A Musing Mother 6

When I went to prom in high school, I went to prom and dinner. The end. The trend now is a day date, dinner, prom, and an activity afterward. Not that kind of activity. Get your mind out of the gutter. I first learned of day dates before prom when I was pregnant with my first child. Our secretary at work was agitated at her son. The day date he had planned was hiring a limo to drive the group to Anaheim, California and spend the day at Disneyland, drive home then go to prom. That was my first exposure and I hated the idea. I hoped it would trend out by the time my children were prom age. It's seventeen years later. It hasn't trended out. But here is how the day went: Woke up to my 17 year old daughter kissing me goodbye. I don't know what time it was but she and the group of friends going to prom were starting their day date by going to the temple for baptisms for some of their ancestors. One of the group had already done family history work so they could use his family...

Time again for  Mama Kat’s Almost World Famous Writer’s Workshop.   This week I chose prompt  #5.) What do you love most about your job?  I don't always participate in Writer's Workshop but I thought it would be cathartic to do so today. I've already written about upcoming changes of employment so I won't bore you with more details. One thing my job is not, is boring. Right now I need to remember why I do what I do, especially this time of year. First, let's clarify the work so you won't judge me too harshly. I am a high school counselor at an alternative high school. It's the end of April and now all those students who just have to graduate on time are realizing that, not only are they short credits, but also time.  Never mind they've known their credit deficiency for two years but now they want it to be my problem. It's not my problem. It's not.  Yet I will be calling the mother of my daughter's prom date to tell her to tell her son he can...

My trauma is not so severe that I ceased and desisted with the chicken dream, much to my husband's chagrin. The survivor sat quietly in her home and stared off into space until she fell asleep. Which happened often. She wouldn't even preen the dog slobber off. It was just too sad. So I introduced her to a couple of new friends, forbidding my children from naming them. Not that it makes it easier on the person who finds their lifeless corpses littered throughout the garage, but no naming them.  The older chick perked up. She stood up. She walked around. She ate. She drank. She pooped. She let the little ones cuddle up to her. I took her off suicide watch. Now they talk to each other all day. Then they get tired and close their eyes. The forget they are standing up and tip over. I am easily amused. Thus the name of the blog, you see. Speaking of chickens, if you haven't seen this, you must. Pranks have certainly evolved since my friend and I kidnapped a couple of guys' p...

You know who you are. You read about my chickens' demise and laughed. You made jokes about soup. You bit back a laugh but could not stop one small convulsion when I told you happy-birthday-your-chicken-is-dead and asked if your dog is all right. Never mind that I am traumatized and scarred for the rest of my life and experience deep remorse and guilt. For the chickens and my husband who came in and told me that one and a half chickens lived. He did not find pleasure in euthenizing the half dead chick. Sorry , dear. I played ostrich and turned on the radio in the bedroom. Loud. Sang to Journey's Faithfully . Loud and off key. I bought a sturdy, medium sized dog carrier off the classifieds. The surviving chicken is safe in there for now. I am still looking for a shock collar for the damn dog. She still is not coming inside. She is standing outside the glass door, looking at me, tongue hanging out, wagging her tail with no memory of her bad dog behavior. Except that yesterday she ...

I must cathart because I am completely hysterical right now. I made a huge error in judgment and I can't deal with the fallout. I thought the dog could dry out from the rain in the garage. I thought the chicks were safe. I was so wrong. Two are still moving but they won't make it. I can't kill them. Two are clearly dead. One I was able to scoop up and save. They are littered throughout the garage. All I could think was how I have to scrape them off the garage floor before the kids come home. How am I going to explain this? Did I mention I am hysterical? First I saved the one chick. Is she really saved? I don't know. I can't go back out there. Then I bent over and gagged. A lot. I screamed at the dog and smacked her nose. Then I gagged some more. Then I called Scott. I hate it when I have to call him to clean up my messes. I think he was expecting this. I hate that he was expecting this. But I love him for dropping everything to save the children from the images that...

I heard a story/joke once about a woman at the grocery store with her screaming daughter, demanding every piece of candy and toy imaginable. The woman calmly said things like, "It's okay, Ellen, we're almost finished," and "Hang in there, we're approaching the checkout." A passerby, who witnessed the exchange, stopped the woman outside the store and complimented her on her calm demeanor with her daughter, Ellen. The woman looked at the stranger with a confused look. "No, I'm Ellen," she replied. It's Friday of Spring Break. The kids have been out of school since last Friday. I started with an optimistic attitude as I was accomplishing so much for the chickens. I've also made a serious dent in the laundry. I cleaned out my car, cleaned up my room, swept the kitchen floor three times, scrubbed the counters, the tub, and read books with my 7 year old. Yet nothing ever seems to get finished. I can't seem to keep the floor swept long...

Because the chickens are getting too big for their box and I tried putting them in their chicken coop after nailing the door closed and adding sawdust and securing the back doors after raising the coop up a few inches so it wouldn't rot but the dog dug under the chicken coop until it tipped over and the doors flew open and she sniffed at the terrified creatures until she was satisfied that she didn't want to eat them at this point in time and then they found the weakest one and started pecking at it after their near death experience so I returned them to their little box. Which led me to Costco to get another box so I could turn their one boxroom into a two boxroom by joining the two boxes with lots of packing tape. But that didn't solve the problem that they are still getting up on the edge of the box to roost which is not a problem until they tip over and fall on the cement and realize they are separated from their friends and get scared and cheep like crazy. Which led me...

We spend every Spring Break in St. George, Utah where spring has already sprung and we can enjoy hiking in red canyons and I can reminisce out loud about the two years I spent there in college. My sentences typically begin with, "When I was cute and skinny, I used to..." The memory of the memory of how cute and skinny I was now puts me in the category of Miss America. I guess that's what happens when time goes by. Although I did come across a picture of myself at Lake Powell as I was getting into the lake to waterski. Perfect hair, make up already on and the hips the size of my current left thigh. I don't remember them spreading but I now have hope for having grandchildren when I look at my daughters' non-childbearing hips. This year I procrastinated getting a condo and didn't get one. One sister met another sister in San Diego for Spring Break. Another sister is staying in a motel in St. George while my brother and his family are in India. My family, I might ...

"You didn't tell me about the boyfriend !" Our school registrar exclaimed today. "I already told him we could only be friends." "What?" "Nothing. What boyfriend?" "Your daughter's boyfriend's mother registered him yesterday. She asked for you. She was disappointed you weren't here." "Huh." I replied. "I told her she couldn't have a boyfriend until she was 25. I guess we'll have to have a talk." Later in the day, I noticed a tall, skinny teenager and recognized her as my oldest child. "Hey, stranger!" I called. Then I geared up to have the whole too-young-have-a-boyfriend talk but she beat me to the conversation starter. "So I was sitting in Spanish yesterday and Erik's mom called me," she started, "She wanted to know your first name." "Because she was registering Erik?" I asked innocently. "Yeah. But at first I was so terrified because I was afr...