September 2010
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Author Archive

Little Warrior…

31. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Usually when my husband and son take an outing, they return with a new something-or-other kind of toy for T. Usually this toy is, say, a neonic noodle (you know, the obnoxious foamy things you take in kiddie pools and bang other kids on the head with), or a cheap glider that falls apart after the first flight, or a Matchbox type of car to add to the collection under the couch. Yesterday, however, was different (cue sinister The Omen theme music). Yesterday, my spouse and T returned with THIS (cue crescendo of The Omen theme music):

Not man, not elf, but Melf (I suppose) with a completely untrusworthy expression, sword, shield with terrifying coat of arms and hatchet (not pictured). Not to mention those bows and arrows. Into the house runs my son with this THING still in its package. “Pweeze, Mama!” he shouted, meaning open it immediately, Mama, or I will have a fit. Grrrrr, I thought as I smiled at my son and said, “Sure, baby, sure.” Grrrrrrrrrr.

Upon interrogating my husband in my nicest voice (so as not to alarm our child) the second he stepped across the threshold, his arms loaded in bags of groceries, his expression harried from his time in the food aisles where our son loves to run wild, I was informed that T had picked out the Melf, not my husband. “Babe. He wanted it. Badly.” Arrrrrrgh! I thought, handing the Melf to my delighted child, who played with it for about 5 minutes, then discarded it to the train table. To my relief, bows/arrows/medieval weaponry are either too complicated or foreign or boring for him. At 2 years and 3/4, he doesn’t play with action figures yet, it’s true. Mostly he plays with the Sodor trains, his dirt trucks, his Diego submarine, his stuffed animal collection, his cars, cars, cars. Plus, HE LIKES READING BOOKS WITH HIS PARENTS. Whew. My baby! He still is one! Sort of! Tears in my eyes, I watched T bang out the back door to run and play on the lawn in the cool, glorious evening. I quickly made off with the Melf, tossing him and his dastardly tools in a dark cupboard until after T’s bedtime, when I took these photographs and numbed, then overpowered and utterly conquered the pathetic Melf with my Toshiba’s power thingy (cue Stars Wars theme music).

Yes, that’s right: With my Toshiba’s power thingy (cue Chariots Of Fire theme music).

And then I put the Melf deep, deep in the Goodwill pile in the garage—but only because tossing him in the trash seemed wasteful and I wasn’t sure if he was recyclable. The Melf may live to see another day, but hopefully not with my child—at least not for a long, long time—which in toddler-time probably means next week. Arrrrrrgh! (cue Shock The Monkey by Peter Gabriel)

PB WRITES

Posted in FAVORITES, Usual Drama?, BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »

The Other Island

29. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

This is actually the movie we were supposed to watch. Not “The Lost Island”, but this, a comedy. How did I confuse the two? Well, I was too lazy to leave my ~~bed~~ office to find the DVD and the correct title, so I Googled Andy Garcia and his bloody darn movies and got Lost instead of City, didn’t even see City, and who knew Andy Garcia would be in 2 movies with the word City in them, anyway? But since we didn’t watch the movie, who cares? I HAVE NO OPINION TO GIVE. Now it is Sunday and we still have not watched the movie and will probably return it to Redbox unwatched. We did, however, get more sleep than usual—which for some reason is making us more tired. The good news is that the toddler has taken to weaning like a—root to water? Cat to tuna? Like a Mama to her imagined BMW? Although last night, as Mama slept the sleep of drugged horses, my husband (working at the living room table) “felt” a presence behind him. He turned around and there was our son staring at him, holding his blanket and blue glow stick. “OH MY GOD,” my husband reacted. The toddler promptly cried, scared by his dad scared by him and had to be soothed back to sleep. Usually the toddler does not wake up in the middle of the night and when he does, I am very aware of any waking. However, I missed my husband’s cry of fear and the toddler’s wounded cry, which is very unlike me and a little disturbing—because I am a mother, NOT AN ISLAND. I close this scintillating Sunday post with these vital statements:

Blrrrrrrgh

zzzzzzzz

PB WRITES

Posted in Usual Drama?, Vitals | Print | No Comments »

