Author Archives: BananaWheels

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About BananaWheels

Sometimes I blog about parenthood. Sometimes I blog about toilets. And sometimes the two are the same.

Throwback Thursday: The Romance Edition

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In honor of Throwback Thursday, here’s a photo of a handsome young man who came to live with my family for a while in 1984. He was a foreign exchange student who had an overbite and needed dental work, so my parents paid for his braces, along with his awesome mustard yellow sweatpants.

ValetinesDay hotness

Actually that’s me, showcasing a box I made for my 4th grade Valentine’s Day party. As you can imagine with that haircut and serial killer stare, I had loads of young lads clamoring to put their cards in my box. Ahem.

This horrendous photo has brought much laughter to me and my husband. In our old house, I used to randomly tape it to the inside door of his bedside cabinet as a way to say “I love you,” and “Don’t you ever break my heart or I’ll stab you in the neck.” Ahh romance.

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My writing friend is sending me prompts for #NaBloPoMo. I have no idea where she’s getting them (I hope it’s not illegal), but today I actually followed it. It was:

Prompt #6 (Nov 7)
Throw back Thursday. Post an old photo and tell us about it. Transcribe an old journal. Share a memory. Keep it short and simple.

NaBloPoMo Writing, NaBloPoMo Problems

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I need to issue a disclaimer that I signed up to do NaBloPoMo, which in case either of my two readers is unaware, is National Blog Posting Month. It means I’ll be posting something every day. I know – I’m just as worried as you are.

I did this at the urging of a friend of mine who is doing NaNoWriMo, the novel writing counterpart. So while she is busy writing a 50,000 word science fiction novel, I’ll be over here writing 200 word posts about things like ants, bunions and barnacles. I cannot be held responsible for the quality of my posts, and if you want to just skip this month and come back in December, I won’t blame you.

I’m doing this in part to help with what I have previously referred to as my relatively chronic case of blogstipation. I often struggle to put the words in the computer, deeming them too unfit for public consumption. But at some point you just need to let it out, knowing that only 2-7% may be worth reading. NaBloPoMo shall be my blogging laxative. In which case, I apologize in advance for what is sure to be at times an unsightly case of bloggerrhea. (fact: diarrhea is one of the most difficult words for me to spell correctly on the first try) (extra and unnecessary fact: apparently I write about diarrhea a lot?)

I am also doing this as part of a larger ‘just do it and move on’ effort. There are too many things on my list that I am overthinking or procrastinating or avoiding. I tend to get more done and be more productive when I have more on my plate, so we’ll see if this daily writing commitment can motivate me elsewhere. However I just used 15 minutes of free time to take a nap on the couch, so I think I’m in trouble.

I signed up late and missed the first couple days, and then of course yesterday’s post dated itself as the 6th instead of the 5th (a downfall of being a last-minute writer in the Pacific time zone), so I am already bringing my standard train wreck flair to this endeavor. Should be fun. This totally counts as a full post.

Single and ready to mingle

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This weekend I created a profile on match.com. Look out dating world! Mama’s coming in hot. Actually it’s for a friend who is single, but she wanted help. She even gave me her password and wants me to weigh in on her prospects. So naturally, I am using it as an excuse to peruse the local dating inventory.

I never did the online dating thing. I signed up for match.com when I was single, but before I could muster the courage to pull the trigger and make it official, I met my future husband. Sweet relief!

My husband and I know several people who have met and married their partners through online dating, including my sister, which is partly why my we gave our friend a gentle-but-probably-annoying nudge to re-sign up (she has done it in the past). Clearly it can work, right?

However now that we are four days into this online dating experiment, I’m feeling a tad skeptical. My friend has people ‘winking’ at her and contacting her, but I don’t think there’s much match material yet. I can tell she feels the same. Last night she texted me that she will not be responding to any suitor who has the word “rough” in his ID name. Even if it’s spelled “ruff.” I think that’s fair and prudent.

Then again, I suppose this is how it works in ‘real life’ too. Lord knows I had my share of mismatches, or just zero matches, before I stumbled on The One. I was never very good at putting myself out there or pursuing a love interest. My dating strategy went something like, “He’s cute, so I’ll go to the opposite side of the room and never make eye contact.” It’s weird how that never worked out for me.

The internet makes it both easier and harder to find someone. You have a larger pool of prospects, and fancy algorithms to help you hone in on your type, but you still have to dig deep and be willing to put yourself out there in a way that is even more public. It takes guts. You can’t help but applaud everyone who does it for making the effort. You also can’t help but want to edit some of their profiles. Yes I’m talking to you, Mr. Ruff.

