As much as I want to learn how to stunt drive, I’m going to say archery (that sound you just heard was Rich breathing a sigh of relief. Also, my lead foot just detached from my leg, looked back with disgust, and left me). And, yes, it’s partly due to Katniss Everdeen’s kickassery with a bow and arrow in The Hunger Games. But I did learn archery many moons ago, at Casa Mare Girl Scout Camp in Galveston, albeit for the short time I was there. And given that I was pretty young, I wasn’t that bad. I say that since I never hit a living target. Over the years, I’ve been reminded by this or that that archery was something I really enjoyed, and the desire to take lessons would once again pop up. Surely there’s a place in Knoxville that offers classes; someday I might even find the time to take some.

In the meantime, I’ll order the Katniss Everdeen Barbie doll. She can join all the other collectible Barbies I have high on a shelf where Coraline can’t reach. For now, anyway.

Kickass Katniss Barbie

I’m not going to say what my biggest/worst fears are, because I’m an incredibly superstitious dork who fears that articulating those things out loud (or writing them out loud here on my blog) will make them come true. Ridiculous, I know, but that’s how superstitious I am.

So what’s something I’m afraid of? I actually went to Rich and asked him to name something I was afraid of. After a moment’s thought, his answer: “Success.” He is of course referring to my endless of supply of excuses for why I can’t find the time to write (vs. me making the time). Because if i write then someday I might get an agent and/or get published. It’s baggage like this that keeps therapists in business. I’d be a cash cow on this issue alone. And honestly, if books like this can get published and become best sellers, surely there’s hope for the rest of us, right?

Cabbage Patch Kids / Growing in the garden / Cabbage Patch Kids / Growing in the sun

Cabbage Patch Kids commercial, circa mid-1980s

When I was a wee youngling, my mom bought me a Cabbage Patch doll. Mom went through hell to get her, practically having to elbow people in the store to get one for me. When I saw Isabel Sissy, I fell in love. The red ponytail braids, the yellow dress, the white lace-up shoes — it was all good. Isabel was soon joined by her baby sister, Fernanda Georgiana (I kept the names on their birth certificates), proudly purchased with birthday money received from my Abuela Tulita. Fernanda was obviously younger since she was bald as an egg, her chrome dome covered by a light purple bonnet that perfectly matched her two-piece ensemble. I eventually got a Cabbage Patch Koosa, kind of like a pet for the dolls, which I cleverly named Brownie ( you just typed/wrote a name on the label for its collar). I couldn’t have been happier.

Isabel Sissy and Fernanda Georgiana

Brownie

A large part of the appeal of Cabbage Patch Kids, as any doll parent worth their salt knows, was the adoption application papers and birth certificate that came with each doll. To finalize the adoption, you mailed in the application. A few weeks later and — voila! — you received the paperwork making it official. I giddily filled out the paperwork for both Isabel and Fernanda and gave it to my mom to mail off. I would listen with envy as my elementary school peers would talk about their finalized papers having arrived. Where were mine? What was taking so long? Had they gotten lost in the mail? I waited for years for those papers to be mailed back to me. Years. Once we moved from Houston to Knoxville, I knew the papers would never find me.

Last summer, I gave Coraline my beloved, albeit never officially adopted dolls. Like I had so many years before, she also instantly fell in love with them, although she prefers Fernanda over Isabel; I think the baldness equals “baby” to Coraline. She’s also quite fond of Brownie, even being careful to turn his head around to face front again when needed (it rotates all the way around).

With Grandpa Doug and Isabel

Kissing Fernanda

Kissing Brownie

After telling my mom how I gave my beloved dolls to Coraline, I mentioned how I had waited for so many years for adoption papers that never came. She said that was nice of me to give Coraline the dolls, and then, almost distractedly, added, “Oh, the papers? I never mailed them.” I’m sorry, but WHAT?!? YOU NEVER MAILED THEM?!? I waited YEARS for those papers! YEARS!!! I didn’t actually yell those things at Mom, but you can bet she got an earful. Mostly I went on about how for all these years I’d been harboring illegally adopted, black market Cabbage Patch dolls. See what not mailing in those adoption papers did? Created a shit-ton of baggage. Thanks, Ma!

Despite their questionable background, Coraline regularly dotes on Isabel and Fernanda, although they’ve almost been thrown to the wayside thanks to her obsession with her newest baby doll, cleverly named Baby (she has a bottle! That goes in her mouth!).

Putting Isabel and Fernanda to Bed

For her first Christmas, my mom gave Coraline this nifty talking, programmable dog named My Pal Violet. Violet spells out Coraline’s name, calls her Cora, and even lists her favorite animal, food, and color. Violet lives in Coraline’s crib and we hear her often when Coraline plays with her before falling asleep or on waking up. Violet even occasionally makes her way downstairs at Coraline’s behest. Violet had a printable adoption certificate.

Violet with her adoption certificate

Did I print and fill out Violet’s adoption certificate as soon as we opened her up? You bet your ass I did. That way I can hopefully guarantee that when Coraline is a happy, well-adjusted adult with a good career and a family of her own, she won’t be wasting her time complaining on the Internet about how her mother never took care of the damn adoption certificate.

Violet = legally adopted

No, and I am named Patricia only through my dad’s intervention. Mom apparently wanted to name me Yesenia when Dad (thankfully) stepped in and said no (no offense to any Yesenias out there). He also had a hand in naming my sisters, which is why all three of our names have “a” as the second and last letters in our names. Synergy!