Waiting…

28. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Am so looking forward to an impromptu (i.e., S showed up tonight with movies) datenight with my husband. But it’s been an hour since he and T did their now nightly night-night routine. My husband has fallen asleep in T’s room. I am so SO loving my new freedom of not having to do rocking every night, of T letting his dad put him down instead of me—it’s a whole new world! I made it to book club on time last night, meaning I actually socialized beforehand instead of staggering in all bleary-eyed from rocking darkness and utterly late to find most of the good goodies and non-book conversation gone. I had dibs on conversation and goodies. Lovely! I so like this change! I—I mean, it’s sad, too. But going to book club on time was nice…Gah, the conflicting emotions! They’re like knives (cue “Psycho” music) and—Pygmy People blow darts!

I am very happy to be in such a situation, this will-we-or-won’t-we-watch-a-movie-because-I-don’t-have-to-rock-and-nurse-my-son-every-night situation. You know? Of course you do. While S put T down, I showered, dressed in freshly washed (and dried) pajamas, I have a glass of wine. But I’d really like S to wake up and come and watch the movie. Ha ha! Parenthood. Blrrrrrrgh. Yes. That’s right. Blrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.

PB WRITES (yeah, yeah, yeah)

Posted in World, Usual Drama?, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »

Weaning, III…

26. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Yeah, it’s hard being a toddler. First, your friends come over for a playdate and you surprise yourself by really enjoying their company and freely sharing all your toys and jumping on your bed with them and splashing everyone in the kiddie pool and getting splashed back with no one crying, and eating TJ’s Vegan Chocolate Chip Cookies because your Mama was too tired to bake anything with hidden nutritious ingredients like spinach or beets and all the kids eat the cookies too and you discover this is what a cookie really is, not fruit bars, which your Mama has been calling cookies for as long as you can remember, and you run and shriek and roar like lions with the others and then they all leave and you are high on chocolate chips, don’t want lunch or “Nemo” and can’t nurse anymore to calm down. The injustice. It would make anyone, even a grown-up, cry and resist napping. THEN, your Mama takes you into your bedroom to nap, despite your having told her this is absolutely not acceptable, unless you can nurse! Well, for the love of gummy bears! What IS this pewpy kind of day?

But THEN you surprise yourself (again) by lying down with Mama on your big-boy bed and, although you adamantly, stubbornly repeat NO when Mama repeatedly, patiently requests you nap together, you discover you really are tired and can flop onto your tummy with your stuffed otter, bear, Diego, dinosaur, tiny bunny and sock monkey and—sleep—without nursing.

Yeah, it’s a confusing, painful world—but one also full of miracles that really aren’t so bad.

PB WRITES

Posted in Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »

Weaning, Part II…

24. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Last night S stayed in the room with T to do night-night, T once again not happy about this, about no rocking chair and spigots—but when I left the room, he didn’t cry. At. All. S lay down on the bed and T fiddled with his books, ignoring his dad. Finally S called T over and HE WENT TO BED—tossed and turned a bit, but went to sleep in a timely manner (so did S). When my sleepy spouse finally stumbled out of our toddler’s room, I told him I had once again underestimated our son. “He totally gets it and is adapting,” I said. “Blrrrrrgh,” answered my husband. Today at naptime, T asked for his blanket. I said, “Nap? Sure!” Of course he wanted to rock and nurse, but again I told him the milk was all gone. He whimpered a little, but lay down on the bed with me and—WENT TO SLEEP. For the rest of the week, S will take over the night-night shift and then next week I’ll try it. I would still love to rock T and sing lullabies, sans nursing. We’ll see what happens.

How do I feel, with this new milestone in place? Not weepy—freer—relieved—coping with a stinging sort of nostalgia I’m sure will stay with me forever, through every upcoming milestone. I’m doing my best to roll with the changes and relish each stage. A woman I met at a park recently told me that the day her 23 year old son moved out of her house was the most emotional of her life—and that it still feels like only yesterday that he was my son’s age. I so, so believe her.

PB WRITES

Posted in Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »

Just Another Milestone…

22. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Around 8:15p.m. this evening, my son realized he was not going to be breastfed before night-night time.

