Mam'zelle Hepzibah

Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda

One of the things that helped me get back into making collages was the need to write my children creative letters. Every year I send them to this crazy hippie camp in Virginia, where everyone wears tie-dye, they eat organic vegetarian food, and they play guitar and sing songs around a campfire (but NOT Kumbaya..!) I write them a letter everyday, and because not much goes on at home without my little darlings there to liven things up, I usually struggle to think of things to write about, and the letters are profoundly boring to read. (Dear kids, Today we had chicken for supper. Then we washed the dishes. Then we watched TV. Then we went to bed...)

This year, I decided I would make the letters interesting to look at, at least, by writing them on a quickie-collage. It forced me to come up with something creative in a short amount of time, and on a daily basis. Some of them are derivative of other artists' work, yes, but remember, these were the first baby steps I'd made in months. The kids certainly enjoyed getting them, and apparently, they were a hit with other campers as well. ("Dude, your Mom is so random....")

Still Journaling my Christmas...

The Journal Your Christmas prompt for Day 8 was "What you see". As in, right in front of your face...right now...   Because we put up our tree today, and because we don't have a camera at the moment (I hope Santa will bring a new camera to this good little girl!!!), I used a picture of a tree from a Christmas past. 10 years past, to be exact.
 

See that adorable, chubby little baby over there on the right? Yeah, he's as tall as my eyebrows now and is the stud muffin of the 6th grade class.  And the goofy-looking one on the left, in the tie-dyed shirt and purple sweat pants? (dude, he totally gets his fashion sense from his father)  He'll be at drinking age next month. Dang, but those little crumb snatchers grow up fast!

Evidence That I Am A Dork In The Eyes Of My Child

Conversation between my 18-year-old son and me after having dropped a cool $349.17 at Kroger's. This is the child with OCD, the one whose bedroom is immaculate, like a monk's cell. The one who does his own laundry because he may get cooties from his clothes touching everyone else's. The one who can't believe he survived the filthy, germ-infested squalor that is my housekeeping to live to be an adult, even though I've forwarded this article to him many times, about how we should all eat more shit because it makes us healthier.

Tucker: Now drive home slowly, so the groceries don't go all over the place.

Me:      Where's the fun in that?     *takes turn at 45 mph*

Tucker: *clutching at dashboard* Mom! Why must you always drive like a maniac?!

Me:      You're such a kill-buzz!

Tucker: *rolls eyes*

The Devil's Seed

Just posting some ATC's today, because I am having a bad day. Do any of you have teenagers? I have 2 teenagers and 1 tween. Let me tell ya, life is no picnic living with that kind of crowd.

I really admire bloggers who write about their kids in funny ways, like dooce, whoopee, and breed 'em and weep. They manage to make their children so endearingly witty and amusing. But the thing is, their kids are little. And therefore cute. My kids are teenagers. And therefore SO not cute. Teenagers aren't funny. They're tragic and irksome. And SERIOUSLY AGGRAVATING. Like I want to poke my eye out with a sharp object all day long just to dull the pain of dealing with three hormonally-unhinged spawns of Satan. Like I look at rat poison and have to sit on my hands to keep from acting on my impulses. Like I figure it's better to let the violence between them ensue and escalate, because it may help to cut down on the teenage population in my household.

Please check back with me tomorrow so you can see me take back all the evil things I've written just now and read my dry but witty rendering on the cute, comical, and incredibly adorable things they've done today.

Then and Now

So my daughter, Hannah, is going to the Homecoming dance this weekend, and I'm really wigging out about it. She only just started 9th grade this fall. I still can't get a grip on the fact that she's is in High School, for crying out loud. Did I mention that she's my only girl? Out of four children, she's my only sweet little princess.

Before I had children, I always said I didn't want any boys. Boys were nasty, dirty, rough, and violent. No boys for me. No, I would have 4 beautiful little girls, all with blonde hair and blue eyes. I would dress them in pink frilly dresses, put curlers in their hair on Saturday night so they'd have golden ringlets for church on Sunday morning. They'd be lined up like stair steps in the pew at church, little cherubs all, never squirming, just gazing thoughtfully forward, listening to the pastor give his sermon.  And they would dress up like Cinderella, princesses, or fairies for Halloween. My perfect little angels.

Well, the good Lord must have known what He was doing, because He gave me three boys and only one daughter, who happens to be my "gotcha" child. As in, God remembers how much grief you caused your own mother and sends you the same exact "opportunity for growth", and He's laughing his damn head off in heaven, saying, "GOTCHA!!" I love my daughter to the moon and back, but she certainly doesn't fit the fantasy I had imagined for myself.

She started out pretty girly. When she was little, I sewed her gorgeous "twirly" dresses, full of ruffles and flowers. I put pigtails and curlers in her hair. She owned a glittery tiara. She even played with Barbies. But gradually, the evil influence of her 3 brothers began to rub off on her, and she has turned into an UN-dainty, UN-feminine tomboy, who burps with loud gusto and farts like a man. She has very strong opinions. Her self-confidence knows no bounds. She dresses up as Goth Girl or Slutty Cheerleader for Halloween.   So I ask myself, when did this cute but goofy little girl:

turn into this beauty:

I mean, seriously. When did my baby princess go from this delicate flower:

to this gorgeous babe:

At some point when I was focusing on making sure my windows were streak-free and shiny and my souffle light and fluffy, she became an attractive, independent, amazing young WOMAN.

And now, she's going to the Homecoming dance, with a "friend". Did I mention that she's wearing a halter dress not unlike the white dress Marilyn Monroe had to hold down over the subway air vent, only her dress is purple and black lace?  Yeah. Not reassuring!  Then she tells me that she's going to spend the night at her friend's house after the dance so I won't need to pick her up afterward. Immediately, I think of my own high school dances of yore, at which alcohol flowed freely and with wild abandon.  So I say, "well, I need to pick you up after the dance and take you to <your friend>'s house so I can smell your breath." Hannah says, without missing a beat, "MOM! I'm not going to have penis breath!"

.......PENIS BREATH??!?!?