Long-time readers of this blog no doubt remember this:
http://demonbabyandme.blogspot.com/2009/03/dear-erie-insurance.html
(And be sure to read all the way down the comments to the insurer VP ACTUALLY replying.)
Which somehow got all the way to the hallowed upper offices of Erie, my wonderful insurer (have to admire a company with a sense of humor).
Which led to this:
http://www.erieinsurance.com/eriesense/issues/Summer2009/ImWithERIE_Orloff.aspx
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Because I Really AM a Writer AND a Mom
The Demon Baby post is at my writing blog today. Because I am Demon Baby's mother, but I'm also a writer.
http://ericaorloff.blogspot.com/2009/06/top-ten-things-i-learned-about-being.html
http://ericaorloff.blogspot.com/2009/06/top-ten-things-i-learned-about-being.html
Sunday, June 21, 2009
He Writes His Own Material
Okay, so I know the kid is eccentric. I know he's witty. But for heaven's sake, the kid is only four! And now he's writing his own material. Hence . . . from the last twenty-four hours:
"I want a purse."
"Okay." We give him one of his sister's old purses. He tries it on for size. "What? Do you want to carry stuff in it?"
"Nope."
"What do you want it for?"
He turns, gives me a sardonic smile, and says, "'Cause now I'm a person." [purse-son]
*********
Company comes Friday night. He is forced to wear sweatpants (commando) and a shirt. Saturday morning, they leave. He stares out the window as their car pulls out of the driveway.
"Thank God they're gone. Time to get naked!"
**********
He has a top hat from a magic kit. He has taken to wearing it.
"Is that your magic hat?"
"Nope."
"Well, pretend magic hat."
"Nope. It's my electric hat."
"Why do you say that?"
He whips it off his head and shows me. In the secret compartment for hiding stuff (hence to do your magic), he has tucked the electric wires for a computer and a plug.
"I'm just electric!"
"I want a purse."
"Okay." We give him one of his sister's old purses. He tries it on for size. "What? Do you want to carry stuff in it?"
"Nope."
"What do you want it for?"
He turns, gives me a sardonic smile, and says, "'Cause now I'm a person." [purse-son]
*********
Company comes Friday night. He is forced to wear sweatpants (commando) and a shirt. Saturday morning, they leave. He stares out the window as their car pulls out of the driveway.
"Thank God they're gone. Time to get naked!"
**********
He has a top hat from a magic kit. He has taken to wearing it.
"Is that your magic hat?"
"Nope."
"Well, pretend magic hat."
"Nope. It's my electric hat."
"Why do you say that?"
He whips it off his head and shows me. In the secret compartment for hiding stuff (hence to do your magic), he has tucked the electric wires for a computer and a plug.
"I'm just electric!"
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Old Mom
I am, give or take, about a decade and a half older than nearly all of Demon Baby's peers' moms. At a birthday party, like today, I sit with a smile plastered on my face, having nothing in common with women who still coo over every move their child makes and wax poetic over cute clothes and princess crap. I can't say that 19 years ago, when I had my first child, I was much different. Sure, I played Barbies with her, but most of the time I wanted to claw my eyes out as I dressed Ken and Barbie. I marveled over my daughter and spent most of my waking breaths with her . . . but I was different, I suppose. I was always this eccentric, outside-the-norm, writer-mom with a slightly hippie bent. I've only gotten worse in my old age, dragging my kids to protest rallies and the food bank, and lecturing them on making the world a better place.
When Demon Baby got a kazoo in his goody bag from said birthday party today, I rolled my eyes. Only a young mom not shuddering from kazoo blasts in her ear would give a Demon Baby such a thing. Young moms make homemade Play-do (I did that with Oldest, but not with any of the other three, and I sure as heck am not insane enough to give Demon Baby clay--Lord knows where it will end up . . . and assuredly it won't be pretty). Young moms have the energy to go to the park AND the pool AND make nutritional little sandwiches cut out to look like Mickey Mouse all in one day. I'm lucky if I can survive one of the above.
I'm an old mom. I color my hair every four weeks or so to hide the massive gray. My ass shows the effects of being a writer and sitting making up novels for a living for hours and hours each day. I drink coffee--and lots of it--to keep up with Demon Baby and I am DELIGHTED to the point of tears on the rare occasions he falls asleep early and I find him passed out on a carpet somewhere as it's about the only evening time I get with some quiet and what passes as peace around here, given I have three other kids. And did I mention how much LAUNDRY they all make?
I don't care if his outfits match. If he's wearing clothes, it can be striped pants and a plaid shirt for all I care--I know he's not going to keep it on long anyway. He goes EVERYWHERE commando. And I just don't care. I pick my battles.
All of which sounds terribly cynical. Heck . . . look at the name of this blog.
