If One Drinks From a Bottle Marked Poison

I blog for two reasons, to chronicle K's life and for cathartic purposes. I knew when I wrote my first word I didn't want to be limited. I wanted to express what I felt, regardless of how it affected others. I also knew that was selfish and unrealistic. As much as I wanted to have freedom to say what I wanted, I didn't want it at the expense of those I love.

Before I published my first entry, I asked my husband what was off limits. He mentioned just a few things and I have stuck to my word and never wrote about them. At the time, months ago, he must have given very little thought to his true feelings regarding his privacy. Because here I am, writing this post.

The post informing my faithful few followers that I can no longer continue blogging Life From the Dark Side of Aurora. Or at least I can no longer blog it here, at this address.

As a resut of a battle I did not want to win, I deleted a recent blog entry. It hurt me to do it. But it seemed it was going to hurt my husband more if I kept it published. So I allowed him to censor me yet again.

After a great deal of thought and frustration, I've decided it's time.

"For if one drinks much from a bottle marked 'Poison', it's almost certain to disagree with one sooner or later." - Alice

I made the grave mistake of telling a few people in my life about my blog. At the time, I wanted them to be able to enjoy reading bits about K that ordinarily they wouldn't get to hear. They will no longer get this window into K's world and that makes me sad. Family members reading my personal thoughts didn't bother me. But it sure did bother my husband.

I must do what is necessary for me. I will continue blogging, anonymously this time. I will create a new site, with a new name written under a pseudonym. I will write freely and it will most certainly agree with me.

I thank you for reading and laughing about K's antics. I appreciated all of your comments. And for the compassion I received on a few emotional posts, thank you.

"...it's time to say good-bye. No, no. Don't speak. For some moments in life, there are no words. Run along now. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow."

---Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka

Wit and Wisdom - Wormy Edition

Today, as K and I were driving on the beltway we were searching for UPS and FedEx trucks. This is her latest thing. She is fascinated by the delivery trucks. Maybe it's her future calling or just her hope that the trucks all contain Amazon boxes filled with princess paraphernalia just waiting to be delivered to her doorstep. Regardless, that's what we were doing until she spotted what she thought was a garbage truck.

"Look Mama, a trash truck!"

"No baby. That's a sewage removal truck."

"Huh?"

...hmm, I'll tread lightly on this one, knowing her drain issues.

"Well, it's a truck that takes the stuff people put down the drains, like the potty. It takes it away to be cleaned," I tell her.

"So it comes why we're sleeping?"

Like its Santa or the Easter Bunny.

"No. It doesn't come to our house. We live in the city. It comes to houses where the people live in the country."

"Like Elmo's house?"

I don't know if I'm allowed to say this, but clearly she doesn't watch enough tv.

"No baby. Elmo lives in the city on Seasame Street. You know Slimy's cousin Squirmy? Remember? He lives in the country."

Laughing a bit, she says "Yeah, but he lives in an apple. And worms don't have potties."

"No? Why not?"

"Because Mama. Worms don't have vaginas or bums or penises."

So there you have it. Now you know.

Her innocence will believe Slimy, from Oscar the Grouch's trash can, has a cousin who lives in an apple in the country. But the idea that he could have a potty is entirely too far fetched for her.

A Funk

I am in a funk. It's confirmed.

I could sit and write a diatribe about my worries. Except, it would not be a good read. I could only disclose bits and pieces, leaving you, my loyal reader confused. And you would likely leave and not look back, because no matter how entertaining my daughter's antics are, no one enjoys being confused.

But still, I can't escape the funk and I will write anyway.

In my house, there's a paticular conversation had more frequently than others. It goes like this...

"What do you want for dinner?" my husband will ask.

"I dunno. I don't want Italian. And I don't want chicken"

"I didn't ask what you don't want, I asked what you do want," he'll retort.

And I get his point, but that's just the way I work. I am often a glass half empty kind of girl. That doesn't mean I don't love life and try to live it to its fullest. It just means I'm more apt to see the bottle of wine and think, damn there's only a third of it left. I better refill my glass now before he drinks it all.

So in honor of a good funk, I will give you the list of half empty thoughts I had in my car, driving the 13 minutes home from Barnes and Noble.