T never did pacifiers. He never did bottles (except in the middle of the night the first few months, when S would take over the night-shift feedings). We nursed. And nursed. And nursed. And it was fine with me—and I was going to wait on the weaning until he was 3, but the first major Mama/son milestone of me leaving for an extended stay out of the house for the first time in 2 3/4 years happened—and for the 2 nights I was gone on my Mom’s Weekend Out, I told myself I was ready for the 2nd major Mama/son milestone in 2 3/4 years: weaning.

However, listening to T’s devastated sobs coming from his room as I cringed on my bed feeling like a monster? Like Nurse Ratched? Like Mary Poppins off her meds? Agony, of course. “Arrrrrrgh,” I whispered, which is the gut-sound of the actual gut actually turning itself inside out.

This 2nd year of T’s life has contained so many changes—growth spurts, chattiness-spurts, so many new words, sentences, songs, identifying the letters of the alphabet, shapes and colors, making his first egg carton caterpillar, finally sleeping through the night—such a tremendous year. And now this. My baby. My not-so-baby. My bigger boy. I rejoice in the changes! I celebrate T’s progress. I’m excited to get my boobs back to myself again. I am joyful. I am—arrrrrrrrrgh…

The problem: Over the weekend, T’s naps and night-nights were initiated by car rides—he fell asleep in the car and transferred to bed without waking up. Therefore, his dad never had to explain about the boobs, that they were on permanent hiatus, that Dadda was now on night-night duty, not Mama. Tonight marked the explanations and T was not, as I’ve stated, happy about the news. With his red, teary face and down-turned mouth he kept pointing pitifully at my chest. “All gone,” I told him with a shrug I was terrified seemed callous. “The milk’s all gone.” Yeah. I lied to my little boy. And then I left the room, the back of my hand pressed to my mouth, choking back my weeping.

For a while my husband rubbed T’s back as our son lay on the floor confused and crying, refusing to get into his big-boy bed. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew T was exhausted and needed to go down. I went in the room, picked him up and placed him on his bed, all the while saying soothing things. S slipped in next to the flailing arms and legs as T’s protests became more vigorous. “Dadda’s doing night-night,” I kept repeating and, once again, left. I closed the door quietly, then fled down the hall and into the kitchen, hovering before the squeaky refrigerator, the empty sink, the dubious stove, guts twisting.

I don’t know if my husband and I followed appropriate weaning-procedure. I told this to S when he emerged from T’s room after about 15 minutes, T completely passed out. “Listen,” my husband said, hugging me as I sobbed. “Whenever you feel like you weaned him too soon, or should have waited until he was 3, just remember that British comedy where the grown-up son says to his mom, BITTY? BITTY?”

I will miss nursing T, miss rocking him as I gazed at his face and stroked his sweet fingers. I don’t regret nursing him as long as I did. It was right for us, according to my now thoroughly-twisted-up-into-tiny-unreleasable-knots gut-instinct. It’s time. It’s time. I know it’s time.

We’re all growing up around here. It should be an interesting week.

PB WRITES

Posted in Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »

On Folding Laundry…

15. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Before T came along, I folded laundry meticulously—meaning even briefs and all t-shirts turned the right way out.

After T came along and I experienced severely broken sleep, laundry wasn’t folded, dishes weren’t washed, socks were shoved into whatever drawer and although I never iron sheets anyway, the term ‘balled-up-in-linen-closet’ definitely applied.

I knew the sleep I’ve been getting lately was catching up to me when, after 2 1/2 years, I caught myself turning my husband’s t-shirts the right way out again. Then I sorted the t-shirts drawer, putting plain, tanks and t-shirts-with-writing-on-them in separate stacks.

I once again wash dishes before my husband returns from work, so that he won’t have to do them, which he was, quietly and diligently, for which I’m very grateful—but since I don’t feel the need to collapse with exhaustion and acute brain fuzz when he arrives home, I can do them (we bought the only house on the block without a dishwasher…).

I’ve caught myself playing the piano every evening, while T and S are doing the bath thing. I’ve caught myself working on my writing until after 10p.m. I’ve caught myself remembering to put on fun CD’s in the morning, so that T and I can dance to the music. I exercise every day and have lost much 2 1/2 year old stubborn pregnancy weight. I’ve caught myself admiring my husband as he plays with our son—struck as though for the first time by how much I enjoy his laugh, his jokes, his storybook reading style.

