Live with it
I have tried over and over again to edit that last entry. There are a number of things I’ve tried to change – word order, spelling mistakes, profanity (I’m a good Catholic girl) and nothing is working. The version in MT looks the way I want it to but this doesn’t seem to translate to the actual webpage. I’ve even rebuilt the entire site and nothing seems to work.
So, I have to live with it.
It’s killing me.
You have no idea.
Thanks for all the help with the sewing machine and income funds. The acid taste is still there but I think it may have a bit to do with stress. There’s a bit of stress in the job these days. It’s nothing that can’t be managed but as my co-worker so aptly put it, “We’re up as far as we can get and we’re slowly slipping backward”. It’s a matter of too much work for too few people – half of which have no idea what they’re doing (I’m one of these clueless ones).
All I think about these days is the job. It’s quite funny, really. I have a job that, for most people, would be great. It does not really require overtime and isn’t very stressful – there are no dying babies in our vicinity. As a result, many of my co-workers find it perfect. It’s moderately well paying and allows one to go home to a family and not be thinking of your day all that much.
Cripes. If I’m thinking this way with such a la-dee-da job, I might as well become a surgeon.
(Dad, I’m kidding. Don’t get your hopes up. Your medical magazines made me nauseous and all those years of saying I wanted to be a ophthalmologist was only to get your approval).
Okay, enough of the childhood confession, what about Franklin?
This weekend, we went to Franklin’s first organized weekend sport “thingy”. D and I have both been very athletic. Well, D is still athletic. I am not. We had always assumed that our children would be coordinated and athletic as well. It’s not that I’m dying to become a soccer Mom but aren’t kids who are invested in their bodies supposed to stay away from drugs?
Sometimes D and I wonder if Franklin may be more of a “stay at home and read books/play with my trains” sort of kid. It’s not that we’re disappointed; it’s more that we’re a little surprised. Of course, we haven’t given him a whole lot of opportunities. Well, no longer! He is now enrolled in a program that is supposed to introduce him to a variety of sports. From this, we figure, he can decide what he wants to do in the future and we’ll just follow his lead.
I’ll wait until all of you older, more experienced parents stop laughing before I proceed.
Our first Saturday was entertaining. Franklin has a cough that sounds like a ferryboat crashing through the docks. As a result, we slept in and leisurely made our way to the rec centre where we were to meet his friend and commence with the “You will do a sport instead of play Warcraft all day in our fictitious basement” training.
So we were horribly late.
Also, he was in his rubber boots. I’m such an idiot.
No wonder he doesn’t do sports, he has inherited some drastically faulty equipment – his parents.
The most entertaining part of it all? His complete lack of concentration. There were two year olds that were able to follow direction better than our child.
I was thinking back when I was ski racing and what held me back. I was as strong, if not stronger than most of my competitors. Yet, I would screw myself up somehow. A sport psychologist came to talk to each member of our team and he told me I had a fear of success. Now that I can look back on those years, I know what was the problem. It was my lack of concentration. If I had the concentration that yoga, maturity and desperation gave me during labour, I would have been I racing champion. Of course, I think I wanted to have the labour over and done with more than I wanted a gold medal so perhaps it was a combination of success and concentration…
What all this navel gazing is supposed to point out is that Franklin’s apple is most definitely short on concentration. I’m about to go search out books and websites that will help me help him – if this problem continues in later years.
Someone tell me it’s just a three-year-old thing because I will believe this.
My attention deficit disorder may be completely unrelated, right?
Three year olds.
You talk to them, and they utterly ignore you. You ask them to do something, and they do the opposite.
I don’t care if he is 30 some odd pounds. I’m willing to stretch open my vagina and suck him right back in there.