Spank Your Inner Moppet

This post shall thus begin the new era of this site. Hahaha, me and my lofty ambitions. But, seriously, I’m totally gonna try and do a post a day during the week to see how things go. I’m a little concerned I may sort of subconsciously plagiarize some of my favorite bloggers, but I promise not to do so on purpose. Does that count?
Moving on…today marked Mini-Me’s Open House for 1st grade. That’s correct, a couple of posts ago she was just starting pre-K and now she is a 1st grader. She can read and everything (she also grew a foot and got her hair cut - oh the stories I am behind on sharing). In just over 45 minutes we will be attending Will’s Open House for Middle School. That’s right, he is no longer homeschooled and will be starting 6th grade. In my next post I will inform you of how I made it through this day without crying about my baaaayyyybeeee being all grown up. OR, he may be graduating from High School. You never know with me, I’m unpredictable that way.

When the story left off, Mini-Me was 4 and the Boy (let’s just call him Will, shall we?) was 9. Tomorrow, Mini-Me will turn 6. I know! She starts 1st grade in one week. I’m not okay with this. It seems it was just last week she was still stuffing Play-Doh up her nose. I’m even less okay with Will starting Middle School. Time goes by so quickly and I’m seeing my babies grow and change at an alarming rate.
So, Saturday we had a birthday party for Mini-Me and she had some friends over and we rented a bouncy house and all was right with the world. She got everything she’s ever seen advertised on the Disney channel. Pixo’s and Bendaroos (both the regular sets and the DOUBLE size MEGA SETS)! She’s in heaven and my house is a mess, but that’s what it’s all about right? Hopefully her infatuation with these lasts longer than her Alien Maker set she got for Christmas, but I figure once she uses or loses all the little pieces, it’ll be back to asking me for paper from my printer so she can make a book to write in.

What else? I missed the tax free weekend. Again. The same as I do every year. So there’s that.

I’m a little rusty with this writing thing. Give me time to get my groove (and some readers) back.

Um, weird. I just tried to re-setup this site because I miss it, and lo and behold, it’s still here. So, I’m kinda weirded out right now, trying to figure out if it’s been here all along, or my hosting company held onto it because they just knew I’d be back. Like, could I have been posting here all along for free? I wonder and I do not know the answer.

I’ll post more later, as I have a huge deadline and I really shouldn’t be here anyway, and let’s face it, no one is reading this because if it HAS been here for the past 2 years, it hasn’t been updated so what’s the point? And if it hasn’t been here for the past 2 years then no one will know it’s back anyway.

Just know this, internet, I’ve missed you.

When I was a kid, my cousins and I would spend summers at my Granny’s ranch in Wyoming. I don’t know if you know this, but Wyoming is…kinda sparse. There are so many miles between towns and so few people anyway, that it’s still next to impossible to pick up a decent radio station. I mean, who’s listening? Honestly?

(Aside - on a visit there a few years ago, rather than bother with the radio, I just had The Boy recite Shrek for me. Accents and all. It was awesome and almost like watching the real thing.)

My Granny loves to sing, especially old cowboy songs. Cowboy Jack, Red River Valley, Strawberry Roan, When the Work’s All Done Next Fall. Oh, how we loved to hear Granny sing those old cowboy songs. We loved the funny ones, but we really loved the sad ones. Sing us a song about a cowboy dying because the herd stampeded during a thunderstorm and we were in heaven. I loved the way she always ended the songs with a little laugh because she knew the effect it would have on us. The one that got us the most though, was Old Shep. She would sing it and we’d all be reduced to little sniffling balls of snot. When she was done we’d yell through our tears, “Sing it again, Granny! Sing it again!” And she would and we’d cry some more.

I sang that song to The Boy once and he had a fit. There was no, “Sing it again, Mom!” There was anger that I had subjected him to it. That I had dared sing him a song that made him cry. He was about 6 then, so I figured maybe he was a little too young to appreciate it. Fine, I’d try again later.

Later was this morning. He told me I had scarred him for life when I sang it the first time and he didn’t want to hear it again. Well, that’s just too damn bad, I though to myself. He’s going to hear Old Shep and he’s going to cry and he’s going to understand why we loved it when we were kids. He didn’t. Well, I mean, he cried. But then he got mad again and asked my why I had to sing it again.