We’ll see how it goes. I’m cheering for my friend and hoping she finds someone worthy of her awesomeness – whether he’s in the computer or elsewhere.

Losing sleep on wasted paper

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I am awake at 3:45 a.m. My brain won’t shut off. I wish I could say I am thinking about something interesting. A problem I need to solve. A product I want to invent. A great blog post idea (clearly not).

But no. I am awake at this painful hour because it just dawned on me, out of the blue, that I think I wasted a ton of construction paper when I volunteered in my daughter’s kindergarten classroom last week. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say I may or may not have cut 160 strips of black and orange paper that were not needed.

Two years ago I used to wake up in the middle of the night sweating about work-related issues. Did I remember to respond to that urgent email? Should we revise our media strategy? Is my client going to fire us?

Now I wake up sweating about kindergarten craft projects.

My how things change. I don’t miss the work sweats one bit. But I can’t help but wonder if, in their absence, my brain is allowing itself to overvalue the importance of those paper strips. OH NO I WASTED CONSTRUCTION PAPER does not exactly seem worthy of a sleepless night.

Then again, in my defense – construction paper is clearly a valuable commodity at my daughter’s school. They have it on lock down in a super special storage room, accessibly only to adults who have a key and pass a retinal scan identity test. Ok fine, that last one isn’t true.

Who knows – maybe I also feel a need to prove myself after my math class/Roman numeral failure. Unfortunately it appears that craft projects are also not my strong suit, but I should’ve known this. I may be the most ill-equipped kindergarten Room Parent ever.

On the upside, writing this blog post has made me sleepy again – I’m guessing that reading it will have the same effect – so now I’ll go back to bed and see if I can squeeze in 15 minutes of shut-eye before my children wake up because they think they should. Curse you, time change.

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Please note that I updated this post to correct spelling errors that are inherent in 4 a.m. writing. Also let the record show that now I am lying awake wondering if there is a different craft project I can propose that would require 160 paper strips…

Pumpkin pushers

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Pumpkins. What is their allure, anyway? I’m not referring to the pumpkin spice latte revolution, or the intoxicating effect of a pumpkin muffin, or blessed be, the coma-like bliss that follows a piece of pumpkin pie.

I’m talking about the pre-slaughtered pumpkin in its unedited form. The one we travel miles to procure at the nearest pumpkin sweatshop patch, where we fight the crowds to capture a single photograph of our precious children looking like Autumn Angels amidst a bunch of relatively tasteless vegetables (those delicious lattes and muffins AREN’T EVEN MADE FROM REAL PUMPKINS YOU KNOW).

And it works! Those photos never fail to please. Even the most rotten child would look like a saint sitting next to a pumpkin.

Look at this precious image:

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You would never know that my oldest daughter is actually in the midst of a Turd Ferguson-style temper tantrum and just told me I was the “worst mother ev-er.” All you see is tenderness, gentle souls, and pumpkins! Ahh pumpkins. Gourds of glee. It’s impossible to resist their enchanting ways.

Even Creepy Baby looks like an innocent cherub when flanked by pumpkins.

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I’m so pleased with this setup that I’m going to leave her on my doorstep like this until Christmas.

Blame it on the fog

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Today is Day 6, or maybe 7, of dense all-day fog here in Seattle. Every once in a while it breaks around 4:00 and you get a smidge of daylight before the darkness returns, but otherwise it’s just a constant haze. This was today, all day.

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This was Tuesday.

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This was Sunday.

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Ok I’ll stop. You get the point.

Initially I was enjoying the fog – it’s kind of dreamy and nice, and lends itself to cozy pj’s, hot coffee, Netflix and naps. You would think it would also lend itself to blogging, but apparently not so much.

However unfortunately now I think the fog is taking a toll on my mental state, clouding my ability to think or be productive. Kind of like how Halle Berry takes on the characteristics of a storm in X-Men, but way less useful or impressive. Note to self: pitch Marvel Comics on a new X-Men character named Fog, who uses her superpower to stare out the window while eating pita chips.

Even writing this stupid post about fog is proving difficult. I mean c’mon, Amy – it’s fog! Few things are more riveting. This post should write itself.

