My Real Life

Monkey Girl had a field trip on Wednesday.

She was going to the county library with her Quest class, and she was presenting a resort that her group had created in a small business competition.

She was CEO of her group and so she had her morning all planned.

She’d get up early, take her shower, I would do her hair, she’d practice her presentation, go through the slides one more time, as well as the business proposal.

She was prepared.

Wednesday morning rolls around, and I was in the middle of a lovely dream when I hear a furious, albeit sleepy, voice roaring “What the heck is going on around here???  It’s 6:50!!!”

We normally leave the house at 7:00.

She has an alarm clock, but Real Man sets our clock early for when he gets up and runs, and then I get up and go wake her up and we all move through our morning routine.

Except for the one and only time Real Man forgot to set the alarm.

Which was Tuesday night.

You’ve never seen two people jump out of bed so fast, and let me tell you, if there was a speed-braiding contest, I would have taken home the gold.

There were no showers, there was no practicing of the presentation.

What there was, was the fastest dressing you’ve ever seen, followed by the fastest baby change in history, the quickest making of sandwiches and packing of lunchboxes, the speediest toasting of waffles that were swallowed almost whole in the car, a drop off at daycare so fast that Tiny barely had time to realize what was happening, and a Mom and a girl getting to school, amazingly, at their normal time.

We walked in, took a minute and regained our composure.

I explained to Monkey Girl that some days you are the windshield, and some days you are the bug.

But, even when you are the bug, you can choose to get out of the way of the wipers before you get smeared across the glass.

Because you can’t control everything that happens to you, but you can certainly control how you deal with what you are given.

One of my all-time favorite movies is Always.

It stars Richard Dreyfuss, Holly Hunter, and John Goodman.

At one point in the movie, Richard Dreyfuss is in an abandoned airplane hangar, after finding out he is dead, and he meets up with a homeless man.

The man can’t see him, but he repeats every last word that Richard Dreyfuss says.

It’s how Dreyfuss figures out how to communicate with the living.

It’s a funny scene, and it has always stayed with me.

No more so than recently when I seem to have my own clairvoyant toddler.

Living with Tiny is like living with that homeless man in the hangar, in that he repeats every single last word we say.

“Tiny, do you want milk or water?”

“Water.”

“Tiny, do you want water or milk?”

“Milk.”

It’s quite amusing.

Almost as amusing as listening to him spell his name, (which is actually Michael).

“M…I…C…H…A…9…10.”

Took me awhile to figure out that he says his “A’s” and “8’s” the same, so naturally, what comes after “A” pronounced like “8?”

9.

One of the blogs I read frequently posted this post a few years ago.

I remember reading it, then reading the comments, and laughing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.

At at the time, I had just found out I was pregnant with Tiny and Baby Monkey was pretty much out of the toddler stages.

Still, it made me laugh.

I just went back to it a few days ago, and laughed even harder because, once again, I can relate.

Then, this was posted on Facebook last night and it also made me laugh.

Because kids, at any age, present challenges, but there is nothing quite like a toddler.

Remember yesterdays post about how much I loved the SuperBowl tradition?

Yeah, that was written on Saturday.

How did the SuperBowl actually turn out at our house?

With us putting out the snacks and then having to pull them all off the coffee table, and into the kitchen, on the counter where toddler hands couldn’t literally sink both hands into the Cheetos, then drag his orange-powdered hands all over the sage green suede-like couches.

Having to rewind a commercial three times, because every time it played, you missed the funniest line because someone was telling us that he was “tooting” and screaming for us to bring back the “nacks!”

With toddlers, you can plan if you want.

But, you might as well not even bother.

I’m not a huge sports fan, but if I had to pick a favorite sport, it would definitely be football.

Despite all of the tackling and time-outs, there is something very satisfying about a football game.

The players systematically make their way down the field in 4 downs.

If they don’t make it, the other team makes their way back again.

The football is thrown and caught, passed off and run.

It’s a very methodical game, and it appeals to my methodical mind.

Real Man is a Giants fan, and so if we’re watching football, I root for the Giants.

Except if they are playing the Browns, because I grew up in a Browns household and brown blood runs deep.

That’s gross.

My parents still make the drive out to Cleveland, from NJ, all fall, because they are Browns season ticket holders.

I’ll probably never see a Browns SuperBowl (sorry, Dad…you know it’s true), yet we occasionally get a Giants SuperBowl, however it doesn’t really matter.

I love SuperBowl Sunday.

Why?

Because, every year, my father-in-law comes over and we get subs and tons of SuperBowl snacks.

The monkeys get excited, and we all hang out in the living room, eating, talking, watching.

It’s a little bit like New Year’s Eve.

We talk through the game, then get quiet for the commercials, because if the Giants aren’t playing (or the Jets, as my father-in-law is a Jets fan) the outcome of the game isn’t really that important.

It’s not about the football.

It’s about the excitement of the monkeys, it’s about having my father-in-law here for the game, it’s about the anticipation of the commercials, it’s about the food, and it’s about tradition.

This year, I’m rooting for the 49ers, because, as those who follow the NFL may remember, the Ravens are the old Browns after Art Modell moved the team to Balitmore, leaving Cleveland Browns-less for a few years, and no self-respecting Browns fan can root for the Ravens, (and, after seeing a Behind the Scenes thing about Kaepernick, I’m a huge fan of his) but in the end, I’m just looking for a good game.

By the time you read this, the game will have been played, the snacks will have been eaten, and we’ll be up and out and off to start our new week, but you can be sure we enjoyed our SuperBowl Sunday.

To the untrained eye, this looks like just a notebook.

A pretty notebook, but nothing special.

Unless you are me.

Because, if you are me, you know that this notebook holds the outline of two and a half novels.

About two years ago, I had some stories in my head, just rattling around, keeping me up, begging to be written down.

It ain’t Shakespeare, but it’s mine.

I’ve been looking for this notebook for a few months.

I packed it up when we moved, a year and a half ago, and have thought about it a few times since then, but haven’t really had the time, nor the inclination, to pick it up and start working again.

While I still don’t have the time, I do have the inclination, as these stories have been calling to me again.

I wake up in the night, forgetting whatever it was I was dreaming about, with one thought.

Find the notebook.

So, today, after work, while the boys were all knocking down each others block towers, I started to search.

I suddenly had an image of the bag I had placed the notebook in, and realized I knew exactly where it was.

It feels good to hold the notebook in my hands, again.

I haven’t unclipped the pages and re-read my outline quite yet.

I need to wait until I have some time to sit, in the quiet, and re-visit the stories.

Because I know that once I unclip those papers, I’m going to need to start writing.

Filling in the outline.

Writing the stories.

And once I start, I won’t be able to stop.