So I’ve been trying to figure that out. Why do I have this desire to make him love a song that makes him so sad? Why do I love that song if it makes me cry and my nost stuff up when I’m trying to sing it? Help me out here, why do we watch movies that make us cry over and over? I tried to explain to him that the reason Old Shep is so sad is because it’s a story about remembering the love he had for his dog. I can’t figure out how to explain that the song has to end sadly to make it special. I mean, it’s not like I’ve read Old Yeller more than once. (That book is on his list of books he’ll be reading for school this year, by the way. THAT’ll be fun, won’t it?)

So what is it about us that makes us listen to sad songs, watch sad movies, read sad books? Why are those the ones that stick in our minds so? I mean, should I be forcing this on my kid? Seriously folks, he gets really mad. We went to see Martina McBride a few months ago (I really don’t walk around in a cowboy hat and Wrangler jeans, I swear!) and when she sang Concrete Angel they showed the video in the background and he was devastated. He still won’t let me play that song. I tried to explain that it was written to make people mad and sad so they won’t look the other way, and he gets that, but you can see him struggle. It’s like it affects him so much that his heart breaks.

And then my heart breaks. And then I make him listen to Old Shep again. And read Old Yeller.

Shit.

The Boy has a nemesis in football. It’s this teammate who stands about a foot taller than him and that, at the first practice, tried to push him around and headlock him and found himself on the losing end of some karate throwdown.

It was beautiful.

Oh, no one got hurt physically. He got The Boy in a headlock and was suddenly sitting on his ass. Period. Done. ‘Nuff Said.

So, as the season has progressed Jack and I have watched things unfold. Our team is small. We don’t have enough kids to practice offense and defense. So we basically have 5 kids playing defense while they learn the plays. The Boy keeps lining up on the defensive line across from his nemesis and he consistently gets past him and busts up the play. Jack and I find this endlessly entertaining as the coaches get on him about it (he even schooled the coach). Last night, they decided to get smart and have the fullback block him if he got past the other kid. When he did, The Boy was knocked flat. His nemesis, who had no part in the play other than to look foolish as my kid went around him AGAIN, started pumping his fists and shouting “Yeah!”

So my classy kid hops back up and lines up across from him again without ever saying a word. My husband, while commending The Boy for doing the right thing, told him he would’ve had to ask him what he was so happy about since he missed the block. In end though, he just does what we’ve told him all along, don’t tell them what you can do, show them. And he does.

Well, this post is the beginning of the last few posts for this blog. It’s been fun, but my hosting and domain are up for renewal next month, and I’ve chosen not to renew. I’ll probably start up a freebie one sooner or later, but spankyourinnermoppet’s days are numbered. Thanks to those of you who’ve been reading. It means a lot.

A couple of weeks ago, my dear friend who moved away leaving me sad and without a regular drinking partner and who openly admits to her love of Top 40 radio and, in particular, Fergie, and I were discussing her latest song. She was making the point that Fergie’s got a good voice and she loves that song. I was making the point that she may be able to sing but that the lyrics, “I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket…” were pretty bad she had to admit and she did, while making it perfectly clear to me that it didn’t matter and, hello? Who lent who their “Mizzundastood” CD to load on the iPod? As if there’s any comparison! Pink could totally kick Fergie’s ass and just how awesome is “U + Ur Hand”? I NEED that CD and I keep putting off buying it. She’s the closest thing to Pat Benatar this generation has.

So, today, as I was singing along to “My Humps” it occured to me that it was time to just admit that I can love me some Fergie and that’s okay. It’s kind of like finding out some song I can’t remember now, but really dug on about a year ago turned out to be Ashlee Simpson and I just had to embrace it for what it was. And now I have this new fascination with Amy Winehouse and personally I like “You Know, I’m No Good” over “Rehab” but man, that woman is scary, you know? And okay, fine, while I’m in full confessional mode here, yes, I visit GoFugYourself regularly, I am a little worried that Angelina is wasting away (even though I tend to side with Jen on the whole rest of the situation), I think Suri is cuter than Shiloh (but let’s face it, it’s kind of like the argument my old roommate I had about who was cuter, preteen Jonathan Taylor Thomas or preteen Elijah Wood. Let’s just say, you never know for sure until they’re all grown up), and I think Beckham is a pretty, pretty man. God! Is there anything else you want to know?

Today, The Boy was getting his hair cut. As it is football season we reached a compromise on the whole mohawk thing. Usually he gets his hair cut really short and the front flips up and he looks so awesome that I find myself staring at him a lot and at first he smiles at me because he KNOWS he looks good, but after awhile, I think it sort of weirds him out because he starts staying away from me (someday, I think he’ll understand the wonder that a parent has when they can look at their beautiful child and realize that somehow, when you mix Mom with Pop you come with Junior and, wow, Junior is a looker). Today, we opted for the usual haircut morphed into a mohawk and he looks awesome and let’s just let it be known that neither of my kids suffer from any insecurities about their looks, so he’s more than happy to nod at me when I keep looking at him marveling at how good he looks.