• If you see me in the parking lot, dragging a crying child in one hand and my other is loaded down with bags, you have no right to express your impatience with me that I'm not vacating the spot you covet fast enough. Pick another spot or deal.
• I hate when daffodil blooms die, you can't cut them back or you'll affect the blooms the following season. It's unsightly. When they're done flowering, I just want to get rid of them.
• I don't like speed cameras. But the ones I really hate are the moveable box ones that may or may not be there the day you drive by them. They should all be permanent.
• If your grass is that lush and green this time of year, you use too much water and too many chemicals. You need to cut back on your consumption of both.
• I despise when my child is in the car and I have to play games and sing songs to keep her from falling asleep. Yet, at home she avoids sleep like the plague. It's a very unfair aspect of parenting.
• I don't like the lawn bag displays in some neighborhoods. I have no real valid reason. I just don't. I don't like driving through a neighborhood and seeing brown paper bag after bag neatly lined up next to the side walk waiting to be disposed of. It seems Iike a rediculous contest in which home owners see who can out bag each other.

There you have it. Don't worry, funks only last so long. I'm sure in no time at all, K will be drawing murals on the walls or freaking out about something going down the drain. Ooh, or maybe she will have some super cool, brand new episode I can blog about. Here's to hoping!

We Should've Paid for Delivery

This weekend, undue stress was put on my marriage. We bought and moved furniture.

I have to give us props, normally making big purchases is not exactly our strong suit. We were out shopping. I saw a dresser I loved and it was easy. Within a matter of minutes it was decided, we were purchasing the dresser and a nightstand. No second guessing myself, no convincing my husband to agree to the purchase. Cake.

The challenge was yet to come.

We decided to forgo store delivery. First mistake.

In the moments before we drove to pick up the dresser my husband suggested maybe we ask a friend for help getting the dresser from the car up the stairs. I grew up on a farm carrying 50lb bags of feed and bales of hay daily. Him and I alone moved a 427lb, big ass computer cabinet up to our second floor apartment at least twice. It was a bitch, but we did it. It's been said I'm freakishly strong and ridiculously stubborn. I instantly shot him down. Second mistake.

Getting the large, boxed up dresser from the car to our second floor bedroom sounded like this...

"This is really going to be heavy, I'm not sure you're going to be able to do this."

"I'll be fine let's just go."

"Wait. Stop. Switch with me. I don't want to go backwards."

"You could talk to me nicer. I don't appreciate it." This was dear husband. I'm not exactly sure what I sounded like but he said it to me no less than twice during the incident.

"I can't see anything. You have to tell me when I'm going to run into something."

"I can't see what you're running into. Are you going to be able to do this or not?"

"You can't just drop it like that!"

"Sorry, I couldn't go anymore."

"You have to warn me. You're going to hurt my back."

"You're tilting it! Stop tilting it! It's going to fall! You can't tilt it like that."

"I can't do this. I can't get it up the steps."

"Just get out of the way. Help support it. I'm gonna rotate it up the steps...like its doing a cartwheel."

"Can you go clear a path upstairs?"

"Why didn't you clear a path upstairs? How do you think we are going to get it past all of K's shit in the hall?"

"I don't know. I was feeding our daughter. Someone has to, you know."

"You can't just stop like that. Just get it up to the landing and then we can rest."

"I can't do it. My forearm hurts. The box is rubbing it raw."

"Okay, let me go first."

"Stop, stop. You're hitting the wall! Damn! Look at that scuff mark you just put on the wall."

"Whatever. It's no big deal. Its just paint."

"Okay one step at a time."

"Yowl! That was my finger. Ohh, my finger."

"Well what are you doing?"

"I dunno. I'm doing the best I can! I'm not sure what you expected! I'm 110lbs!"

"Just get it to the top and we can rest."

"STOP! You just punctured the box. I hope you didn't scratch it."

"Right, I did that. Uh huh. Right."

"Can't we just slide it down the hall on the rug? I don't think I can do this." At this point, I felt slightly similar to how I felt after 20 hours of labor and 4 hours of pushing...I doubted my ability to finish the job. I wanted help. I needed help. But just like childbirth, I got myself into the situation, I was going to have to get myself out.

"Just lift it up and carry it."

"I can't. When I bend down to pick it up, it rests on my knees and then I can't stand back up."

"Well then don't bend down. Come on. Just do it."

And within seconds, it was in our bedroom. Just like that the horror was over.

I learned I don't like moving heavy, awkward objects with my husband. It's not good for either of us. Him and I could never win Amazing Race, for sure we would kill each other.