.::still blinking::.

I have never talked to Gentry about shots before. I just don’t bring it up and by not addressing this, I assume that he is not out shooting heroine. I also assume that he not going and getting immunizations when I have my eyes closed.

A couple days ago he had his three year check up and we discussed all my concerns. By all my concerns I mean, my concerns. I managed to squeeze in some questions about Gentry so I didn’t sound completely self-centered. But lets get this straight. Gentry is concerned with Spiderman, becoming Spiderman and cookies. I, however, have concerns of my own. About my life and the amount of crap I let in. So I had some concerns worth discussing. The doctor said to follow my heart, and I am. I feel good about my decisions.

After the discussion, the nurse walked in and said, “Time for a shot!” Like it was now time to pull a chocolate coated Spiderman with nougat center from her hat. Like, are you ready for the happiest time of your young life? Gentry was not fooled and proceeded to climb the walls, shrieking-and-cavorting-Spiderman-style. He has never been so scared in his life and I don’t know who told him that shots were near death and that the Green Goblin was actually going to come and pull his head off and throw it into a burning building. But lets just say the tantrum that followed was incredible. Spectacular. An A++ as far as tantrums go.

I bribed him with french fries and tried to distract him with a book that was not about Spiderman. He was still not fooled.

He was so upset about being poked by the nurse he would not let me put his pants back on. He then proceeded to inform me that he is no longer in need a mother. I had turned on him and let someone poke him with a needle. For obvious reasons, he thought he could so a much better job that I do.

As we were driving home, I told him that Peter Parker got poked by a spider and it turned him into Spiderman. I could hear the little hampsters in his mind churning. I told him that sometimes we have to get shots so that we can be strong like Spiderman.

Today, he told me that he got poked like Spiderman. I think he is expecting the change any minute now.

Love bulbs. Love the thoughts of new growth. Excited for what the spring will bring in a transformed garden.

breathing is easier
comfort fills me
i feel the coming of winter
the warmth from within

We were in Logan this weekend. It was so beautiful and relaxing. I am finally seeing that Logan is small and that I feel more at home again in Salt Lake. It has only taken about four years to get over the six years I lived there. There are no buildings over four stories. Most of the businesses are along Main Street and are old and worn with charm. I love Salt Lake now/again. I love my neighbors and friends. I love my house. I love being close to stores I love. There is definitely more charm and old time personality in Logan, but I am starting to hit my groove here. It is nice to be home.

Blogging from jj’s iPhone makes me feel like the total hipster I think of myself as. I just need a swanky black turtleneck, skinny pants and Audrey Hepburn sitting next to me. And perhaps a spot of sun with an equally cool cat basking in it.

You may have noticed that I have started monitoring comments. I will not be taking that off. Some of you are haters and hate me. This blog is not me in my entirety. I find it very short sited of people to think that because they read this, they have any sort of context in which to base their idea of who I am. I also find it very hard to think of things to write of late. Because I know that some of you are out there hating. If you have hateful things to say to me perhaps you should stop reading my blog. You know, there are choices in life. One being reading others blogs. The another being an ass. I am a happy girl and if that upsets you, that is sad.

I would also like to define forgiveness. Forgiveness is releasing the pain that a person has caused in your life. A person could rape another and forgive the rapist. However, the person who was raped does not have to let the rapist back in their life. Forgiveness is different from trust. A rapist will never have trust again. I have forgiven the people that have hurt me. However, I will not be letting you in my life. I do not trust you.

Also, I find I must state as I have before, that being a relative does not make you my family. I choose who I let in my life and I call them family. Good people. Honest people. Trustworthy people. They are my family. I love myself and my family enough to protect myself from unhealthy, toxic people. I mean it.

I have not mentioned before, but Gentry and I are part of a preschool swap thing. He is gone for an hour and a half every Monday and Wednesday. For this I pay the price of having to teach once a month. Not bad really, except that it is not really once a month. It is twice every other month. Still not bad right?

Except, who sends their children to preschool with boogers smeared clear across their face. “How nice to see you!” I say, then shut the door and vomit on all offending slime covered children. “Come get a kleenex and wipe your face please,” I say. More boogers are added to the dense sludge cake. Must run to bathroom to vomit a little more.

AND THEN! Then I have to wipe some other persons nose and hands and get all offending boogers out of the house. Which gets me all a twitching in my eye.

Then while the nice little girls are singing songs, there are two boys acting like beached whales on my couch. All flopping and groaning and leaking saliva. Only one of these boys was mine and I am not the sweet teacher or the kind and gentle mother. I am the mean one with the ruler and the board with the holes and I swatted them hard. Or being translated, I put them in opposite corners and made them have a timeout so we girls could continue singing about stars and buses and farmers.

I eventually gave up with teaching these pre-pubescent pre-kindergarten pre-potty trained toddlers anything and turned on the tv and we watched Super Why. I knew the tv would turn them nearly comatose and that is a state of toddlerhood I rather enjoy, especially when there are 6 of them here.

I could not publish yesterday. It was slightly frustrating. I kept pushing the thing and it kept saying it was working on it and by about 4:00 it said it was 55% done. What a quick and efficient worker. I guess my trusty hampsters had quit their cycling for the day at 1 o’clock AM, mountain standard time.

Also, I broke jj’s laptop. It was about a month ago, I fell asleep with it in bed with me. There is nothing like falling asleep with a warm laptop on your tum tum. I rolled over and it fell off me and landed on the floor on the power cord insertion device. And dented it. So it has done ok since then until yesterday. Now it has a hard time recognizing the power cord and so we have to prop it up with a lego. Or a table knife. Or an ipod. Or an ipod and lego. And it has to be just so. Turn me a little bit more. A little more. A little more. Yes. There.

No. Not there. Turn a little more. A little more.

You get the idea. Super sensitive. Like a teenager. Who ran out of hairspray. Who’s mother said hello. Who you looked at incorrectly. Just like that.

So I am now trying to decide if I want a new laptop of my own to sleep with or if the other two computers we have would suffice. But laptops are so nice. You can use them in bed, and on the porch and in the bathroom if needs be.

Thanks to Annie for the title.

One thing I struggle with is honesty, in the complete opposite way most people struggle with it.

If you were to ask me if your butt looked big in those jeans, and it did, I would tell you. Honestly. I would try to think of nice words, like “smashed juicy ham”, or “are tight pants the new style?” But lying to make you feel better about it, that is not me. I cannot do it. My mind goes blank and all I can think is the honest truth. No sugar coating or beating around the bush.

If your children are raving lunatics every single time I see them and scream that they hate me when I so boldy say “hello”, I may agree with you when you tell me that you think they are difficult children. I won’t add more, like “have you considered testing for rabies” or “bad mommie, very bad mommie.” But I am not going to lie and tell you they are angelic children of God, when clearly they are spawn of Satan.

Lastly, isn’t birthday money the best. I mean really, even when it is not for you. I love the freedom to spend on things I want, where I want. It is so much better than, well, pretty much most things.

And thats the truth.