I’m not quite sure why I’m in here typing. I can think of eighty-one things I’d like to get done before May 21st and adding a meaningless entry to my blog ain’t on the list. Lately I’m on the warpath to get my house completely organized and running like a fine-tuned machine; every room, every closet, every cabinet…I wish to get rid of everything we haven’t used or looked at in the past year. I want to wash the carpets, the bedding…I’d steam-clean the walls if I could. This sort of cleaning is useless around my house, though. Between the kids and the dogs, things get messed back up within minutes–true story no lie. I’m still contemplating shaving the dogs and bathing them in bleach–as far as I’m concerned it’s always been an option, animal cops be damned.
Speaking of the dogs, Shadow has got us all a little concerned lately–in the past week I would say she’s managed to eat about 2 cups of food, total…maybe. We’ve tried switching brands of dog food, thinking at first that she was just being picky. Most days she lays around in her bed until 1:00 or so, and then moseys on out into the living room, only to flop down on the floor in there for a while. She might get up an hour or so later to get a drink and take a quick potty break, but then she’s back inside, lazing around and completely ignoring her food bowl. I’d like to leave it out, but the other dogs would scarf it down in a heartbeat as soon as no one was looking. So we keep an eye on Shadow and when she even looks like she’s thinking about heading over that way, we set her food back down for her. I’ve tried bringing her bowl to her; I’ve tried spoon-feeding her with peanut-butter-coated kibbles’n’bits. No dice. But every now and then, she’ll drag herself to the kitchen and wolf down an entire meal–after which she’ll look at me as if to say, "What the hell? It’s like you never feed me, you cold-hearted bitch! Don’t you have anymore?"
And then, in what I’m pretty sure is a blatant attempt to disgust me, she’ll throw it all up. She hates me.
Completely off subject, how can you tell when your kid has taken in too much "Star Wars"? Is it A) When asked her name, she responds "Luke Skywalker", or B) When she’s standing in the kitchen, trying to "use the force" to retrieve candy from a too-high shelf? We play around a lot, but she usually keeps the make believe at home, and as far as I know she’s never believed she had actual Jedi powers. I guess the only thing I can do is make sure we don’t take her light saber out in public–God only knows what could happen with that. And I suppose I could stop pretending to be Darth Vader all the time. But "The Circus Monkey and The Evil Bad Man" game had gotten so boring…
Cheyenne, Cheyenne, Cheyenne. She’s something else. I don’t know what’s going on with her from one minute to the next. Our mother-daughter drama of the week? Her hair. I took her to get it cut and styled a couple weeks ago, at her request, and the lady did a great job. She showed Cheyenne exactly what to do to achieve the look and Cheyenne went home feeling like a million bucks. The next day, Cheyenne wears her hair with a center part, combed down flat to her head; the day after that she puts it back in a low, plain ponytail. I agreed to the haircut to get out of the vicious cycle of bad hair–but it continues. I bought her a roundbrush and some smoothing cream so that she could flip it and flounce it like her current style-idol, Emma Roberts as Nancy Drew. Nope. I ask her if she’d like to put the hairdryer in her room so that it’s there for her to use in the mornings. Her answer: "Oh, I absolutely hate drying my hair." Hmmm. Fine. So I say nothing more. But everyday I see her coming out of her room with her hair practically plastered into that same old center-part ‘do…UGH! It looks so stringy and greasy! Why does she DO that?!! Her hair–it used to look so silky and shiny and smooth and straight! I’d have killed for that hair when I was in the sixth grade! She looks like a pinhead! And that hair all up in her face is causing breakouts! But do I actually tell her that? No. I smile, ask her if she’s eaten breakfast, and tell her she looks great.
It helps if I remember the way I ripped through my frizzy brown hair every morning at her age, and the stupid little barette I insisted upon wearing all the time, and the horrible polka-dot shirts and the ridiculously dangly sea-shell earrings, and the black high-tops, and my utter refusal to wear a bra even though I very obviously needed one…the love and appreciation I feel for my mother doubles with each passing day of raising a pre-teen. Major props, mom. Major props.