But it's not. I find moments of sheer joy so exhilarating I feel like my heart will burst out of my chest. When he is enthralled with a worm, or shrieking his delight over things as varied as a guitar solo by the Clash or a dead spider in the bathroom, he forces me into the moment with him, where the rest of the world falls away. He is like a lesson in Buddhism every single day. When he does this plethora of destruction on my house, my appliances, and even my lone pair of dress shoes, I am so uninterested in a perfect-from-the-outside life that I can marvel at his intelligence, his imagination, and his genius.
But most of all . . . he IS his emotions--whether shrieking in anger or laughing with delight or crying with frustration. He can curl in my lap and tell me I am beautiful. He can kiss me, but then wipe off my kiss when I return the favor. And I am aware--painfully so--that THIS is the stuff of life.
A friend of mine passed away this month. His memorial service is next Saturday. I have had four close friends struggle with breast cancer, two with lymphoma. I have buried people I love. I have watched my friends bury their parents. My own dad is now blind. I have struggled and suffered through one child's difficult adolescence and then watched her evolve into graceful adulthood. I have one in high school, and another in middle school. And Demon Baby. I am aware, in the way an old mom can only too poignantly be, that THIS is the stuff of dreams. These moments.
His childhood may not be marked by baby books, where each new tooth is dutifully recorded (gave that up by midway through toddlerhood of Child #2). I may not have quite as many pictures of him. I will most definitely NOT be baking cupcakes. But my life with him is marked by this outrageous desire to grab him fiercely and hold onto his wonderful Demon Baby stage for as long as it lasts, knowing that life can throw us a curveball at any minute. I;ve lived long enough to know that.
I don't care about the mud in my hair, on my pants, or, frankly, in my best shoes. I don't ask how it got there.
I just appreciate that he is who he is. And tired though I am, this is my chance to live, moment to moment, in the incredible life of an incredible child.
When Demon Baby got a kazoo in his goody bag from said birthday party today, I rolled my eyes. Only a young mom not shuddering from kazoo blasts in her ear would give a Demon Baby such a thing. Young moms make homemade Play-do (I did that with Oldest, but not with any of the other three, and I sure as heck am not insane enough to give Demon Baby clay--Lord knows where it will end up . . . and assuredly it won't be pretty). Young moms have the energy to go to the park AND the pool AND make nutritional little sandwiches cut out to look like Mickey Mouse all in one day. I'm lucky if I can survive one of the above.
I'm an old mom. I color my hair every four weeks or so to hide the massive gray. My ass shows the effects of being a writer and sitting making up novels for a living for hours and hours each day. I drink coffee--and lots of it--to keep up with Demon Baby and I am DELIGHTED to the point of tears on the rare occasions he falls asleep early and I find him passed out on a carpet somewhere as it's about the only evening time I get with some quiet and what passes as peace around here, given I have three other kids. And did I mention how much LAUNDRY they all make?
I don't care if his outfits match. If he's wearing clothes, it can be striped pants and a plaid shirt for all I care--I know he's not going to keep it on long anyway. He goes EVERYWHERE commando. And I just don't care. I pick my battles.
All of which sounds terribly cynical. Heck . . . look at the name of this blog.
But it's not. I find moments of sheer joy so exhilarating I feel like my heart will burst out of my chest. When he is enthralled with a worm, or shrieking his delight over things as varied as a guitar solo by the Clash or a dead spider in the bathroom, he forces me into the moment with him, where the rest of the world falls away. He is like a lesson in Buddhism every single day. When he does this plethora of destruction on my house, my appliances, and even my lone pair of dress shoes, I am so uninterested in a perfect-from-the-outside life that I can marvel at his intelligence, his imagination, and his genius.
But most of all . . . he IS his emotions--whether shrieking in anger or laughing with delight or crying with frustration. He can curl in my lap and tell me I am beautiful. He can kiss me, but then wipe off my kiss when I return the favor. And I am aware--painfully so--that THIS is the stuff of life.
A friend of mine passed away this month. His memorial service is next Saturday. I have had four close friends struggle with breast cancer, two with lymphoma. I have buried people I love. I have watched my friends bury their parents. My own dad is now blind. I have struggled and suffered through one child's difficult adolescence and then watched her evolve into graceful adulthood. I have one in high school, and another in middle school. And Demon Baby. I am aware, in the way an old mom can only too poignantly be, that THIS is the stuff of dreams. These moments.
His childhood may not be marked by baby books, where each new tooth is dutifully recorded (gave that up by midway through toddlerhood of Child #2). I may not have quite as many pictures of him. I will most definitely NOT be baking cupcakes. But my life with him is marked by this outrageous desire to grab him fiercely and hold onto his wonderful Demon Baby stage for as long as it lasts, knowing that life can throw us a curveball at any minute. I;ve lived long enough to know that.
I don't care about the mud in my hair, on my pants, or, frankly, in my best shoes. I don't ask how it got there.
I just appreciate that he is who he is. And tired though I am, this is my chance to live, moment to moment, in the incredible life of an incredible child.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
How to Fix a Demon Baby Boo-Boo
It may come as a shock to long-time readers of this blog that Demon Baby has not broken a bone yet. Nor required stitches. Frankly, I'm shocked as his older siblings--who were much more mellow children--have broken bones (one thumb, one arm), and needed stitches (forehead). This is further proof that he is a Demon Baby Superhero.
