Three Kid Circus

Ahem!

2005-06-11T19:00:00.000-07:00

I'm still getting lots of referrals from this account to my *real* blog - if you've got me blogrolled - update yer facts! http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus

If you've stumbled on by- follow the link to find out what's new and exciting at Three Kid Circus.

Public Service Announcement

2004-10-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

A ton of you are here looking for Sportacus costumes. Nick Jr. has instructions on how to make Lazy Town outfits for your kids, which leads me to believe that they are not available to purchase (or they would be selling them and making bank.)

Also, Spartan Cheerleader costumes: good luck!

If you are actually looking for current happenings at Three Kid Circus - head on over:

http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus

Jenny has LEFT THE BUILDING

2004-10-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

Thankyuhverramuch!

Seriously, come on over to the new Three Kid Circus!

http://threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus

2004-10-10T08:34:00.000-07:00

banner for blog explosion

Come Over To The Dark Side

2004-10-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

The Hits just keep on comin'...

Hi! If you're reading this, you really should head over to http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus, where new and exciting things are being posted, sometimes twice in a day!

Go on, git! (And thanks for reading :)

Circus Migration, Part Deux

2004-10-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, got the comments working, but am still working on all sorts of goodies over there.

Also: the topic is up for this month's Blogging For Books! Get over to The Zero Boss and check it out. The theme is (totally paraphrasing here) How I Pulled Myself Back From The Brink Of Insanity, And The Events That Drove Me There In The First Place.

I have no chance, beings that I'm still a loon.

Don't forget to update your blogrolls and bookmarks - I'm crazy, and I can't be held responsible for what I might do if nobody follows me over to http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus

I'm Heading Out

2004-10-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

I'm moving the Circus! I'm still in the process of constructing and rearranging, so I'll continue to blog here for a short while longer, but my new home is at:

http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus

change your bookmarks, tell your friends :)

The Mullet Incident

2004-10-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

Scrapbooking just burns my butt. Despite my creative urges, I have no time or patience to spend hours pouring over my photos, writing clever captions and embellishing expensive papers with doodads more precious than 99% of my jewelry. I can barely get my photos in an album.

Sure, I tried it. I made a layout or two. I coveted the squiggly scissors and roll on, archival quality, acid free, super-duper glue and the multi-tip, no bleed, get right out of town pens. My inner Martha loved the whole concept. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could be a scrapper.

Then came the day that ruined all my scrapbooking aspirations forever. My oldest was 3 1/2., her brother, barely two. I was pregnant with my youngest. We had recently returned from our first and only vacation to Disneyland. This, this was my golden opportunity to begin. I would scrapbook our vacation. I undertook a harrowing visit to the scrapbooking store, where I assembled an impressive collection of Disney-licensed papers and related stickers, at the cost of an additional day at the park. No matter. I was excited, and delusional.

I put my son down for his nap, and gathered my daughter to me. “Honey, let’s make a scrapbook!” I whispered. I envisioned a mother and daughter collaboration that would stand the test of time. We would always look back fondly at this formative event.

My daughter seized a pair of decorative scissors. With lightning precision, she proceeded to maim one of the papers I had selected for my background. “Oh, uh, that’s a nice idea, sweetie, but maybe you can work on this instead.” I asked her to select which photo she wanted to use first. She grabbed a great shot of herself with Minnie Mouse, and whack! She sliced that baby right in half. It became crucial that I regain control of the scissors. I offered a sheet of princess stickers. No dice.

“Honey, let Mommy help you.”

“I’m cutting this,” she declared, head bent to her work.

“I know, sweetheart, and you’re doing a great job, but can I just show you how to…” I wheedled.

She cut me off. “No. I’m doing it MYSELF. I’m a big girl,” she crowed as whack! She removed an ear from Mickey.

I was getting a little frantic at this point. With clenched teeth, I steeled myself for conflict and began to pry her white knuckled fingers off the Fiskars. “Oh, honey, it’s my turn now. I need the scissors. Let go, please.” She threw back her head and delivered an epic chorus of tragedy and woe to the heavens.

A howl from my son’s room spelled the end of naptime. I had not scrapped a single item. I had, however, created a burning desire in the heart of my daughter. She was born to chop things up. I quickly redirected her with a video, rescued my son from the clink and returned to the scene of the crime. I swept everything off the table, into the box of scrapping supplies, and put it up on top of the fridge.

The next morning, I plopped the kids in front of an educational television show and grabbed some coffee. All was quiet, for a little bit too long. My misbehavior warning system sent up an alert, and I moved in stealth mode to the living room. The kids were hiding behind the recliner, giggling. What’s that on the floor? It’s a six-inch ringlet.

I exploded “What have you done! Whose hair is this?” I quickly extricate the kids from behind the chair and find that my daughter’s long curly hair has been drastically and unevenly chopped. My eyes started swimming and I sat down to catch my breath. “Where are the scissors?” I demand. She hands me the “deckle” scissors. How did this happen? This pair of shears often fails to cut through a single piece of paper. A quick inspection of my son’s head reveals bald patches, where the hair is cut level with the scalp. Nice.

I gingerly grab a comb and start to assess the damage to my daughter’s head. Waist length hair with no bangs had been transformed into some sort of mullet. As the initial anger and shock wore off, I had to fight the urge to laugh. I scolded her like crazy and collected all the cut hair into a gallon zip lock baggie. I made an appointment for both kids at a children’s hair salon. Then I lined her up in front of the wall for a series of mug shot style photos.

In the middle of all this, my mother called. I took my lumps with a stiff upper lip. “How did she get the scissors? How bad is it? What were you doing? Why did you take your eyes off of her?” It was really pretty indefensible. I was relying on the Teletubbies to keep them occupied so I could drink a cup of coffee in peace. Learn from my mistake. Do not rely on the Teletubbies. They are babies themselves, and you can’t understand anything they say. They will not rat out your kids.

Arriving at the salon was an ordeal. I had to explain over and over what had happened. My daughter beamed cherubically at the other clients. Another mother said, “I would have cried.” The stylist said, “You’re taking this so well.” I said, “It’s hair. It grows. She didn’t amputate a finger.” That was quite a showstopper. Clearly, my lax attitude was the reason for my daughter’s new ‘do, judging from the looks of horror and disapproval I received. The hair stylist was fabulous, and gave her a darling chin length bob that suited her. My son got a buzz cut, and we all left happy.

When I got the film back from the hair debacle, I was in hysterics. The mug shot series is classic. For a moment there, I got the urge to write up a little journal entry and crop some paper. The fear of what could go wrong the next time the box of scrapbooking supplies came down held me back. It’s like Pandora’s Box. You just don’t want to unleash it.

See below for the photo evidence - This happened in 2002.

2004-10-02T15:57:00.001-07:00

Frontview of my unrepentant Mulletgirl

2004-10-02T15:57:00.000-07:00

Sideview of the Hair Carnage

2004-10-02T15:56:00.000-07:00

Fixed.

Sportacus

2004-10-01T15:26:00.000-07:00

If I had half a minute to myself (besides the minutes I've dedicated to blogging) I would be rolling in dough because I would be selling Sportacus Halloween Costumes. Judging from the number of hits I get daily looking for said item, I can only assume that Magnus has not signed off on official LazyTown duds for the good people of America.

However, in Iceland, you can score all kinds of scary/bizarre items from Magnus and the gang.

Gonna Fly Now

2004-10-01T10:20:00.000-07:00

The height of humor: "Gonna Fly Now" from Rocky to wake me this morning. There is nothing better than rising triumphantly from bed, throwing a few roundhouse punches and then pretending you are running up the stairs while your children laugh hysterically. AND having a cup of coffee already waiting. Sometimes, the hubs just has all the right answers.

Sleep was better last night. I tried the forehead trick, and it worked! Of course, I sort of jabbed as opposed to rubbed, because she dropped immediately, like the proverbial sack of potatoes, and she slept from 10 pm to 5 am, which was a major improvement. (Kidding! I would never jab at my baby. Unless she wakes me up at 2 AM. Kidding!)

I left the big girl and baby at home, and took my son grocery shopping last night. We had a really good time. It's been a while since it's been just the two of us, and he spent the whole time singing, making up songs about cantaloupes and paper towels. I'm a middle kid too, and I know how frustrating it can be to always share. He absolutely glowed under the constant attention, and I returned home refreshed instead of gripped by my usual on-the-verge-after-grocery-shopping mania.

We did the high speed jaunt to school this morning. Despite my peppy wake-up call, I had left lunch packing and clothing selection to be accomplished this morning. Lucky for me the kids weren't picky this morning. Still, it took me every last second to get everyone dressed, fed, gather all the scattered necessary goodies and get out.

The walk to school was wonderful. Our morning fog is back, and it was fabulous to feel the sting of damp air on my face. My big girl was pirouetting and leaping all the way (her bike has a flat and I was running too late to fix it) and my son was oohing and ahing about all the flowers and rocks and trees along the way. That boy loves him some nature. The baby sat quietly in the stroller and did her suck-thumb-pull-ear comfort routine. Even the dog was mellow.

Back at home, I decided to make chocolate cupcakes. We have officially entered what I like to call "My Birthday Month" and technically, it's my dad's birthday today, so cake is in order. My son helped me measure out the ingredients and for fun, we set them out in little ramekins. Ooh, that just rocks my world. It makes me want to extend my arms stiffly down my sides and then swing them up to clap in front of my chest while chanting "Ready, O-KAY!" like the cheerleaders I secretly watch on ESPN2 at odd hours of the day. I really like how they emphatically nod their heads while they chant, and really really enjoy the alternating overhead arm thrusts, which invariably ends with a "Woo!"

I was never a cheerleader. I have no regrets, because I couldn't have kept a straight face. Or I would have gone the way of the SNL Cheerleaders:
Craig: Are you a Spartan?
Arianna: I think so
Craig: Are you a Spartan?
Arianna: I think so
(Arianna jumps into Craig's arms then he holds her upside down)
Craig: Hey! Who's that Spartan hangin' upside down ?
Arianna: It's me! It's me!
Craig: I said who's that Spartan hangin' upside down?
Arianna: It's me! It's me!
Together: Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh! Whooo Spartans!

Where was I? Oh, yes, making cupcakes for the Birthday Month Kickoff Celebration. With the help of my son, we dumped ingredients from the ramekins into the Kitchenaid and quickly had some batter. I refused to allow my son to lick the beater because of the raw eggs. I gave him some toast with Nutella on it instead and shooed him out of the kitchen so that I could hide in the corner and bury my head up to my neck in the mixer bowl, allowing my tongue to get every last drop of batter. With the cupcakes in the oven, I'm kicking back with a cup of coffee, waiting for Salmonella to strike me down.

Why not make a regular cake, you ask? Well, for one, cupcakes are tiny. Practically calorie-free, and therefore guilt-free. I mean, you can't put all that much frosting on your average cupcake. You can just pop the whole thing in your mouth. Well, practically. And if you eat one that happens to be deformed and therefore difficult to frost, it's natural selection. Also? It doesn't count towards the total number eaten. I figure that three cupcakes is equal to one slice of cake. No, no. Sssh. Do NOT burst my bubble. It's BIRTHDAY MONTH and I willna allow it.

The beauty of making cupcakes on my Dad's actual birthday is that he is also on a plane for Hawaii with my Mom, right this minute. So I can say "Dad, I made you cupcakes! Dad? Dad? Oh, that's right. You're in a posh resort on Lanai, so I guess I'LL have to eat your share. Happy Birthday!"

So - let's get out there and eat some cake. And do some cheers. And relive some Rocky Balboa moments. Because it's Friday, people.

Rock and Roll All Nite

2004-09-30T09:55:00.000-07:00

Whoever sent the memo to my 22 month old, inviting her to pardeh all night is on my list.
You would think that such a young child would require more than 45 minutes sleep in a 18 hour period. When my darling children finally dropped off to sleep at 9 PM, I allowed myself a little victory dance.

Heed my warning, oh smug parents. The parenting gods do not like victory dances. Not one teeny-tiny bit.

I was awakened at 1:30 AM by the sounds of minor crib rail rattling and my girl talking to herself quietly. I ignored this, and as soon as I drifted back to sleep:
"Ma-maaaaaaa!" She's kind of got a sore throat right now, so she sounds kind of gravelly. In fact, she sounded just like a heavy metal singer. "Ma-MAAAAAAAA!" Too much of Daddy's big hair bands while in utero.

I gave her a minute to see if she could work it out and settle herself. (Bwahahahahahaha! As if THAT was going to happen.) I think it was at this point where she ripped the TV out of the wall and pitched it out the hotel window, followed by the armchair.

Nope, I was going to have to fetch her. I scooped her out of her crib, where she was looking very Pat Benetar, and brought her to my bed. We snuggled in for 3.25 seconds before she inserted both her pointer fingers into my nostrils.

"Yow! Ma-maaaaa! Wake UP! Wake UP!" She crowed as she slapped my cheeks rythmically.

"Baby, it's the middle of the night."

"Yow! Seer-yall! Naw, Mama. Up! Get UP! Seer-yall!"

Okay, I know all about the 2 AM munchies, so I thought, maybe cereal WILL settle her down. Evil carbs. Hah! I spent 15 minutes watching her pick every raisin out of the bowl of Quaker 100% Natural and line them up on the table next to the bowl. Then she ate one bite of the granola and dumped the rest onto the floor.

Recharged by watching me crawl around on the floor cleaning up milk and cereal, she applauded and cheered. "Yea! Mommy!" I tried not to snarl too much.

I changed her pajamas. I changed her diaper. I sang lullabies and rocked her squirmy, not-even-a-little-sleepy body. I changed her diaper again. I got her sippy cups of warm milk. WARM. That was so over and above.

"Dag-tails. Ma-maaaaaaaa! Now! Ma-maaaaaaaa!" Screw it. It's 3 freaking 30 in the morning, if Dragon Tails on TiVo will net me some horizontal time, I'm game. So I got to lie on the couch while my daughter watched recorded shows until 5:30 when my husband gets up for the day. I didn't actually get to sleep on the couch. Everytime I would close my eyes, the child would kick me in the kidney, or slap my face.

So, there you have it. I'm cranky, I've had 2 hours of sleep in 24, and I'm blogging instead of cleaning. And the baby? She's still rockin' and rollin'. Un-freaking-believable.

6 AM

2004-09-29T06:51:00.000-07:00

Son: Mommy, I just hafta keep on talking. You know, talking. Blah de blah and stuff.

Me: Honey, I've just barely opened my eyes. You can talk, but I'm not going to answer.

Son: Mommy, why did the dog talk to the Ram?

Me: silence

Son: Okay, you don't know. It's a joke. Say WHY MOMMY?

Me: Why mommy.

Son: Hee! Because! Hee hee hee! Because!

Me: Uh?

Son: Because he's always butting in. Get it? Butt? Hee! Buuuuuutt.

Me: That's what they call it when a ram uses his horns to bang into something.

Son: I know, but it's funnier my way. Butt. Butt. Butt. Butt.

Me: Okay, enough.

Son: (in mocking sing-song) Mommy needs some quoa-fee cause she can't take a joke.

5 year old: Did someone just say butt?

Son: Pain in the butt! Pain in the butt!

Me: Really, enough now.

Son and 5 year old: Pain. In. The. Buuuuuuuutttttt!

Me: (over my shoulder as I head for coffee) No more Butt!

5 year old: I guess we'll have to sit on our elbows. Great.

You Call That Cleaning?

2004-09-28T19:53:00.000-07:00

I'm still cleaning, but the lure of the computer sucked me in, and I decided to clean out my documents. In the process, I stumbled across this gem from way back - I would love to know who the actual author is, since there are several folks that pop up claiming it when I google'd it.

And I promise to return to original material from the Circus tomorrow. As long as I get my cleaning done.

Laws of Forbidden Places
Of the beasts of the field, and of the fishes of the sea, and of all foods that are acceptable in my sight you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the hoofed animals, broiled or ground into burgers, you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the cloven-hoofed animal, plain or with cheese, you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the cereal grains, of the corn and of the wheat and of the oats, and of all the cereals that are of bright color and unknown provenance you may eat, but not in the living room. Of quiescently frozen dessert and of all frozen after-meal treats you may eat, but absolutely not in the living room. Of the juices and other beverages, yes, even of those in sippy-cups, you may drink, but not in the living room, neither may you carry such therein. Indeed, when you reach the place where the living room carpet begins, of any food or beverage there you may not eat, neither may you drink. But if you are sick, and are lying down and watching something, then may you eat in the living room.

Laws When at Table
And if you are seated in your high chair, or in a chair such as a greater person might use, keep your legs and feet below you as they were. Neither raise up your knees, nor place your feet upon the table, for that is an abomination to me. Yes, even when you have an interesting bandage to show, your feet upon the table are an abomination, and worthy of rebuke. Drink your milk as it is given you, neither use on it any utensils, nor fork, nor knife, nor spoon, for that is not what they are for; if you will dip your blocks in the milk, and lick it off, you will be sent away. When you have drunk, let the empty cup then remain upon the table, and do not bite it upon its edge and by your teeth hold it to your face in order to make noises in it sounding like a duck: for you will be sent away. When you chew your food, keep your mouth closed until you have swallowed, and do not open it to show your brother or your sister what is within; I say to you, do not so, even if your brother or your sister has done the same to you. Eat your food only; do not eat that which is not food; neither seize the table between your jaws, nor use the raiment of the table to wipe your lips. I say again to you, do not touch it, but leave it as it is. And though your stick of carrot does indeed resemble a marker, draw not with it upon the table, even in pretend, for we do not do that, that is why. And though the pieces of broccoli are very like small trees, do not stand them upright to make a forest, because we do not do that, that is why. Sit just as I have told you, and do not lean to one side or the other, nor slide down until you are nearly slid away. Heed me; for if you sit like that, your hair will go into the syrup. And now behold, even as I have said, it has come to pass.

Laws Pertaining to Dessert
For we judge between the plate that is unclean and the plate that is clean, saying first, if the plate is clean, then you shall have dessert. But of the unclean plate, the laws are these: If you have eaten most of your meat, and two bites of your peas with each bite consisting of not less than three peas each, or in total six peas, eaten where I can see, and you have also eaten enough of your potatoes to fill two forks, both forkfuls eaten where I can see, then you shall have dessert. But if you eat a lesser number of peas, and yet you eat the potatoes, still you shall not have dessert; and if you eat the peas, yet leave the potatoes uneaten, you shall not have dessert, no, not even a small portion thereof. And if you try to deceive by moving the potatoes or peas around with a fork, that it may appear you have eaten what you have not, you will fall into iniquity. And I will know, and you shall have no dessert.

On Screaming
Do not scream; for it is as if you scream all the time. If you are given a plate on which two foods you do not wish to touch each other are touching each other, your voice rises up even to the ceiling, while you point to the offense with the finger of you right hand; but I say to you, scream not, only remonstrate gently with the server, that the server may correct the fault. Likewise if you receive a portion of fish from which every piece of herbal seasoning has not been scraped off, and the herbal seasoning is loathsome to you and steeped in vileness, again I say, refrain from screaming. Though the vileness overwhelm you, and cause you a faint unto death, make not that sound from within your throat, neither cover your face, nor press your fingers to your nose. For even not I have made the fish as it should be; behold, I eat it myself, yet do not die.

Concerning Face and Hands
Cast your countenance upward to the light, and lift your eyes to the hills, that I may more easily wash you off. For the stains are upon you; even to the very back of your head, there is rice thereon. And in the breast pocket of your garment, and upon the tie of your shoe, rice and other fragments are distributed in a manner wonderful to see. Only hold yourself still; hold still, I say. Give each finger in its turn for my examination thereof, and also each thumb. Lo, how iniquitous they appear. What I do is as it must be; and you shall not go hence until I have done.

Various Other Laws, Statutes, and Ordinances
Bite not, lest you be cast into quiet time. Neither drink of your own bath water, nor of the bath water of any kind; nor rub your feet on bread, even if it be in the package; nor rub yourself against cars, not against any building; nor eat sand. Leave the cat alone, for what has the cat done, that you should so afflict it with tape? And hum not the humming in your nose as I read, nor stand between the light and the book. Indeed, you will drive me to madness. Nor forget what I said about the tape.

Complaints and Lamentations
O my children, you are disobedient. For when I tell you what you must do, you argue and dispute hotly even to the littlest detail; and when I do not accede, you cry out, and hit and kick. Yes, and even sometime do you spit, and shout "stupid-head" and other blasphemies, and hit and kick the wall and the molding thereof when you are sent to the corner. And though the law teaches that no one shall be sent to the corner for more minutes than he has years of age, yet I would leave you there all day, so mighty am I in anger. But upon being sent to the corner you ask straight-away, "Can I come out?" and I reply, "No, you may not come out." And again you ask, and again I give the same reply. But when you ask again a third time, then you may come out.