Even MORE unfortunately, the fog reminds me of scenes from Twilight, so I have spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about vampires over the past week. That’s probably not something I should admit publicly. But seriously – did you see that movie? It was filmed in this region, so it’s only natural to assume those fangy bastards are running rampant right now, using the fog as a protective shield while they feast on the neighbor’s dogs and have sexy time with sullen teenage girls. I’m just waiting to see Edward Cullen scale a tree in my backyard with a dead squirrel hanging out of his mouth.

FURTHERMORE unfortunately, I fear the fog is exacerbating my hermit-like qualities. What is the point of leaving the house if you can’t see anything? And what is another word for hermit-like? Hermitish? Can you say, ‘She had a hermitish demeanor’?

Answer: YES, apparently you can, and more importantly please note the 5th definition of the word “Hermit” is “a spiced molasses cookie often containing raisins or nuts.” So I could be a hermit who loves to eat hermits. Best discovery of my day. I win. Victory for Fog (the superhero).

Like I said, this fog is not bringing out the best in me. I’m really hoping it clears before the weekend.

Aging gracefully, like a tugboat

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Last night I was fiddling with a small mole on my stomach, because I had nothing else to do and I didn’t want to clean the kitchen, and I suddenly remembered that it’s not a mole. At my last appointment, my dermatologist informed me that it’s actually called a “barnacle.” You know, like the crusty crap that grows on the underside of a boat.

So that makes me feel pretty sexy. Between my barnacle, my bunion, and my wankles, I would say I am aging less like a fine wine, and more like an expired container of milk that you forgot you had in the back of the fridge until one day you smell something rank and you think, “What on earth is that stench?!?” and you dig through your fridge and throw out a ton of shriveled baby carrots and realize maybe you should stop buying so many baby carrots and you keep digging and find 14 half-eaten jars of pasta sauce and realize maybe you should stop opening new jars of pasta sauce and then finally you see it hiding in the back corner with crusty milk bits hanging off the lid and you say “Oh hi Amy – I didn’t see you there. You’re old and moldy and you’re starting to rot.”

Me. As a barnacle-infested tugboat.

Me. As a barnacle-infested tugboat. Please note my feet are not actually the same size as my head. Yet. And my wankles are not actually visible. Yet. 

Disease-free at last

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I’m alive. I’m alive! I don’t want to be dramatic, but my house has been submerged in a sea of sickness and germs, and at one point I feared I might not make it out alive.

Almost two weeks ago my toddler came down with the charming childhood disease known as Hand, Foot and Mouth. Seriously – how disgusting is that name? Where is the creativity? It’s not like we call the flu ‘Nose, Throat and Butt Disease.’ I’m disappointed with the medical community and would like to suggest a few alternatives:

  • Bleeding Mouth Blisters
  • Can’t Eat, Won’t Sleep Disease
  • Zombie Transformation Stage I
  • Not Foot-and-Mouth Disease But The Other One
  • Not Hoof-and-Mouth Unless Your Kid is a Cow
  • Probably Not Mad Cow Disease
  • XVII Disease (if we are expected to know Roman numerals, let’s go ahead and start using them more often)

For more than a week I slept sat in the rocker in my child’s room for an average of 2-5 hours per night. I am not a chair sleeper. I am a bed sleeper. Unlike my husband or sister, who both possess the annoying ability to sleep anywhere, anytime (they both fall asleep on an airplane BEFORE IT EVEN TAKES OFF), trying to sleep in a chair is like torture for me.

So there I sat. Rock-and-rock-and-rocking, counting the minutes, patiently waiting for my child’s breathing to reach that slow, peaceful place where she had clearly hit a deep slumber. I would carefully stand, tiptoe to her crib, place her ever-so-gently inside, hold my breath and freeze every limb of my body to see if I stuck the landing, then slowly – S.L.O.W.L.Y – sneak toward the door to make my getaway, and WAAAAAAHHHHHHH NO PLEASE NO she would wake up screaming and we’d do it all over again 7 bazillion times.

But we survived the wrath of HFMD, as we experts like to call it, and I didn’t die in that chair as I feared. So on Saturday I celebrated this achievement the only way I know how – I got a haircut. SNIPPETY SNIP. Time to re-enter the land of the living with a coiffure that is short and sharp…high and tight…business in the front and even more business in the back. Also known as “Your hair looks terrible,” according to my daughter. Things are off to a good start.

The mask of professional parenting

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Last week I became the Room Parent for my daughter’s kindergarten class. I also went to my first PTA meeting. WHO AM I.

I seriously feel like I have graduated into some sort of Professional Parenting League. Life these days consists of packing lunches, attending soccer practice and games, taking snacks to school (x2), taking snacks to soccer, recruiting parent volunteers for the classroom, creating spreadsheets to track those volunteers. Sweet mother how I despise spreadsheets. 