Anyway, at some point during the haircut, our hair stylist and I were discussing the cowlick he has on the back of his head and how difficult it is for her to get the mowhawk part straight when there’s this swirl right there. He asked us what it looks like and I told him it looks just like a satellite photo of a hurricane and she agreed and said that that is exactly what it looks like and continued to try and get the cut just perfect. And that’s when he said, “Maybe that’s why my head feels cloudy sometimes.”

Ba-Dump-Bum

It’s okay though, if he gets too cocky with his wit and good looks I can always pull out the story about the time I went to put his sandals on him one day when he was about 3 years old and noticed this big bloody glob on his toe. When I asked him what he did to his toe he looked at it and freaked out (he had been fine just before then) and when I went to try and touch it to see how bad it was, he started screaming at me not to touch it, because, “it hurts!!! It’s huuuurts!” only it turned out to be a glob of strawberry fruit bar.

Except that he thinks that story is funny so then I tell about how he has not once, but twice, sneezed a spaghetti noodle out his nose FROM HIS MOUTH! And the first time I pulled it out, not knowing that it was a full length spaghetti noodle and it came all the way and made his eye water and I didn’t really know how to react except to tell Jack that I had just pulled a 14″ long spaghetti noodle from his kid’s nose and why the hell didn’t anybody tell me that could happen? Of course, that story involves something gross so it’s funny to him too.
In other news, The Boy has this fake money that is like giant photocopies of real currency. Currently, Mini-Me has it and she’s passing it out to us so we can buy stuff. She just threw a fiver at the dog and told her to “Buy yourself a new collar.”

Yesterday, Jack busted me for flipping my turn signal on at that same damn bend in the road that I did the other day and he thought that was pretty funny. I thought it was the first time, but now, not so much. What’s next? Stopping at a spot in the road where I usually have to stop when people make left when there’s no one actually making a left? Um, nevermind.

Gotta go.

A couple of days ago, the funniest person on the internet threw me a bone and tagged me for a meme. At first I was all…”OMYGOD, Erin tagged me! Woo hoo! I’m worthy! I’ll have visitors!” Then the reality of the situation sunk in and I got all tight in the chestal area…”8 things? Do I even HAVE 8 things?” You’d think so. You’d think I’d have 800 things that I would have saved up for just such an occassion, but alas… And so I’ve been thinking and here it is 3 days later and all I’ve got to show for it is a headache and a nervous twitch.

So, here goes nothing, 8 things in no particular order…

1) Today, while driving my kid to karate I turned my blinker on in anticipation of a bend in the road. I can’t explain why.

2) I realized on Monday that the reason I’ve been so completely tired probably has something to do with not refilling my thyroid medication for 3 weeks. I still haven’t filled it. I’m kind of a procrastinator.

3) When listening to the radio, they led into the commercial break with a teaser about the next song being punk before anyone knew what punk was. I stayed tuned in to hear the song and spent a couple of minutes debating to myself what it might be, but forgot all about it after the commercial break and I still don’t know what the song was. I’m kind of bummed about that.

4) I still mourn the loss of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Charmed filled the bill for a spell (ha ha, geddit? **sigh**) but now it’s gone too.

5) For as long as I can remember I’ve been late to everything. It doesn’t matter if I oversleep or get up on time, I’ll be late. I do feel really bad about it and I think that should count for something and maybe keep the snide comments and watch tapping to a minimum, but it doesn’t. I’m married to a guy who has to be not only on time to things like our kid’s practices and games, but early. Sometimes by a half hour or more. Weird.

6) I love puppies. I know, I know, but it’s a “thing” and it’s true. Few things in the world make me as happy as a puppy, all squirmy and grunty and licky and bitey and snuggly. I’m smiling just thinking about it.

7) I think the only way to make a PB&J is with peanut butter on both slices of bread and the jelly in the middle. My husband thinks one super-thick peanut butter layer and one super-thick jelly layer is the way. So far, our marriage has withstood this, but when he dunks it in his chocolate milk, I must admit that I do wonder how.