Most importantly, I have more energy to devote to my toddler, meaning not feeling as though I’m lifting a giant boulder from my head in order to drive us to the playground in the afternoon. This means everything to me.

A suburban Rumplestiltskin, I’ve woken up due to receiving more sleep. I am relieved. Although my synapses aren’t firing at 100% and may never again (if they ever were), although I buy too many loaves of bread, or find my cell phone inside Julian’s bird cage, although the windows need cleaning of small, sticky handprints, the good news is in:

If, like mine, your child is a waker instead of a sleeper and your t-shirts and most of the rest of your laundry are the wrong way out and your sheets are balled up in the linen closet, don’t worry. When sleep returns (and it will return, even if you think it will never, ever return, it will return), so will you. Pretty much. Most likely. Seems to be the case! Ha ha. Whew.

PB Writes

Posted in Ponderosa, Vitals, Music | Print | 1 Comment »

New Blog (Yeah, That’s Right!)…

12. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Since my little petunia has decided to—for the past month especially—keep to his sleeping through the night until 6, 6:20, sometimes even 6:45a.m. schedule, vs. waking up several times in the night or waking up at 5a.m. to start the day—since this miracle started happening, only 2 1/2 years after birthing my son—since I am getting more sleep, I have been procrastinating much more than usual about my writing and all the many projects involved therein.

So I’ve started a “writing blog”, in which I will chronicle my writing progress—keyword, progress.

Here it is:

PB Writes

It’s still quite fresh, so changes are taking place—but I’m happy I’m doing it, happy I’m turning procrastination into action, not just with a new blog, but due to a new blog and it’s Operations and Tasks for———-moi. No little guy pictures or stories there—it’s the all-writer in me speaking, struggling, finding a means to publication for some of my other babies.

Sleep. It’s a whole new world. Or something like that. zzzzzzzzzzzz…

PB WRITES

What’s that you say? My link covers almost the entire page? No! How did that happen! So embarrassing. Sorry.

Posted in Vitals | Print | 1 Comment »

Fashion Watch: The Man In The Yellow Hat…

8. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

What is up with this guy?

At least in Ron Howard’s animated movie, “Curious George 2″ The Man In The Yellow you-know-what is given a girlfriend who tells him (basically—she’s not too bright—look at her choice in men): “Lose the job-obsession, or lose me. And, er, upset George.” Of course, Hat Man doesn’t get it. Unless you count the end of the movie—when job-obsession wins out with a promotion and a smattering of I LOVE MY MONKEY AND WILL SPEND MORE TIME WITH HIM type of emotion (bye-bye, girlfriend).

But who could TMITYH (The Man In The Yellow you-know-what) be paired up with, anyway—male or female? And why bother pairing him with anyone? George, the color yellow, his hat and new furniture and rugs are the only objects of any of TMITYH’s affections and he almost kills George in every single episode or movie, through carelessness, gross (nearly tragic) neglect and the inability to not be swayed by others (”Sure, send my monkey up into Space on a mission he might never return from! George! Here’s your Space helmet! Get the hell on that rocket! We’re serving science! NOW!”).

And yet, when I was a child and reading “Curious George”, I did not notice TMITYH’s flaws and pathological bone-headedness. I had eyes only for George being curious. I was never afraid for George—more pitying. I was too new to the world to blame TMITYH for putting George in life-threatening situations. If TMITYH gave his permission for George to play with the radioactive stub of nuclear waste fallout, then it must be okay—and if George started glowing and feeling sick and shed all of his monkey hair, well then it must be his fault, right? Because TMITYH is authority. And when I was a child, I was made aware that Questioning Authority was not a good idea.

However, now that I am a parent—i.e., authority—this much is certain: If it was me and TMITYH in a dark alley, I know who would emerge with George perched on her shoulder, kissing her head and making happy, grateful monkey noises to the tune of, “THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY LIFE!!!”

Unless, of course, George is suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, which is probably more the reality.