Hear me, O my children, for the bills they kill me. I pay and pay again, even to the twelfth time in a year, and yet again they mount higher than before. For our health, that we may be covered, I give six hundred and twenty talents twelve times in a year; but even this covers not the fifteen hundred deductible for each member of the family within a calendar year. And yet for ordinary visits we still are not covered, nor for many medicines, nor for the teeth within our mouths. Guess not at what rage is in my mind, for surely you cannot know. For I will come to you at the first of the month and at the fifteenth of the month with the bills and a great whining and moaning. And when the month of taxes comes, I will decry the wrong and unfairness of it, and mourn with beverages of fermented grapes, and rend my receipts. And you shall remember that I am thy ruler: before, after, and until you are twenty-one. Hear me then, and avoid me in my wrath, O Children of mine.

Because I'm So Behind

2004-09-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

...on my housework. I am not granting permission to call me an ass. Or to refer to my rather prominent hindquarters in anything other than awestruck and reverent tones.

However - due to my need to launch a full scale war on my dust buffaloes, I'm directing you to go here to laugh instead. Unless you want to hee hee away here, which I support unwaveringly and encourage you to Hee! yourself silly.

Restless Jenny Recounts Her Day

2004-09-27T22:05:00.000-07:00

I don't know what is going on... my whole family was squirrelly today. Lots of twitching and spastic flailing, leading to a whole lot of nothing in the productivity department.

A few days ago, I ran out of my makeup base - which of course sends a come-on-down signal to the acne fairy. Hello!?! I'm days away from my 32nd birthday and while I'd love to recapture my 16 year old verve, spots were NEVER a good look for me. I'm also retaining enough water that I could fling myself onto a burning building and save the day. It's like a bad Wonder Twins episode. Add to this vision of loveliness the fact that I've been too harried to buy my good shampoo and have been using my husband's all-in-one, rendering my tresses lifeless and dull.

Nevertheless, having rock-solid self-esteem and a bent towards procrastination, I prepared to go fetch my kindergartner at the appointed hour wearing purple yoga style sweatpants and a t-shirt, finished off by my ratty Target sneakers and barrette holding my limp bangs off of my face. I looked like holy hell, but figured I could at least excuse my lack of cuteness by arriving on foot. You know, like this was my workout look. Hah!

The stroller had a flat tire when we went to leave, and despite repeated attempts to fill the tire, it became apparent that we would be taking the van. During this repair interlude, my son took it upon himself to climb to the highest peak of the swingset, where he sang Baa Baa Black Sheep at the top of his lungs. I was able to coax him down with the promise of an Oreo.

I grabbed the baby and the dog, and loaded kit and kaboodle into the van. We arrived, were able to retrieve the big girl quickly, fetch her bike and load back into the van. We left, my daughter bubbling over with enthusiastic descriptions about Johnny Appleseed and Baby Beluga. We rounded the final corner to our house, and there was my mom in her SUV, waving.

She toodle-loo'd at me, and said "Can I come play?" This was really bad. I've been slacking on my housework. And despite playing catch up this weekend, I'm far from company ready. In fact, I should get my heinie off the computer and go clean. Right now. But I'm bad like that. Panic was shooting through every fiber of my being. My mom is a professional real estate stager. She makes homes look like model homes for a living. I didn't want to expose her to the chaos that has overtaken my home after several days of funkitude.

We entered into quick negotiations and decided on ice cream. Since the ice cream parlor is located in the shopping mall, I figured I could Clinique and perhaps replace my ratty shoes, since Grandma would be there to help out.

Normally, taking the kids to the mall is a hair-raising event, executed at a sprint with kids on lockdown in strollers and slings and a minimum of horsing around. Grandma apparently took her cue from my hair, weighed down with crappy all-in-one conditioners, because there was to be no hair-raising, nor any sprinting. She loves to show off the kids, and to let them have 'fun' by wandering free of restraints.

In the royal snit/state of fashion disaster I was in, I developed an eye-tick watching my 22 month old toddle into the path of other shoppers, causing them to lurch around her at the last minute while shooting the evil eye at me. I'm just sour to the core today, because they really had a wonderful time, and I'm sure I was imagining the dirty looks, because really, everyone was busy looking adoringly at my children and their young and cute grandmother.

After a refreshing, sugary treat, the children were primed and ready to take advantage of Grandma's good graces. I Cliniqued while Grandma took the kids up and down the escalator. I wandered the purses and shoes while Grandma took them to the bathroom. Hobo bags are in. After a brief questioning - "Jenny, did you know your son is wearing underpants with ballet slippers on them?" I had to 'fess up that he had soiled the last clean pair of boy pants and I had to improvise, while reassuring her that I'm not trying to raise a cross-dresser.

We let the kids play at the toy store. All three were excited but mannerly, and we made it out of there without spending a dime. Hooray for Grandma! I also got new sneakers, which will clash horribly with my purple pants. But, as I'm thinking on this, purple is really close to pink, and I can't do pink sweats. I have issues, I know. So maybe I need to get some new workout pants too. And a hobo bag. And a poncho. And a housekeeper.

Once we made it home, I was treated to a five hour long bad pun and knock knock joke extravaganza from my five and a half year old. She's got a real dorky streak. She comes by it honestly, what with her parents and all. My son napped, and woke up feeling extra energetic. In fact, he spent close to an hour bounding up and down on the mini-trampoline, kicking himself in the butt and saying "Look Mommy! I'm a pain in my own butt!" Over and over.

The wee one followed me around as I aimlessly loaded the dishwasher and folded laundry. She is in the rapid acquisition phase of language learning, and she speaks with a rising tone, so every word sounds like a question. It's adorable, and I try my best to keep my head in the game, but I was just weary. My slackitude netted me sharp pokes in the thigh from the baby when I failed to parrot the word she was schooling me on. I've got a bunch of pinpoint-sized bruises on my leg as proof of my wandering mind.

We read and logged our books for the evening, packed lunches for tomorrow, chose outfits, ate dinner, did the baths, played with daddy, brushed teeth, even got to bed at a decent hour. I think I will blame this restlessness on the weather.

Oh! That's the other funny thing my daughter said: she said that I'm Deciduous. She must have overheard me talking about needing to mulch my entire wardrobe and start fresh with some Fall Colors. Hee!

A Wild Hair

2004-09-27T10:45:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling rebellious, and I have nothing to rebel against.

When this mood strikes, I generally listen to Brian Setzer. If I had a pretend celebrity boyfriend, it would totally be him. It's one of those things, though... you start calling him your boyfriend, and he freaks out and stops calling you and you tear up all his photos and, uh, ahem.

Anyway, I have rediscovered that my children LOVE Brian. In particular, we love his stuff with The Brian Setzer Orchestra. It's great for some faux-swing dancing in the living room. And it inspires my children to refer to me as "Pretty Mama" or "Bay-buh."

And now, I totally want pin-curls and some new dancing shoes.

Roshambo, Baby

2004-09-25T18:20:00.000-07:00

Having a fondness for the little things helps, when you are not an adrenaline junkie. Take me, for example - on my list of Things To Do Before I Die, there is not one mention of leaping from a plane or swimming in shark infested waters. No climbing Everest.

There was an article in our local paper, about a local man who swam the English Channel. It was a longtime goal, with many years spent training, and at least one aborted attempt. He made it recently, and it was really great. I'm happy for him, and all those folks who feel the need to challenge themselves physically who go out there and get it done. Bravo.

Me, though, I've got my sights set on less strenuous events. For example: the sport of Roshambo. Shut UP! It is too a sport. In fact, I've been teaching my children the basics this week. A local winery is named Roshambo, and in addition to good wine, they are major forces in the more intense aspects of the sport.

Teaching the chitlins has been a blast. The 5 1/2 year old caught on right off the bat. She's good like that. She does occasionally try to trump me with an ears open, mouth closed and we did end up in a heated thumb-wrestling match over one paper/rock result. But she's savvy. She gets it. She puts on her Roshambo face and fakes me out.

The 4 year old son, well, he gets that you enter the smackdown with one of the three, but he doesn't always remember which trumps which. He's been known to use both hands, causing chaos. He also changes his weapon of choice if you should win. Thinks on his feet. Not a purist, but we're working on that.

The 22 month old is the best, though. She *always* kicks down with Rock, and she always slugs you at the end of a match. Not very sportsman like, but an effective deterrent should some fool parent think about *always* producing Paper.

Just wait, there will be an article about me someday, holding my Roshambo Pro-Am trophy and flashing a triumphant Scissor.

A Feel A Song Coming On

2004-09-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

I feel ~~pretty~~ bloated!
Oh so ~~pretty~~ zitty!
I feel ~~pretty~~ crampy and ~~witty~~ whiney and ~~bright~~ sarcastic!
And I pity any ~~girl~~ fool who isn't me scared tonight!

I feel ~~charming~~ crazy,
Oh, so ~~charming~~ lazy,
It's alarming how ~~charming~~ cranky I feel!
And so ~~pretty~~ swollen
That I hardly can believe I'm ~~real~~ not aloft like a weather balloon.

See the ~~pretty girl~~ bleary eyes in that mirror there:
Who can that ~~attractive~~ snarling girl be?
Such a ~~pretty~~ hostile face,
Such a ~~pretty dress~~ large pair of sweatpants,
Such a ~~pretty smile~~ ratty ponytail,
Such a ~~pretty me~~... never mind, just RUN!

I feel ~~stunning~~ monstrous!
And ~~entrancing~~ irrational!
Feel like ~~running~~ sleeping and ~~dancing~~ pouting ~~for joy~~ oh boy!
For I'm ~~loved~~ feared
by a ~~pretty wonderful boy~~ smart husband who knows when to be quiet!

See, Mir - ANY TIME is a GREAT time to sing "I Feel Pretty!"

The Light! It Burns!

2004-09-24T09:21:00.000-07:00

First of all, I have to thank the adorable CCP for my first ever fan snailmail: a pack of "Mofo" gum.
You can't see it in this photo, but the box also features really hilarious hand gestures with accompanying phrases like "When yo' chillin' with the bee-yatches, get yo' mofo groove on and put a cap in that dawg breath." I'm speechless. It's, like, perfect for me! Heeeeeee!

Also included was a very sweet note that made my day! You're a doll! Mwah!

I'm going to have to keep this short and sweet (like me) today (I know, everyone is all, "good, because she just goes ON and ON") because I got myself a hangover.

That's right, folks - fed the kids grilled cheese with baby carrots for dinner, put them to bed, curled up on the couch with a small glass of Chateau St. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and a grilled cheese of my own to watch Survivor. (It was a grilled swiss on rye, toasted with a touch of olive oil, which I feel compelled to mention. Just don't want you to think I'm pairing Kraft American singles, margarine and Wonderbread with my moderately priced wine. 'Cause I am CLASSY and all.)

This morning: Hangover. Hangover City.

I'm like, shocked. I'm an even cheaper date than before. Sheesh. So I'm drinking tons of water and wearing sunglasses. To type on my computer.

Let's all say it together: CLASSY.

She's Really Asking For It!

2004-09-23T14:25:00.000-07:00

Carmen at Mom To The Screaming Masses has posted that she will answer any questions (as long as they are within tasteful bounds.) Hop on over there and get some answers!

Also, anyone want gmail? Is there anyone who still doesn't HAVE gmail? Ask and you shall receive. Gmail, you got other issues, take 'em to Carmen.

Return of the Gymboree

2004-09-23T12:23:00.000-07:00

In a fit of I don't know what, spurred on by a SALE! email from the marketing wizards at Gymboree, I shopped their online sale a few days ago. Take a ridiculous price, put a line through it, put a more moderate price in red and I'm all, THIS is a GOOD SALE! Never mind that the sale prices are still more than I would pay NOT on sale, say, at Target.

They had some sort of electronic voodoo going on, perhaps some sort of mind altering code flashing behind their logo, because I felt compelled to buy matching outfits for both my girls and me. Mommy-daughter dressing. (You can't see me right now, but I'm miming gagging myself with my finger)

If this wasn't proof of Gymboree's strength in the Force, they are not only matching outfits, but ZEBRA PRINTED. Black cardigans with zebra collars, paired with zebra print dresses for the girls, and a knee-length zebra striped skirt for me. It really seemed like a good idea.

Then the box arrived. I laid out the girls' outfits on my bed, and reached into the box for my skirt. Have you ever bought the wrong size in packaged underware? I know, most of you buy lovely panties by the piece. What I'm talking about here is when you rip open a package of 3 to a pack squishy cotton undies and when you unfold them, they are the size of the main sail on a clipper ship. You think, "Hmm, are these the wrong size?"

Same thing with this skirt. I spread it on the bed, and I'm certain it took over half the mattress. I held it up to me and no, it was actually the RIGHT size. Apparently, zebras are actually tiny, but the stripes make them appear large and fearsome. This was such a bad idea. Matchy-match, and enlarging? No. Not for me.

So I'm off to Gymboree to take advantage of their in-store return policy. Because I love to go to the mall with my children.

Can I Get A Hee?

2004-09-22T23:02:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I woke up this morning thinking about some old co-workers of mine. I worked at a company that had two divisions: one produced 'natural' cosmetics and toiletries like shampoo and face scrubs, and the other was working on a cure for Erectile Disfunction. And the president of the Erectile Disfunction division was named Ed. *Snort*

Anyway, these coworkers of mine were hilarious, and made the job fun. We worked in cubicles that were in direct line of sight from the president's office, and he was anal with a capital A. He didn't like to see more than one tidy stack of paper on the desk, and only if you were working on it, right that second. No visible in-boxes. No filing could accumulate. No coffee cups visible. No message pads, no personal items. No pens or pencils were to be seen. Oh, and we were supposed to be silent. At all times.

As you can probably guess from my personality, this is a huge issue for me. I can't shut my mouth off. My male co-worker (I'll call him Joe) and my female co-worker (Let's say, um, Sue) had worked for this company for several years, and were great at following the rules. Joe sat in the cube next to me, Sue across the aisle. For the first couple of days, I kept my nose to the grindstone, and was miserable. The third day, I heard a soft beep and looked at my phone. My intercom line was blinking. I picked up the phone and Sue said "Crazy yet? Wanna get some lunch? Joe and I are going in 5 minutes. Put your pen away!"

The moment we stepped out the breakroom door, squinting and blinking in the midday glare, the conversation erupted. Sue had a wonderful laugh. She was also an excellent mimic, and could imitate every employee. Joe was adorable, and he knew it. He was from a large Portuguese family, and as the weeks passed, took every opportunity to speak Portuguese in front of me, which I assume was supposed to impress me. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he was "...my mother's cutest child, I mean, she took me with her everywhere because people always went crazy over her beautiful blond boy. I'm totally the cutest son in my family."

I love modesty like that.

Sue was a single mother used to adventure. She planned lots of road trips, loved NASCAR and had a thousand stories. She brought me up to speed on all the company scuttlebutt, and taught me how to get around the silence rule (instant messaging, and intercom calls :) Suddenly my days were full of inside jokes. Our human resource lady was really perky. Sue informed me that her maiden name was "Twinkle" (not really, it was something equally cutesy and perky, though) and took pains to announce her arrival ala the "Here Comes Miss America!" with "Now on the runway, Miss Human Resources - Katrina... TWINkle!" Ms. Twinkle would obligingly do a catwalk turn before entering her office. I wonder if she thought it was funny like we did?

Joe was young and naive, and Sue and I had a good time 'educating' this fine young man. Example: A friend of mine was at a bar, talking to a cute guy. Our other friend was sitting next to her, saying "cornhole, cornhole, cornhole" under her breath. Friend #1 was flirting away, when the desired subliminal effect took hold. "I'm graduating from cornhole this year. Did I just say CORNHOLE?" Yeah, the guy was really impressed.

I repeated this tale at work, Sue and Joe laughed appreciatively. The next day, Joe comes back looking sheepish. Apparently, he went home to his mama, and kept slipping the word 'cornhole' into conversation. He thought it was funny, but he had NO IDEA what he was saying. His mom freaked out. And he reported this back to us. And we STILL had to explain what it meant. Ahahahahaha! Can you guess what we nicknamed Joe? Good times, good times.

*note: apparently Joe was not the only person unsure on "cornhole." It's actually a game
but also is a slang word for, uh, the place where you go poopie.

Anyway, then the company hired a new manager. Oh man. She brought her little poodle with mangy butt issues and decorated her office with poster prints like those '80s parrots and jungle cats. She had an unfortunate last name, that with the aid of white-out and a manual typewriter was easily transformed on her business cards to read "Skank." This was Sue's idea. I'm not that wicked.

Anyhoo, Ms. Skank had a braying laugh. She sounded just like a donkey. We were beside ourselves the first time we heard it. Especially since she would break into the braying to say "isn't that HILARIOUS?" and "Could you just DIE?" Sue, ever quick on the uptake, coined a phrase that is part of my lexicon to this day. Anything idiotic was greeted with "Can I get a Hee Haw?" at which point Joe and I would repeat "Hee Haw." And then we'd laugh like donkeys.

As time wore on, the Haw seemed superfluous, and "Can I get a hee?" seemed to do the trick nicely. As luck would have it, I ended up leaving shortly after learning I was pregnant with my first. To this very day, I find myself saying in my sarcastic inner voice "Hee Haw!" at choice moments.

There you have it. A touching recollection of a formative employment experience, which probably scarred innocent perky people and donkey laughing bosses for life.

Me-ow!

2004-09-22T15:24:00.000-07:00

It did my catty little heart so much good today to open the newspaper and find a photo of my hubs' first wife standing outside her workplace. It was a full length, shot from the profile, so that her outline was really emphasized.

Did I say MY butt was big? Non, cherie. HER butt is BIG. And the angle, let us say, was unkind in revealing her chin region. Let's make it a double!

I kept my cattiness in my head. I have no business being a cat. At all. Dude, I've seen my own butt. Last night. And we're not talking about my chins. I was getting ready to rush out and donate blood or to clothe some orphans to make up for my lapse in positive thinking.

But then - cue the rainbows and sparklers - my hubs called me from work and said "Did you see the photo of my ex? She looks smaller in the chest. Could be because her butt is so huge. Then again, her butt was always huge. And her face did nothing for me. Must be because you (Me!) are so adorable."

I am, I'm adorable! Abominable, catty and shallow, but adorable. Oh, and I'm not sore much at all.

8 Mile

2004-09-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

(No, this isn't a tribute to Eminem)

I walked, get this: EIGHT MILES TODAY. (That makes it 12 miles already this week. And it's Tuesday. Aaaaarrrrrrrrrgh! I'm kicking ass and taking names! And selling wrapping paper for the PFA!)

I'm all triumphant about it right now, but you KNOW I'm going to be so sore tomorrow that every step I take will be accompanied by mewling noises and quivering.

On another note, I've just returned from Back To School Night. I wore a cheesy rayon blend wrap dress that looks fine from the front, if a little hooterific, but I caught a backview on myself, and lemme say that:

I really miss my Crystal Gayle hair at times like this, because lordy I need me some big hair to counter-balance my onion, and this shoulder length hair just isn't froomphy enough.
It's a good thing I'm stacked, but I'm still confused about whose butt has been switched with my formerly cute patootie.
It's a really good thing that I'm walking miles and miles, because I've crossed the mythical border between bootylicious and The Butt That Ate San Francisco.
I do not want to catch any more backviews of myself any time soon.

Hide and Seek

2004-09-20T21:00:00.000-07:00

My children do not realize how many grey hairs they cause me to sprout on a daily basis. If not for sweet Feria lovin', I would be the Bride of Frankenstein. Seriously.

I mean, I'm delighted to have spirited chill'en. Three tra-la-la spirited, bright, gifted children. I'm sure that the world is full of highly successful adults who are former spirited children. With all the whiz-banging and rollicking, joyous spirits around here, I'm thinking Nobel Freaking Prize. Next to an Oscar and a Pulitzer. On my freaking mantel.

Of course, I still have to raise 'em up right and all. So far, I seem to be able to keep them stimulated and challenged, by simply leaving objects I will need in the future in accessible areas. Never mind the educational toys and puzzles I provide. They have NOTHING on playing hide and seek.

"How sweet and wholesome!" I know you're thinking it. But no. Les Enfants Terribles of the Circus enjoy swiping car keys, wallets, jewelry, bills... and then relocating them to child-selected safehouses. The FBI has nothing on my yahoos when it comes to fake IDs and relocating to small town Nebraska.

Their penchant for subterfuge started years ago, when my oldest was just over 2. I left my diamond ring on the bedside table. When I returned for it, she covered her mouth with her hand and giggled gleefully.