Is this what life is now? Snacks and Spreadsheets? Do I need to rename my blog to this? That would be such a tragedy, given the wild success and global brand recognition that Banana Wheels has achieved.

Then again, it’s really only a matter of time until the wheels fall off this banana-fueled operation anyway. I can only pretend to be a Professional for so long before someone comes along and discovers that I am just an Amateur…an Imposter  …a Clueless Child masquerading as a Responsible Adult.

Me and my Mask.

Me and my parenting mask. I don’t actually wear it every day. Just on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And yes, that’s a tiger behind me. Like I said, Responsible Adult.

Case in point: Last Friday I volunteered in my daughter’s class during math. How hard can kindergarten math be anyway? 1 + 2 = 3. BOOM. When I showed up the teacher pulled out a counting game. Oooh. There were baggies full of rocks, gems, shells – and the kids had to count how many items were in each bag.

“But you must have an adult check your work,” explained the teacher to the class. “We will know if you are correct because there is a special clue on each baggie that only adults can read.”

Awesome, I love secret clues!

She held up the first baggie, and loudly asked me and the math tutor, “Can you each read the clue?”

I immediately started to sweat. On the baggie in large black marker it read, “XLVII.”

“Yes,” we replied in unison. One of us was lying.

I haven’t used Roman numerals since NEVER BECAUSE I DO NOT LIVE IN ANCIENT ROME. Sure, I can handle some simple X and V action, but throw in the L’s and C’s and the nonsensical rule that you can put some numerals in front of other numerals to subtract them and THIS DOES NOT MAKE SENSE THERE IS A REASON HUMANS STOPPED USING IT PLEASE GIVE ME MODERN NUMBERS UNLESS WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THE SUPER BOWL THANK YOU.

Needless to say, I had to sneak out into the hallway and ask Teacher Google for a quick refresher on that old timey counting system. I was so tired and sweaty after those 15 minutes of math class you would’ve thought I had run a marathon. Next time I want to help out at school, I will just stick to my strengths and volunteer for lunch duty.

Show me the way, Kenny Rogers

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Things are still a little chaotic here at the farm. I don’t live on a farm. Lots of emotions all up in my face every day from both of my kids. When life gets hairy, I seek guidance in the immortal words of Kenny Rogers.

You gotta know when to hold ’em.

I’ve been holding both of my children a lot lately. When all else fails with the new kindergartener, who is experiencing a mild case of Jekyll and Hyde, we hug it out. Because Lord knows if someone took away all my friends and shoved me into a foreign building with a bunch of strangers and said, “Go learn something,” I would not only wet my pants in class, but I’d probably shit them once or twice too.

The toddler gets held because she is a Stage 5 Clinger, and also it is often the only way I can get her to move in the direction I need her to go. Also, p.s. toddler hugs are magically rejuvenating.

Know when to fold ’em.

Lately around 4:00 pm, both of my children explode. The tears are inexplicable and inconsolable. The screams are unending. And the dinner does not get made. The other day after several failed attempts at comforting and reasoning with them, I threw in the towel. I dragged their mattresses onto the living room floor (somehow this simple act brings my children immense pleasure), turned on Caillou, and let them zone out in peace. This is what it looks like when Mommy Gives Up at my house.

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Confession: I never let my oldest child watch TV before she was two, for fear it would melt her brain. My youngest is 20 months, and I have intentionally placed her in front of the TV and encouraged her to watch the magic box when I need to distract her. Ahh perspective.

Know when to walk away.

As per the aforementioned kindergarten krazies, lately my 5-year-old has been exhibiting some behavior that is…how shall we say it……..f*cking terrible. Generally speaking we try to discuss and address these incidences as they happen. But the frequency has been so high that I honestly cannot keep up. And my words of reason and consequence are falling on deaf ears anyway.

So, in an attempt to preserve my sanity, I am picking my battles and lowering my expectations. I am giving my kid a Kindergarten Grace Period while she works out her demons. But those demons better get to steppin before Mommy calls an exorcist.

Know when to run.

Amen. Sing it, Kenny. I believe parenthood requires unparalleled commitment, perseverance and patience. I also believe it requires time away and space to breathe. We are terrible at getting babysitters, but I am putting it on the top of my to-do list for this year so I don’t pull a Run, Forrest, Run at 4:02 pm next Tuesday.

Smell ya later, Week 2.