Failures in Parenting
Having just narrowly made the tax deadline, I was once again reminded of the classifications assigned families by income. I would like to preface this blog by assuring everyone that the cop and I, we are in no way wealthy. There are no true public servants that are. People working for the government making a ton of money? Yes, you're right to loathe them. We do. But we do ok. And this becomes an issue for me because we are now tasked with raising our children in a family that is economically comfortable, which is a foreign concept for both of us.
You see, the cop and I, we were raised po'. See, that's my joke. Too poor to even afford the extra 'or' at the end of poor. Me for considerably longer than the cop. He had several years of slight struggle as a kid. I remember my entire childhood being something like that. And here I should clarify. We both grew up in families with parents who worked, and who, in the worst of situations, steadfastly refused to accept any government aid because we could do with less. And we did. So props to our folks, who provided AMAZING childhoods for us and taught us both to appreciate simple pleasures.
Again, however, this becomes an issue for us. Because the wild boys, they are spoiled. Horribly, horribly spoiled. And I've spent the last few weeks reflecting on upbringings and how God is smoting me for losing my roots.
About a month ago my sister and I went out for massages. This would be my older sister. The one who experienced the bulk of true "hard times" in childhood with me. And on the way we started talking about really good massages. She travels and does photography. It's amazing. But she has not lost her roots. Because she can float on a raft down a river in Vietnam and then hike up a cliff to a village where, for just $12 American, they will send someone to the NEXT village to retrieve someone to provide an hour long massage in whatever hut she's staying in until the raft leaves. And when I look at her in horror and comment on how those are most likely prostitutes she just shrugs and tells me that they may be, but they give a mean massage for a bargain.
The two of us have memories of riding in the back of a pickup truck through Death Valley and putting our crayons in the cooler to avoid melting. And of camping our way up to Canada. We have eaten a billion tacos off of hand carts in the seedier parts of Mexico while looking for sweet deals on jewelry in some terrifying flea markets. So the fact that she now goes to back alleys in Thailand to watch Muay Thai should in no way surprise me. But I'm sad I'm missing out.
And God, he knows. Because after our massages we saw a nice salon next door that does threading. I commented on wanting to try it, but another day. It was time to pick up the wild boys. Two weeks later I got a text from my sister, who had found someone in the back room of an Indian market in Santa Cruz to do threading for her for $6! Yes, really. And I laughed, and vowed to make a trip to the salon.
A day off finally came for me. I opted for a Mommy spa day. First, I went to get my nails done. I had my fake nails removed a few months ago, but missed them horribly. Also, I had bitten the real ones down to the bloody nubs with stress from work and planning the four birthday parties that Gavin ended up having. I was due. So, to the nail place I went. And they looked amazing. Then, on to my massage. Tragically, the woman I liked was not available so they scheduled me with someone they assured me had a very similar style. How bad could it be? The massage place is very upscale and has about a billion massage therapists working there.
Blind trust in their judgment? A mistake. Now I know. Because as I sat in the waiting room pondering why my fingers were starting to itch, a dwarf walked out to greet me. Really and truly, a little person. I immediately thought to myself, good Lord, I'm going to crush her. For real, I had fear of this tiny little lady collapsing to the floor under the weight of my arm when she tried to manipulate it. But, being the open minded person I am I went along with the plan. Sure, I was thrown off a little when she lowered the table to within inches of the floor. I mean, you expect a little distance when you open your eyes. But no, no, I was not going to pre-judge dammit! This is a high class place! These are professionals! Which I steadfastly continued to believe until she dropped a hot stone on my head.
Now I was mildly concussed and super tense. The rest of the massage was totally blown. I spent my time with a sore head and still itchy fingers freaking out about how the masseuse was probably giggling internally at my amazon size, and thinking herself David and me Goliath. I left bitter, and to console myself thought I would try the threading place.
