Still Here

Halfway into our 4-mile REALLY HARD hike, this is what we saw

I'm not sure anyone is reading this blog (other than Audrey...hi Aud!!) but I'm coming back to it, slowly but surely.  It's been an incredibly stressful summer, starting back in May, and I made the decision to not share that because, ew...  if I don't want to read my own whining who else would want to?! So, since things are on the upswing (crossing fingers!), I feel ready to be here again.  Even if it's just me and Audrey.

We finally got away for the weekend!  Woo-hoo!  Last year's week-long trip was not to be repeated because we have a goal as a family to go to England next year and want to try very very hard to save for that.  But not getting away at all is not healthy.  So we packed up the van and went to World's End State Park.

It was beautiful. 

Using the excuse that I was photographing beautiful fungi to catch my breath on a deadly hike

I know a lot of people (some of them my very good friends) do not enjoy camping.  Some see it as work.  And it can be (putting up a tent, cooking outside without a lot of conveniences, etc.).  But the homebody in me sees it as another opportunity to set up a very relaxed home.  I feel a weird satisfaction in spreading out my vinyl-covered tablecloth on the picnic table, setting up the cooler and 32-year-old Coleman stove.  I like making it cozy.  And food tastes better outside.  

There was also a lot of this

But what I like most is that the kids talk.  Those of you with small children might see this as a deterrent because small children never shut up.  But a lot of teenagers (especially insular ones like ours) just don't make conversation once they reach 12 3/4 years old.  Unless they're camping, where the only technology is an iPod (if you remember to charge it).  

Suddenly, your 16 year old is talking about things he's interested in like light years and string theory.  Speaking in full sentences!!  And though I didn't understand half of what he said (I am severely right-brained), I could have listened for another week to him talking.

Do not be fooled by this studiousness.  This is someone who waited until the week before school to read and write about two novels.

And it was positively glorious to see the other teenager act silly and joke (with us! not just with her friend!).  I can't express how wonderful it was just to see her so uncomplicatedly happy.

Going into the water in all your clothes and shoes. Even if it's 60 degrees.  Why not?

Twelve Years

 

Happy Birthday, beautiful girl.

DC

Ended a verrrrrrry busy week with a trip to DC as a chaperone for KU (Yes, a chaperone. For college students.  Adults. Whatever...it was free).  The Girl and I went since {Mr. Romance} (aka The Boy) has been there before.  What we found there was lots and lots of this:

 
And this:

It was a SEA of humanity.  Wow.  Now I know it was 70+ degrees and beautiful for the first time in a long time but sheesh.  At one point, on the subway, we were so packed in that I had to tuck my butt in so the doors would close.  I of course made the obligatory fat-ass joke about myself and then the door kept reopening.  So THEN I had to say out loud that my ass wasn't  

THAT BIG.

The Girl was thrilled with me at this point.  See?

Just kidding.  She was actually thinking I was funny (priceless! doesn't happen much anymore!!) at that point. This picture is from the end of our trip.  When the blisters were huge and juicy and painful.

So anyway, we didn't really get to see much of Washington because (who knew?) six hours is not enough to see anything.  Here's what we did see:

 A pretty decent Lebanese restaurant with Mezze for two.  FYI: french fries are delicious dipped in baba ganouj or {lebne}.

At the National Zoo, we saw either a giant stuffed animal...or a man in a Panda suit.

The weirdest animal was not what you would expect.  It's called a Maned Wolf and this shitty picture does not properly illustrate its weirdness:

The Girl and I have cleverly renamed it The Wox because it looks like a cross between a wolf and...wait for it...a fox (so clever!). Its legs are LONG and its head is small and fox-like.  Sort of the {Beetlejuice} of the wild canine world.  Check {this picture} to see a better likeness.

After that we climbed onto the subway again.  Again, crowded, but really really clean and pretty friendly. We headed toward the American History museum.  All I wanted to see was Julia Child's kitchen (I'm a woman of simple needs).  All The Girl wanted to do was rip off her sneakers and find a couch somewhere with a tivo.  But we soldiered on and saw this sculpture on the way there: 

I want it for my 40th birthday for my back yard.  I'm not kidding.  I'll even make a deal with HH: he can have the Easter Island heads if I can have this.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

So we finally got to the American History museum and saw Julia's kitchen (see masthead), a very cool exhibit of First Ladies' gowns (I appreciate Barbara Bush more now that I see she was the only woman who was built anywhere near like a grown-up), and a whole room about Abraham Lincoln.  THAT was neat.  The older I get the more I appreciate archival stuff.  I could've hung out in this room for an hour or more, just reading.  But The Girl was 

DONE. 