(Peace sign wristwatch—now THAT’S fashion, baby!)

www.pbrippey.com

Posted in ANIMAL DRAMA! | Print | 1 Comment »

Day Out: Nemo…

6. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

I flow with an attitude of serendipity through all kinds of experiences.
—Louise Hay

Today being a prime example of attempting to make “flowing” a reality at the overcrowded Long Beach Aquarium Of The Pacific and its magnificent, child-endearing cases and cases of fish, coral, anemones, jellyfish, weedy sea dragons, super weird s*** with mouths and tails you can touch and even a bull shark with restless twitches in a tank big enough for a convention of hermit crabs, maybe, but—a tank big enough to house that many sharks? (Turn Mind Off After $20-something admission fee, just: Turn. Mind. Off…).

Having been on a serious Nemo kick since Catalina Island and the charming rentable house we stayed in with The Movie he had never seen before because Nemo’s mother is wiped out in the first two minutes and I hate that—

Having been on a serious Nemo kick (we own the movie now, oh yeah—but I fast forward through mom’s fatal chomping by a barracuda), and not having been to the aquarium since October, 2009, when the giant water squirting squid was all he wanted and we ate next to some kids atrocious to birds—

Having been on a serious Nemo kick due to worry that my son watches too many DVD’s while mama stares blank-eyed into her 6am cup of coffee—I am on a serious outings kick. Because of T’s current Nemo fascination, where to go BUT the aquarium and its sweetly caged aqua-beasts and (don’t know why it’s there, but it’s nice) Lorikeet Forest?

I knew I wouldn’t be getting a nap and I was prepared for that, prepared to go a few thousand extra miles this day, but I wasn’t prepared for my son’s enthusiasm. He told anyone and everyone standing at every case HI!!! FISH!!! WOOK!!! FISH!!! And, when we found the Nemo case, HI!!! NEMO!!! WOOK!!! DURY!!! (i.e., Dory—many, many Nemos and Dorys swimming together beautifully, making kids BALLISTIC with excitement—they must have planned it that way, right? Those diabolical-aquarium-planner types? Or—Disney?).

Enthusiasm that, several times, accelerated into chaotic emotion preceding (as I know from experience in Target and malls) tantrums, during which my son shouts STOP IT STOP IT STOP, as though I’m beating him in public (instead of just standing there with a slump in my shoulders and a glance at my wristwatch as he enters serious turmoil). Arrrrgh! I felt bi-polarish the entire fish-viewing: Utterly elated by his elation, then sunk (pun intended) by his own tot-bi-polarish angst. Little guy!

However (and I’m not patting myself on the back with big whoops or woots or however we spell shizzzz—I’m simply stating my own experience): Despite my frustration at my son’s frustration with Listening-To-Mama, I was pleased with my TONE when dealing with his—well, with his tone. True, I did use the, “We’ll have to go back to the car, then, won’t we?”, but I did not raise my voice, did not accuse him of grievous wrong-doing, did not beg or plead or argue or lie on the darkish aquarium carpet in the fetal position, sucking my thumb before a gathering crowd. I did what I’ve been practicing since he turned 2 and startled me with his first tantrum–only this time, today, it was easier for me—my parenting method was easier—it flowed: I talked to him. And talked to him some more, whatever his reaction—until he calmed and the angst receded from his eyes like (yes, I’m writing it and sticking by it!) a minus tide…

And then I bought him a Nemo.

www.pbrippey.com

Posted in World, Usual Drama?, Vitals, ANIMAL DRAMA!, BABY BABY | Print | 3 Comments »

Blog Break #17,000,00?: Naked Ladies

4. August 2010 by PB Rippey.

Cue the Muzak—again! Ahhhhh. Hello Naked Ladies. It really is summer.

These resilient flowers (I don’t know where they came from, did not plant them myself) are perfect to ponder when one’s brain is a brick, one’s creativity having run off with one’s sleep having run off with one’s “buck-up, Buffy!” approach to certain worries. Flowers, arriving. Flowers thriving in cement-hard dirt. Overnight: flowers. Voila! I stop, study them, sniff centers, sneeze. Thank you for choosing my rose garden, Naked Ladies. Give me a poem, stay awhile. Breathe.

www.pbrippey.com

Posted in Breaks | Print | No Comments »

Blog Break #17,000,000.04: Editing

26. July 2010 by PB Rippey.

Cue elevator music. Cue photo of cute little boy ruling the roost. Shhh…The mama is working (cue sound of fingers tapping computer keyboard at breakneck speed…). La dee da dee da…

Posted in Breaks | Print | 1 Comment »

Blog Break #17,000,002: Catalina

21. July 2010 by PB Rippey.

What’s not to like?

