashley brothers had a reputation in their town, and were still getting blamed for things FOUR YEARS after they'd all grown up and moved away.
At the tender age of four (or maybe six, my dad is fuzzy on the details), a state trooper showed up at the door of the Ashley residence looking for Bobby Ashley. My father, who is Bobby Ashley, staunchly denied any knowledge of such a person and slammed the door in the trooper's face. Apparently, little Bobby had thrown some rocks through some windows.
Here's the thing: I didn't know any of these stories. The man who raised me is a retired Navy Master Chief and self-proclaimed Safety Officer, a man who would not let us step off the edge of the sidewalk without looking 47 times for cars, and who is constantly watching for danger in all directions. I remember once, as a kid, going into a restaurant with my father and there being some dispute about who would sit where at the table. My dad needs to sit where he can see the door--in case of an attack, he likes to be the first one to hit the floor. Rumor has it that the man was wearing a pistol on his ankle at my wedding.
Today is my dad's birthday. He's 64. I'd say, knowing what I now know about those Ashley boys, he's lucky to be alive (incidentally, so are his three brothers). My children know him as The Cheez, and that's been another revelation. The Cheez is a soft touch, and has the biggest movie collection in town. Also, he has an awesome dinosaur and soldier collection, in case you ever want to play.
What I'm trying to say is this: Happy Birthday, Dad! I hope we have another thirty years for you to share your stories. Maybe there's more Ashley blood flowing in my children than I previously knew.
Today is also my nephew Isaac's birthday. He's 4. Apparently he's my biggest fan, but all he ever says to me in person is, "Did you rip one? Because I smell something!" Watch it, kid, I've got your number. And I mean that in the nicest possible aunt-iest kind of way.
*The story of Charlie Powell and the toboggan inspired Gus to tell the following story: "When I was 2 1/2, I was playing in the backyard and I found some quicksand, and I fell in, and my Mom didn't see me, because she was too busy talking to Judy, so my Dad pulled me out and saved the day!"
That was the gist of it, anyway. WHY does Dashing Husband get to be the hero?! So. Unfair.
I need a stiff drink of whatever takes the edge off The Insane.
I am so tired of Playhouse Disney. So. Tired.
As of today, Will is on the following medications: eyedrops, steroids, antibiotics, ibuprofen/tylenol, Singulair, Zyrtec, and albuterol (via a nebulizer every 4 hours). He completely wilted in the pediatrician's office yesterday, and almost landed himself in the hospital for a chest x-ray.
At least Gus was able to go back to school yesterday.
That is all. Will wants to watch Mr. Bean on YouTube now.
My body is playing tricks on me. Example: when I'm walking, my left hip will randomly seize up. It does this without warning, and I'm sure that soon you will find me on the floor, trying to reattach my leg.
Also, even though I don't feel that big, I fear I am starting to resemble an orange on a toothpick. Which is not so hot. I have very few shirts left that cover my belly, and I think it would be awesome if I could just go everywhere without pants. Pants are so ... constricting.
My projects for today are: take more belly photos, and stain that damn rocking chair.
Did you know that nursing bras are $43 each? Does it really cost an extra $20 to make the cup so that you can open it to nurse a child? I mean, I guess I'm paying for the technology, but it's not as if it's new. For $43, I want my bra to have a touch screen or something. Like an iPod.
Dashing Husband did the taxes last night. For the first time in our married lives, we owe money. Due to a hefty childcare credit, and the credit for our Prius, and a few other things, at least we don't owe much. But, still. I liked it better when we got money back. That ship, however, has sailed, now that we're both working full time.
Yesterday, my vote in the presidential primary race counted for nothing (good job, FL, way to screw it up!). Also, the tax amendment passed. Thanks, Governer Crist, thanks a pantload.
It does slightly warm my heart that it only narrowly passed in my county. But it still passed. Hopefully the $240 it's saving me this year will pay for the cuts in county and city services. You can bet the ranch that education will lose. Again. But it's okay. Kids don't need art, or PE, or books.
Today is one of those days in which everything is annoying. People talking to me, being awake, the fact that my left hip keeps coming out of its socket, and the thought of all I have to do when I get home--annoying! Also annoying: my last week at work is becoming interminable. It's only Wednesday, but it feels as if it should at least be Friday.
I wonder what's for dinner this evening. Last night we had waffles, and the night before that we had leftovers. I am SO OVER cooking right now. I was thinking of making a quiche, but that feels like too much effort. Maybe I'll order a delicious and nutritious pepperoni pizza.
My life is fascinating, no?
There are 4 1/2 weeks left until Superbaby arrives. Here's hoping the cloud of bitchiness hovering over my head dissipates with the delivery.
I am the mother of three boys under the age of six; I have nerves of steel.
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