Song: Beautiful Nightmare By Beyonce
When I lived under my parents roof, (I was going to say, "growing up" but that is a work in progress) "sleeping in" was discouraged. If I was lazing around in bed after nine o'clock, noise was made, shades were yanked. Now, if you know me, you know I love me some shut eye. So, logically I spent many nights sleeping over at choice friends houses, where the rules were more favorable to one inclined to what our British friends call kip.
In one of my favorite homes, the moms' motto was "Never wake a sleeping baby." Never mind that the "baby" was twenty-one and hungover. Snapping a shade exposing Baby's eyes to harsh sunlight when Baby had cotton mouth? Not on her watch. I'd fold myself between the 600 thread count sheets, appreciating heaven, dreaming of glasses of water and being adopted.
Seems my tots have not inherited the gene. BOO! Not only are they up at God awful pre-crack of dawn daily, they never seem to want to submit to Snoozeville, the happiest place on earth. Why don't they want to share my guilty pleasure? Why do they fight it so? They scream and cry at me when I announce, "Dinner, bath, bed!" If someone came to me and said, "I'm going to feed you, then bath you, then read you a story and put you in your bed." I think I'd cry tears of joy. I think the emotion would be overwhelming, "You're going to do what? For me? baaaaahhhh." I can't even imagine. But no, they act like I'm taking a chain saw to Mickey Mouse and the Magic Castle.
Anywho, jk.
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Yeay! I hate holidays. Anyone with me? Bah. Humbug. Sorrell. Sorrell about that. It's just like a stress fest. I can't. We did our holiday card last weekend. I had to fight with Tiny Prints all week to get it made. They didn't want to use the picture I chose because it was "too grainy" and "the kids look yellow." Well aren't we picky. "Proceed." I ordered. Out of 76 shots it's the only one where all three are looking in the same direction and nobody's crying.
"But your children's faces are yellow. And grainy."
"It's a Christmas card." I said. "I'm lucky I have kids."
"That's a marvelous attitude M'am." She said.
M'am. They say it without hesitation now. It used to be a question and I'd stop them and say, yeah, no, it's Miss. or even Missy. Condescend to me, anything, but don't you, M'am, me. But now, it's just there. Thanks M'am. You're Welcome, Kid. Kiddo.
It's good. A wonderful teacher I had David Razowsky once said, "Want what you have." He spoke about it. For instance, if you felt you were in a scene on stage with a lame partner who didn't give you anything, like a heartbeat, he suggested instead of complaining or getting frustrated, to enter into that space, to accept it. To want it. To want it to be no other way and to go from there. To want exactly what you have in any moment, anywhere and go from there, to treat whatever it is that you have even if you hate it, even if you think it's crippling you and love it as a gift to use to your advantage. The great part about Raz was that listening to him wasn't just a lesson in acting it was a lesson in life. He had a good attitude, M'am.
When I lived under my parents roof, (I was going to say, "growing up" but that is a work in progress) "sleeping in" was discouraged. If I was lazing around in bed after nine o'clock, noise was made, shades were yanked. Now, if you know me, you know I love me some shut eye. So, logically I spent many nights sleeping over at choice friends houses, where the rules were more favorable to one inclined to what our British friends call kip.
In one of my favorite homes, the moms' motto was "Never wake a sleeping baby." Never mind that the "baby" was twenty-one and hungover. Snapping a shade exposing Baby's eyes to harsh sunlight when Baby had cotton mouth? Not on her watch. I'd fold myself between the 600 thread count sheets, appreciating heaven, dreaming of glasses of water and being adopted.
Seems my tots have not inherited the gene. BOO! Not only are they up at God awful pre-crack of dawn daily, they never seem to want to submit to Snoozeville, the happiest place on earth. Why don't they want to share my guilty pleasure? Why do they fight it so? They scream and cry at me when I announce, "Dinner, bath, bed!" If someone came to me and said, "I'm going to feed you, then bath you, then read you a story and put you in your bed." I think I'd cry tears of joy. I think the emotion would be overwhelming, "You're going to do what? For me? baaaaahhhh." I can't even imagine. But no, they act like I'm taking a chain saw to Mickey Mouse and the Magic Castle.
Anywho, jk.
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Yeay! I hate holidays. Anyone with me? Bah. Humbug. Sorrell. Sorrell about that. It's just like a stress fest. I can't. We did our holiday card last weekend. I had to fight with Tiny Prints all week to get it made. They didn't want to use the picture I chose because it was "too grainy" and "the kids look yellow." Well aren't we picky. "Proceed." I ordered. Out of 76 shots it's the only one where all three are looking in the same direction and nobody's crying.
"But your children's faces are yellow. And grainy."
"It's a Christmas card." I said. "I'm lucky I have kids."
"That's a marvelous attitude M'am." She said.
M'am. They say it without hesitation now. It used to be a question and I'd stop them and say, yeah, no, it's Miss. or even Missy. Condescend to me, anything, but don't you, M'am, me. But now, it's just there. Thanks M'am. You're Welcome, Kid. Kiddo.
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