Much stimulating fun for the toddler—

and his parents.

Ocean breezes.

Fascinating California history, such as Zane Grey’s Pueblo Hotel (haunted by the author, I was informed—I can see why he wants to stay—he never missed a dawn if he could help it, watched the sea come alive).

Views everywhere.

Clear water.

Put the toddler to bed? No, no, no. Put him in his pajamas, then put him in his stroller and meander the waterfront to the pavilion, to watch the night divers and the bonfires on Descanso Beach. Once the toddler is lulled to sleep by the stroll, snoozing peacefully, covered by his favorite blankie, stop for ice cream, sit, watch boat lights twinkle, relax, holds hands, be happy.

Return to wonderful Catalina house and drink champagne with good friends (on Catalina, the toddler can be transferred from stroller to bed with no wake-ups whatsoever)—champagne so smooth and Cadillac it doesn’t give you a hangover and you can rent those several golf carts in the morning with your bloody-mary’s-in-plastic-cups-toting-friends and utterly enjoy your last hours on the island.

That’s Catalina.

www.pbrippey.com

Posted in Breaks, World, Vitals | Print | 2 Comments »

Baking—With A Rolling Pin!…

15. July 2010 by PB Rippey.

I’ve been utilizing the Weelicious recipe site of late. I’ve tried the Breakfast Bread Pudding, which my finnicky toddler actually enjoyed and asked for seconds (which he got once mama recovered from her heart attack and picked herself up off the floor). I made the Baked Zucchini Coins, which were delicious, although (grrrrr!) the toddler didn’t think so (luckily his dadda did). I baked the Pizza Muffins, which once again were a hit with the dadda, especially since I substituted tofu cubes for the chicken the recipe called for. The toddler? He licked the tops of two muffins with a suspicious look on his face, took one bite and asked for jello.

Today’s venture is Carrot Snack Sticks, which look beautiful in the picture on the site and which, around here, will be Carrot Dinner Sticks. I was very excited to use a rolling pin that I found in my havoc-of-cooking-implements kitchen cabinet. Can’t remember when or why I bought it, but how nice to have it at my fingertips! The toddler “washed” dishes while I prepared the recipe, adding about 5 times the amount of parmesan cheese due to my experiences with flour’s power to bland, bland, bland. I also added about 3 or 4 more tablespoons of vegetable oil than the recipe calls for. I’m wild, man! I’m crazy!

As I expected, the sticks did not look like the chef’s picture when they came out of the oven.

But T ate 1. Then asked for milk. Then he ate another. And I’m sure he’ll eat the watermelon slice I’m keeping out of sight as he ponders the remaining carrot sticks before him (hopefully he’ll eat more). So tonight’s dinner: Carrot Sticks, watermelon and milk. Not bad. Ha ha ha!

As I’ve mentioned incessantly, my toddler is a finnicky eater. Compared to other toddlers I know, those who only eat dry cheerios, for instance (so sorry for those mothers), he’s great. But for me each meal is a challenge in keeping cool, not worrying, not taking that rolling pin and using it to pound the many pillows on my bed as I silently scream my frustation when he refuses a recipe, any recipe, even the tried and trusted ones. Instead, I take the pin with both hands, bring it behind my head and commit 50 french presses. Right on! Cooking that’s good for the triceps, or whatever that area of arm is that waves like a banner in the wind. Ah, PB—you were born for motherhood! Peace and be well. And remember that the pediatrician told you not to worry—unless T starts losing weight from finnickiness and so far he’s way too chunky for that. Keep on cooking!

WWW.PBRIPPEY.COM

A BIG PS. After writing this post I noticed a burning smell. The 2nd batch of Carrot Snack Sticks were destroyed. I didn’t hear the timer. Too bad, because the longer I left the sticks on his tray, the more he eventually ate. Back to the rolling pin!