Blisters had made their appearance known.  And that was totally okay with me.  I think I enjoyed just being with her somewhere other than at home as much as I enjoyed touring DC.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Pictures not taken:

• Guy with health reform protest sign that read "Comrad Pelosi"...blahblahblah.  Dude, if you're going to take the time to come down to Washington and protest, make sure you know how to spell what you're so passionate about.
• Pedicab guy peddling his skinny legs off with me in the back.  I paid him $20 to go 10 blocks and to never speak of it again.
• Me, sleeping almost all the way down and back, occasionally waking myself up by either a) snoring, b) farting or c) making the HUH! sound I make when I'm falling asleep.  Thanks, M, for not taking pictures.  And I'm deeply sorry.

My Kind of Milk Moustache

M loves butterscotch and caramel (what is the difference, anyway?  Anyone?), so when she asked me for a birthday cake with caramel inside (not icing), I immediately thought of dulce de leche. 

Of course I could have just bought some from the store or I could have tried {this method} to make some from a can of sweetened condensed milk.  But no.  I love making things really from scratch.  Not all the time. Not as a rule.  Please. I'm busy, people, like all of you are. But I've always liked the science of baking.  I love knowing how stuff is made or where it comes from like, for instance, {cream of tartar}.  I couldn't make that shit up.

Anyway, FASCINATING to me. So after I thought of dulce de leche, I thought of {this book} that HH got me for Hanukkah.  I love the fact that these three ingredients, below, (with the tiny addition of a 4th)  make something so different from themselves in their raw state when combined and cooked.  

This recipe is for the Mexican version of dulce de leche, or Carjeta Mexicana. A fun fact: I learned that I'd better never call this stuff just "carjeta" if I can help it, while in Mexico.  "Carjeta" alone means "little boxes" which also means....vagina.  Fun!  I love learning!
  

Yes, that is {goat milk}.  From a goat.  I don't know why this freaks me out so much since, hello!, I luuuuurrrrrve goat cheese.  But I was nervous to try it because I thought it would be too....goaty.  

But the recipe author insisted that using the goat milk makes all the difference; that the kinds made with just sweetened condensed cow's milk were too sweetly cloying, that they didn't have as much character. And I am a recipe follower (at least the first time I make something).

The woman was right.  Behold, amazing deliciousness:

This stuff is dangerous.  I'm not a huge caramel fan but since it's not teeth-achingly sweet but deep and rich instead,  I could eat a LOT of this.  

Very. Very.  Dangerous.

And here's what she wanted, in all its purple and green glory (her choice):

The recipe:

Cajeta Mexicana

(Mexican Dulce de Leche)

 Milk: The Surprising Story of Milk Through the Ages
(yes, that is the title.  I like weird books.  At least it isn't
The History of Gunpowder...ahem, judy..)
by Anne Mendelson,

with my additions/changes in bold

Yield: about 2 1/2 cups, if you can keep your fingers out of it

1 quart whole cows' milk
1 quart goats' milk
2 cups sugar
1/4 teaspoon baking soda

In a large (at least 6-qt.) saucepan (I used my 8-qt Calphalon stockpot) thick enough to not start scorching on the bottom before milk is half-cooked.  Pour the milks into the pan, reserving 1/2 cup of one of them.


Add sugar to the pan and stir with a wooden spoon until it is dissolved.  Place over medium-high heat and bring to a low boil.  Stir 1/4 teaspoon of baking soda into 1/2 cup of reserved milk.  Off the heat, add to hot milk, which will froth up at once.  Set over medium hear and continue to cook, stirring frequently, for about 30 minutes.  The mixture will start to look more like a syrup as water evaporates and temperature rises.  After this the recipe says to stir constantly because it will be another mere 30 minutes until the dulce is thickened so much that you can see the tracks made from scraping the spoon across the bottom.  

BULLSHIT.  This fucker took 2 hours in total.  Would I do it again?  Absolutely.  It was that good.  Anyway....