"Where is my ring?" I asked. "Bookshelf!" A quick inspection of the bookshelf turns up nada. "Where is my ring?" I try again. "Window!" No.
"WHERE is my ring?" I demand. She is getting really excited now, bouncing on her toes and tee heeing away. "Flush. Potty. Bye-bye!" I continue questioning her, and she changes her answer with each round. Three months later it turned up against the baseboards behind our bed. So why? Why all the drama?

My son has picked up the torch, and frequently removes my wallet from my purse in the car while I am unloading or loading things. When I get within viewing range, he will casually flip it under the seat or into the rear of the van. I tear the vehicle apart, while my son looks concerned and says "I think you dropped it at the school," or "I saw it on the sidewalk, Mommy." When it turns up behind his carseat? "Silly Mommy. When did you put it there?" Can you SEE the grey hair sprouting? I think I can actually hear it. It makes little screaming noises.

Which brings me around to this morning. Car keys. Gone. "Where are the keys?" I just start off at a growl now. Kills the buildup a bit, but you know, it's an art - witty repartee' and sometimes a mama just doesn't have time for that nonsense. "Aaah!" offers my son.

"Keys!" I say, emphatically. "Daddy has keys..."ventures the boy. He's quaking under the Eye Of Enraged Mother, but it's a faux-quake. He cowers so well that we have nicknamed him Gollum. "Please. Get. Up. We. Need. To. GO." I try again. Lamaze breathing hee hee hee hoo hoo hoo. At this point he bursts into noisy, cartoonish wailing, complete with thrown back head, gaping mouth and tears that project outwards from his eye sockets in visible dotted lines. "Waaaaaaaaah!"

Every time I ask, I get a different answer, ranging from stuffed in the fireplace to eaten by the dog. None of them lead to the keys. Late this evening, I finally found them. In the drawer of our entertainment center, behind all the DVDs. Because, yes, okay. That makes sense. TO A FREAKO.

The punishment for this crime? I take away favorite toys, assign chores, have VERY. EARNEST. heart to heart talks with my children about the VERY. BAD. things that could happen if I needed the missing items RIGHT THAT MINUTE. They are largely unmoved. They nod, they apologize, the boy even busts out a "Mommy, please FORGIVE me waaaah!" but then a few days pass and those little fingers start itching again.

I close my eyes and imagine myself humming serenely while I dust the Nobel Freakin' Prize and put a spit-shine on the Oscar, while the internationally televised thank you speech rings in my ears: "And to my mother, who lost her looks and her sanity because of me, but never managed to crush my spirit..."

A Moment To Myself

2004-09-20T11:13:00.000-07:00

This morning, the hubs took my oldest to Kindergarten, allowing me to wallow in the luxury of not rushing out before eight o'clock. My four year old son started swimming lessons today, but not until ten, so I was able to move at a sedate pace while getting ready.

At nine-thirty, I walked by the mirror in the hall where we place our keys. Mine? Not there. Again. This is a subject worthy of its own lengthy rant. I quickly surveyed the most likely locations for the missing keys. No. No. No no no no. Looks like we are walking to the pool. It's a mile, no biggie. I have time to get there, so I load the baby and the boy in the stroller and head out.

Our heatwave has ended, and in its place, the air was tinged with a crispness that made me want to take big strides and breathe deep. Oh, and wear tweed. But that is another subject worthy of its own entry. My son spent the entire 20 minutes of our walk asking questions. "Are we going to Grandma's? Are we lost? Where is the egg-plant? Are we going to school? Are you going to hop like a bunny?"

Gah.

We get to the pool, unload, boy swims, baby squirms on my lap and yells "WIM! WIM!" and flails herself toward to edge of the pool. At the end of the lesson, we dry him off and dress him warmly, then start the walk back home. Miraculously, both kids fall asleep within a minute or two. Then it was just me and my thoughts.

Okay, granted there was some sort of motorcycle rally going on, and the street I was walking down was full of traffic, but I saw the sun shining and heard the creek babbling and the trees rustling and even with the noise from the surrounding cars and businesses, it was just ME. And I was THINKING. About STUFF.

About a year ago, I had a dream that I had taken up oil painting. I was pretty good too. But in my dream, my three children kept snatching my canvases and smearing them, and try as I may, I could never get away. A startling moment in that dream found me curled in the fetal position while my children pummelled me, literally knocking the urge for creativity right out of me. I woke in a cold sweat, but had to laugh. I have always been a creative person, but lately I just can't get started. Not even a little.

I have come to the conclusion that if I want any vestiges of creativity of my OWN making, I am going to have to fight for it. Being a parent makes for an interesting dilemma. I nurture my family, but allow myself to wither. There is no easy answer, either. Someone is always going to think you're a martyr or selfish. Or both.

Football. Woo.

2004-09-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

My hubs bounded out of bed this morning. I raised a bleary eyelid in time to catch him spiking an imaginary pigskin at the foot of the bed, followed by a spirited rendition of his funky chicken engineer endzone dance.

In his best announcer voice, he intoned "Is anybody ready for some football?"

I pulled the covers back over my head. My "hell, no" was muffled, but adamant.

The only thing good about football season is it really does encourage hors d'oervres and dips. I love bellying up to a table with lots of dipping options. And chili. One craves a nice bowl of chili, while one is rooting for one's team.

But the game? Woo.

Giant men crashing into one another. Arg! Ooof! It's good! Sack 'em! And the commercials. Thank you TiVo.

The hubs loves it. Not just for the dip, either. He actually yells at the TV when he gets all worked up. Like that's gonna help.

Granted, I have been known to yell at the TV, too, but usually at Matt and Sheri on Room by Room. They just get me all fired up. And I did the funky chicken endzone dance when they eliminated several people off of Survivor. So it's a family thing. My kids bust out with the Cabbage Patch when they find all three clues on Blue's Clues. The Wiggles encourage air guitar. I've noticed that most of the kids shows we watch encourage dancing and yelling out things at the TV, so I guess we're training 'em young.

Go Team.

It's CORN, People.

2004-09-18T18:33:00.000-07:00

'Tis the season. Every year, from late August through the end of October, traffic along one of our major freeway corridors slows to a crawl for a 5 mile stretch. The culprit lies on the western side of the freeway. It's a large pumpkin patch, with a corn maze.

Granted, we live in an agricultural area, and I appreciate the splendor that is corn. Pumpkins, also. Love them pumpkins. But, uh... do we need to creep by these things at 5 miles an hour? We apparently do. Because year after year, day after day, from the first green shoots to the final hurrah on November 1st when they plow the pumpkins under with big ole tractors, it's brake lights and rubbernecks until you get past the patch. Then, *poof* the spell is broken, and people remember they are on the freeway.

I initially thought people were just watching the school kids and tourists. That's understandable, you know. Awww, kids are so cute, punkinheads waddling around carrying giant orange orbs. But get this: my husband, who drives past this mirage of Autumn twice daily tells me that even when the sun's first rays are just breaking over the hills, the drivers still are compelled to swivel heads to the right, mouths agape. After the floodlights have been shut off, and the gates locked for the night, still the traffic crawls by.

What? It's CORN. CORN. What is so fascinating? Is everyone looking for the Great Pumpkin? Creeping themselves out with memories of Children of the Corn? Honestly, I'd be less baffled if there was some sort of signs or flashing lights to draw attention, but no. It's just CORN. And pumpkins.

So, um, DRIVE!

2004-09-17T10:14:00.000-07:00

See?!?

2004-09-17T10:13:00.000-07:00

See! I'm Tintin. Also, let's note that it's a shadow on the wall...my eyebrows do not meet in a point on the bridge of my nose. And, my eyelashes are THAT sad and stubby.

Home Again, Home Again, Lickety Split

2004-09-17T08:32:00.000-07:00

I think I broke a land-speed record getting my oldest to school this morning. Well, maybe land-speed, while on foot in broken down Target brand sneakers with a huge ass stroller that corners like a tractor-trailer loaded down with sixty-seven pounds of kids plus miscellaneous juice boxes, backpacks and plastic dinos, in hot pursuit of a five and a half year old Evil Kanevil wanna be in a pink princess helmet who mocks the limitations of a girlie bike with training wheels by leaping off curbs with sparkly handlebar streamers flying, hollering "Whee!" kind of record.

Despite my best intentions, we still were running late. Oh, I don't know, could have been my son's insistence on Chicken Nuggets for breakfast. Could have been me forgetting that it was "teddy bear parade" day, necessitating a rush around looking for "Cowie" since my daughter prefers her stuffed cow instead of a bear like normal children. Could have been the three outfit changes for my youngest, who made like Jackson Pollack with her yogurt, and then took a (washable at least) marker to her next outfit. But I'm not going to blame the kids. Really, it's pretty much all me. Me me me me me.

I'm having another cup of coffee. Right now.

In other, somewhat related news: I am growing my bangs out, and had pulled the rest of my hair back into a ponytail. I just caught a look at myself in the mirror and my rebellious, forward growing bangs have poofed themselves up into an elaborate curly-queue. With the rest of my hair pulled back at the nape of my neck, I look exactly like Tintin. Bwahahahahaha!

Random Circus Acts

2004-09-16T11:37:00.000-07:00

I drove to the school this morning, so I could continue on to the grocery store. I'm such a cheater. My son obviously slept well, or the toast I served this morning, with his name written in left-over icing, wired him beyond belief. This boy of mine does not respond to his name, nor does he slow one iota, no matter what. He even shakes his head and flaps his arms while he runs, and sometimes makes an accompanying sound like "laller, laller, laller, laller."

I'm SO proud.

Anyway, we managed to get my oldest into class, and despite several break and run incidents, got the boy and the baby back into carseats and headed for the store. We shopped. And shopped. We bought all manner of healthy, nutritious foods, as well as a box of 'fruit snacks' which have no fruit in them, and no appeal either, at least to my sophisticated palate. But they had Dora on the box. "Dora!" shouts my baby. "Booooots!"

"No, honey, we don't eat those. Yucko." I give it a half-hearted try.

"DORA!"

"No, no, you don't want those." I try again.

She makes a sound like an air-raid siren. For a moment, I go to war with myself. Tantrum. Not to be rewarded. Must. Not. Cave. Must. Not. Cave...

"Here, honey, you hold the box." Silence. Bliss.

Back at home, I put away the booty and started smearing the dirt around my kitchen floor, with the excellent aid of my Swiffer battery powered self-lubricating maxi-pad. Ooh, that looks so much better, I thought to myself. The dog, who was watching me from the hall, suddenly raised her ears, and then turned and sprinted, leaping through our open front window. She began leaping and barking at the fence. I stuck my head around the corner just in time to see the box from Amazon.com bounce off the dog's head and land upside down on the cement.

Excellent! "Give it a rest, Donna," I growl as I stroll out to retrieve the package. My new 512MB card for my digital camera. Now I can take zillions of photos and not worry about room or resolution. Woo!

I quickly swapped out the 32MB card from the camera. Just then, my son came bounding into the kitchen, sans pants. "Mommy! You wanna see what I did on the potty?"

"Uh, no, honey, you can just flush it."

"Mommy! There's a sinker and a floater!"

"Uh..."

"You wanna take a picture of it?"

"Uh..."

"Mommy, I'm a big boy! Hey! Wanna take a picture of my dingus? Laller Laller Laller Laller."

Oh, help. It's not even noon.

And So, It Begins.

2004-09-15T18:21:00.000-07:00

I was all worried about the care and keeping of a kindergartener. I was certain to be the most disorganized, least fashionable mother. As usual, I was worrying about the wrong things.

We get there on time. We even walk the whole way. In 90+ degree heat. And I don't complain. I have yet to forget about a lunch, or to neglect to return forms. (I know, it's only been three weeks, go easy on me, eh?) I'm good like that.

But then, wham. I peel open the My Pretty Pony backpack today and there it is. FALL 2004 FUNDRAISER! YOUR KID WINS PRIZES THAT ARE A BUNCH OF WORTHLESS JUNK IF SHE SELLS A BOATLOAD OF OVERPRICED CRAP TO YOUR FRIENDS, FAMILY AND EVEN PERFECT STRANGERS! Start stalking your neighbors! Now. NOW!

I hate fundraising. I did appreciate the note that "Children should be accompanied by a parent when selling door-to-door. Children should not knock on the doors of unfamiliar homes after dark." Can't I just write a check to the PTA? Would that speak ill of my school spirit?

And then, the school photo day. You can select the basic package, against a 'slate' background, or for ONLY $2 more, you can 'upgrade' to Arctic, Freedom, Sky, Purple Passion or Fall Colors. I'm thinking I'll dress her like an Eskimo and go with Artic, but then, I'm open for suggestions. They also suggest adding "soft-focus" for an additional $3. Because your elementary student needs a warmer, softer finish. What? Save the Cybil Sheppard lighting for the acne prone teens, okay?

And THEN, I get a call saying my son's preschool has been moved to the center across town. This throws off my whole plan of walking my son to his school. I'm irritated. Now I have to either hustle to find him a new class, nearby, or I keep him home until January. Not the end of the world, but still. I was beginning to look forward to having an hour or two with just the baby.

But, the good news is: my oldest loves her school, and I'm delighted, too. Now, if I can just weasel out of selling door-to-door, and land on the perfect outfit to go with a Purple Passion background...

Who Wants Some Bacon?

2004-09-15T09:40:00.000-07:00

I love Kevin Bacon. There. I admit it.

Last night, I was treated to VH-1's presentation of Footloose. I've seen Footloose something like 500 times. In fact, I saw it probably 50 times when it was first in the theaters. So let me see... it came out in 1984, so I was 11 at the time.

It had the potential to be a major, formative influence in my young adolescent life. We lived in the suburbs, next to a shopping center with a tiny, two cinema movie theater. They featured two dollar double features all summer long, to the delight of every mother in town. "Here, take your brother and sister, and have a good time. See you at dinner!" The place was always packed.
It's been a few years since I really watched it, beyond saying, "Hey! Footloose, on TV! I've seen that like 500 times!" and flipping channels.

Anyway, I was fixated on Footloose last night. Kevin Bacon. So hot. Love him. Lori Singer? Girl... EAT A MEAL. OR TEN. I forgot about Sarah Jessica Parker. Hah! John Lithgow? Him, too? Oh, red cowboy boots. I need some red cowboy boots.

And then, I became progressively horrified by the actual contents of the movie. Lots of smoking, underage drinking, references to sex, cussing, lying to parents and other stupid rebellious stunts. And really demure prom dresses. And skinny ties. And that scene where Ariel's boyfriend smacks her around. And the time when Ariel's FATHER smacks her face. What? I don't remember all this stuff.

My memories of Footloose are pretty much confined to the really silly dance numbers. I guess at the age of 11, those other elements were lost in the "Oooh! Kevin BACON. He's so fine he blows my MIND." But, wow. I really remembered it as a much more innocent movie.

And that cracks me up. Have I become a prude since becoming a parent? I know that I view so much of the world differently. I want to protect my children from the majority of the thematic elements from Footloose. I doubt my parents were aware of the content, but at the tender age of 11, the negative elements were not what I remembered about the movie. It didn't even register.
I wonder how long the innocence filter lasts these days? I remember catching some Rocky and Bullwinkle a few years back and found myself laughing at some of the jokes with a new appreciation for the double entendres and subtle adult humor. How much of that is buried in children's programming? My kids watch a variety of television programs (I know, I know, must. kill. television. Flame away.) and although we are careful to preview all programs, and use TiVo to eliminate advertisements, we don't always watch together.

Does Dora ever solve the Grumpy Old Troll's riddle and cross into the next county for some underage drinking? Does Rolie Polie Olie ever stoned and then get into a chicken fight with a tractor? Are those perky Hi-5 singers doing skits about balancing on the window frames of two moving cars? (Actually, wouldn't that be just like the Simpsons?) I have only seen positive role-play come from the children's programming available today. But I guess I had better pay attention. You never know when those Teletubbies are going to start smoking and cussing. And who knows what the hell is going on with those Boohbah critters.

Head Games

2004-09-14T13:06:00.000-07:00

It seems that my children have been born into a family with a rich tradition of head games.

My son just announced that his eyes feel dirty. In concern, I dropped to my knees and began tugging on eyelids and cheeks, trying to determine the cause. He giggled, gave me a playful shove backwards and said "No, silly."

In slow motion, he brought a fist up to his eye. When he moved the fist, his eye was closed in a dramatic wink. He moved his fist to his mouth, and flailed the tip of his tongue around the inside of both cheeks, before returning his fist to his eye. Both blue eyes twinkled at me as he grinned. "All clean. Grandpa showed me." Ah yes, the old remove the eyeball and wash it in the mouth trick.

My sister has a special noise that she produces in the back of her throat that makes it sound as though she has a few marbles rattling around inside her head. She accompanies this with wild eye rolling. My children scream with glee at this display of dingbattery. She has even managed to produce the sound so that it sounds like the "marbles" are slowly rocking to a stop. She can also wiggle her ears.

Good times.

In Which She Is Undone By A Load Of Laundry

2004-09-13T19:38:00.000-07:00

"No surrender!" I gritted my teeth, squinted like a pirate and tried again. My back spasmed in response to my twisting. I drew myself up to my full five feet and squared my shoulders. That's it. I'm just going to have to stand in mountain pose, forever.

Last Thursday, I stepped awkwardly on a toy and hurt my back. It's been better and worse, and better and worse. My computer chair aggravates it. Walking helps. Sleeping causes spasms. Standing upright is good. Naturally, this causes some frustration in the tired and cranky and blog-hungry spectrum. I've walked my four miles today, and although I'm zingy from the O-so-good coffee (Ha! O! Hee!) I would like to rest on something other than the soles of my feet.

I've been trying to use yoga to cure myself. I'd be lying if I said it isn't fun to watch Pantyman serenely bend and stretch to the sound of new age gongs and flutes. But helping? Not so much.

All things considered, after a 800 mg horsepill of Advil, I felt ready to tackle folding a load of laundry. I could remain mostly upright, and fold gingerly. Had to be done.

Got several pairs of socks matched. Folded a few tshirts. And then *slapping forehead* I reached for a pair of panties toward the back of the pile.

Guh-zzzzzzz! It felt like an electric shock zooming up my back. I twitched, and then landed face down in the pile of laundry. And down I stayed. I was folding on my bed, and when I reached, the mattress caught me mid thigh. So I'm laying there, torso resting on the laundry and stiff legs hanging off the mattress. Uh...

I gave a feeble push with my arms. Ouch.

I wiggled my legs. Ouch.

I tried to roll to my left. Ouch.

I tried to roll to my right. Ouch.

Okay, OUCH OUCH OUCH. Sign me up for the Darwin Awards, folks. I'm fixin' to smother myself in a load of laundry.

Summoning all my resolve, and trying not to laugh, I manage to leverage myself into a cockeyed push-up position, at which point my legs tip to the floor, and before I can get my feet positioned, my stiff carcass slides sideways onto the floor.

Landing with a thud and a weak mewling noise, I look up to find my youngest standing over me. "Mommy boom! Ta-daaaa!" I do my best jazz hands for her sake, and she applauds and RiverDances in my honor. "Mommy TA-DAAAA!"

I roll to my side, and... wait, not painful. I push to a sit. No. Can't be. NO PAIN. Deciding that this moment calls for the ultimate test, I lunge one knee forward and throw my arms into the air. "Supah-Star!" I am healed! I am healed!

Orgasmic Coffee

2004-09-13T10:42:00.000-07:00

Oh, it's true, it's all true!

Senseo is really great coffee. Yes! Yes! Yes! Excuse me while I go wash the foam off of my face. Even my hubs agrees. It really is orgasmic. Go on, rush out and get yourself one.

Do You Smell That?

2004-09-12T20:45:00.000-07:00

As I was drifting off to sleep last night, I caught a whiff of the past. My old cowboy boots had been shoved unceremoniously under my side of the bed by one of my children. The scent of worn leather wafted up to rest on my pillow, and I found myself standing in the tiny ranch house kitchen of my dear friend and country dancing buddy. I glanced around and saw the pile of wet boots by the door, the fifteen varieties of munchies and the empty coke cans from a 2am refueling. A surge of joy built in my chest and I released a giggle into the still of my bedroom. My husband stirred in his sleep, and I drifted off, awash in recollection.

The sense of smell is a powerful weapon against a leaky memory. I spent a summer in Japan when I was 15 year old. Every couple of years, the air around me will briefly take on characteristics that leave me mentally wandering the sidewalks of Osaka. Each place I've been has a distinct aroma that calls to me. More instinct than conscious action, my brain has catalogued these atmospheric elements.