Posted in Usual Drama?, Vitals | Print | 1 Comment »

Bird Bliss…

11. July 2010 by PB Rippey.

The baby birds have hatched. We ooh and ahhh over the tiny heads and uhinged beaks of 3 (possibly 4, hard to tell) house finches making their presence known with tortured-mice screams the toddler is not sure he enjoys. Fascinating, though, is watching both mama and papa bird sit on the nest at the same time and feed their young. Then they zoom off, presumably to round up more food. I didn’t know papa birds did such a service. It’s lovely. It’s wonderful. It’s teamwork in the wild.

Next chore: rig up a net so that if anyone falls out of the nest, they will not land on the patio slash cat-land and we witness nature’s cruelty. No, no, noooooooo….

WWW.PBRIPPEY.COM

Posted in ANIMAL DRAMA! | Print | No Comments »

Poem Break…

11. July 2010 by PB Rippey.

The Sixth Appointment

On the sixth appointment (your third) I rat-
tled off the plot of Washington Square,
gleaned from all five of seven cd’s decked
in our car in the grim subterranean lot
down there, your hand on my knee (your
reach strained—I don’t know why
we didn’t simply scoot you close), down-
town sun lightening lab-yellow blinds
and when I couldn’t look at you I spoke
to the baby squatting naked in a white
porcelain bowl on the wall, all squidge
and a stupid smile and hair sparse
as an old man’s (when we were shown
in, we laughed at the sight of him)
and when I couldn’t look at the baby
I spoke to the replica of certain a-
natomy (purple plastic for the womb,
barn-door-red for the cervix, pink
for It, etc.), the piece you joked
lonely bachelors might like to display
in their lonely living rooms and when I spoke
to you again the sun had your eyes,
hoarding their godly-green
and the room spun
and I sat back and you rose
as the doctor entered
in high platform sandals,
pleasant skirt beneath
the pale coat and the two
of you shared a laugh before
she whipped open her magic
chart, divined the unseen,
lifted my new blouse,
squirted on the goop,
pressed the thing home
and you heard (for the first time)
the tiny, persistent galloping.
And nobody laughed
then except for me, because I’d for-
gotten (even after all these fucking visits):
miracles breathe.

(honorable mention in some anderbo.com contest or other a few years ago, or whenever…)

WWW.PBRIPPEY.COM

Posted in Poems | Print | 1 Comment »

Oh, PB—You’re So Transparent…

6. July 2010 by PB Rippey.

Why does having a new cell phone make me feel so content? It’s not an iphone. It’s not even smart, just—the sort of super-basic model that no one would ever want to steal. But there’s no static when I make or receive calls, the kind of ear-wrenching, in-your-canal static that makes people scream and swear they will never speak to me again until I get a new cell phone. My phone does not disconnect every few seconds. My phone has colorful wallpaper depicting a tropical reef that instantly transports me to—I don’t know, let’s frikkin’ say Kauai, every time I look at it. My phone’s ring is a Latin woman singing a lazy bossa nova. I don’t know who the artist is. I don’t know what her words mean. I only know she makes me smile when I hear her voice, which reminds me of margaritas on the rocks. Now, when I call people, I cut them off before they can berate me to get a new phone. I yell: IT’S A NEW PHONE! Their suspicions are put to rest as the conversation continues with me babbling on about how there’s no static. Ha ha! No static! And I won’t cut out on you, either! I add, waiting for cheers, which might or might not come. And someday, I tell everyone, my phone will have a bluetooth piece for company (to which I might receive an oooh or ahhh in reply, but that’s only if it’s my mother, who has no idea what bluetooth is or why it would have a piece). Yes. I heart my phone. Is that wrong? Or just—millenial? Am I a millenial girl? Can I be millenial without a bluetooth piece? What does millenial really mean and why am I writing about it when I have a tiny hour alone at home until the toddler and his dadda return? Why am I writing about my new cell phone and its tropical features instead of—ah. Caught ya! Avoiding my novel editing. Again! Well, you listen up, PB, and listen well (no static here!)—no phone for a week unless you stop blather-blogging this second, pull up your novel and get to work! Yes, Ma’am. And don’t call me Ma’am! Yes, um—Lady Gollum. Well, now! That’s better. Gollum. Gollum. Gollum. (Note to Self: Do not ever show this post to husband or son…)