Gradually reduce temperature if necessary as the mixture darkens and thickens. When a stroke of the mixing spoon exposes the bottom of the pan and the syrup is slow to close (don't wait for this "slow to close" part.  I was tired so I just waited until it exposed the bottom of the pan and it very quickly closed again.  And it was perfection). 

Remove the pan from heat and let sit until the molten stuff is partly cooled but still liquid enough to pour into small containers (I would recommend about 10 minutes).  Let cool to room temperature before covering. It will keep for weeks at room temperature (this scares me a little), for months in the refrigerator.  It may, however, crystallize like long-stored honey.  If this happens, set the container in hot water until the crystals melt.  I seriously doubt it will last that long.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Now I'm thinking you're probably freaked out since I told you it took me 2 hours of stirring to make this.  It was honestly no big deal.  I never stirred it constantly until the very end.  I just made sure it was on a medium-low temperature once it started to get caramel-colored.  And think of the caramel deliciousness that could be yours: ice cream sundaes come to mind.  It was so worth it.  Let's take a look again:

'Nuff said.

My Girl

From the very beginning, my girl was sassy.

4 months

Under this picture in a photo album, the caption reads

"This girl is FUN!"

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She has always had a flair...

2 yrs

...for the dramatic.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She and I often look at the world

the same way.

29 yrs, 3 months

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sometimes that way is just plain nuts.

6 yrs

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As she's gotten older, I've often worried that she was lonely

or that something was wrong because she didn't want to spend a lot of time

outside school with her friends.

10 yrs

But I've learned that she likes being with herself,

that alone-time is precious to her.

It's funny because I'm like that now, as a grown up. 

I used to feel like I always had to be with someone.

It's taken me a long time to learn to like my own company.

It took my girl just a few years.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This is my girl a month ago, at almost 11.

It's gone by so fast.

And even though every morning I don't know which girl

is coming down the steps...

Baby Girl who is nervous and needs her Mommy 

"Teenage" Grump who is embarrassed by her family's (MY) existence

Goofy nut who is all about fun and psyched about life

?????

Even though it can be challenging, knowing how to react,

how to be Her Mother..

Even though I know she'll sometimes hurt my feelings

because she just can't help herself...

Even though ...

Life with My Girl is interesting. 

And fun.

And messy.

And, it's pretty cool knowing that your kid is someone who you'd want to know

even if she wasn't your kid.

Happy Birthday, Pie

1.27.99

love xoxo
 Mommy

I Make My Own Rules

I know the traditional time to count one's blessings is Thanksgiving and I like Thanksgiving because of that (and the pie), but I think the end of the year is a good time too.  And a weird side effect of running for me is that, even though I hate almost every second of the actual running, I also think lots of happy thoughts while I'm doing it.  Weird.

So anyway, these are some of the things I was thinking this week while my thighs were threatening to burn a hole in my under armour pants and my chest was heaving (and not in a good way):

I am thankful for:

my husband

Yes, that's him. 

(in college) 

And if you know me well, you know I started dating him in spite of

his propensity for face-painting.

In spite of the many ways in which he makes me INSANE,

I can't imagine my life without him. 

He will drive me crazy until the day I die.

That's my version of a love note.

and,

these two

He mumbles and occasionally smells like something

that would be at home on a French cheese plate.

He drives me insane because we seem to speak different languages right now.

And he should be speaking MINE.

She is growing up too fast and wants to bend every rule I make.

She drives me insane because it's like living with Sybil. 

I never know who is coming down the stairs in the morning.

But they remind me every day of the value of patience.

And that a hug or a kind word not asked for is the greatest gift.

and,

alcohol

kidding!  This photo represents

My friends

I think one of my favorite parts of having a party is when HH and I

break it down after everyone's gone.

How all our friends are just such awesome people.

How cool it is that everyone comes from such different

areas of our life but seem to blend seamlessly.

How lucky we are to know them and count them as family.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Now, since blogger is taking an irritatingly long time loading pictures,

here's a probably-incomplete list of other things I feel grateful for,

in no certain order. 

1. Netflix --I know this is shallow and materialistic, but it represents HH having a JOB.  And there are few things that give me a day-to-day thrill as seeing one of those red envelopes in my mailbox. Will it be a French film I can't get at Blockbuster?  Will it be another Buffy episode???

2. Movies--See above.  I luuurve movies.  I love being transported.  And I have no snobbery.  I enjoy a good zombie movie as much as a documentary (who am I kidding?  maybe more).

