Monday, October 26, 2009


I'm sitting here with a giant cup of rabbit poop ice, whilst sitting almost inside of my fireplace to keep from uncontrolled shiver and shake. It's called "trying to serve two masters" which we're told no man can do. But they've said nothing of women, and we all know how very...determined beautiful chicks can be. Are you saying I'm beautiful? Stop it. No, stop. I'm blushing. Gosh. (grin)

Anyway, speaking of determined, once again Jules is in the news. She declared recently that she's through with foofy. As in foofy dresses. And I won't lie...I'm a little bit ticked. But that's beside the point. This is about her, not me.

So I bought her a dress~sans foof. Almost killed fact, I'm wheezing and trembling a little bit still~but she loved it and was tickled to wear it for church the next day. (See, I told you it was all about her.) However, the night before, she had showered and washed her hair and then lazied up on me. Couldn't bring herself to brush through her sopping tresses before going to bed, causing grief and pain the following morning when it was time to put her hair in curls. Think Medusa.

So I was forced to yank and wrench through her snarls, as only a mother can do, inducing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth~mostly mine.

So she sits there silently sobbing, barely able to swallow past the choking lump in her throat and finally hoarsely whispers, "Are you mad at me for loving the dress?"

I stopped tugging for a moment to roll my eyes.

Can you say...melodramatic? Sha.

How about...overly emotional? Totally.

And here's another one...more perceptive than I give her credit for? Huh.

Maybe it is more about me than I realize.

I hate to admit it, but she may have seen my Freudian slip, as it peeked out from under my tweed gray dress.

I'll work on hiking that baby up.


Lisa said...

Trying to see if I can make a comment, as so many of you are having trouble with this stupid blog system. So if this shows, we'll know it's not impossible.

kara elmore said...

HOW did I miss this one? Really lisa - I don't think it posted right because although I've been missing on the computer more than usual ... I ALWAYS catch your posts.

And really now - you were NOT dramatic! Ohhh wait - were you talking about HER being dramatic and overly emotional about the dress or you? :)

And if you were in a tweed grey dress - the day really SHOULD have been all about you! Regardless of tears by her. And it's OK to be mad at her for choosing a stupid dress. We dunt doo stoopid.

No worries Jules - Auntie Kara will be there soon to make sure your new dresses (sanf foof) are AT LEAST pink, sparkly and a brooch is attached. I'll help train you up in the way that you should go.

Jen in AZ said...

You described the hair battle I face nearly every day. I say "nearly" because some mornings I am JUST NOT UP TO THE BATTLE, and therefore my seven year old has gone to SCHOOL with hair that is all MEDUSA BEDHEAD. And yes I know I am typing in all caps here and it is like shouting, but that is the shouting that ensues when we are engaged in the battle, the warcry of the brush-wielding mother. And then there is the warcry of the tears-wielding daughter who screams over and over again in her shrill voice, "But I have a sensitive head." Sniff sniff. My mother taught me there is no such thing as a sensitive head. The volleys go back and forth. And then, when the hot irons come out to ONLY TURN THE ENDS UNDER I PROMISE, the enemy flees, but in a dose of heavy irony, the last one standing remains the loser.

I'll never forget the morning the teacher's aide made a comment the daughter repeated to me at the end of the day, "Oh, you combed your hair today." This is the same teacher's aide who brought my poor daughter TWO belts from her own daughter's closet to keep my poor daughter's pants hiked up, her TOO BIG pants that are hand-me-downs from the neighbor (kindly neighbor) and that she insists on wearing even though she has very cute jeans from expensive stores (not that I bought them there) that fit well and show off her bouncy little bum. So maybe I should just take up those belts and hike up my own freudian slip peeking out from under my own grey tweed dress here.

In short, (or was this long???) You're not alone, Lisa-mama. Say it one more time, you're not alone.

Anonymous said...


I think I need me some POOP ice! Where do I find me a maker?


Lisa said...

Oh, Jen. Love it~but mostly the part about your child being considered "needy" by the teachers aide raiding her daughter's closet. Does she know your husband/daughter's father is a judge?

Side note: Juju claims that I am not allowed to tell her whether something hurts or not. As in:



Juju~"You don't even KNOW WHAT MY HEAD FEELS, MOM! You are NOT ALLOWED to feel what my head feels, so you DON'T EVEN KNOW if it hurts!"

Yeah, like that.

Ang, I actually ordered an "under the counter" ice maker from a restaurant supply place. Call and I'll give you the info if you want it. I highly recommend you buy one, as the joy is immense and guilt free. Until I wear my teeth down into little enameless nubs. But till then, it's all good.