The beach where we celebrated my son's fourth birthday is the same beach where I took my own first steps as a baby. The tang of the salt air, the smell of drying seaweeds on the gravelly sand are imprinted in my mind. A lifetime of memories rush back to me when we open the car doors on the cliffs above the beach. I become the child who posed with seaweed like a feather boa and scoured the tidepools for signs of life. I become the preteen who wore a bathing suit despite the freezing surf, and the teenager who sat on the rocks and rehashed conversations with friends and talked about cute boys. My first joyful trip to the beach as a mother combines with the long remembered trips of my own babyhood in the sweetness of salt water taffy, bought from a roadside shack.

The sense of smell is remarkable. It entices with the perfume of a passing stranger and causes me to salivate when my favorite dishes are prepared. A baby, minutes old, knows his own mother by her smell. There is comfort in a familiar scent and excitement in an exotic spice. These mental getaways are always surprising. Like a favorite song from an earlier time in my life, certain smells send me on olfactory flights of fancy, remembering in great detail the people, places and events that occurred.

My brother has no sense of smell. He did, before his body was attacked by Lyme's Disease at the age of nine. It has been problematic for him - he can't tell if the gas pilot has been left on, or if there is an unfamiliar smell. It distorts his ability to taste food. I've never asked him about how he remembers things. It makes me sad to think that he has been robbed of the pleasures of smell.

On the other hand, my husband's brother stayed with us last Christmas, and informed me that he eschews deodorant, because he has been told by women that "they love his musky goodness." Okay, look. If he said he was allergic, or that he couldn't bring himself to slather chemicals in his pits, but he showered after major exertion, I MIGHT have some sympathy. But the men of my husband's family generate some serious, knock you down at 1000 paces, nasty, rank, foul, oh my GOD is that coming from your pits kind of stankyness. It's lethal. Musky Goodness. Hell, no. I howl every time I think about that. Then again, I'm happy that there is a special scent for everyone, musky or no.

Essentials

2004-09-12T08:09:00.000-07:00

Sunday mornings were meant for sleeping in. My kids can't seem to get with the program, so I've been up for two hours.

I made the coffee, and got a glimpse at the water reservoir. Apparently, it has been too long since I've done the citric acid treatment. Scale as far as the eye can see. Oh, it was nasty. Nasty nasty nasty. I was already through half a cup of coffee, too. Being thrifty and lazy, I drank the rest of the cup.

It is time to replace the coffee maker. And thanks to Lauren of The New Jan Brady, I'm all over the Philips Senseo. I need that machine. And so, I will load up the minivan with the family and head to the Target Greatland. I will embrace the pod system. Perhaps I will enjoy my coffee in new, sensual ways. It's just THAT good. Mmmmm.

My husband just yelled "We need Q-tips!" in a strangled voice.

Uh, okay. Onto the list it goes. Reminds me: on a grocery shopping excursion, long long ago, my mom was pulling out of the driveway, and had made it halfway down the block when she glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted my dad galloping down the street on foot, waving his arms and yelping "We're out of MAYONNAISE!"

Oh, the urgency of it all. Must. Shop.

2004-09-11T20:57:00.000-07:00

When my daughter aimed the gesture at her brother, I was baffled. In fact, it's a stroke of genius: You are looking at the kindergarten sign for "mouth closed, ears open." Hah! I'm so going to be flashing that baby. So much nicer than hollering "Zip yer trap n lissen up, y'all!"

A Sort Of Love Story In Four Parts

2004-09-11T12:15:00.000-07:00

Part 1: The Beginning

I actually knew the moment I first saw him that he was the man for me. I knew it on a cellular level. I was sick as a dog, ripping open my second box of tissue of the morning. It was also my first day on my new job. He walked into my office, spoke with the office manager, and then turned to say hello to me.

I was in mid-nose-blow. I finished with a *honk* and returned his smile. He was wearing green slacks, and a green and white striped shirt, and when he said "You must be the new Accounts Payable person." I blurted "and you must be a leprechaun." He looked at me like I was from another planet, and I quickly seized another tissue and resumed emptying my nasal cavities. I do love to make a great first impression, you know. That is why my nickname is Silky Smooth. Hah!

I called in sick on my second day, and he left that afternoon for a four week trip to Japan, China, Indonesia and Korea. I threw myself into learning my job, and continued to go out dancing several nights a week with my friends. He wasn't my type, anyway, I figured. Cute, but nerdy. A hard worker, stable, just nice. Really nice. But not for me.

When he returned from his trip, he made the rounds at the company. He had worked there for 6 years, and all the women treated him like a son or a brother. He brought little gifts back for most of the employees, and I was shocked when he stopped by my desk with a funny little plastic swan. It was the size of a quarter, a gold plastic neck and tail with a giant red plastic gem for the body. "Uh, thanks?" I stammered. I was unsure what, if anything, I was supposed to do with a tiny, but very bling-bling swan. I put it on my desk.

Part 2: Plan of Attack

I was still unsure about my apparent crush on this man. He was so nice. And so nerdy. I learned from the office manager that he had been married for 6 months to his college sweetheart, and that she had cheated on him. Broken-hearted, he filed for divorce months before they would have celebrated their first anniversary. Oh, now he was irresistible. He was all vunerable and stuff, which makes my heart go pitterpat.

I knew he wasn't dating anyone. I asked him out. He said he was busy. I shook it off, and tried again a few days later. He declined again, but said he was free the next night. (I later learned that he was blowing me off because he was playing a very involved Nintendo Baseball tournament with his housemate. See, nerdy, but cute.)

He picked me up the next night for our first date. We've been together ever since. Very early in our dating relationship, he was giving me a foot massage, and spent a minute removing lint from between my toes. That is true love, for sure. We moved in together a month later.

Part 3: All about ME

We passed two years together harmoniously. Then his job took an ugly turn. He was ready to move on. I was marking time in temp jobs, not wanting to do much of anything. We flew together to Portland, Oregon, so he could interview for a job. He was offered the job. He was also recruited for a job in Silicon Valley, offering better everything. My heart sunk. I hate Silicon Valley. It's crowded, it's expensive, it's not where I wanted to be. I was willing to move to Oregon, but the thought of moving to San Jose made my stomach burn. I was torn when he decided to take the San Jose job.

I decided that if we got married, I would go, but if not, I didn't want to leave my family and friends. I broached the subject of marriage, and he rejected it out of hand. "I've already been married once, and we're happy, so what's the problem?' I was a mess. I loved him, but I didn't want to move, and he had made his decision. I sobbed in a heap when the moving truck came and took his belongings away. We decided that we would continue our relationship long distance.

We took turns driving back and forth on the weekends. I got busy with a new job, and he was busy with his. I was still sick at heart about the situation. He figured would propose marriage in a few months and it would be fine. I figured that I would give it another month or two, and then I would be breaking it off for good and moving on with my life. We didn't discuss these thoughts. We were living firmly in the present.

A few weeks after a weekend trip to Monterey, I realized that I was late, and took a pregnancy test. In shock, I took 5 more of them. Lined up on my bathroom cabinet, all my wants and fears and demands were quieted. Those two blue lines made all the difference. We were engaged the next week, and I moved to the apartment in Silicon Valley, with the man-made river and the ducks.

Part 4: We Are Family

We were wed in a civil ceremony on September 11, 1998. Our oldest joined the family in March of 1999, followed by our son in September 2000. We thought we were going to take a break, and were surprised by the arrival of our youngest, born on Friday the 13th in December 2002. It's been one thing after another, and we are ever growing and changing in the rapids of family life. There is much humor and love in our house. We are still learning how to navigate, but our raft is sturdy. Six years, gone by in a blink. I'm looking forward to our Lucky Number 7. There'll be no itching here :)

Kindergarten Dispatch

2004-09-10T10:23:00.000-07:00

As my daughter was waking up this morning, I presented her with her outfit for the day, a pink dress.

"Mommy, I like wearing dresses, but..."

"But what, sweetheart?"

"I think pants are better for the playground."

"Oh, you don't want to flash your panties at everyone, huh?"

"I don't care who sees my panties. Sheesh, Mommy. I just don't want to burn my butt on the slide."

Alrighty then. I produced a pair of shorts to wear under her dress.

"Mommy, I want to BUY my lunch today."

"Are you sure? Let's see, it's pizza. Do you want to buy that?"

"YES. Mommy. Sheesh."

I hand her her lunch money in an envelope. "Do you know what to do?"

"Uh, yeah. Duh."

"Honey, it's really rude to say duh when someone asks you a question."

"Even if it's a silly question?"

"Yes. I want you to speak kindly and politely."

"Let me guess, like a fine lady?" She is rolling her eyes at me.

"Fine ladies do not roll their eyes at their mothers." I admonish.

"What about this?" she asks as she curtsies nicely while crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.

I had to leave the room to keep from laughing. I fear we need our etiquette DVDs now more than ever. Hah!

The Cheese Stands Alone

2004-09-10T07:05:00.000-07:00

We made it to Friday. Er, uh, yes. Yes. It's Friday.

We celebrated my son's birthday (again) with a small party at a local park yesterday evening. With temperatures in the low 90s, the shady park with the nice breeze was a fantastic place for the kids AND the parents to just hang out and relax.

I tweaked my back but good about 15 minutes before the party, so I'm walking like a 90 year old. I know better than to just lay down and suffer though. I'm going to attempt some gentle yoga when we get back from our walk to school. I can't afford to be down a day.

My husband's work is really demanding right now. He's cranky a lot lately. I would be, too. He is the Sales Manager for an injection molding company, and he spends a lot of time entertaining clients and flying across country on a moment's notice to save or cement a sale. He is good at his job, but the long hours and butt-kissing gets old. *Poor Me Alert* Most days he can go into his job a little late, if I have a morning appointment, or come home early. With the huge surge of new business they are working on, he is in early and home late more often than not. So lately, when I need help, I'm on my own. Like today, with my gimp back.

But it's Friday. And my big girl loves kindergarten. She walks out of that classroom with a bounce in her step, and is already running with a posse of little girls, all with crooked pigtails and smocked front dresses. They all have old lady names too, just like my girl, which is hilarious. You can just picture them in their dotage.

My son tells me I'm beautiful, even when he's wiping snot on my shirt. And my baby calls me Ah-hoe with a guileless smile.

Tomorrow is our 6th Anniversary. Six years, three kids. Getting married on 9-11 was supposed to be a joking reference to the fact that I was pregnant at the time. We went to a baseball game the day after we married. We took our oldest to her first game the next year. We weren't able to get tickets the following year... Pacific Bell Park was brand new, and my son was born just days before our anniversary. Our third anniversary found me home on a weekday, staring in horror at CNN footage of the World Trade Center in my bedroom, while my children played in the other room. Since then, it's not really the kind of day where you go out and pop champagne corks. We'll go out to dinner, I think. My mom will watch the kids for us.

Ironically, my husband's divorce from his first wife was finalized on Pearl Harbor Day, two years before we met. We just have a knack for memorable dates.

Haiku For Thursday

2004-09-09T20:54:00.000-07:00

Three Sick Kid Circus
Stepped on toy, my back is out
Dog pooped on carpet

Wrote long blog but poof!
Can't sit long in this death chair.
I'm big fat whiner.

No wine in this house.
Only juice boxes and milk
Not even a beer.

Tomorrow I will
Compose funny blog, tonight
Sit around bitching.

What Next? The Plague?

2004-09-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

Alright. I've had it. Not only has it been nearly 100 degrees for the last week, but now? There are ants. All over my kitchen.

Ants come with the territory. When it's cold, here they come. And when it's hot, the ants come marching two by two, hurrah! Hurrah!

When I rose at 5 am this morning (and don't even get me started on that) my sink looked like a waterpark for ants. They were lining up all over the place. I turned on the water, and used a Clorox wipe to sweep the incoming tourists towards the thrill ride that is my garbage disposal. They just kept coming. They crawled off of the wipe and onto my hands.

Adjusting the temperature to a slight scald, I blister my hands, but remove all the offending ants. I open the dishwasher full of clean dishes, and yep, there's a party going on in there too. Aaaargh. We put out ant stakes and they just saunter around them. I decide that the dishes could use another hot rinse, and watch in horror as the machine spins to life, causing an exodus of ants to spill out the steam vents. And head for the sink.

At this point, I started getting that creeping skin thing. I was twitchy and icked out. I backed away from the sink, ran to the garage, found the ant spray, and headed back in. Adreneline kicked in and I mashed to trigger, coating the sink, the counter and half the dishwasher in white foamy lethalness. I kid you not, it looked like I used a fire extinguisher. At this point, my husband appeared carrying the baby.

"Get away! I have to clean up all these chemicals!" I shout as he heads toward the coffee maker. My husband stood in the entry to our kitchen, holding our daughter and shaking his head as I frantically tried to mop up the dead ants and clean the poison from the tainted surfaces. Every few minutes, a twitch would work it's way down my spine.

From behind me, I heard my daughter say "Funny Mommy."

"Ha ha." I offered, sarcastically.

"Mommy dancing," crows my daughter. "Mommy's got ants in her pants," deadpans my hubs. With that, my girl throws back her head and sings, "Ants-pants. Ants-pants. Ta-daaaa!"

There Is No Magic Answer

2004-09-07T17:00:00.000-07:00

My husband opened the car door, and our eyes met. His jaw was set, eyebrows huddling together over worried eyes. I exhaled and grimaced as he grasped my hand and hauled me to my feet.

"We're home," he said. "Home, now." I echoed as I bent to unclasp the straps securing our newborn daughter in to her carseat. I fumbled with the latch. It wouldn't open, and I felt panic rising, burning in my throat.

"Here, let me." My husband gently moved me aside as tears stung my eyes. He removed the entire bucket seat from the car, and we made our way to our apartment. As we crossed the threshold, my eyes raced over the once familiar interior of our home. It looked different, an alien landscape. A small gurgle from the carseat was followed by a crescendo of distress. My husband deftly removed the baby, and I seized her, swaying and bouncing.

"Do you think she's hungry?" My husband looked panicked as she continued to fuss.

She rooted around on my cheek, open mouth and tiny lips searching for milk. I sat on the couch and fumbled around, finally getting her latched on. I looked over my breast, now twice the size of my baby's head, and tried to relax. Yes, we'll have a little milk, and then a nice long nap. My husband fixed a sandwich, and I retired to the bedroom, with my new little peapod.

Thirty minutes later, she awoke with a yowl. A diaper change, and all was well. For thirty minutes. "Waaaah!"

"Diaper again?" said my husband. "She's hungry. Maybe." Every thirty minutes all that day and the next, we frantically sought the magic answer that would allow our baby to settle down, and grant us some rest. The transistion from pregnant to parent was a jolt of ice water into our comfortable lives.

We had read all the books. We took the classes. We had all the stuff. We were ready. And then she arrived.

We gradually became attuned to our baby's needs, and gained confidence in our ability to care for her. Small parts of this new life resembled our old one, but we had a new purpose. We let go of lazy Sundays. Leisurely meals? Gone. My whole body was different. I slept in snatches, troubled by dreams about losing the baby under a huge pile of laundry. All of my passion was spent on obsessive internet research, to prove to myself that my baby was indeed ahead of schedule, and that our parenting was spot-on.

As the months past, life returned to a new version of normal. As she passed milestones, I felt the icy fear slowly warm to a comfortable temperature. I no longer felt that my steadfast attention was the sole reason for my child's survival. My husband and I remembered other common interests, ones that didn't involve diapers. I began to feel competent, even a little superior. I was a great Mommy.

On our first date without our daughter, I got a little tipsy, danced the night away, and upon on return home, we unknowingly made a sibling for our little princess. Standing in the yellow light of my bathroom, the mirror reflected the whole story. My raised eyebrows and tense smile swam before my eyes as the tears of shock fell. The pregnancy test was positive. I inhaled deeply through my nose and heard the rhythmic, metallic sound of my nine month old daughter in her doorway jumper. My husband touched my arm, and my eyes locked onto his. We began to giggle, a squeaking counterpoint to the steady beat of our little girl’s jumping. “It’s going to be a boy.” I spoke without hesitation or doubt. And then I threw up.

This time we were sure of one thing. We didn't have a clue what we were in for, not really. We could lay our best plans, and cross our fingers. There was no fear, not anymore. No illusions of superiority and grandeur. In the place of blind confidence, there was a battle hardened resolve and the weary but joyful knowledge that comes with traversing a difficult path through beautiful terrain.

Soundtrack

2004-09-07T09:34:00.000-07:00

I had Dolly Parton's 9 to 5 stuck in my head as I went about my morning ablutions. In fact, I had a big visual of Dolly herownself standing there singing it to me. I fell asleep watching Food TV's visit to Dollywood. She must've seeped into my psyche.

All the kids were up, dressed, breakfasted. I was on schedule. I glanced at the clock, and took a swig from my cup of ambition. "Okay, kids, get your shoes on!" I trilled. Really, I was Snow Whitesque. I could hear the birds trilling in response. I pirouetted into the kitchen, slipped the nutritious lunch I had lovingly packed into the waiting backpack and surveyed the countertop.

I'm back on my flylady kick again. I didn't want to befoul my shining sink with my mug, so I put it in the dishwasher. Tra-la-la! I ran the water and flipped the switch for the disposal. CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK! Frowning, I see the handle of a spoon whipping about in distress in the depths of the black hole. I silence the grinder, and remove one of the teaspoons that I paid something ridiculous for on eBay, so that I would have a complete set of my great-grandma's silverplate.

It was pretty chewed up, but I'm okay. I can hit eBay later and get another. I love me some eBay. I laid it on the shelf above the coffee pot and as I turned from my kitchen window, I saw a flash of fur in the yard. Still in my Snow White zone, I assumed it was something cute and furry. Nope. It was a rat, running along my fence. NOT CUTE! NOT CUTE!

Our neighbors are adding a second story to their house, and since they have had piles of building materials and debris, there have been a few rat sightings. We thought we had gotten rid of them all, but they, or at least one of them, is back. I stroll to the door, and try to convince the dog to chase the rat away. She laid down and whimpered. I'm feeling less like Snow Freaking White every second.

A glance at the clock reveals that we need to start walking. Now. "Oh, my darling CHILD-ren," I sing out, "we need to get going. Are you wearing your shoes?" I hear lots of devious sounding "tee-hees" coming from the living room.

I trot around the corner to find a naked boy, except for the underpants on his head, and a big girl with four different shoes on, one on each hand and foot. The youngest was standing behind the other two, hair standing out like a lion's mane. She beamed at me and said "Hair Down. Aaaaaah!" and shook the ponytail elastic at me.

"Oh, come ON! We don't have time for this, you guys." I am grumbling now. "We need clothes on, and matched shoes. Where are your shoes?" At this point, I started hearing Yello's "Oh Yeah" in my head. I spent 5 minutes on my hands and knees, looking for a matching pair of shoes. We have a designated shoe drawer by the front door, where all shoes are supposed to be deposited. Where were the shoes? WHERE WERE THE SHOES?

As the minutes ticked by, I was in a panic. Now we would have to drive to the school. And that would still take time. I finally found matching shoes for my little offenders, redressed the boy, and rushed off to school. The dog stayed in the yard, cowering for fear of an encounter with the rat. We shoulda got a cat.

We made it there and back. The little one is napping, my son is playing dinos, and I'm on my third cup of ambition. Next up, some weight lifting and trampolining. And then, I figure out what to do about the rat. Oh, yeah. Ch-ka-ch-ka.

M Is For Martha

2004-09-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

Take off those white shoes, and pull out your organizer. Fall looms ahead, and we must make a plan of attack.

It's been years since I let my subscription to Martha Stewart Living lapse. I still miss it. She always had that calendar in the front of the magazine that detailed the exciting chores that she would undertake in the coming month. The 16th? Bake 15 pies and polish silver. The 25th? Call Chimney Sweep. The 3rd, yes, let's see... aha! We must organize all of our greeting cards for the upcoming year. Bonus points if they are handmade.

When Labor Day rolls around, I feel a thrill of panic. Shouldn't I be canning something? Making homemade potpourri or decoupaging a gift for each child in my daughter's grade? Shouldn't I be recaulking the windows and airing out the winter clothes? I know I should be knitting RIGHT NOW.

I met my husband at work, began dating him within a month, moved in with him two months later, and got fired (for dating him) about a month after that. All things considered, I was delighted to be unemployed, since I had been supporting myself for a number of years with little time off. I had also recently received a portion of a class action settlement, and was feeling free and easy.

I would rise to see the boyfriend off to work, and then I would watch Martha Stewart on the television. Oh, how I loved Martha. She had clever ideas, specially designed closets with built in sewing machines, an archival system for table linens, service for 500 in 50 different patterns. She used raffia and pipe cleaners and made art.

A dear friend and I would compare notes. We plotted domestic strategy. We met for coffee and talked about putting up vegetables and making herbal soaps. We peppered our conversations with "Its a good thing." She and I had both moved in with our respective boyfriends at the same time. We decided that we would marry said boyfriends (we did), have their children (did that too) and embrace the picket fence, meatloafs and gingham aprons. Seven years have passed since those dreamy mornings spent planning our what-ifs.