3. An occasional rainy day off in which I feel no guilt about lying around reading a book.

4. School--I love it.  Even the homework. I know it's sadly cliche of me as a "nontraditional student."  But it just feels good to be where I am right now and I can't believe I've done it.

5. My home--Even though it doesn't measure up in the decorating department to some of the homes I see on all the blogs I follow, it is cozy and very "me."  I like my stuff.  I like to be here.  In fact, I'd rather be here than most places.  How lucky is that?

6. The furry children--I just threw up in my mouth a little, writing that.  I am NOT one of those people who sees her pets as furry people.  A dog is a DOG.  BUT, how great is that I can leave a room for 5 minutes and be greeted when I go back in like I've been gone FOR YEARS, over and over again?  They're dim but so lovable and they never tell me I'm UNFAIR or ask anything of me but the occasional rub between the ears.  Nice.

7. The nephews--I don't see them enough but when I do, they make up for it.

8. Food in the fridge and the time to make it for my family.  I know it sounds trite, but I get such a great feeling from baking my own bread or making homemade soup or something else homey for my family.  It gives me a ridiculous amount of pleasure when I can take my time doing it.

9. Flannel sheets-- I love bed.

10. Memories--Some of them are pretty sucky, but the ones that aren't are so wonderful. 

What are you cherishing?

Girls

"There's something magical about Girl Scout Camp."

--M

This is pretty much what happened tonight when M found the grogger from Purim on the Jew shelf in our living room (minus me spazzing on the couch).

The Big Day

"I Like When You're Home, Mommy"

Me too, Pie.

My Girl

...longs for her own home in the middle of trees with animals and privacy.


...likes to talk for the animals and always has them call me Mama.

Mom and girl time at a local tea shop


...told me that of course I can live where she does when she grows up. In fact, I can live in her mansion.


...isn't sure what she wants to be when she grows up but wanted to know if bartending was okay.


...is not always sweet or kind or loving but is always interesting.

we both love to watch the cream swirl


...has a deadly sense of humor.


...is not a morning person.


...marches to her own drummer.


...could not only survive forever on a desert island but also be fully accessorized within the first half hour.

...loves to sing.


...still lets me hold her hand as long as she's the one who makes the first move.


...still likes me even though I embarrass her sometimes.

The Gift

Every once in a great while, it happens. The planets align, the setting is right, the words are there.

A mother says the right thing to her upset child.

My beautiful 10 year old girl is hormonal. As in about- to-get-her-period hormonal. At least I think that's what it is. She's gotten it once, back in the summer, and the signs were the same: crying "for no reason," totally irritated by everything I say, and complaining of everything. Now, granted, this could've been M on any day of the week the six months before she got her period for the first time, but ever since then she's stablized and has been back to her sweet(er) self.

So the past two days I've seen the warning signs again and today she was worse. After yelling at her (I didn't say I was perfect) for being nasty, I told her to go get into my bed so we could talk. As we lay on our sides facing each other, I reminisced about being a preteen. Weepiness, easily hurt feelings, irritance at people (especially my mom), and a general yucky feeling. I had it all, I told her. And she looked at me and she listened.

Her complete attention was mine and though her face was blotchy from crying and I knew she was hurting, I loved it. I marveled at her beauty and I relished the moment. I couldn't help it. I know I'm on the edge of the precipice of REAL teenage girl behavior. I know the snuggles and the talks won't last, at least for awhile. So I gave myself the gift of enjoying the moment, even though it came out of M feeling bad.

The best part, though, was the fact that what I said worked. Those of you with little tiny kids are still in the phase where you are a rockstar. If Mommy says it'll be okay, it will. But the shine is off that rose (or whatever the hell that expression is) in our house and we never know if what we say will be listened to, let alone believed. But this time it was. And I just had to write it down so that some day (tomorrow? next week?) I can read this again when I'm feeling like the stupidest person in my family because I've been told I am by my teenager.

A New Blast

M is taking trumpet lessons at school. Now, with that and the tuba being played by S, there are tonal farting sounds emanating through the house instead of one deep one.

You're So Vain

Yesterday's first full day of work ended with a bang. Or a boom. Well, actually a fucking fireball! I was lighting the pilot light on the griddle with the gas on like I always did in my old kitchen and BOOM! A ball of fire flared out at me. Did I mention that my face was right in front of it so I could see what I was doing. Anyway, I flew back, knocking several things over and patting out the fire that was in my hair, people. M was there and ran over to me. My first words of comfort to my daughter?

"WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE? IS MY HAIR OKAY??!!"

Not, "Mommy's okay" or "Don't worry." Nope. I was worried about my friggin hair. And it was not pretty. The left side of my bangs are gone, my left eyebrow is only half there, and my eyelashes could best be described as stubby. But thanks to M's quick thinking (a 9 year old was more together than I was and immediately got me ice), I only have some slight blistering on my neck. Oh, and I now know that the smell of burnt hair makes me feel like barfing.

M nursed me and told me it was okay that I cried (I very professionally burst into tears when one of the girls came down to see what happened) and told me she wished she could drive so I didn't have to drive us home.

M is AWESOME.

Today my left eyelid feels like I have a sunburn and it's almost ridiculous to put on mascara (but you know I'll keep trying), but I was really really lucky. When I told the maintenance dude what happened, he said "Oh yeah. The fan is really strong on the ovens. You shouldn't turn them on to light them."

YA THINK???

And when I told him I felt I was "lucky" I only lost a little hair (meaning I was lucky I didn't LOSE MY FACE), he said "Oh yeah. Same thing happened to another woman in one of the frats. SHE had to wear a hat for a couple months."

WHAT?!

Who knew cooking for a sorority could be dangerous? My worst fear was of getting caught in an estrogen-laced cat fight. Or getting burned by words.

Now I have a fear of pancakes.

The kids and I just spent a coupla days on LBI with some dear friends at their beach house. It's so wonderful to be with people who are so easy to be with. Audrey's younger son has the same interests as my son and the two oldest kids are much older than mine but at the age when they are patient and interested in my guys. They ask them questions and make them feel good because they're talking to them and they're cool. In fact, it is now even more of a dream that my beautiful little girl should marry Audrey's oldest son who happens to be 20 years old. He's such a nice guy. Cute, smart, kind, funny. And when M's 24 and he's 35 it'll be perfect. I would be lying if I said I didn't dream of having such a cool in-law experience (perhaps because of my own--see last post) for M AND me. Love them!

Anyhoo, I know I've talked about this before, but one of the things I love about my good good friends is the range of conversation we have. This visit's ranged from buying couches (and toilets!) for our houses to our and other women's, ahem, grooming habits (see, Jozette??). I can feel myself relaxing when I'm with my best girls and when I see who it is I'm friends with, I like who I am. Cool.

My daughter said something tonight that scared the crap out of me. She was telling me how she coughed so hard on her way home from school that she threw up. Then she says "After I threw up I felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. I felt so empty."

Why does this scare me? Because from the time I was 19 until I was 22 years old I was actively bulimic. I'd always had to watch my weight and hadn't been truly *thin* since I was probably 4 years old. So I went on Weight Watchers and began to lose the weight pretty easily. But the weighing and measuring and writing everything down tapped into the OCD part of my personality--which, up until then, had really only manifested itself in wondering each night "did I put the cap back on the toothpaste??" until I had to get out of bed and check. Followed by "did I close the cabinet door?" You get the picture. Anyhoo, I was writing everything down, I was eating exactly how I was supposed to according to The Plan, and there was no room for error.

This is not how Weight Watchers is supposed to be followed. I don't blame them. It's how I am combined with WW that was a bad mix. So I followed it and followed it and steadily lost 4 pounds a week for maybe 3 weeks. And then I snapped. I don't know what started it. I don't remember the day. All I know is that at least once a week I began running to the bathroom in my college apartment and running the water in the sink while I made myself throw up whatever I'd eaten in a frenzy a few minutes before.

I did this for a long time. My roommates never knew. My boyfriend (the very same HH who is still around) didn't know. I was looking fantastic (not too thin like an anorexic--no one would've guessed) and I while I had a kind of hangover of shame later, immediately after I threw up I felt euphoric. Yes, euphoric. Weird, I know. But according to some studies about seratonin and bulimia, There is a definite “high,” which comes with the purging, and which has no analogue in anorexia. I felt in control. I felt light. I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

Now do you see why I'm scared?

When I was pregnant and after I found out I was having a daughter, I had some really serious panicky feelings about raising one. Did I have my shit together enough (because it never really ends--it's a lot like alcoholism except you need food to live) to NOT pass on this skewed way of looking at food to my little girl?