8) Tuesday, when studying the MRI films I had just picked up to bring to the Orthopaedist in the bathroom (which is the only place where I’m qualified to study MRI films) while Mini-Me was in the stall talking about how she was pooping and how she was going to use the little toilet paper because that’s the baby toilet paper and I could use the big one because it’s for moms and I have a bigger butt and making sure I was listening to her every word, I was distracted not by my inability to figure out where my alleged injury was but by the fact that I could make out very distinctly the layer of fat covering all the wasted muscles in my injured leg. I decided right then that I should get back to the gym pronto.

Except I haven’t refilled my thyroid medication and I’m kind of tired. Maybe tomorrow.

And, who shall I tag? I’m not sure, how about….Cheryl, Annie, Fluffie Bunnie, and But Momma.

Okay, so you know how you can take your car to the shop because when you turn the wheel too hard to the right it squeals, or when you’re driving down the road it makes clunking noices all the time, or you step on the gas and it spontaneously explodes, but when you take it to the shop it doesn’t do it? But then as soon as you are within a mile of home again it blows up and you’re all, “SEE?!? I told you!!!” as you haul the damn thing into them as a burnt hunk of twisted metal and leave it in their front lobby?

Well, imagine it was your knee. Imagine, for instance that you’re lying there with the orthopedist trying to twist your knee all around and it really doesn’t hurt, so you try to explain that it basically hurts all the time when you’ve got weight on it, but the things he does to try and pinpoint the pain don’t do anything. Suppose he says, there is a tear, a slight one, but since he can’t make it hurt by twisting it like a pretzel, then he doesn’t want to rush into anything. He asks if it locks up or catches and you tell him it pops all the time. He tries to make it pop. Nothing. So you ask him, “Where is the tear?” and he points to the opposite side of your kneecap from where most of the pain you feel is. The opposite side from the popping (you forget this detail until you are home, and you wonder how significant it could’ve been). You sit there trying to figure this out and explain, pointing to the inside of your kneecap, that THIS is where it feels like someone is jabbing a knife when you do lunges or step on the emergency brake in the car. He smiles kindly and says it could be tendonitis and wants you to got to PT for 3 weeks and come back in a month to see how it feels. So you oblige because you don’t actually want someone scoping out your knee if it doesn’t need it, but still…

So, suppose you then drive home and as you step on the emergency brake it feels like someone stabbed you in the knee and you climb out of the car and straighten it and it pops. Yeah, just imagine.

So, I finally decided to have an MRI and I got the results back today. I have a vertical tear in the cartilage of my left knee. I’m not sure what that means for sure yet except that I have to go see an orthopedist and YAY, it’s not just me being a pussy about it hurting. I mean, not YAY that there’s something wrong, but YAY that it’s probably something that can be fixed. I considered having them look at my right knee while I was there because it creaks. Like a squeaky floor. It literally goes, crrreeeaak, everytime I walk up steps. But it doesn’t hurt. Not even with the extra load that’s been placed on it for the past several weeks, so I guess it’s okay. Besides, my insurance only approved the MRI for one knee and I wasn’t about to push that and mess up the whole “referral” and “approved procedures” and “we’ll cover 70% so it’s not going to cost anywhere near as much as you thought so don’t push your luck” thing I had going on. When you’re self insured and have a ridiculous deductible, you hold your breath over the cost of everything. We’ll see what it ends up costing me now that I have an idea.

So…no karate for the indefinite future. The Boy is going to attempt the novice black belt test again this Saturday. He failed it the first time, so I think he’ll be more focused this time. Even if he passes it, he probably won’t actually get his novice black belt because he’s still a brown belt and hasn’t yet earned his advanced brown, but it’s good practice and when he takes it for real, he’ll be ready. I know there are those that argue that no one under the age of 13 should be a black belt, and, truth be told, I tend to agree with that. However, he’s worked his ass off for the past few years taking 3-5 classes per week without fail. He can pass the physical requirements for the adults, he can stop someone twice his size in their tracks with his side kick, he can break a brown board (the only one harder is the black), and if he makes it throught the Gauntlet at the black belt test, I’m sure as hell not going to rain on his parade.

I wish I had something funny or interesting to write, but quite honestly, I used my best stuff on the tick post and since it didn’t seem to do much for my reader(s) except to make my cousin tell me she’s never reading me again because she immediately got up from her computer to go take a shower because she felt her skin crawling, I think this blog may have reached its end. I know I’ve said this before, so there’s no reason to believe that I’m actually serious, but I am taking a break for now to see if I can recharge myself and create something that people actually want to read. For those of you who do read me on a regular basis, thank you. I do appreciate you and promise I will keep up with you in the meantime.