Over time, I developed a scorn for Martha. But it was misplaced. Martha parlayed all those domestic things that I imagine they try to teach in Home Economics into hard cold cash. She made otherwise sane women lust after $20 cookie cutters and shop at Kmart to bask in the glow of Martha approved products. Actually, from the looks of her ads, she actually designed, sewed, packaged and drove the truck to Kmart herself. There she was, gleaming in her blue workshirt, a beacon of hope and womanly glory.

I threw myself into Martha's Way with vigor. My friend pointed out that Martha has "staff" who assist, including generating many of the ideas that Martha would demonstrate on TV and in her magazines. Unfortunately, I am not blessed with staff, and I'm all about big ideas, and less about cleaning up after myself. So when I discovered that running a household wasn't all arts and crafts, and perfectly organized laundry rooms, I was disappointed. And I took it out on Martha Stewart.

My Martha scorn started to snowball on her first Martha Stewart Baby issue. Her essay in the back revealed that she had a delightful pregnancy, and continued to model swimsuits into her fifth month. Oh, it was so good to be young, pregnant and Martha. I was a little irritated. Of COURSE Martha would be delightful while pregnant.

That sent me off into spiral of jealousy. Her daughter surely grew up with sandwiches made from Martha's own jam and freshly ground peanuts, on organic bread made from wheat that Martha sowed and reaped herself. Martha surely provided a stimulating, enriching home environment, full of laughter and joy.

Of course, my snarky little heart was pleased to learn that Martha had planted two majestic rows of trees shortly after her daughter's birth, so that she may traipse under their shade on her wedding day. Martha's daughter opted for a big city civil ceremony in a grey pantsuit, and Martha, wedding guru, cut the trees down in a fit of rage.

So Our Martha is not perfect, but I've grown to enjoy that, too. I can't possibly be Martha-riffic, not really. No staff here, right? So it's not my fault that my housekeeping and cooking and everything lacks that final touch, the shot of glitter, not entirely anyway. And with all Martha's troubles, she is likeable. Go forth and decoupage, Martha.

Four Is SO Great!

2004-09-05T20:15:00.000-07:00

Happiest Birthday wishes to my big boy, who is now 4.

September 5, 2000 dawned clear and mild. My due date had come and gone the previous week, and despite my eagerness to get on with it, there was no sign of labor. In fact, I spent the previous day watching a 12 hour Labor Day marathon of "A Baby Story" willing myself to get in on the fun. Nope. Not happening.

I had a no-stress test scheduled. My mom picked up my 17 month old daughter, and my husband arrived from work to take me to my appointment. Everything checked out well. I was apparently having fairly regular contractions, just not powerful enough to hurt. TMI, but I had been walking around dilated to 8 for two weeks, and the midwife on duty felt that if I left (again... I had refused earlier offers to induce) that we would be back in short order, and could potentially get stuck in rush hour traffic. We made the decision to allow ARM. I also requested an epidural.

As soon as the midwife left the room, I started having very strong, but still not painful contractions. I was surprised when the anesthiologist arrived minutes later. I had my epidural before I ever had a painful contraction. As the evening settled over us, I lay in the bed, watching Seinfeld and feeling lots of downward pressure.

My hubs was feeling really irritable the whole time. I wasn't sure why, until I figured out that since I wasn't in obvious labor (I was really at peace, and not struggling like my first labor) he thought we were hours away from a baby, and he was still in his work pants. Ahahahaha.

Finally, after several hours, I was 'complete' but my water still hadn't broken. The doctor suited up in his riot gear, and minutes after breaking the membranes, my son was born in one push. It happened so fast that we didn't have time to switch off the TV, so my son appeared in the middle of the day's sports highlights.

He had a cry like a baby cheetah. My hubs and I were both alarmed at the noise this child was making. It was a surprising birth all the way around.

Flash forward to the four year old, who woke us at 5 am, eager to tackle his gifts. The boy who loves dinosaurs, who is melodramatic and snuggles like a champ. He is a riot of hilarity, says his "r" like "aw" and "l" like "y"... I weely yuv you, Mommy.

This child, unlike his feline sisters, is canine in his eagerness and affection. He loves to talk, and talk. And talk. He loves babies, and says he never wants to leave home. He is worried that when he grows up he'll be expected to go to work without me. He is my only son, the child most like me. He is bold, but not a daredevil, outspoken but eager to be liked.

He announced "four is SOOOO great," while we wandered on the beach today. He looks forward to all the changes that are on the horizon. Preschool first, then world domination, I suppose. I'm still wearing the apron, and he's still holding the strings, for now. He presses his nose into my neck when he hugs me. I'm suddenly aware of the acceleration that is snatching the little moments from my grasp. I want to freeze him, inhale him, catalog every scrap of his newly minted four year old self.

So, three, no, make that four cheers to my boy. Wishing you a long and healthy life.

2004-09-05T20:11:00.000-07:00

Grrrr! Dinos take over the beach!

For Mindy

2004-09-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

For Ms. Mindy, lest she think she is so special...

Oh No You Did Not. You did NOT just call me a mother who keeps her kids from climbing on roofs. I'll have you know that MY kids have been swinging from the chandeliers since they could pull up. They have been leaping from the top of our yard play structure, yodelling, NAKED even, for YEARS. My neighbors probably have the CPS hotline written on their phone-side notepad, just waiting to catch those yahoos of mine in action.

So relaxed am I as a mother that my children are not told "Don't jump!" but instead are reminded to "Bend your knees when you land." We are wild. We are crazy! We eat danger flakes for breakfast! I sometimes even say ASS! Arrrrrrrrgh!

So yeah. Just had to get that offa my chest. :)

And in other, Mindy related news: The Weblog Review posted two very nice reviews about this blog. So let this be a lesson to everyone. First, sign yourself up. Then complain in your blog that you fear slammage. Then get Mindy to comment on the wake of destruction wrought by her reaction to a lukewarm review. Then sit back and watch as they assign kind and friendly reviewers. Fear the Mommy Wrath!

I actually was going to blog about my son's 4th birthday today, but I'll try and get to that this evening. I just didn't want anyone to think I was some sort of sainted mother, yo.

Cough, Cough

2004-09-04T21:12:00.000-07:00

About a hour north of our location, and an hour south, there were two large brush fires today. Combined, they threw enough ash into the air that it settled on cars and sidewalks in our neighborhood. The whole day was cast in a reddish glow. The smell made me thankful that we were so far from the burn areas (and also a little nostalgic for camping, for some reason.)

It was about 95 degrees today, but it felt much warmer, and was muggy, too... I did some world class ass sitting today. Then we took a family field trip to Toys R Us to select a birthday present for my son, who turns 4 tomorrow, and followed up with a truly high class dining experience at Burger King. They had one of those jungle gyms, which I abhor but the kids love. The two big kids eagerly made their way up the maze of ropes and down the slide. We held the 21 month old outside, and she screamed and strained and gestured at the ropes for 5 minutes. After she punched me in the nose, I figured, "What the hay, let's let her give it a go." I put her down, and she made her monkey way to the top of the rope maze, where she crowed like a rooster and yelled "Mama! Yeah! Mama! I do it! Yeah!"

Then she tandem slid down the big slide and did it again. And again. There were no other kids there, so it was just my other two yahoos, but okay, this is SO one of those things I would have FORBID my older children to do. And she did great. And she loved it. And I didn't have a heart attack, but I might have if big kids came along. We are SO not going to places with climbing structures for a few years. Ahahaha.

2004-09-04T21:04:00.000-07:00

Another shot of the weird sky.

2004-09-04T21:03:00.001-07:00

Mommy's Little Monkey.

2004-09-04T21:03:00.000-07:00

6 o'clock this evening. The sky is cloudy with ash from two large brushfires, north and south of us.

Diva Legs, Here I Come

2004-09-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

I was bragging about my prowess with the stroller, kids, bike and dog when it dawned on my that I have walked a mile and back, twice each day, so that's like 20 miles this week. Me. The kids. 20 miles. On my feet. I'm so proud.

Also, it's Clinique Bonus time this weekend. So I've got to get some beauty rest, so I don't scare the sales ladies with my dark circles.

TWENTY. MILES.

2004-09-03T21:50:00.000-07:00

The Entourage, on our way home from school.

Glutton for Punishment

2004-09-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

I signed up this blog to be reviewed by The Weblog Review. I'm very new to blogging, and want to get some feedback from people who, well, look at a lot of blogs and have opinions on them. When returning to their site to see if I'd been slammed yet, I saw this:

"I also was quite relieved to have passed up reviewing a pink blog written by a Mum about her three kids." - from ODAAT's review of "Chicken Soup for the Vegan Soul."

Right on. Ahahahaha! I'm relieved, too, dude.

*NOTE* After seeing the responses to this post, I feel that I should point out that I thought it was truly funny to find an oblique reference to my blog in someone else's review, and that I was happy not to be in line to be slammed by ODAAT, who I am sure is a great expert at what he does, which apparently is not parenting. Or pink. But thanks for all the compliments, which I love regardless. Hah!

The Traveling Circus Gets Larger

2004-09-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

Egg Plant Update: There were a bunch of new eggs on the plant. Still no clue why.

So, Great Mind of Our Time that I am, I figured that my oldest could ride her bike to school, alleviating some of the whining, and I could hook the dog's leash to the stroller, thereby giving La Donna a walk and a chance to earn her canned food by pulling.

My oldest hasn't mastered riding without the training wheels, but she doesn't seem to care. She has sparkly streamers and a hot pink paint job, and as you know, it's all about the accessories. The extra wheels are just another fashion statement. No whining! Wooo!

My son? Still whining. But I was able to use my single stroller Chinese Acrobat Style (hup hup hup hup *pose* hey!) and we made quite a picture cruising down the sidewalks of our suburban paradise.

My children never sit up straight in the stroller. They slump, and throw their legs up over the bar. I can get them all dolled up in adorable clothes, and by the time we get 5 minutes down the road, they are hanging out all over the place. Sigh. I believe we are the origin of the cliche' "I CAN dress them up, but I CAN'T take them out." Incidentally, we also spawned "Hopping Mad" as a direct result of my son. When denied, he immediately begins bouncing in counterpoint to his wailing.

Which cliche's do your family lay claim to?

2004-09-02T14:03:00.000-07:00

Egg. Plant. What?

An Exercise in Frustration

2004-09-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

I'm back again from another jaunt to the school and back. It's a mile each way, just a eensy-weensie mile, unless you are taking three kids, a backpack, 100 plastic dinosaurs, and one stroller along on the walk.

My oldest, once the three year old who would run and dance alongside me as I did my 5 mile fitness walk, IN TAP SHOES (and I have it on video to prove it, hah!) now whines every other block. "Mooooooooooom. I'm Tie-i-i-erd. I wanna ride in the stroller." She drags her feet. She huffs and pouts. Then, for no reason at all, she'll start whirling and skipping, delighted to be ALIVE and on the STREET and going to BIG GIRL SCHOOL! Tra-la-la!

We have one of those bike trailer/jogging strollers that we use exclusively as a stroller right now. It sits two kids side by side, and has plenty of cargo room in the back for all the dinos and other, relevant baggage. Problem is, when you get two kids side by side, they are touching each other. And that can get ugly.

My son, although the apple of my eye et cetera, is a royal pain in the butt right now. He has no concept of personal space. He loves to rub faces and touch hair and hold hands and sit in laps. He's adorable, but I wouldn't want to be strapped in a double stroller with him. My youngest loves the peekaboo and love pats initially, but about 1/2 mile in, she's letting off earsplitting shrieks at regular intervals.

Also, we have a tantrum at least once in the walk, because along our route is a home that has major mystery and kid appeal. These people have a succulant plant near their mailbox, right by the sidewalk. It's one of those spiky ones, no thorns, but the leaf tips are sharp. For some reason, these people have impaled a raw egg on the tips of most of the leaves. As the weeks go by, some of the eggs fall to the ground, and there are fewer and fewer eggshells bobbing on the tips of this plant. Then, mysteriously, one day there will be a fresh crop of eggs. It's weird. And my kids want to touch it, every day.

I think I have them convinced that spiders have taken up residence in the empty shells, so they aren't so eager to touch anymore. But I totally want to know what the deal is. I know it's a young Asian couple that live there, and one of their mothers, because I see Grandma Eggshell sitting on the porch, sullen, in an old lady floral print nightie with a cigarette and a mug of tea every morning. She doesn't respond to greetings, so the mystery remains.

Oh! Also, to get out of the yard, we have to endure the rage of Donna the dog, who feels that all outings with the stroller should include her. She barks and charges the gate, and then howls until she can't hear us anymore. Then when we return, she barks and kisses and leaps at me. Yesterday, she actually forced my ganglion hand backwards, and as of this morning, appears to have semi-cured me. Thank you, Donna, for the Bible-style smackdown.

So let's review.

"Buh-bye Donna."
"I wanna bring ALL the dinos."
"Tiiiiiiired."
"I wanna touch the eggs! Waaaah!"
"Tra-la-la!"
"Peekaboo!"
"Shriek!"
"Shh, kids, some people are still asleep at this time."
"Eggs!"
"Shriek!"
"I wanna ride the stroller!"
"Have a good day at school!"

And then we repeat all the way home. And then back again in the afternoon.

It's like I've always said about trying to exercise with kids: It's an exercise all right... an exercise in FRUSTRATION.

Pheromones? No, it's Feria.

2004-09-01T06:16:00.000-07:00

Ah, the stankyness that is my over-the-counter beauty enhancement routine.

I got the kids into bed at EIGHT! Woooo! EIGHT!

This calls for a celebration, right? I decided that I needed to spruce up the old mare a bit, since the evening was stretched out before me, and my hubs is up to his eyeballs in a new computer game of some sort or other. A quick inspection of my head reveals 1/2 inch of regrowth. Break out the gas masks, baby. Tonight? We dye.

I decide that a glass of wine is in order, what with my aching wrist and swollen ankle and all. I discover that operating a cork screw is beyond my gimp wrist's ability. I decide maybe drinking and dyeing is a bad idea and head to the bathroom.

Now, whoever designed our house was insane, because we have no ventilation, save a weenie fan in the ceiling. This little fan whirs and sputters in cycles, but it doesn't ventilate. Not even close. It mocks me with its noise.

Yea, though I am supposed to remove the foulness, I do not. Behold, the bathroom grows ever stinkier. Even now you flap the door, yet I will not remove this stench.

Throwing caution, and probably all the cilia in my nose and throat to the wind, I crack open the box and prepare to become a Natural Highlights! Extra Shiny! Now with BOTANICAL Conditioners! shade by the name of "Iced Mocha."

Can I just confess how much I love cosmetic names? I really do. They are so optimistic and evocative. My eyeshadow? "South Beach." Love my lipstick? It's "Sunset." Makes you wanna make out with me, huh? I know. Me too.

While mixing all the ingredients, at one point I looked into the mirror and noticed I had one of the bottles dangling from my teeth. Now I know where the kids get it from. My hubs walks in midway through the squirting and "massaging" part, and exited quickly, sputtering and coughing. "That stuff is poison! Poison!" He threw over his shoulder between coughs.

My eyes were starting to water quite a bit, but finally, the icing of my head was complete. I've got goo on my head, and 25 minutes to kill. Hmmmm, I'll paint my toenails. I locate my bottle of "Candy Apple" red nail polish and attack my toes. The weepy eyes are now stinging from the combined fumes, so I flap the door a bit. It occurs to me that I could mosey out to the bedroom to do this.

On my way out, I decide that with the next 20 minutes, I need to shape my eyebrows. I grab my tweezers and sit on the floor in front of our hall mirror. Since I painted my nails, I have to sit with my feet flat so that I don't mess up the finish, and I grow increasingly frustrated at my attempts to improve my eyebrows. I end up with one thicker than the other, and other with no arch. Whatever.

The nails are dry, the goo on my head has done its work. I give up on the brows and hit the shower. 15 minutes later, I emerge, like a butterfly from its chrysalis. My head smells like a new car. You gotta love it.

And For My Next Trick...

2004-08-31T10:00:00.000-07:00

So, I spent a good portion of yesterday crying. That is a bad look for me. I admire people who can pull off 'dewy and tender' when they cry. I do a very good 'pathetic and blotchy.' So, yeah. Swollen red nose, puffy eyes, blotchy skin... NICE.

For the last week or so, I've had what apparently is a ganglion on my wrist, and I've been just wishing it away. My mom informed me that this is what the old timers called a Bible Bump. Huh?

"You know, a Bible Bump. When you got one, the doctor would have you lay your hand on a flat surface and they would whack it with the Bible," asserts my mom.

"Isn't that a job for the preacher?" I wondered.

The advice nurse tells me to rest it as much as possible (hah!) and to ice/heat it and take advil. Great. I can do the pills. I am not sure how I can rest it. I'm a slave to the blog, you know.

So, here I am, bumpy wrist, blotchy, tear streaked face, playing in the yard with the kids. My youngest makes a break for the ladder to our play tower. She's great at getting up the ladder, but has no common sense about staying away from the edge. In fact, she seems to be on a mission to see just how far she can go to the edge of the platform before she plummets to the ground below. This is the same child who loves to stand atop the slide and throw herself into a face first belly slide, squealing with joy as she collects grassy skidmarks down her front. Wahoo!

I decide that I don't want to play chicken with the baby tonight, and accelerate towards the ladder. Halfway to the ladder, I stepped in a hole in the grass and twisted my ankle abruptly. My vision immediately went black and I felt the urge to vomit. I shook my head, stumbled the last few steps, intercepted the now howling with indignation child, and hobbled towards the house, wondering what I had just done to myself.

With a huge thank you to TiVo, I clicked on a Dora, headed for the kitchen, downed a few advil and then took a look at my ankle. Nothing. Little swelling, that's it. Best I can figure, I must have sparked a pressure point when I twisted it, which caused the weird blackout/nausea.

Then I proceeded to break a bowl, spill a bag of crackers and drop-kick a juice box while I was packing lunches. There must be some sort of Chaos Moon or something.
After the hubs got home, and I was recounting my adventures with self-flagellation to him, he turned to our big Kindergarten girl and said "I better teach you how to call me at work if Mommy cold-cocks herself." Again, NICE.

And She's Off!

2004-08-30T10:09:00.000-07:00

My oldest child, my big girl has started Kindergarten.

I'll spare you the details. Oh, wait, no. Why would I? It's MY blog, bwahahahaha! Go get a cup of coffee. Ready? Okay.

Last night after dinner, we got the kids through their bedtime routine, and then got them all tucked in bed. I kept my oldest up so we could read a few 'going to kindergarten' books together. Then she just wanted to snuggle. She was too excited to sleep, and kept popping up out of her bed, so we tucked her into our bed. I kept dreaming about cosleeping with her when she was tiny. She still smells like her baby self when she sleeps.

The alarm went off at 6, and I began to roust the kids so we wouldn't be a bunch of grump-butts when we had to leave. An hour later, everyone was dressed, had eaten breakfast, and the photo shoot began. "Show me your lunch box!" I demanded. "Smile! Stand by the gate. Act like you're walking. Look over your shoulder. Get your finger out of your nose. Don't give me that look! Come back here. Come back!"

We loaded the little'uns in the double stroller, and set out for the school. As we neared the campus, we saw parents and kids and strollers streaming in. I got honest to goodness butterflies. I recognized several moms from our preschool, and for some reason that put me at ease.

Outside the kindergarten classroom, there was a welcome sign and a handout. It was hilarious, written in very very simple language.

1) Say hello to the teacher.
2) Find your nametag.
3) Put down your lunch.
4) Circle your name on the big list.
5) Play at a table.

All around the room, there are panicked parents, running their finger down the list, focused with furrowed eyebrows. You could hear the thoughts: Said hello. Check! Nametags? Do we need nametags? Oh, the kid. Right. Lunch. Where do we put it? Where? OH MY GOD WHERE DO WE...oh, over there. Whew. WHAT'S THE BIG LIST? There are lists of kids names all over the walls! Which one do we choose? I don't see any circles!

I think this is when most of the parents started to cry. If we couldn't figure out these like, super basic instructions, how will our children do it? Mercifully, my daughter had already located the list, and made a heart around her name, because, you know, she likes hearts better, and was happily playing with several of her classmates.

The teacher rang the bell to let us know it was time to clear out. I had to drag my daughter away from the play kitchen to give her a hug and kiss. My husband gave her his hugs and kisses, and then we loaded the other two back into the stroller.

It was very bittersweet to see my husband standing in the doorway of the classroom, bouncing on his tiptoes trying to catch our daughter's eye for one last goodbye. She never looked up, and after five minutes, we left. We had a few tears on the way home, but were soon laughing when we asked my son what he was going to do without his sister all day. He said, in a very sarcastic tone, "I'm gonna play with all the toys by myself."