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Blog Break: Dana Point Baby Beach

5. July 2010 by PB Rippey.

Hope you had a wonderful 4th of July! I made a berry cobbler that actually wasn’t burned on the bottom. A first! If you run your mouse over the picture, you’ll get the story, in his words. A beautiful day at Baby Beach and good for the Gdad to be out in the sunshine and fresh air (not to mention the toddler!).

www.pbrippey.com

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The Secret Lives Of Parents…

27. June 2010 by PB Rippey.

So he enters the bedroom and you both wake up the second his little feet cross the threshold because your toddler-radars are, for once, in total synch and you both start with the utterings: What is it, baby, come here, baby, get in bed with us, baby. And you fit him between you where he lasts for 2 seconds because, as you both well know but are still in denial about, he is not the cuddle-in-the-parent’s-bed type of child, never has been, busting out of his bunting those first months, thrashing his way out of the snuggle-nest you both flanked each night so hopefully, the nest enabling you to keep him so close, so that you could oooh and aaah over him constantly, at any minute, any hour, any second of the night, between feedings. Nope. He wasn’t having any of that then and now he leads the way to his room and you settle him on the big-boy bed—only to feel an odd wetness on the sheets and then his back is arching and he’s getting rid of the rest of his dinner.

So you rush him to the bathroom and he shocks you by lifting up the toilet seat as though he knows, at 2 1/2 years old, exactly what to do, even though he’s never barfed into the toilet before, but he does, does it with perfect aim as you murmur encouragements and by then your husband is in the bathroom, too, catching up on events, and you both wet washcloths and wipe your child down and you both pat your child dry and one takes care of fresh toddler-pajamas while the other quickly changes the toddler-bedsheet, silently cursing buying only 1 fitted toddler-bed-sheet instead of a year’s supply for ER’s just like this one, but suddenly you find the toddler-flat-sheet works just fine and your husband settles on the bed next to the little guy and you flip off the light and stagger back to your bed and 45 minutes later the entire process is repeated, only this time you take the ailing babe into the living room once he’s cleaned up, cuddle him on the couch while your husband replaces the toddler-flat-sheet with a Queen fitted sheet he found in the hall linen closet by emptying the closet’s entire contents onto the floor and when your husband enters the living room in fresh boxers and tee shirt, arms outstretched, eyes half closed, ready for sleep, to try it again, you stand to transfer to him your mutual, precious center-of-all-universes, only to find you’ve been sitting in cat gak and didn’t even know it.

So you hand over the barfing babe and rush to do some kind of swift body rinse and when you are dry and changed into a fresh nightgown, you find the toddler back on the couch, wearing yet another pair of toddler-pajamas, sitting by himself with an expression you can only define as “patient”. He sits on the towel covering the cat gak, your husband swiftly changing the big-boy bed for the 3rd time this long, strange night-into-morning and you throw your arms around your child and rock and cuddle him as your husband rushes by, heading for the laundry room again with barfed-on sheets in his arms, and just then your child leaps up and demands his toy jets, which he finds in the next second and you watch, in awe and dismay, as he dashes around the living room, waving his jets in jet-flying-simulation, making those funny jet sounds that include spit and dribble, and when he sees his weary father shuffling out from the laundry room, he demands he stop and play jets and your husband waves you off, back to bed, but before you go you think to put a movie in, “Stuart Little”, delighting the toddler, who consents to sit (with both jets) next to his Dadda on the gak-stained couch, both of your loved ones wrapped in velvety throws, or whatever they’re called these days, those blankety things that only live on couches…

So you leave them, father and son movie fanatics (like father like son) and stumble to bed, Geena Davis’ faint protests in your ears as your head hits the pillows and you think—because you know, really know this time, now that you’re out of the constant State-Of-ER worry that goes with the first few months of parenthood, or rather the first year, and you’ve been through the first fever, colds, the flu and you’re not totally freaked and ready to call the paramedics at the first sign of a cough or vomit—your head hits the pillows and you think (with relief and love and a deep, profoundly beautiful agony and that constantly returning sense of awe)—THIS is being a parent, this, this, this.