So in I wandered. To a place that looks very elegant, with women who looked at me with thinly veiled contempt. Because that's what you pay for, really. You pay for someone to look at you like they are WAY, WAY better than you are, but with a little help and financial contributions they may be able to bring you up to at least a passable level of appearance. They gave me a list of options, and since I just had my eyebrows done I opted for cheeks, especially along the jawline. Because I thought to myself sure, I have some little fine hairs there and it will be a discreet area I can cover with my actual hair if something goes horribly wrong. Pleased with my decision I sat down, made a mental note of how itchy my stupid, freaking fingers were, and then listened in horror as the woman asked another employee for different string so she could take care of my sideburns.
SIDEBURNS????? I beg your pardon???? What the hell just happened there? And so I told her my tears were from pain when she started threading. Which I guess they were, technically. Internal angst over being Goliath with mutton chops.
When it was over I was ready to pick up my babies. Ready to be encompassed by the love of the wild boys who always think I'm pretty. And I settled into the car and pulled out of the parking garage into the light, which is when I noticed how red and raw my face was, and how swollen my fingers had gotten. Yes, swollen to the point that several of them actually split, and now, several weeks later, I am still dealing with losing skin. Turns out that you can develop allergies to nails. Who knew?
I staggered home in disgust, and vowed to just write it all off. That was it. Back to my roots, dammit.
So this morning I took Gabe with me at the crack of dawn to a flea market. We had to sign up for soccer, and I have fond memories of going to flea markets as a kid. And then of sunburns. And then of my Grandmother slathering us in Lanolin oil (a smell I will perpetually associate with fire red shoulders and noses) because she was sure that would help (it didn't). As we walked among booths at 8 am, he looked at me and inquired what WAS this? I tried to explain, and then spotted a booth selling tamales. Oh sweet, merciful Jesus. Is there a wrong time for tamales? I think not. But when I went to order some Gabe looked at me in absolute horror. I don't know if it was related to me eating food from street vendors or having tamales for breakfast, but he was having none of it. Which made me sad. And hungry. We walked on and he asked me what irritated meant. Then he asked what bored meant. Then he told me I bored and irritated him.
Personally, I feel like he would have been less irritable if he'd had some tamales. And so from now on my quest becomes to simplify the wild boys, and myself. Time to expose them to some of the fonder memories of my youth. Hopefully without too many cases of food poisoning. I feel a Santa Cruz trip coming on, so the boys can have some beach time. There's apparently an Indian market with cheap food out front and cheap threading in back.
Until next time.
You see, the cop and I, we were raised po'. See, that's my joke. Too poor to even afford the extra 'or' at the end of poor. Me for considerably longer than the cop. He had several years of slight struggle as a kid. I remember my entire childhood being something like that. And here I should clarify. We both grew up in families with parents who worked, and who, in the worst of situations, steadfastly refused to accept any government aid because we could do with less. And we did. So props to our folks, who provided AMAZING childhoods for us and taught us both to appreciate simple pleasures.
Again, however, this becomes an issue for us. Because the wild boys, they are spoiled. Horribly, horribly spoiled. And I've spent the last few weeks reflecting on upbringings and how God is smoting me for losing my roots.
About a month ago my sister and I went out for massages. This would be my older sister. The one who experienced the bulk of true "hard times" in childhood with me. And on the way we started talking about really good massages. She travels and does photography. It's amazing. But she has not lost her roots. Because she can float on a raft down a river in Vietnam and then hike up a cliff to a village where, for just $12 American, they will send someone to the NEXT village to retrieve someone to provide an hour long massage in whatever hut she's staying in until the raft leaves. And when I look at her in horror and comment on how those are most likely prostitutes she just shrugs and tells me that they may be, but they give a mean massage for a bargain.
The two of us have memories of riding in the back of a pickup truck through Death Valley and putting our crayons in the cooler to avoid melting. And of camping our way up to Canada. We have eaten a billion tacos off of hand carts in the seedier parts of Mexico while looking for sweet deals on jewelry in some terrifying flea markets. So the fact that she now goes to back alleys in Thailand to watch Muay Thai should in no way surprise me. But I'm sad I'm missing out.
And God, he knows. Because after our massages we saw a nice salon next door that does threading. I commented on wanting to try it, but another day. It was time to pick up the wild boys. Two weeks later I got a text from my sister, who had found someone in the back room of an Indian market in Santa Cruz to do threading for her for $6! Yes, really. And I laughed, and vowed to make a trip to the salon.