Unbelievable. My life has changed again. Walking away from that door was a moment that I'm sure will be imprinted on my mind forever. There'll probably be more tears for me today. I just saw my eaglet spread her wings and fly. Cue the crazy happy-sad crying. I puffy-heart my Clinque waterproof mascara.

Happy back-to-school!

Good Clean Fun

2004-08-28T21:24:00.000-07:00

We've had temperatures in the high 90s for the last couple of days. In my region of Northern California, we rarely get this hot. Maybe a few weeks each summer. We don't have air conditioning, I know, boo hoo, no humidity, cry y'all a river. I'm a big baby. I like my weather mild.

We were sweltering, feeling lethargic and eating popsicles for lunch when my oldest came up with the perfect solution. Let's go swimming! This is a fabulous plan. We live in a homeowner's association, where our dues pay for a neighborhood pool. Let's throw on our suits and go!

The whole family is crashed out in the living room. I was sprawled on the couch with a kid laying in front of me and a kid in my "chicken nest." "Chicken Nest" refers to the space between your ankles and your butt when you are laying on your side with your knees bent. I don't know. Go, on, lay down on your side and try it now, you know you want to. Bend your knees, and notice that there is just enough room for a kid to sit wedged in there. Mine prefer to rest their heads on my butt. There you have it. The definition of "Chicken Nest." Probably there was a cute story associated with that, but I don't remember.

Moving along. My husband was lounging on the floor, and when I glanced over at my son, he was sound asleep with his popsicle pressed against his cheek. We decided to let him nap. (We did remove the popsicle and place him on his bed.) We passed a few more hours enduring the heat and engaging in unbelievable sloth.

Finally, it was time to swim. We changed into our swim suits, grabbed towels and headed out for the pool. The pool is, no joke, a 5 minute walk, but we are such pathetic shrinking daisies that we took the van.

The pool was crowded with families. We dumped our stuff and got into the water quickly. My oldest is getting to be quite proficient in the water. She swam underwater, and leaped from the side. At one point, she threw her arms around my neck and said, "Mommy, wanna see me be a mermaid?" I smiled at her. "Sure, honey."

"Okay, I'll be the bee-you-tee-ful mermaid, and you can be the Ugly Sea Witch and chase me." She said "ugly sea witch" in a gravelly voice with a snarl on her face and two claws raised menacingly at my face.

Yeah, great. Ugly sea witch. Not Queen of the Mermaids. Not Sea Temptress. Nope. Ugly Sea Witch for me. Yo ho freakin' ho. Pass the rum.

This reminds me: the Disney catalog had all their Halloween costumes in the last issue. What is up with the mom costumes? The mom costumes are all evil. See? I'm not kidding. All the mommy costumes are supposed to be the scary counterparts to their children's costumes. Unless you want to be a cow or a teapot, which is still frightening, in my esteemed opinion.

The daddy costumes were equally lame. Would any man willingly dress like Eeyore?

It just seems so unfair.

Laughing When You Want To Cry

2004-08-28T08:01:00.000-07:00

I try to keep this blog light reading, because I find that seriousness doesn't suit me. I am one of those people who keeps on laughing, even when I want to cry. At times, I produce one of those odd, creaking, crazy sounding laughs. I even laugh WHILE I cry. Case in point, the Disneyland "Lion King" parade. Boo-hoo, ahahaha, sniff, wave, ahahaha. I'm a big ball of emotions.

I never understood the struggles of women who suffered from depression, until I had a baby. For the first time in my life, I felt 'off.' The maniac laughing took over and has buoyed me through the 20 hour days when every other sentence begins "Mommy, I need" and ends with "RIGHT NOW." I have called girlfriends from my closet, with my children standing outside the closet door chanting "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

The feeling of being 'off' has been replaced by a feeling of 'Oh, yeah, I'm the mommy. It's different, but cool.' I am lucky that my transition to motherhood has been relatively uncomplicated. I don't acknowledge that enough.

I'm sending out all my good wishes to Heather and her family. I don't know her personally, but I admire her humor and wit, and now her strength.

Look Ma! No Hands!

2004-08-27T19:43:00.000-07:00

Oh, okay, ladies. I'm in hysterics. I'm slightly buzzed from labeling backpacks and lunch boxes and coats with a big fat Sharpie, and your reponses to my Swiffer troubles are a riot.

That's it. I'm going to velcro the rest of those hospital issue maternity mattress sized pads on my kids' feet and have a glass of wine while I watch them skid around on the floor. Ahahaha.

Love the waist holster, Lu. I think I might just use the pull out faucet from the sink. Maybe, just maybe we can kill a few birds here and shower the kids at the same time? Now THAT is multi-tasking.

I Must Be Doing This Wrong

2004-08-27T14:14:00.000-07:00

Will somebody please explain to me what the huge whoopin' deal is with the Swiffer? In particular, the Swiffer Wet-Jet. On the rave reviews of several of my online girlfriends, I caved and bought one at Target. So, yeah, it has a battery powered squirter. And it has a weird little scrubby pad thing on one side, and a giant maxi pad that adheres to the bottom. It even has wings! I'm not impressed. I squirt, I scrub, I give it a once over with the Kotex that ate Kansas. It just doesn't seem very thorough.

Also, what the heck is up with Clorox wipes? I know I'm a pathetic housekeeper, but I went through 20 little stinky wipes to wipe my counters and cupboards down. That is an insane number of wipes. I used 20 more to do my closet sized bathroom.

The thing that's really cracking me up about the Swiffer is that my girlfriends who all love this thing are cloth diaper users. I know that they use cloth diapers for a million different reasons, all wonderful - better for baby and environment and budget yadda yadda yadda. But they are using the equivalent of a disposable diaper to wash their floor? And it doesn't even do a good job? I'm all for simplifying my cleaning. Is there a trick I'm missing?

Outlaws and Inlaws

2004-08-26T06:45:00.000-07:00

Have mercy.

Let's just say that my relationship with my inlaws is uncomfortable. We don't know how to communicate, and the small talk always manages to fade quickly.

My father-in-law was a GI stationed in Korea when he met my future mother-in-law. After an long courtship, they married and produced two sons, both born in Korea. Fearing that the boys would be ostracized in their small, rural village for their American parentage, my MIL agreed to settle in America. This meant leaving an affluent (by rural Korean standards... They had servants) family behind, and moving into a mobile home park.

Just before his 5th birthday, my husband arrived in America. His mother was instructed to stop speaking Korean to the boys, so they do not speak or understand, beyond simple commands and run of the mill insults and swear words. My hubs grew up in the trailer park, and on our first date, announced "I'm basically white trash. My dad keeps the Christmas lights on the trailer year round." I thought he was kidding. Uh, nope.

We've had a year-long reprieve from inlaw visits. My MIL has needed false teeth for a year, and did not want to attend social gatherings. Army dentistry being what it is, and also stubborn old lady pride, we have dodged the inlaw entertaining bullet.

Last Sunday morning, we got the call. "Dis-a guhlandma. How ever-body? I got my teeth!" *note* I am not intending to make fun of anyone, including my MIL, except maybe a little bit. She really talks like this, although when she gets angry with me she speaks very clear, concise English with less ethnic stylizing. In fact, she's the Queen of Morose Messages. Every couple of weeks we get the "Dis-a guhlandma. Why nobody call me. I could dead. You wouldn't know."
So, yeah, we should call her more. Point taken. Uh, sorry. Off topic.

Anyway, the new teeth signal the Opening of the Inlaw Social Season. I always get myself worked into a frenzy over this, pretty much for nothing. Both the MIL and I have mellowed from my days as a pregnant newlywed. Sure, I still have to lock my bedroom door at night when she stays with us, because she likes to wander the house. When co-sleeping with my son, I woke with a start to find her trying to lift him out of my arms at 2 am. I don't care how much you love your MIL, you do NOT want her standing over your bed at 2 am.

My FIL likes barbecue, beer and science fiction. Oh, and he has a long beard that he has split into two pigtail type beards. And he loves baseball hats with slogans on them. About farting and things. We have a mutual standoffish relationship. I am polite, and he is not, but he thinks he is, so in my politeness, I pretend he is right.

We'll see if this is the inlaw season that makes me an outlaw.

2004-08-26T06:30:00.000-07:00

Steve. Joe is no substitute.

The Tooth Fairy Plays Favorites

2004-08-25T07:45:00.000-07:00

The news has been pouring in from all my mama-peers. All around us, 5 year olds are starting to lose teeth. My big girl still has all her baby chompers in place, but she is eager to join the 'window in the smile' group.

This developmental milestone has kicked up dust all over town. What is the exchange rate for baby teeth these days? There seems to be a sliding scale. From my girlfriend whose husband left a $20 under the pillow by mistake, to the girlfriend who leaves a special charm for her daughter's charm bracelet... it seems like we should have a standardized chart.

The silver dollar seems to be the benchmark standard. I can go with that. I get those from the postal vending machines, and since I've gone postal quite a bit in the last year, I have a stash of Sacagawea dollars waiting for the happy day. If I can remember where the stash is, hmm.

Of course, in my own tooth losing days, I was an eager little monkey. I think our exchange rate was something like a quarter, which was good money for a 6 year old in '78. Really, though, the allure of the tooth fairy had more to do with her fairy dust. My sister and I shared a bedroom, and when one of us would lose a tooth, we would hatch elaborate schemes to catch the Tooth Fairy and get us some fairy dust so we could fly. We set booby-traps involving webs of string and strips of scotch tape on the floor. We tried staying awake in shifts. On one occasion my sister slept with the plumber's helper in her hand, determined to whack the fairy over the head so we could loot her.

I give my parents enormous credit for their willingness to keep the magic alive for so long, in the face of so much adversity.

I've got a lot of memories about losing teeth. I lost one of my upper front teeth the week before our second grade portrait shoot. My mom had commented on how cute she thought it was when a kid was missing both front teeth. Well, I loooooove being cute. My second tooth wasn't even remotely loose, but I fussed with it so aggressively that I essentially ripped it from my gums the morning of the picture. My face in that photo is priceless. I was beaming, in my spanking new outfit, with minimum wage photographer combed hair. (Do you remember those black plastic combs? How they made every hairstyle worse?) In the middle of my vacant upper gums, you can still see a little bit of gum dangling in the void. Ewwwww! But so cute, no?

My 5 year old is full of questions. Will it hurt? How does the fairy know? (We send up a beacon, a la Batman) I guess I'm ready.

What I'm not prepared for are those giant chompers in tiny faces. Man, this is when they go though that "my teeth are too huge for my face" phase. Also, they get really goofy, too. Or at least, I did.

All I'm saying is: if YOUR Tooth Fairy kicks down a C-note, swear your kid to secrecy. My Fairy is not that generous.

But Will It Be Enough For Gold?

2004-08-24T08:59:00.000-07:00

Our morning started out with a bang. Literally. My youngest child has mastered the art of crib rail pommel horse.

We've become accustomed to the sounds of rhythmic slapping noises coming from her room in the early hours. She's usually content to drag her sippy cup up and down the side bars of her crib, like a wee convict with a tin cup. Th-wap wap wap wap wap wap wap. Th-wap wap wap wap wap wap. Then she'll clutch a pair of bars, rattling them mercilessly. The final event involves smooshing her face into the space between bars.

The noises today involved grunting. I lay in bed, pretending I didn't hear what was going on, thinking that the hubs would be on diaper duty. Frantic grappling noises came next, followed by a huge "Aaaaaaaaargh!" That's Mama's baby all right.

Silence. And then "Bam!" Then silence. Then a very tiny "Ta-Daaaaa!"

I swung my legs out of bed as my son trotted to my bedside. "Mommy! I heard a kersplosion!"

As I reached the doorway, my 20 month old came trotting around the corner, arms outstretched. She announced "I down! I fine! Ta-Daaaaaa!"

I wonder if she stuck the landing?

Stream of Conciousness

2004-08-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

My son, aka "Chuckie" is, as I've mentioned before, like a horror film doll. His eyes open with an audible POP! and he immediately begins talking. And talking. He says any old thing that comes to mind, and doesn't wait for an answer. No, no. He just keeps on keeping on.

Mother of the Universe (that's me) gets a little freakin' impatient lately. It wasn't 20 minutes into his morning soliloquy that I snapped "Stop talking, please! Eat your cake!" Yes, folks, I fed my son cake for breakfast. I come from the Marie Antoinette school of breakfasting - no bread for toast? No problem. Ahem.

Chuckie actually greeted me at the bedside with two boxes of macaroni and cheese. He shook them like maracas and did a crazy dance while saying "Mommy, can I have mac and cheese for breakfast? Mommy? Mac and cheese hey! Mac and cheese hey!" Now, don't be getting the idea that he stopped there. No, the rhythmic chanting continued as he followed me into the bathroom.

Whilst ensconced on my throne, my son said "Hey, Mommy, follow me. Into the kitchen. Mac and Cheese, macandcheesemacandcheese."

I calmly replied "Honey, Mommy's peeing."

Not missing a beat, the questioning began in earnest. "How fast can you pee?" I roll my eyes and say "As fast as it comes out, dude." He wrinkled up his nose and giggled. "Mommy, can you pee as fast as a raccoon?"

The hubs chimes in at this point. "How fast does a RACCOON pee?"

"As fast as a race car." We both started laughing. "Honey, race cars don't pee."

"Yeah, but if they get a hole in their gas tank, it would look like they were peeing, and if the gas is all gone, then they couldn't go. Hey! Mac and cheese!"

Oh. My. GOD.

Aspirations

2004-08-22T07:49:00.000-07:00

My sister is an aspiring opera singer. She is also an accomplished pianist. For 17 years, she has run her own successful piano studio. She has endured children licking the entire circumference of her grand piano. She has survived students who don't practice, parents who expect miracles and people who 'forget' to pay. She has worked long and hard to reach her goal of making a living as a singer. This last week, she flew to New York and met with three agents. All are eager to work with her, and feel that she has a bright career ahead of her.

She returns today, and I am bursting with excitement. I want to hear all the gory details.

For most of my life, I have distinguished myself by NOT distinguishing myself. I'm the middle child, and I like to do what I want without attracting too much attention. Except blogging. I seem to crave buckets of approval for my blog. Anyway...

My sister and I are 18 months apart. We are polar opposites - she is dedicated, I am flighty. She loves to run. I love to watch other people run. Hah! She is sincere, whereas I am sarcastic. We are a great team. She is frightened of my life as a married mom of three, and I am wary of her life as a single musician, shooting for the stars.

When meeting acquaintances of my parents, I was always asked, "Are you the pianist?" and I would say "No, that's my sister." Black belt in Tae Kwon Do, opera singer, actress, girl who speaks 5 languages, Ms. Blah de blah 1991? Nope. You got the wrong girl. Then they would ask me, "What do YOU do?" Uh, I dunno. Now, I have a husband and children to wave around. Back in the day, it made for some awkward conversation.

This sounds bitter. I assure you it is not. I enjoy being a bit of an enigma. Or a dullard, take your pick. I just figure that if you are outside the spotlight, you can get away with murder.

When I first heard that my sister was traveling to New York City, I was so jealous. I entertained the fantasy of going along. It put me in mind of our trip around Japan when we were 16 and 14 years old. We spent three weeks in Osaka with a group of American students assembled and led by my fearless mom. At the conclusion of those three weeks, my mom took the rest of the kids home, and my sister and I went on a whirlwind tour of Japan.

We had hosted 15 exchange students from Japan over the years, and my mom had arranged for us to spend time with each of them. We were treated like visiting royalty. We traveled by planes, trains and automobiles. We discovered that our different abilities served us well, when we teamed together. I could understand Japanese, and she could put the words together to communicate.

It was on this trip that we gave each other the affectionate monikers "Dumb-ass" (me) and "Bitch-face." We went to Australia's gold coast the following summer, and it was DA and BF, part two. Honestly, watching that Amazing Race, I have fantasies of DA and BF RIDE AGAIN! We could be dominant, man. Except that it always seems to come down to a foot race at the end, and well, I don't like to run. Or bungee jump, and that seems to be a factor, too. Hmm.

A girlfriend told me the other day that if my life was a reality series, she'd be hooked. Why? What is so interesting? I actually live in fear that one day, my mom is going to make good on her threats to sign me up for a makeover show on a daytime talk show or the local news channel. I would probably be the best show ever, but hey! Don't get any ideas, yo.

In the same vein, I have long suspected that a round of finishing school would have been a good idea for me. I don't want to ooze pretensions, but I'm a little shaky on social graces.

"I taught you all that stuff," says my mom, indignantly.

"I know, I know."

On the recommendation of a friend of a friend, I got myself a series of DVDs that are supposed to teach me the basics of Grace, Beauty and Elegance. I made it about 10 minutes into the one about proper speech before I slapped the couch and yelled uncle. It's narrated by a woman whose perfect diction seems robotic. And then they have this soft-core footage of a woman practicing her vocal exercises in the shower while languidly washing herself. Huh?

I'm sure the information is good, and I will soldier on. If nothing else, it will make excellent comedy fodder, in which I mock all that is Graceful, Beautiful and Elegant.

The Scream in Crayon

2004-08-21T20:46:00.000-07:00

A portrait of your friendly ringmaster, as seen through the eyes of my oldest child.

That 2 AM Jazz

2004-08-21T11:57:00.000-07:00

I've been up all night. Again. My youngest cried and grunted and waved her butt in the air for 9 straight hours. I'm thinking she's got some unresolved poo issues. Not only that, but every time I would get her settled down, my son would hunt us down and try to climb in my lap. This would trigger another butt wiggling screaming jag from the baby. Around and around and around we go...

UPDATE 8-21: Sometimes when shit happens, it's a good thing. This is one of those times. Whew!

Each of my kids has a lullaby that seems to be 'their' song. My oldest got "La La Lu," My son got "Castle of Dromore," and my youngest got "I Will." I've been singing these songs, interspersed with many others since moments after they were born. We're a bunch of singing fools in this family.

So I found myself at 2 o'clock in the morning, holding an arching, screeching baby, carelessly singing a medley of lullabies. And what I realized is: I don't remember the words, and I don't know if I ever did. I basically scat sing with a few legit lyrics thrown in willy-nilly. Hah!

My favorite scat lullaby has to be "Nightingale's Lullaby" from the Celtic Twilight something or other CD.

I looked up the real lyrics this morning, and had a huge laugh. I was missing over 75% of the actual words, and had embellished nicely, for going on 3 years. I present the real lyrics below. I'm not even going to admit what I usually sing.

CASTLE OF DROMORE

The October winds lament around,the castle of Dromore
Yet peace is in her lofty halls, my loving treasure store
Though autumn leaves may droop and die, a bud of spring are you
Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan
Hushabye loo, low loo
Dread spirits all of black water, Clan Owen's wild banshee
Bring no ill wind to him nor us, my helpless babe and me
And Holy Mary pitying us to Heaven for grace doth sue
Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan
Hushabye loo, low loo
Take time to thrive, my ray of hope, in the garden of Dromore
Take heed, young eaglet, till thy wings are feathered fit to soar
A little rest and then the world is full of work to do
A little rest and then the world is full of work to do
Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lanHushabye loo, low loo

La La Lu

La la lu
La la lu
Oh, my little star sweeper
I'll sweep the stardust for you
La la lu
La la lu
Little soft fluffy sleeper
Here comes a pink cloud for you
La la lu
La la lu
Little wandering angel
Fold up your wings, close your eyes
La la lu
La la lu
La la lu
And may love be your keeper
La la lu
La la lu
La la lu
Spoken:
There now, little star sweeper
Dream On

I Will

Who knows how long I've loved you?
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely lifetime?
If you want me to, I will
For (and) if I ever saw you
I didn't catch your name
But it never really mattered
I will always feel the same
Love you forever and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever we're together
Love you when we're apart
And when at last I find you
Your song will fill the air
Sing it loud so I can hear you
Make it easy to be near you
For (and) the things you do endear you to me
You know I will
I will
Love you forever and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever we're together
Love you when we're apart
And when at last I find you
Your song will fill the air
Sing it loud so I can hear you
Make it easy to be near you
For (and) the things you do endear you to me
Oh, you know I will

Nightingale's Lullaby- Julie Last

The sun's going down in the deep blue sea
So close your eyes, go to sleep
I will wrap all the milk stars around you
So dream and your dreams will come true.

You can ride past the wind as a champion mare
Over the woods, lighter than air
You can fly to the moon as a great white swan
And back you will be before dawn.

A nightingale's lullaby bends in the wind
Messing your hair, drinks the tears from your pillow
So sleep now, sweet dreams, my love

I may be older but I am not wise
I'm still a child's grown up disguise
I never can tell you what you want to know
You will find out as you go.

