Stalking, Angst, and Duckage
2005-03-03, 6:20 p.m.

First, an apology to jbat.

There I was, stealing a few minutes to peruse all the diary goodness that has been updated, then came the phone call, then came the hasty end to the phone call because a pooch had escaped, then came chasing down the happy escapee, then came wrestling the not-so-happy-anymore escapee onto the porch, then came the OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE TIME dash to the car to meet Son at school for the book fair, then came another dash to pick up Daughter, then came hauling the 400-lb schoolbags into the house, then came a few minutes to plant my padded patootie in front of the computer again and the realization that I had left the computer on jbat�s entry. So when you check your site meter, the 4 � hour ACK A STALKER page visit? That would unstalkingly be me.

Daughter�s week has summarily been Trifle:::Smackdown:::ANGST:::Trifle:::Smackdown:::ANGST. At least she has continuity.

Tuesday, Daughter asked me to go to her school book fair with her at recess. I happily agreed. Then she told me she was out of lunch money. I gave her a $20 to give to the cafeteria ladies, enough dough to feed her for two weeks.

Can you guess where this is leading?

When I showed up at recess, I was met by Daughter and the Miraculous Appearing of an overpriced stuffed cat that came with a microscopic book on cat facts (complete justification, it is, after all, a BOOK FAIR), and an oh-so-necessary memo board for her locker.

Me: �So, where�d you get the money?�
Daughter: �Um, oops?�
Me: �Did you give that $20 to the lunchroom lady?�
Daughter: �I did have THREE DOLLARS left over and I gave that to her.�
Me: Proceeded With Smackdown
Daughter: ANGST
Me: Made Daughter pay for her school lunch with $20 of her scooter savings
Daughter: ANGST
Me: �I hope every time you look at that stuffed animal you think it was worth it.�
Daughter: Still more ANGST

But, I do believe she�s learned a lesson.

That wasn�t the first roundabout we�d had this week. Various and sundry preteen lack-of-common-sense stuff. She and I had it out all the way to school Monday morning and she exited the car with an expression of complete misery, the Break Mommy�s Heart kind of misery when you have to inflict torture on your own kid and slice out a portion of your psyche because you know to do otherwise would be wronging your child in the long run. So I held back the tears until I got home and collapsed into a pillow, while compassionate Hubby rushed in to console me hollered �What�s wrong?� through mouthfuls of cereal during commercials on F0x News. It�s so important to have a supportive spouse. When I could finally tell him my woe-worthy tale and my hope of instilling several valuable life lessons into our child, he distilled it into understandable Man Form. Lesson for the day? �Don�t Piss Off Mom.�

Take one pair of school scissors, one 10-year-old boy, 5 minutes of free time, and you can pick up from school that boy with a customized haircut. He proudly announced he did it and he doesn�t �even have any training!� Gee,the bald spots never gave THAT factoid away. Bob the Barber did a great emergency repair, and Son is the proud owner of a little red high-and-tight. (That�s a buzz cut that�s a tad longer on the top, for TheDevlyn�s emo kids.) He looks ready for West Point. West Point is most definitely not ready for him.

In order to finish unpacking moving boxes, I did two things.
1. Invited my mother and S.O. to visit next week
2. Invited my church circle ladies to a brunch right after Easter
Nothing spurs me to action faster than blind THEY�RE GONNA SEE MY HOUSE panic.

Cut to the left and you will notice the new �Going Nowhere� button. I resolve this year to make strides�genuine, real, measurable strides�towards shedding pounds and increasing stamina. But, thanks to the Going Nowhere gang, I have higher aspirations, far higher. Duckage. I want duckage. Click on the button and be in awe of the duckage that surrounds you.

Back to laundry, that chore that never ends. Hubby leaves for Chicago on Sunday and he�s out of clothes. Oops.

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