A day off finally came for me. I opted for a Mommy spa day. First, I went to get my nails done. I had my fake nails removed a few months ago, but missed them horribly. Also, I had bitten the real ones down to the bloody nubs with stress from work and planning the four birthday parties that Gavin ended up having. I was due. So, to the nail place I went. And they looked amazing. Then, on to my massage. Tragically, the woman I liked was not available so they scheduled me with someone they assured me had a very similar style. How bad could it be? The massage place is very upscale and has about a billion massage therapists working there.
Blind trust in their judgment? A mistake. Now I know. Because as I sat in the waiting room pondering why my fingers were starting to itch, a dwarf walked out to greet me. Really and truly, a little person. I immediately thought to myself, good Lord, I'm going to crush her. For real, I had fear of this tiny little lady collapsing to the floor under the weight of my arm when she tried to manipulate it. But, being the open minded person I am I went along with the plan. Sure, I was thrown off a little when she lowered the table to within inches of the floor. I mean, you expect a little distance when you open your eyes. But no, no, I was not going to pre-judge dammit! This is a high class place! These are professionals! Which I steadfastly continued to believe until she dropped a hot stone on my head.
Now I was mildly concussed and super tense. The rest of the massage was totally blown. I spent my time with a sore head and still itchy fingers freaking out about how the masseuse was probably giggling internally at my amazon size, and thinking herself David and me Goliath. I left bitter, and to console myself thought I would try the threading place.
So in I wandered. To a place that looks very elegant, with women who looked at me with thinly veiled contempt. Because that's what you pay for, really. You pay for someone to look at you like they are WAY, WAY better than you are, but with a little help and financial contributions they may be able to bring you up to at least a passable level of appearance. They gave me a list of options, and since I just had my eyebrows done I opted for cheeks, especially along the jawline. Because I thought to myself sure, I have some little fine hairs there and it will be a discreet area I can cover with my actual hair if something goes horribly wrong. Pleased with my decision I sat down, made a mental note of how itchy my stupid, freaking fingers were, and then listened in horror as the woman asked another employee for different string so she could take care of my sideburns.
SIDEBURNS????? I beg your pardon???? What the hell just happened there? And so I told her my tears were from pain when she started threading. Which I guess they were, technically. Internal angst over being Goliath with mutton chops.
When it was over I was ready to pick up my babies. Ready to be encompassed by the love of the wild boys who always think I'm pretty. And I settled into the car and pulled out of the parking garage into the light, which is when I noticed how red and raw my face was, and how swollen my fingers had gotten. Yes, swollen to the point that several of them actually split, and now, several weeks later, I am still dealing with losing skin. Turns out that you can develop allergies to nails. Who knew?
I staggered home in disgust, and vowed to just write it all off. That was it. Back to my roots, dammit.
So this morning I took Gabe with me at the crack of dawn to a flea market. We had to sign up for soccer, and I have fond memories of going to flea markets as a kid. And then of sunburns. And then of my Grandmother slathering us in Lanolin oil (a smell I will perpetually associate with fire red shoulders and noses) because she was sure that would help (it didn't). As we walked among booths at 8 am, he looked at me and inquired what WAS this? I tried to explain, and then spotted a booth selling tamales. Oh sweet, merciful Jesus. Is there a wrong time for tamales? I think not. But when I went to order some Gabe looked at me in absolute horror. I don't know if it was related to me eating food from street vendors or having tamales for breakfast, but he was having none of it. Which made me sad. And hungry. We walked on and he asked me what irritated meant. Then he asked what bored meant. Then he told me I bored and irritated him.
Personally, I feel like he would have been less irritable if he'd had some tamales. And so from now on my quest becomes to simplify the wild boys, and myself. Time to expose them to some of the fonder memories of my youth. Hopefully without too many cases of food poisoning. I feel a Santa Cruz trip coming on, so the boys can have some beach time. There's apparently an Indian market with cheap food out front and cheap threading in back.
Until next time.
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