Foiled again

So, the Girl. She does this thing that I did at her age. She doesn't like to sleep in her own bed.

She starts out there, more or less. But somewhere in the wee hours, she wakes up. And that's when my bed shines with the light of Mecca, beckoning her to its warm embrace. Someone once wrote about how sneaky a similar Scorpiolette had become in her nocturnal wanderings, which had prompted me to inform the Girl that if she was very, very quiet when she climbed into my bed, so quiet that I didn't wake up, I wouldn't be able to put her BACK in her bed. This worked like a charm at the time, my priority being to get some damned sleep. Now that my priority is to get the kid to sleep in her own bed? Not so much. Plus, she's sneaky getting in, but eventually she sticks her feet in my ribs, which means I wake up every morning, around 3:00 a.m., which really throws off the whole sleep cycle thing.

So I've vowed to haul myself out of bed when she comes in, take her back to her bed, and lie down with her there until she gives up and just figures the extra walking isn't worth it. Some day soon, I envision a full night's uninterrupted rest.

The other night, I managed to get both kids to sleep without falling asleep myself, lying next to one or the other. The reward: A hot bath, that rarist of luxuries in this house.

But damn, the thing wiped me out! Maybe I made it too hot, maybe I stayed in too long, but when I got out, I collapsed into bed. I seem to remember thinking, "Well, at least I'll sleep well."

Which I did, I guess. Until I woke up, around 3:00 a.m..

In the Girl's bed.

No idea how I got there. But she was sound asleep, so I guess I was sneaky.

And because we believe in equal airtime...

Scene: The Girl is playing with the v. awesome Anatomically Correct Schleich Pony. (Have you seen these? They rock. Target has them; I tried to find a link but no luck.)

The Girl: I don't know whether Pony is a boy or a girl.
PK (turning Pony over and offering Exhibit A): Pony's a boy, honey.
The Girl: But he hasn't decided yet! He hasn't decided whether he wants to be a boy or a girl!
PK: Well, he's got a penis, honey, but I don't see why he can't be whatever he feels like being.
The Girl: He's gonna be a girl.

Another reason to love him

The Boy's Cub Scout den toured the new Police Services building today. He was great--kept his hands to himself, raised his hand when he had a question, only threw himself against the side of the building once (sirens are exciting!). They learned about how the officers have training to learn how to handcuff people or to deal with mace, and they got to see the juvenile holding cells, including the one with the "soft walls". These are the particulars that interested the Boy, of course: Conference rooms shmonference rooms, do you have any big weapons?

[As an aside, I just must say: Either a mighty coincidence was afoot or DAMN this town has some hot Protectors of the Peace. I'm not kidding. I think I need more tours of Police Services. Again I say, Daaaaamn. Plus, the building is super friggin' cool.]

Where was I? Oh. On the way home, we were talking about the holding cells. The Boy said, "One of them had a toilet in it! But the door had a window! So people would be able to SEE you PEE!" And I explained that one of the consequences of deciding to commit crimes is that if you're caught, you lose the right to privacy and freedom, more or less. "What if someone took a picture of you peeing, and spread it all over the world!?" the Boy wondered, and that question launched a conversation about what you don't lose the rights to (or should I say, what you aren't supposed to lose the rights to): decent treatment, and so forth. "But what if they did it anyway?" he asked, and I told him that they would likely get into trouble, but that sometimes that sort of thing happened, and that it was one reason I don't like the current president et al., because of something like that that happened to prisoners in another country.

Then the Boy said, "Yeah, I think it isn't good now. I mean, Lincoln was good. And Washington was okay, and other people, but you know what we should really have? A woman president. Because we've never had one! And we should!"

And then I pulled the car over and bought him a pony.

Ooh, Shiny!

The great thing about having my mom sharing our home is that she's providing a wonderful balance to my more...Bohemian...tendencies. Perhaps my housekeeping skills are not all they could be. Perhaps, during college, I put sheets on my bedroom floor for a few months and called it art. Perhaps, just perhaps, I've been known to go a long, long time without dusting. Or mopping. Or, you know, putting away the laundry, unless the floor of my walk-in counts as "away". My mother, she likes the doing of the laundry. I have told her that if all she ever does is the laundry, her room and board are more than paid for. (Obviously, I don't expect her to do jack. But if it makes the woman who birthed me happy, who am I to fight it?)

Now, you may think that children raised in my...well, for lack of a better word, let's call it squalor...would be used to it. Apparently not:

PK: "Yo, Mama! I finally hauled away all those gym bags under the coat rack."
Mom: "That's nice, honey."
The Girl: "OOOOOOOH! It's so SHINY! Can I sleep under there tonight, Mama? Can I? Can I sleep under there?"

We here chez PK like to enjoy the simple things. Like sleeping under coat racks. Sigh.

That's the rub

From the AP:
"...authorities didn't consider Laurean a threat to Lauterbach, or later a flight risk, because they had indications the pair were on friendly terms."

Dear God. She's meeting with military prosecutors because she says he raped her. How fucking friendly do you think she feels toward him? How the hell can you be on "friendly terms" with a person you're accusing of raping you?

Such a short phrase to reveal such an insane mindset--one that keeps too many women in danger or in fear.

Make me some moNAY with your spatuLAY

Thanks for all the support, you sweethearts, you. Of course I mean that in a totally nondescriminatory way.

Happily, the new Endeavor is keeping me busy enough that I haven't had more time to blog than I did pre-Endeavor. (Pre-Endeavor. That kind of makes me sound like an astronaut. I like.) I am officially a business owner, joy, bliss, and I'm currently searching for legitimate ways to claim vodka as a business expense. (If you work for the IRS: That was a joke. If you don't: Email me with your ideas.) If you or anyone you know have need of an editor or writer, email me and I'll send you my contact info.

I'm spending all my non-editing and non-business-setup (and, ok, non-kid-wrangling and non-house-cleaning and non-vodka-drinking) time writing, writing, researching, writing, and what was it, oh yes! writing. This feels fucking fantastic, even though nothing has come of it yet. (Notice all that writing has not yet been followed by any mailing.) No matter; everything in good time.

The sky's a bit bluer, the grass a bit greener--although that one I'm taking on faith as it's currently covered with snow that's a bit... Look. I won't lie to you. The snow is lacking in the White department. The snow is more than a bit greyer because it's been on the ground for a month. Let's just agree to cut the snow some slack, shall we?

xo
PK

The Deal

Happy new year! Are you all happy? I certainly hope so.

To start the year off right, I'll expand on the previous post. Here's the deal, which I could not fully explain until I had certain contractual amendments in my hot little hands:

I got laid off from work.

Surprisingly, considering my somewhat precarious financial situation, this did not freak me out.

Although I do have moments during which I need to lie flat and breathe into a paper bag--I have more moments during which I feel truly excited.

Which might be crazy.

But.

Anyway, here it is: I'm going freelance. I'm now officially an Editing Whore, which means that for a low, low rate, you can pay me to play with your words all day long. Hey big boy, is that a dangling participle in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? I know those of you out there who do or have done the freelance thing are making all sorts of gestures at me right now. I will have to hope that you aren't yelling at me to Stay out of the basement!!!, metaphorically speaking.

And after I've satisfied my (soon to be many, manifest, manifest) clients, I am going to write. Lately, I've really wanted to, more and more. Is it something I can do? Will it serve any purpose? Am I crazy? We'll see, I guess. I just know that I'm not at all stressed about any of it, which either means that I'm following my right path, or I've finally lost that last shred of sanity.

Either way, I think it's going to be a fucking awesome year.

xo

PK