So now here we are today. And I forgot to mention that she told me all this after we'd just gotten done swimsuit shopping. Even skinny girls hate shopping for swim suits. And M had a really tough time finding a suit because, along with my dazzling personality I've also passed on my hips to her. And she was saying things in the dressing room like "It's not the suit that's bad. It's my body."

And, remember, SHE'S NINE YEARS OLD!!!!!

So, you may be wondering what I did after these statements, how I responded. Well, in both instances I stayed calm. I told her that there was nothing wrong with her, that it was just the way the bathing suit bottoms were cut. I suggested two things: a one-piece (although I love love love that she still has the confidence for a bikini) and/or a pair of board shorts from the junior section to go with a bikini top from the suit she liked and had at home but didn't fit into bottom-wise. Success!! She came home, tried everything on and modelled it so I think, for now, we dodged the bad body image bullet. For now. And I'm still trying to stay calm.

My mother said to me when M was really little "Don't make your issues hers." Good advice. Sound advice. But she didn't tell me how. I wish she was here to help me with that. But the really screwed up thing is that, if my mom were still alive, she'd probably be on a diet.

Now here's one trend that should be brought back! Right?!

Diary of a Bad Mother

Oy. Today was one of those mornings when I have to try very hard to remember that a lot of the things that really really annoy me about my wonderful 9 year old daughter are the things that I also love about her. Like her strong opinions. Like her sense of self. Like her...well, I was going to say "drama" but that just annoys me.

Mondays are always hard at Chez T. I hate them too so I can understand where she's coming from. A lot of Mondays are all about me trying to haul her ass out of bed and get her moving. Today wasn't like that. Everything went well. Hell, I even made pancakes despite my "rule" about not making a real breakfast on any day I have to feed 51 girls at work. Anyhoo, all was fine until she started working on The Bangs. She has beautiful naturally curly hair--not too curly to be unmanageable but just curly enough to make bangs that are growing out become a problem. Much hairspray is involved, along with much misty eyed-ness. I did my customary ignoring of the meaningful looks thrown my way (how am I supposed to respond? Do I suggest we cut her bangs to the scalp? Do I help to lacquer them down? All my attempts in the past were WRONG so ignoring is my new attempt to "help").

Then it was time to leave for school. Lunch was packed, study chart signed, shoes on feet. It's all good. Hah! First comes the request to drive her. We live 2 blocks from school. So comes the first "no." Then the injury to the leg from scootering is remembered! "What do I do about the PAIN????" she askes. My "it'll get better" is met with much scorn. "Can you please drive me?!" Second "No." The invalid starts off on the walk with only a minor amount of muttering and I can see from the safety of my bedroom window that she's going to make it thanks to the walking stick found in the wood pile.

I'm out of the woods, I think foolishly.

Starting to think about showering, I hear a door slam and a decidedly unlimping person who resembles my daughter storms up the steps and makes one more plea because of her "pain." Third "No" followed by the following interchange:

"You don't care about my pain!" ("daughter")
"Right." (sarcastic mother)
"It's true!" (righteously indignant offspring)
"Right." (evil noncaring don't care-giver)
"Because you're a bad mother!" (mutant fire-breathing devil spawn)
"Right." (beaten down, but still trying not to laugh despite herself Arch Enemy of Adolescence)
"Thank you for finally admitting it." (victorious martyr)

Have I mentioned that she is NINE??

Watching from my bedroom window again, as my daughter who I would gladly throw myself in front of a bus for (albeit, today, a slow-moving one) mutters loudly (how does she do that??) and throws dagger glances back at the house, I am struck by the battling forces of motherhood I face weekly with her. I still cannot help but want to laugh at her drama. She is FUNNY when she's mad. It's almost like she's channeling all the great Teenagers of sitcoms/dramas past. But I'm also hurt that she would feel this way about me and sad that she feels this...let down by her Mother. And the awful, sinking, horrific thought that, in the movies, this would end with her being abducted by someone and me remembering Our Last Conversation.

I realize I'm insane. Did I mention my taking antianxiety medication ("Mommy's Crazy Pill)?

These are the days when I really wish I could call my mother to have her tell me all the times I was a crazy annoying self-centered hormonal loon. To hear about those stories and to realize that I have turned into a truly fabulous mother would be so reassuring.