Now the sun's disappeared in the deep blue sea
Eyes are closed, sleep so deep
The milk stars are wrapped all around you
So dream, and your dreams will come true.

I'm In The Mood For Love

2004-08-20T09:26:00.000-07:00

Blame it on the wine. Or on the strawberries and whipped cream. The husband and I were feeling a little amorous last night.

We snuggled while we sipped our wine. We played footsie and I got my backrub. Things were looking, uh, up. Canoodling was on the agenda.

"Mama!" called my oldest.

"Sssh! Maybe she'll go back to sleep," said my husband, sotto voce.

"MY PANTS ARE WET! WAAAAAH!" came the cry from behind our locked door.

"Hold that thought," I said with a sultry glance over my shoulder. I grabbed a beach towel and a clean pair of pajamas, and got my daughter calmed down, dry and back in bed. Whew!

As I turned the lock on our bedroom door, I heard a plaintive wail building from the baby's room. Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

"Sssh! Maybe SHE'LL go back to sleep," said my husband. Hope springs eternal in Husbandland.

"You're so good at getting her to settle, babe. You try," I whispered. He stood up and moments later reappeared with my howling youngest, who had bubbling green snot and a full diaper. A new diaper, new pajamas, a face washing and a dose of decongestant later, she passed out on my husband's shoulder. He quickly returned her to the crib and jogged back to our room.

"So, where were we?" he winked. At this point, I had passed over the good wine buzz, and was feeling deflated. As my husband reached to foot of the bed, we heard the dog scratching on our bedroom door. "Go away, Donna!" we both ordered in a stage whisper.

We sat side by side on the end of the mattress, straining our ears into the quiet of our house. After a tense minute, my husband turned to give me a kiss. With our lips mere millimeters apart, we started to laugh. And we kept laughing, through my son's midnight quest for water, my baby's second and third waking of the night. I guess this is what they call Natural Family Planning.

Forget Peace, I Just Want Quiet

2004-08-19T20:51:00.000-07:00

Indulge me as I take another walk down memory lane...

Back when I was the "girlfriend," a word pronounced with a lilting tone, unlike "wife" which is your basic grunt, we spent a lot of time visiting friends. One couple had a precocious four year old daughter, and her mom would tell me "she was so naughty today!" and I would, as a stupid childless person, say "Oh, no. That's because she's so intelligent/charming/takes after her mommy! She's really an ANGEL." I honestly thought that was what the mom wanted to hear.

Now, inside my head, I was thinking "If MY future children EVER and I do mean EVER embarrass me like that, I would DIE!" Did you hear that cracking whip sound? Parenting Gods, incoming.

In my friend's head, she confessed that she was thinking, "Stupid, stupid, just wait until you have your own little angels. Bwahahahahahahaha!"

This is the same friend who later had twins, shortly before the birth of my oldest. During one harried phone call (Can't she just ask those kids to play quietly? My kids will respect an adult phone conversation. Zap! Incoming!) she blurted out, "I wouldn't let my oldest hold a marker without my close attention. I'd let the twins play with steak knives if they would just be quiet for a minute."

That is as funny today as it was then. for different reasons. Then, with a young baby who existed solely to charm the pants off of her doting parents, I was amused in a "too bad for you, crazy woman!" way. Now, with three kids who seem to exist solely to mete out the wrath of the Parenting Gods, I understand. Totally.

We had one of THOSE days today. Things were broken. A war broke out between Pretty Ponies and Dinosaurs. Gallons were spilled. Baguettes were wielded as swords. The final straw involved a brand new box of laundry soap being doused liberally with water. That weightlifter battle cry I mentioned in an earlier post? Scream along with me. Aaaaaaaaaaargh!

I was so beside myself that I burst out in tears, fumbled for the right words to make the lack of levity in my heart well known to the offenders, and ended up grabbing the sling, the stroller and the kids and making a high speed dash around the block. (hup hup hup hup hey!) It burned off a little tension, but the naughties never ceased. They're fighting colds, so they are ill enough to feel cranky, and well enough to be naughty. Here's hoping that they wake up nice tomorrow. I don't know if we'll make it through another one like today.

The kids have finally settled down, and I am fried. I think I'll hit the hubs (said with a grunt, hah!) up for a back rub. Time to crack open a bottle of Merlot and watch some Olympics with the man who helped create these little monkeys.

Kindergarten Countdown

2004-08-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

As my oldest reminds me daily, the life altering, rite of passage - Kindergarten is almost upon us. She's full of anticipation, and is certain of her success in the slightly larger world that is school. Her confidence is inspiring.

Back to school resonates with me, even now. The new clothes. The worries about who your classmates will be. The enticing aroma of new Crayolas and binder paper. The life and death decision of lunch box selection. The promise that THIS year will be better than the last. New Year's Eve has nothing on Labor Day Weekend for new beginnings.

My first day of Kindergarten is still fresh in my mind. I got sent home early, with a black eye.

I had been trying to make friends with all the kids, "Hi! I'm Jenny! Hey, come here, kid! I'm JENNY. You wanna play with me? No? Okay. Hey, kid! I'm Jenny. Jenny. Hey, kid!" and wasn't meeting with much success. In a fit of exasperation, I decided to climb UP the slide, showing off in an attempt to impress. Halfway up the silver pathway to Kindergarten Superstardom, I took a Converse All-Star to the eye from a little boy with green teeth and an evil glint in his eye.

After the collision, I slid down, landing with an abrupt thump on the tanbark. The kid who kicked me whizzed over, with a "Nyah, nah."

Temporarily stunned, I stood up and brushed myself off. The Kindergarten teacher rushed to my side, and began fussing. "Oh, no! Oh, are you okay? We better get you to the nurse!" Box office gold, my friends. All the kids wanted to get a look at my eye, which was now swelling righteously. I mustered a whimper, and leaned into the teacher as I limped theatrically from the playground.

I got to hold a milk-carton ice pack on my face, and my mom picked me up and took me out to ice cream. Instead of souring my school experience, it remains one of my favorite silly memories.

Anyway, I sincerely hope that my daughter is able to embrace the good and laugh at the bad in the school world. She probably won't have to resort to stunts to get the attention and friendship she craves. But if she does, I've got a few pointers for her.

Child's Eye View

2004-08-18T08:45:00.000-07:00

There are few lights less flattering than the glare of my bathroom light at 5 am. I leaned on the counter with my elbows while I splashed cold water on my face. Glancing up at my dripping reflection, I cringed. I need another hour or two of sleep before I look human. As I flipped the switch, I felt a warm body against my legs. My son had appeared beside me. He wrapped his arms around my thighs and pressed his face into my belly.

"Hi, buddy," I said. He beamed up at me with his sleep flushed face and purred, "Mommy, you're gorgeous."

My self-deprecating side (or self-defecating as my mom, Queen of Picturesque Speech says) wants to deny these accolades. The rest of me wants to bask in the sunshine of my child's adoration.

Kids have a special filter on their vision. It's Cybil Sheppard lighting for the cold, hard world. Dust particles swirling in afternoon sunbeams become dancing fairies. Every trip to the toilet becomes an event worthy of a song and dance.

I am reminded of a shower I shared with my oldest while I was pregnant with my youngest. In the confines of our shower, surrounded by steam, she beamed up at me and patted my butt. I said, "Mommy has a big butt, huh?"

"It's GREAT," she said. Hey, who am I to argue? Minutes later, she performed an original tune in my honor, called "Big Fat Butt, Big Fat Belly." I had been referring to my pregnant shape as "Mr. Kool-Aid body." Sheesh. It took my toddler less than a minute to make me feel worthy of rhyme and song.

Unconditional love is a gorgeous thing.

Guilty As Charged

2004-08-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

Got the hubs out the door for his trip, and called in the dancing boys! Woooo!

Just kidding. I actually don't care for dancing boys, unless they are entertaining my toddlers.

My parents decided to take the two older kids on a trip to the beach today, which left me with just the 20 month old. I will be so happy when she's two so I can stop using the month. I've run out of fingers and toes.

Now, I will never be one to insinuate that a single child is a breeze (because I was overwhelmed with just one wee bairn) but it was almost peaceful. We read books, played hide and seek, snuggled while she napped, fed each other cheerios - we enjoyed the heck out of each other.

My older two had a great time with the grandparents. They ran all over the beach, found shells, lay in the surf, and encrusted themselves from head to toe in salt and sand. Both kids got the undivided attention they crave. Aside from my son puking on the windy roads that lead to the coast, it sounds like a perfect outing.

My son has a flair for the dramatic, and he's taken to telling my mom, every chance he gets, that he "never wants to go home! Can I stay here forever, Grandma?" Oh! And he says I yell all the time. My mom sounded a bit concerned as she brought this up to me, and gave me the good advice that I need to stop yelling.

Let the excuses begin. I've been feeling like I'm on death watch for the last year. It's been Def-Con 4 and I guess I just can't unwind enough to where I speak normally any more. I start with a bark, and adjust down depending on the situation. I know it, and my kids know it, and they are telling people that I yell at them. All the time. Granted, they don't mention WHY I yell, or that THEY might have anything to do with it.

But they are all right. I need to chill. No one has fatally injured themselves on my watch, and the little stuff, like emptying a gallon of milk onto the carpet or kicking out the front window screens, happens when I'm not being super attentive. Perhaps blogging is the reason why I have a steam cleaner that never gets put away. Ahahahaha

My mom was right on the money when she said that I only have another year or so to make memories for my kids as a kind and fun mom, before they are out to school and I'm just the broad who picks them up and denies them purchases of hoochie Bratz dolls and embarrasses them in front of their friends.

Trepidation

2004-08-17T07:14:00.000-07:00

It seemed innocent a few months ago. We got a glossy flyer in the mail, heralding the upcoming children's show season at our regional arts center. "Buy your season tickets!" it said. "Family fun for all!"

After a flurry of discussion with my hubs, we decided that we would give it a whirl. We have a stack of tickets, one show a month, starting in October, until June 2005. It was too great of a deal to pass up.

I was sorting old photos yesterday, and came across the Ringling Bros. circus photos from last year. First of all, let me tell you this: Don't waste your money. It was just awful. Guess how much cotton candy costs? TEN BUCKS. That's right. For spun sugar. It all came flooding back to me. My children were more interested in examining the dark recesses of their seat bottoms with their $15 limited edition souvenir flashlight things than watching dancing elephants. The pictures don't show children enthralled with clowns and trapeze artists. They show kids on their knees with flashlights, inspecting what looks to be the remnants of someone else's ten dollar cotton candy.

A year has gone by, but I'm thinking we may have jumped the gun on the theater tickets. The shows are supposed to be geared for children 3-12, so we might be in the clear, but I'm still worried that we are going to spend lots of quality time in the lobby.

I registered my son for preschool this week. He starts in October. I'm still not sure he's ready. I spoke to the teachers about his 97% success ratio on the potty, and they said that peer pressure was just the ticket. This seems suspect to me, because I was assured that my oldest, the nose-picker, would be cured by the preschool social strata, and instead found herself the leader of a whole little tribe of gold-diggers. Mercy.

Kindergarten is two weeks away, and I'm getting nervous. And judging from the 'tidbits' my oldest has volunteered to perfect strangers, I have every right. My favorite was when she parked herself next to the mother of one of her fellow preschoolers and announced "Daddy hurt his back trying to wash his butt in the shower." Ahahahaha. The mom held it together nicely. I laughed all the way home. I cringe to think what she'll be saying about me.

The hubster is off to Chicago for the night, so I better go get him packed.

Magnus, the Magnificent

2004-08-16T21:47:00.000-07:00

Apparently, moments after Nick Jr. began broadcasting Lazy Town, scores of horny housewives hit the internet, looking for more Magnus. Here you go, ladies: link to a photo of the hottie.

Oh, I could be wrong. They could have been interested in his, uh, acting. Anyway, my wee little post on Mr. Scheving got lots of hits today.

All in our places with bright shiny faces

2004-08-16T09:06:00.000-07:00

Alright. Monday. Woo.

After a round of musical beds that ended with me, all three kids and the dog in a twin bed, I'm a little stiff and sore. The coffee was too strong this morning, and I'm all twitchy. What is a girl to do?

Oh, I know. It's the premiere of Lazy Town. I betcha dancing along with Magnus and the gang will cure what ails me. I, er, the kids have been having a great time on Nickjr.com putting dear Sportacus through his paces in the Get Your Move On game. Yeah, baby.

The crabs have survived the night, as well as a few swan dives off of the kitchen table. I've put them high in the pantry so they can gather their strength for round two. I am having trouble convincing my oldest that hermit crabs don't need to live in the Pretty Pony palace. She is the puppet master, and is exceedingly frustrated that the crabs are uninterested in navigating the obstacle course that she made from left over Taco Bell condiment packages and spoons.

When we first adopted the dog, she spent hours setting up 'agility courses' to put the dog through her paces. The dog is also uninterested. My oldest also announced that we should enter her in the Eukanuba Tournament of Champions. When I explained that she wasn't a pure breed, and wasn't particularly attractive or well behaved, my daughter wasn't buying it. She said, "We will train her, and she will be a champion." Ahahahaha. I love the can-do attitude, even if she's irrational.

Come to think of it, she gets that from me. I've never thought for a minute that I couldn't accomplish anything I set my mind to. I also tend to fervor when I hit on something great. This frenzied excitement is accompanied by my expert testimony to friends and family, and generally lasts a couple of weeks.

Witnesseth:

Flylady. Love her. Get 700 email a day from her. Is my house clean? No. Babysteps, right, right. It's a new day, and perhaps THIS is the day that I will set my timer and lace my shoes. Or maybe tomorrow. It gives me great confidence to know Flylady's system works, and should I choose to follow it, I will be organized and successful and svelte. Oh wait, svelte falls under the next one. (Hilarious. Spell checker suggested "Flailed" in place of "Flylady." It knows me at my core.)

Fat Fallacy. Love it. My friend Sara is the success story on the site right now. Big picture of buttery english muffin on the book cover, with the words "FAT IS NOT THE ENEMY" on the back. Cutie pie Doctor. Now THAT'S my type of diet. Seriously good information. If only I could master using a teaspoon instead of a mixing spoon when measuring out my dinner portions. Again, I just know that when I get with the program, I'll be on a one way trip to babedom. I just gotta finish up these chips before they go stale.

The Clean Team. In my next life, I'm going to marry Jeff Campbell. He's so enthusiastic about cleaning. Sigh. I bought his whole cleaning system. Even the apron. Bought everyone his books, and currently have "Clutter Control" sitting in the middle of a heap of crap on my desk. Maybe in my first 5 minute Flylady room rescue, I'll rescue it.

ENJO. I love my Enjo products. I really really love them. Look at all the happy people on their website cleaning with Enjo. It's super fun! I tried to have an Enjo party but all of my friends love their swiffers and clorox wipes and other disposable cleaning products. No matter, I will soldier on with my eco-friendly cleaning (and blithely continue to use disposable diapers, bwahahahaha). Hypocrisy reigns at the Three Kid Circus.

I should point out that we are a Human Circus. Like Cirque Du Soleil, without the good music. We don't hold no truck with abusing animals. Unless we are 'training' them to do obstacle courses and such.

Was YOUR day Apple-riffic?

2004-08-15T17:45:00.000-07:00

For once, I have nothing to complain about. We had a wonderful day.

We woke to balmy, perfect weather. The kids were a little crazy this morning, but with the promise of attending the Gravenstein Apple Fair, we were able to keep things moving in a forward direction.

While we were getting everyone dressed, we watched Olympic women's weightlifting. Wow. Those women are amazing athletes, and I am inspired to revisit Krista and get my butt in gear. I really loved the fact that one of the women gave a loud Aaaargh! before stepping on stage. I'm going to start doing that before endurance events. Get all three kids in the van? Aaaaaargh! Unload a trunk full of groceries? Aaaaaargh! Giant load of clothes out of the dryer to be folded? Aaaaaargh! I am in love with this concept.

So, all the kids dressed, diaper bag packed, sunblock on... we headed out. We got into the fair, got some apple fritters, got some corn dogs, got some garlic fries... yeah, yeah, it's THAT kind of fair. We enjoyed the vocal performance of our local "Love Choir" which, from what I can tell, is composed of 30 or so grown up people who really like to sing. They all got up on the stage and belted out popular tunes from the 60s, en masse, with lots of enthusiasm and little regard for the tune. Out of the shower, and onto the stage! Woooo! Seriously, they were so into it that you had to love it.

The kids were well behaved the whole time. We petted a baby porcupine (spiny!) and saw bees (buzzy!). My son has taken to adding words to other endings. He kept saying, "Mom, this is Apple-tastic!" and my favorite "this is apple-licious." He gets it from me, thankyuhverramuch.

By one o'clock, the kids were pooped, and we made our final stop at the ping pong toss game to Win A Hermit Crab! We have had many of these sad sack critters, and they have all eventually crawled out of their shell and died, like so many ice locked arctic explorers. Although we didn't win one (I was secretly saying Yes! Crabtastic!) the kids were so bummed that Daddy bought them each a Hermit Crab. The menagerie just keeps gettin' bigger. Those crab people are making out like bandits. Bandits!

We rushed home, and I headed out to the surprise baby shower for a dear friend. She is the cutest pregnant person, and it was a low-key, fun party. I feel really human. Downright adult even. It has turned out to be an Apple-riffic day.

Olympic Commentary

2004-08-14T13:54:00.000-07:00

Hands down, one of my favorite activities during the Olympics is watching the athletes and putting in my two cents on their performances.

Diving is a really good one. It's really fun to say "Oooh, too bad, that backsplash is going to cost her. She's got to improve her entry angle." Another favorite is the vault event in gymnastics. "Stick that landing! That wasn't fully rotated."

Raging Hormones

2004-08-14T07:05:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is, but since giving birth, I'm a cry baby. I get choked up all the time, sometimes appropriately, but usually not.

What seems to really get the waterworks going is triumphant music...the national anthem, boo hoo! Play ball! Then there's fireworks. Oh! And parades. Something about a procession brings a lump to my throat and I have to choke back my tears so I don't look like an idiot. Like Linda Richman, I get farklempt and allow the good folks around me to "talk amongst yourselves."

Nothing says "I'm having a great time!" like crying during the Disneyland Parade of Stars, and then again during the nightly fireworks.

With my penchant for irrational emotional displays, the opening ceremonies for the Olympics were downright wet. The comet at the very beginning brought the lump to my throat and by the time we got to the Parade of Nations or whatever its called, I was weeping. The lighting of the flame put me over the edge. I feel hung over this morning.

I had to laugh at myself. I was literally moved to tears by the entrance of Angola? Why were people dressed like statues and a boy in a paper boat so moving? It's not because I'm an athlete, or because I'm super patriotic. It's really odd.

I wish you all a good morning. Let the Games begin. *wiping tears* But first let me drink my coffee.

Bad to the Bone

2004-08-13T13:38:00.000-07:00

I've got a bit of a potty mouth. I try to keep it under wraps, but occasionally I let fly with a few choice expletives. I'm not proud of it, but sometimes it's just the way I need to express something.

Most notably, I do it when I'm rehashing on the telephone with my dear friend. We like to pretend we are cutting edge. She comes up with lots of hilarious sayings. I stick to good old profanity, mixed with hip hop slang that I pick up from my friend PW, (that's Pee-Dub, folks) who assures me that her verbal stylings are authentic and truly "ghetto."

It's not surprising that some of my uh, verbal indiscretions have been regurgitated by my wee ones. I act shocked and scandalized, and bust forth in the Voice Of God:

"Civilized people do not use that language! Children DO NOT use that word. Ever."

Then I go hide in the closet and laugh. I just know I'm going to end up in the principal's office some day, forced to explain how and why my child was able to use swear words in the proper context. Mercy. Anyhoo, I rarely treat the outside world to potentially offensive language.

So, one day I take the kids to the park. We're on the playground, whee! Lots of sand being eaten, lots of yelling kids. I am pushing my youngest in the swing, and holler at my oldest. "You've got sand on your butt!" and make a swiping motion. I turned back to give my swinger a push, and got stared down by another mother.

I smiled, noting that her face did not change. My oldest was feigning deafness, and I gave it another shot. "Wipe the sand off your butt!"

The staring mother now fixed her face into a snarl and descended on me. "We do NOT use that word."

I was genuinely confused. "What word?"

"Bee You Tee Tee. Its foul." She bristled at having to spell it out.

Resisting the urge to laugh, I rearranged my face into an earnest expression and asked "Oh, I didn't know. What are we allowed to say?"

She rolled her eyes and said "Bottom."

Ah! I tried to explain. "But, it is a butt, you know short for buttocks. Not bottom-tocks."

She, I kid you not, held her hand up in my face and said, "I will not listen to your foul language."