However, yesterday, he fell and had a blood mouth and five small cuts on his chin, shoulder, knee, hand, and chest. This is how you fix a Demon Baby boo-boo.
1. Tell Demon Baby you will put ice on his mouth while he shrieks thinking "all" his blood is coming out of him.
2. Open up an ENTIRE box of Band-Aids (reason will soon be apparent . . . keep reading).
3. Clean the VERY SMALL cuts on hand, knee, chest, chin, shoulder.
4. Put on Neosporin.
5. Place one Band-Aid on each cut.
6. "When will I be healed?" says Demon Baby.
7. "In a day."
8. "Do I heave to wear this Band-Aid?"
9."No."
10. Demon Baby removes five Band-Aids. When he see he STILL has a cut there, he cries and asks for new Band-Aids.
11. Open up five new Band-Aids.
12. Repeat steps 6 through 11 until entire box of Band-Aids is gone.
However, yesterday, he fell and had a blood mouth and five small cuts on his chin, shoulder, knee, hand, and chest. This is how you fix a Demon Baby boo-boo.
1. Tell Demon Baby you will put ice on his mouth while he shrieks thinking "all" his blood is coming out of him.
2. Open up an ENTIRE box of Band-Aids (reason will soon be apparent . . . keep reading).
3. Clean the VERY SMALL cuts on hand, knee, chest, chin, shoulder.
4. Put on Neosporin.
5. Place one Band-Aid on each cut.
6. "When will I be healed?" says Demon Baby.
7. "In a day."
8. "Do I heave to wear this Band-Aid?"
9."No."
10. Demon Baby removes five Band-Aids. When he see he STILL has a cut there, he cries and asks for new Band-Aids.
11. Open up five new Band-Aids.
12. Repeat steps 6 through 11 until entire box of Band-Aids is gone.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Our New Game
I now must spend the majority of the day pretending I don't SEE Demon Baby.
"I'm invisible."
"Who's talking to me?"
"It's ME. You just can't see me."
So he chatters and shouts and squeals and chatters some more, all the while I am saying, "Gosh, I wish I knew where my child was." I look past him, over him, pretend to see THROUGH him.
He is CONVINCED he is invisible.
"Oh, well," I say, "I can't kiss a baby I can't see. That's too bad since I would really like to kiss my little Demon Baby."
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he considers this.
"TA-DA! LOOK AT ME! I've been here all the time!!! I'm UNINVISIBLE again. You can see me!"
I kiss him.
He shuts his eyes. "I'm invisible again."
And so the game goes on. Invisible, uninvisible.
I get nothing done.
No writing.
Just this new game of the Incredible Invisible Demon Baby.
"I'm invisible."
"Who's talking to me?"
"It's ME. You just can't see me."
So he chatters and shouts and squeals and chatters some more, all the while I am saying, "Gosh, I wish I knew where my child was." I look past him, over him, pretend to see THROUGH him.
He is CONVINCED he is invisible.
"Oh, well," I say, "I can't kiss a baby I can't see. That's too bad since I would really like to kiss my little Demon Baby."
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he considers this.
"TA-DA! LOOK AT ME! I've been here all the time!!! I'm UNINVISIBLE again. You can see me!"
I kiss him.
He shuts his eyes. "I'm invisible again."
And so the game goes on. Invisible, uninvisible.
I get nothing done.
No writing.
Just this new game of the Incredible Invisible Demon Baby.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Top-Ten Unusual Sightings in Demon Baby's House
So last night, I came across a VERY unusual sight. And I realized . . . this happens a lot when you live with a Demon Baby. So in honor of that . . . a top-ten list (last night's sighting was #2).
1. A snorkel in the bathroom sink.
2. A snorkel in the dishwasher.
3. My diamond ring in the dog's water bowl.
4. Play-do in my shoes.
5. A pillow in the bathtub.
6. My keys in the freezer.
7. My cellphone in a pair of underwear (as a carrying case).
8. A stash of marshmallows in the coffee table drawers in the formal living room.
9. My charm bracelet INSIDE the air-intake vent for the air conditioning unit.
10. A teddy bear INSIDE the CEILING vent in my office (accomplished by stuffing him down the upstairs vent and pushing it all the way with a broom handle).
1. A snorkel in the bathroom sink.
2. A snorkel in the dishwasher.
3. My diamond ring in the dog's water bowl.
4. Play-do in my shoes.
5. A pillow in the bathtub.
6. My keys in the freezer.
7. My cellphone in a pair of underwear (as a carrying case).
8. A stash of marshmallows in the coffee table drawers in the formal living room.
9. My charm bracelet INSIDE the air-intake vent for the air conditioning unit.
10. A teddy bear INSIDE the CEILING vent in my office (accomplished by stuffing him down the upstairs vent and pushing it all the way with a broom handle).
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