“This always happens when I’m driving. You always get the good weather. I’m the one who gets the crap weather, while you get Snow White standing on the side of the road with birds on her fingers.”

Laughing: “That’s not true. I’ve had bad weather when I was the one driving.”

“Whatever. I promise you that if we switched places right now and you got behind the wheel that, oh, it would stop raining and the sun would shit out a unicorn or something.”

“Wow. ‘Shit out a unicorn.’ Even for you, that’s eloquent.”

Despite being the Keeper of the Litter Boxes, I’m going to have to say cleaning the bathroom is my least favorite chore. At least with the litter boxes I can keep everything pretty well contained. When it comes to the bathroom, though, there’s just so much more to clean and more chemicals to deal with. It’s essentially this germ-phobe’s nightmare. (Although I did get into the habit of wearing latex gloves while cleaning/dealing with chemicals when I was pregnant.) It works out that Rich almost always takes bathroom cleaning duties while I take kitchen duty when we go on a housecleaning bender. Now if only I could afford a maid, I’d never have to worry about who has to clean the bathroom. Or the litter boxes.

I can only pick one thing? That makes this so much harder.  Hmm.  I was going to say people’s faces staring at me from magazine covers (creeps. me. the. hell. out.), but I’m going to go with something that bugs me so much it makes my dander stand up: people who text (or worse, answer their cell phones) during movies. Anytime a fellow movie-goer’s cell lights up with a text, it may as well be a lighthouse, it’s so bright to me. And, oh, how my blood boils when those rude people don’t turn off their phones or at least keep them out of sight. Holding it up to your face in the theater? Really? And honestly — WHAT is so important that you have to keep texting during a movie? Or answer your phone? I know that most of the people sharing those darkened auditoriums with me are not bigwig CEOs or gifted, in-demand neurosurgeons or anyone else without whom the world can’t survive for a two-hour movie. I say all this as someone who has put the verbal smackdown on my own family and friends for these horrible cell-phone cinematic transgressions on more than one occasion. (I am that person who will report you to theater management.) Going to see a movie? Turn off your damn phone. It’s what I do. It’s a simple common courtesy. And if you are expecting a life-changing call or text (ha!), then don’t go see a movie. Especially not one with me.

*I thank God cellphones were a rarity when I worked at a movie theater. It was never an issue. I miss those days.

That’s my daughter in the water / Every thing she owns i bought her / Every thing she owns / That’s my daughter in the water / Every thing she knows i taught her / Every thing she knows

Loudon Wainwright III / “Daughter“

When I woke up yesterday morning and came upstairs (after having moved downstairs to our guest room with ear plugs so I could sleep in), Rich and Coraline were in the kitchen where Rich was busy cooking bacon. Coraline was wearing a tiny tiara and her purple footie pajamas, pushing the Swiffer around; she looked like a tiny Queen of Clean. After Rich assured me we could still go out for Mother’s Day, I of course jumped at the chance to go to Tomato Head (as I did last Mother’s Day). But before we headed out, Rich and Coraline presented me with my Mother’s Day gifts. Coraline gave me a cute Minnie Mouse card and recycling bins for the downstairs kitchenette, since she knows how I try to recycle as much as possible. She also gave me some exotic hot chocolate mixes, including a pink Hello Kitty powder; that one should be interesting. Rich gave me a couple of beautiful tealight lanterns for our bedroom, a bag of tealights, and a fancy French fry cutter (he knows me so well).

At Tomato Head we enjoyed a delicious brunch, where Coraline deconstructed my Belgian waffle square by square and berry by berry, and I got, let’s say, tipsy, after drinking a Mimosa. Turns out when you stop drinking save for one drink a year, it doesn’t take a lot to make the room spin. Since it was raining, we skipped our usual post-brunch downtown walk and came home so Coraline could nap and I could pass out. Despite trying for two hours to sleep, my nap was a no-go. We then enjoyed a nice dinner of leftovers from the 40th wedding anniversary party we hosted for my parents the day before (and which I’ll write about later this week). Basically we just spent a nice family day together, which made it a perfect Mother’s Day.

I like to think since my first Mother’s Day (look how tiny Coraline was — and how short her hair was!), I’ve become more confident in my parenting. I’ve certainly embraced how lucky I am to have such an even-tempered daughter, particularly when you know how, um, passionate, her parents can be at times. Sure, she gets mad when we tell her no, but does she sulk or pout? Nah, she moves on to the next thing. Which makes my job as her mom a whole lot easier. But even on Coraline’s worst day, it’s still my privilege to be mother to such a sweet, smart, funny, and gutsy little girl.

Princesses for Mother's Day (5/13/12)

To get off my ass, make the time, finish at least one of the books I’ve started, and get published. Because I have to say, seeing (and reading) some of what makes the best-seller lists these days is quite the eye-opener.

Relax? Reee-lax? Am I pronouncing that correctly? That should tell you how often I relax and how good I am at it. When I do attempt to relax, it usually involves me stretched out on the couch like a slug catching up on recorded shows on the DVR.  I’m pretty sure in a former life I was a potato; in this one, I just happen to be a couch potato. And most of the time when I do stop working on whatever I’m doing around the house, it’s usually on the spouse’s orders. He’ll actually sneak around to catch me if I’m trying to work when I should be relaxing. It’s not always easy quieting this scattered, multitasking noggin of mine. But some days I do manage to do just that. I could get to much more done if I only had a clone.