She hauled her kid off the swing and shot me a dirty look. "Hey," I called to my oldest. Get your sandy ASS over here, swing's free."

I'm just incorrigible.

Showing Up the Husband

2004-08-12T21:46:00.000-07:00

Just call me the fix-it Goddess. Actually, what happened was not exactly fixing.

We've owned our home for 4 years now. It's a basic tract home, built in the late 70s, a year after asbestos went out of style, and a good 40 years after quality construction became obsolete. Our entire home leans north with the warm and south with the cold. It's a bizarre seasonal change, much like daylight savings time. You wake up one day, and it's just different.

My two oldest kids have learned that you have to grab the door handle to any interior room on the N/S axis and twist hard while simultaneously applying a hip thrust to the door to get it to open in winter. In summer, they swing easier, but we all still do the hip thing out of habit.

A side effect of this is that our front door is loose on it's hinges, and unless we keep the deadbolt thrown, a good jolt will open the door. Donna the dog is some sort of terrier/basenji mix. She's a jumper. We don't have a doggie door, and since the kids have long since kicked out the screens on our front windows (subject for another post), when the windows are open, the dog enters and exits the house like a gazelle. A favorite pastime is sitting on the couch, chucking a ball out the window and watching Donna leap in and out of the house.

Donna has also recently figured out that if she takes the front door at a run, she might just knock it open. I keep it deadbolted unless the kids are in the yard, and it makes me leap a mile into the air every time the dog sprints into the house with a BANG.

On my recent burst of exercise enthusiasm, I purchased a mini trampoline, which I love. It's like jumping on your parent's bed when you were 5. I do pikes and kicks. I do spins. I yip, although quietly. The darn thing is too small to do a proper butt bounce, but believe me, if I could, I would. I turn on TiVo'd Queer Eye and boing away.

At issue is the foundation of our living room. I have to be very careful about placing the mini-tramp, because there are several spots in the room that cause the entire contents of the room to quake when you so much as shift from one cheek to the other on the couch. Merry rebounding threatens to upset the television armoire.

Recently, our TV has displayed degrading signals. Ghosting, acting strange. My husband, who suspects that my children sit in front of the TV ALL DAY accuses me of causing this strange disfunction. "No," I protest. "No, we only watch an hour a day, really." I've really got to work on that.

Right at the start of my hubs' beloved Giants game, the kids were monkeying around, rolling and flailing. Suddenly, the picture goes haywire. It was very I Love Lucy there for a minute. I was trying to deny excess TV usage, my husband is trying to see if all the channels are bad, the kids are whooping and leaping. The hubs collapses on the couch, remote falling dully from his slack hand. The kids tear off to remove the lightbulbs from all the fixtures in the house, and I stand there chewing my lip. Woe, woe... wait, whoa!

I stride to the TV and give it a resounding whack on the top. Instantly, the picture improves. Another whack, and we've got crystal clear reception. I turn to my mechanical engineer husband and with both hands on my hips, I try to keep the snarky grin off my face as I remind him to try not to wiggle too much.

Must've been all the jumping around that knocked something loose inside. I don't know what made me smack the top of the set. It was like one of those hereditary instincts, something built into the genetic code. But I'll tell you, my husband looked at me with a mixture of pure jealousy and awe, and I did my best Fonzi swagger back into the kitchen. I am so cool.

Who is this geared for?

2004-08-12T09:51:00.000-07:00

Oh, okay. I just saw a preview on Nick Jr. for the new show "Lazy Town."

I don't know about you all, but this superhero looks like he's just for Mommies. Yeow. He even has a groovy little accent. And the actor's name is Magnus Scheving. Sha-ving, indeed.

And I was blathering on about no spandex. Sheesh.

Confession time

2004-08-11T19:51:00.000-07:00

The dorkiness continues.

I adore children's television programming. Let's just ignore the fact that I watch WAY too much of it.

In particular, I'm a big closet fan of those song and dance shows. You know, like The Wiggles. I also have a soft spot for Steven Burns late of Blues Clues and of course, the faboo Kratt Bros. I mean, they're cute, great with kids, and REALLY enthusiastic (and you can't tell me that doesn't translate to other areas *wink wink*).

Lately, I've been obsessing on Hi-5 which is a silly skit/musical number show featuring five unbelievably perky young adult performers. Each week there's a new theme, and my kids know all the words and moves. So do I.

I like to pretend I'm 'exercising' with the kids, you know, so it's not just watching TV. I have been overheard telling people that the Wiggly Time video is actually a great workout. Really, the deal is: I love a catchy tune, and a corny routine as much as your average 3 year old. Just like the Solid Gold routines of my formative years, but without the spandex and sexy moves. I sing and dance along with abandon and pretend it's because I'm a good mom.

Mall Mania

2004-08-11T06:58:00.000-07:00

It's my oldest's last day of preschool, ever. I've been procrastinating about what to give her teachers as a thank you gift, especially since we are re-upping and enrolling my soon to be 4 year old son in October. I did gift certificates to Starbucks before Winter Break, which was well received. Is it tacky to do the same thing again?

Obviously, some sort of shopping mission is on the schedule today. We'll go fast, shop hard and return to base before the mall knows what hit 'em. We're well known around our local mall. In a fit of "I'm still hip, doncha know" while pregnant with my son, I bought a leopard print baby sling. I never ponied up for a double stroller. I have a monstrous bike trailer/double stroller, but it won't clear most doorways, let alone aisles in stores. Not that my yahoos will stay seated anyway. Restraints, for the most part, bring out the Houdini in my kids.

Picture this. I have a regular, single stroller with a basket beneath it. I put my son in the stroller, my oldest stands on the basket facing forward, and I wear my youngest in the leopard sling. We are like the Peking Acrobats. Hup hup hup hup *Pose* Hey!

When we come rolling into the mall, it's like those old spaghetti westerns. Shop keepers rush to flip over the 'closed' signs as we pass by. Other shoppers hurry out of our path, throwing worried glances over their shoulders. I half expect to be challenged to a showdown with the Sheriff. "You best get them chillen out of this here mall by sundown, stranger."

There is no such thing as browsing with my herd. I plan each stop of our journey, punctuating with trips to the bathroom and reminders that children who behave get to play with the trains at the toy store. This has backfired on me the last few times. The Parenting Gods recall a time in my smug parent days where I uttered "I can't believe that child is whining and demanding that toy. That mom is a doormat."

Well, lay me down and walk all over me, honey. I have bought the most ridiculous things just to clear the store without a band of villagers chasing me with pitchforks. After an epic, face down, flailing and wailing tantrum by my two big kids at the end of a train-play session the last time around, I have decided never again. I will entice with ice cream.

We also have to go to the library to return books. This is one of those places that make my kids go apeshit. We stand in front of the library for 'the lecture.'

"What are the rules?" I demand. "No running, no jumping, no screaming," the kids chant obediently. "We are clear on this?" I fix them with the old hairy eyeball. "Yes, Mommy," they singsong.

We've been improving. We can usually get the return books on the counter and spend a few minutes browsing the children's section. Waiting in line to check out the books is where it becomes difficult. Someone always has to pee. Someone needs a drink. Someone decides to sing the alphabet song. We've been shushed rather forcefully by the reference librarian. Everyone is relieved when we manage to get everyone back onto the stroller (hup hup hup hup *pose* hey!) and out the door.

Honestly, I don't know if other moms struggle like this. It dawned on me, just now, that my son probably thinks its normal to talk and talk and talk with no one listening, because I have a constant hiss of words streaming from my mouth in public places. "Keep your hands to yourself. Get your feet off the wheels. Don't. No. Please come here. Now, please." I'm so busy correcting my kids that I don't notice if other moms are doing the same thing.

I took one of those internet quizzes a while back - something about your parenting style. It said I was high strung. This gave me pause. I am generally laid back - my house is far from perfect, I don't feel like I'm expecting too much from my kids or myself. From the time that I discovered that my first born would only eat Cheerios if they were scattered on the ground like chicken feed, my visions of idyllic motherhood have gone out the window. Maybe I need to put my head up and stop hissing.

Or maybe I need to buy everything online. Yeah!

Parenting, then and now

2004-08-10T09:17:00.000-07:00

Parenting by the seat of my pants has become second nature. I had a great conversation yesterday with a friend about how we have evolved as mothers.

When I began my parenting journey, it was with all the self-righteousness I could muster. I was ready. I was confident. I read the right books, took the right classes, I was good to go. My birthplan was a five page manifesto, with every eventuality I could imagine mapped out, with what I decided was the proper course of action to be taken by my medical team. That's right, MY medical team, because clearly, I would be the only woman on earth giving birth.

Surrendering myself to childbirth was a great lesson in humility. Having abandoned my birthplan in the car upon arrival, I proceeded to ask for most of the things that I had deemed unnecessary. As I held my newborn, I had to laugh about my cockiness. I had signed up for the biggest, baddest roller coaster in the park, and didn't think that maybe eating a full value meal complete with curly fries while waiting in line was a bad idea. Blaaaaaaah! That moment defined the parenting experience for me, thus far.

Not that it's been all bad. I've had brilliant moments. Transcendent successes. Despite a horrid start, I overcame pain and infection to triumph as a breastfeeding dynamo. I was sticking it to the formula companies. Take that, you evil sabateurs!

When my first baby walked at just under eight months, I was elated. Here was superior proof of my mothering. I made all my own baby food, from organic produce. No byproducts would besmirch the lips of my tiny darling. I was cooking crazy amounts of broccoli and freezing it in cocktail ice cube trays. I fed her sweet-potato pureed with tofu. I was HARD CORE. Not one cookie passed her lips until she was over 18 months. (Unless my mom slipped her one, which I can fully believe. I was really crazy.)

I videotaped hours and hours of my child, from the lima bean baby to the toddler with the precision pigtails. What strikes me about these early videos is my voice in the background. I was so perky and cutesy. Bleh. "Look at mommy! Oooh! Such a biiiiig girl. Do your trick! Show mommy! Yay!" This is also the time in my life where I asserted that "NO child of mine will perform like a trained monkey." Well, note to me, because I have it all on tape.

I would love to have the hundreds of dollars I spent on miscellaneous baby gear at the Right Start. If it said "educational" or "parent's choice award" somewhere on the packaging, I bought it. I had professional portraits taken once a month, and mailed them out to friends and relatives. I FILLED OUT HER BABY BOOK.

I was horrified when visiting a friend with twin two year olds. She held my innocent baby close enough for them to breathe on her, and I wanted to snatch her away and run for it. I passed judgment on other mothers, albeit in my head. I was critical of obnoxious children and their clueless parents. I was sad for those women who seemed weary and tired, uninteresting in the darling story their child was chirping.

And then I had another baby. And another. And suddenly I realize that I've become those moms I used to scoff at. Actually, I'm probably worse. The burning desire to win a blue ribbon for superior mothering is gone, replaced by the mild surprise that despite my parenting fumbles and lack of blueprints, we're not only surviving, but thriving.

My 20 month old can order her own Happy Meal. I have failed utterly at convincing my children that play time can be quiet and doesn't need to involve destruction. My visions of tidy baskets filled with educational toys have been eclipsed by an explosion of Polly Pocket rubber clothes. My son talks and talks and talks. I am weary, wary and worried. I am full of expectations, frustration and sheer joy at the unpredictable beings I share my life with.

Recent videos are narrated with "Put your tongue away. Back away from the camera. Get off of your sister. Hey, you guys, come on. Stop with the faces. GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF YOUR NOSE!"

I have a whole spate of friends who will deliver their second child this year. In my wicked, know-it-all core, I curl my lip and bark out a derisive laugh when they cheerfully recount the preparations they have taken to prepare for their new arrival. But it's not in my nature to be a naysayer. I hope their transformation to mother of more than one will be as wonderful as mine.

You know you've earned respect amongst your peers when you get a phone call saying "Don't take this the wrong way, but I figured you would know if bird poop is poisonous to ingest..." followed later that afternoon by "Why is my daughter having potty accidents when we are out of the house again?" If it's poop or misbehavior related, I'm the go-to girl. Seen it, done it, cleaned it up. At least twice.

One thing I know for certain: I may not be the best mother out there. I'm not going to win any sainted mother awards. But I'm going to have some rich comedy material for years to come.

True Identity

2004-08-09T08:46:00.000-07:00

My 20 month old received her first pair of boots from my mom yesterday. Not just any, boots, mind you - pink cowboy boots with silver stars. This gave my inner cowgirl a thrill, and she seemed pretty darn pleased. She pranced around, giddy at the sight of her twinkin' toes.

Once we got home, she asked me to take them off. I placed them on the hall bench at bedtime.

I waddled into the kitchen this morning with my usual trail of ducklings, and as we passed the bench, the baby grabbed the boots. She wouldn't let me put them on her feet. She wanted them on her arms, where she waved them around like she was conducting an orchestra while singing,

"Winkle, winkle, STAR, wunner ARE, uppa-bubba-HIGH, mmmmmm SKY!" This was followed by an instrumental version, consisting of growling the tune while banging the boots on the cupboards.

(We're still working on the lyrics, obviously. We're thinking American Idol 2018.)

I really need a pair of pink cowboy boots with silver stars. Sometimes you just want to let the world know who you are without saying a word. I can't think of a better piece of apparel that would tell it like it is:

Unbowed by fashion convention.
Likes shiny things.
Values humor above all.
Secretly gallops and slaps hip when no one is looking.
Basically, a dork.
Prone to emitting "Wahoo!" as a multipurpose response.

Of course, I'm sure I'll never get them. Just like I'll never get a tattoo that doesn't wash off or place a bumper sticker on my car. Spend a few minutes with me and decide for yourself whether I'm "SEXY" or that "IT'S ALL ABOUT ME"... no need to rely on my tshirt's opinion.

It's like all these internet quizzes. We all take them. Do I think they tell me anything valuable, or are truly revealing? Heck, no. What country are you? What 80s rock band? What is your flirting style? Are we searching for affirmation of who we are, or looking for new ways to define ourselves?

"Why yes, I'm Ireland. Also, I'm a coy cutie, with a Def Leppard streak." I would love to know if anyone puts this information to good use. It is just another symptom of my flair for wasting time on the internet.

What day is this? Where am I?

2004-08-07T22:03:00.000-07:00

I'm ready for the hubs to come home now. I've lost track of all time. Even the little things are out of whack. Night and day seem to have melted like some freaky twilight. I have served strange meals, at strange times, to children who don't seem to know that two o'clock in the morning is the WRONG time to be awake. We are clearly not right.

"Silly fool," you say? "Just keep putting them back in bed, as many times as it takes." Sounds great. But we're resigned co-sleepers from way back. We start the kids off each evening in their own beds, but the 3 am migration and subsequent family bonding has me stiff and sore each morning.

Oh, sure. You'll hear me testifying on the beauty of a king sized mattress, glory hallelujah! I pontificate on the benefits of extended breastfeeding, of baby-wearing and most things AP. However, I spent the wee hours of the morning in the company of a 20 month old child who had places to go, people to see and very specific things she wanted to watch on TV, "Now. NOW!" and I'm exhausted.

It dawned on me that my youngest hasn't nursed in a few days. I think we're done. It was a non-event, like so many of the milestones I've crossed with this last baby of mine. Suddenly, she's got a mouth full of teeth, an opinion on everything and the beginnings of the vocabulary to get it all said. She just hasn't asked to nurse, and I just haven't offered.

I had big plans for the final nursing. The bittersweet pangs, the last time seeing my child at my breast, with her pudgy hand resting in my cleavage. I thought I'd utter something profound, to mark the occasion, perhaps a sentimental verse. I planned to have a bonfire with my well-worn nursing bras.

I'm actually relieved to have missed the moment. Sentimental moments tend to feel contrived. I shed a few tears writing this, but there is pride in completion, too. I actually had a child self-wean. Woooo! Score one for my crunchy alter-ego.

121 weeks pregnant. 53 months nursing. A child entering kindergarten, one entering preschool (if I can get him to stop crapping his pants) and one now weaned. When you bust all the numbers out, it's pretty impressive. These little statistics are thriving, and I'm so scattered that I need to blog it as it happens to keep it straight.

I am SO going to celebrate this rest-stop in my mothering road trip. Its all good.

Never Made Employee of the Month

2004-08-06T21:35:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned that I'm a lousy employee. Working for The Man generally involves regular schedules and pantyhose or a polyester uniform. I know the Japanese have entire fetish books dedicated to food service uniforms, but they made me itch. Poly-blend pants don't flatter, if you know what I mean.

Over the years, there have been many memorable moments in my illustrious quest for a paycheck. Flirting with the cute boys from Foot Locker with a glob of chocolate chip on the side of my nose while slinging cookies for Mrs Fields. Selling a costume to the man of my teenage dreams while dressed like Bozo the Clown at a Halloween kiosk. The boss who honestly thought my name was Cindy, and made a point of using it every time he passed my desk. "Well, hell-low Cindy." Yeah, hello, jackass. I have a sign ON MY DESK that has real name on it.

I've held some of the stupidest jobs ever. Cooking hot dogs on a used car lot for customers during a big sale? Check. Worked as a greeter at the same lot... yeah, that's right. I was so cool. "Hello, folks, I'm a nice young lady, and I'm not trying to sell you anything, but if you'll kindly tell me what y'all are here for, I will fetch a salesperson down here to harass you."

I was a telemarketer for a month. We were supposed to be selling tickets for some sort of fundraiser, and we were calling from the white pages in the phone book. Guess who got the page with 100 'Dick' listings? God, I almost wet myself trying to keep it cool. "Good evening, Mr. Dick. Uh, hello, is this the Dick residence?"

Hands down, the worst incident had to be during my stint as a bank teller. I'm barely five feet tall, and I sat on a high stool at my teller window. It was lunch hour during the holidays, and customers were getting really cranky. We had a policy that if you waited in line for more than five minutes, the bank would give you five bucks.

I had just run out of fives when this disgusting man steps to the counter. He was dirty and stinky and pulled a few wadded up bills out of a pocket. He held a filthy finger up at me and proceeded to pull the collar of his tshirt up to his nose and emptied both sinus cavities.

I'm sitting there horrified as he allows his shirt to drop back against his skin. I choke back my revulsion and say "Deposit?" in a perky voice. He grunts "I been in line like twenty minutes. I want my fiver."

"Why certainly, sir," I chirp and lean down to my bottom cupboard to look for another banded stack of five dollar bills. As I straightened up, I misjudged the edge of my counter. I whacked the back of my head with a resounding boom that apparently echoed throughout the branch. I didn't get the full effect, since I plummeted from the stool like I was dead.

I was out cold, laying splayed on the floor. When I came around, I realized that I had just knocked myself cold and no one noticed a thing. I sat up, looked around at my fellow bank slaves, and they were so busy being grossed out by my customer (he was now digging for gold and making hairball noises) that they didn't see my spectacular idiocy. Even my customer seemed unconcerned.

Turns out he was just there for the five bucks, he didn't even have an account with us. I gave it to him anyway, then bummed a couple of tylenol and headed out to buy a new pair of pantyhose, because yes, I managed to snag mine on the cabinet on my way down.

I pretty much decided I didn't want to be in banking after that. It just didn't feel right.

The Verdict Is In

2004-08-05T17:04:00.000-07:00

Under threat of VERY LONG TIMEOUTS and with the promise of French fries after the appointment, we embarked on our visit to the doctor. I seriously think there is some sort of frenzy inducing noise or smell that only my son can detect, which exists in places where hushed conversation and cranky people abound. Damn. We enter the building and he goes nuts. He's swinging on the ropes. He's jumping up and down on one foot. He races to the germ-filled sick kid toy quarantine area and LAYS HIS FACE down on the magnetic play table.

I'm trying to keep my cool, the receptionist is feeling chatty and taking her sweet time swiping and stamping and gathering. I must have looked like a kid who has to go to the bathroom really bad, because I was sort of hopping up and down, making "you. get. over. here. now." faces at my son, who is blissfully blathering on and on about something to the waiting room at large. They called us almost immediately, and I shepherded all the kids back to the exam room.

The two girls were great. The boy was all over the road. He spun in circles. He kicked off his shoes, he climbed on all the chairs. He talked and talked and talked. After a brief exam and a conversation with the doctor, I watched my son yank open the door, run down the hall to the nurses' station, perform a crazy dance that involved patting his hip and stomping to much laughter and applause, and then disappear around the corner into the scary play area. Mercy.

Dr. Hot Hot Hot says we've got good tonsils and adnoids, no worries there. He wants us to try a decongestant before bed, and nasal steroids in the morning for a while. Hooray! A plan of action. Of course, drugging him morning and night sounds like a plan I would have come up with during one of my blacker moods. I was thinking along the lines of tranquilizer darts and a blow gun, but we'll try the nasal spray first.