Absence of Writer and Abs.

Wow, you guys. I am really bad at this. THIS. You know! *gestures vaguely around*

The last weeks and months have been a blur of capital BUSY. I wake up, I get the kids to school, I run around and do errands and chores and start my work day, I pick Toby up, I work all afternoon, pick Jack up from school, settle the kids in with snack, get dinner started, eat, put kids to bed, and end my evening in a vegetative state in front of the television.

Lather, rinse, repeat - 5 days a week.

And the thing is, really, truly, it's fantastic. I'm frazzled, I'm exhausted, and I'm having trouble keeping straight the day of the week or remembering when I last put on mascara... and I honestly feel like I am in my element, at last. I really do. I'm earning a paycheck and helping support my family, I have purpose every minute of my day, and despite the fact that nearly all of my favorite pasttimes have had to be put on hold for the moment, I am about 99% content. And still managing to love and smooch my charming offspring and spouse and not yell nearly as much as I usually do.

I am also 100% in need of a way to find time to update this here blog regularly, because my brain pan is getting pretty full and I really do require the exhaust valve of WRITING. Even bad writing. And technically speaking, I *could* have spent Midnight to 3am last night doing that - the writing thing - but it was otherwise earmarked for... (*looks around to be sure we are alone, then leans in and says in semi-shamed whisper*) the Twilight - New Moon movie.

THERE! I said it. Also, in case you are interested, the award for best acting officially goes to Taylor Lautner's abs because OH-EM-GEE. I think I had my first cougar moment. Seriously, thanks a lot Chris Weitz for throwing that in my face and reminding me that I am too, too old to be drooling over jail bait. JAIL. BAIT. And yes, if a 30-year-old man was drooling vocally and publically over a 17-year-old actress I would be totally disgusted and probably call him bad names. I feel the appropriate level of shame for squealing like a tween at several key (and usually shirtless) moments in the movie. And I have to live with myself now!

And yet ...still totally toying with the idea of making a cafe press shirt that says "Team Jacob....'s Abs" because HALLO 8 PACK! And while we're at it... Hallo the rest of you shirtless werewolf types! And, uh, a casual nod in the direction of Edward's shirtless torso because.. meh. Rob? Honey? We both know I've been faithfully adoring you from afar these many months... But, Sugar? I REALLY hope you did a few sit-ups between New Moon and Eclipse. Pasty White is not easy to wear well -- trust me, I'm an expert on the particular subject -- but my eyes are still kinda sore from the glare of Shapeless Shirtless Edward after basking in the glow of the Honey-Rich Buffness of the aforementioend shirtless werewolves for the other 2 hours of the film.

Also, note to self, apparently there is a very good reason I don't usually go see movies after 11pm. That is obviously prime "Crazy" time for developing inappropriate crushes on teenage movie actors and composing abstract monologues to fictional vampires with sadly non-six-packed fishbellies.

Aaaaaand... at least for now.... that's all she wrote.

Come On And Ride The (CRAZY) Train

I've been slowly getting my energy back (I'm crediting the vitamins. Hello B12, and where have you been all my life?!)

The children have been acting somewhat more human that usual, too.  

My husband has been falling over himself to be Mr. Helpful, especially after I dared him to go 24 hours without acting like a playground pigtail puller.  (You like that alliteration, don't you.)  He even managed to do it -- he didn't tease, cajole, or otherwise provoke me for 2 entire days, actually.  And suddenly we were done bickering.  (Coincidence? Oh, I think not, Mr. T).

So I should have been on cloud nine.  Everything seemed to be coming together.  

And then, last week, I started falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon again.  I started crying for no reason.  I started snarling like a rabid she-wolf every time anyone came near me.

That's about the time I realized it had been a good 6 weeks since my last period.

...

Mull that over for a moment, won't you?  You'll recall I have 3 boys ages 6 and under.  Also, 2 cats, a dog, and 1 Beta fish.  My baby is exactly 10 months old.  So, you know, perfect time for a pregnancy scare!

...

I have never been so happy NOT to see that second pink line appear.  Or the second pink line on the second pregnancy test I took.  Or the third.  Or the... well, you get the idea.  See, the tests kept coming up negative, and yet... no visit from Aunt Flo.  The weeks rolled on. And on. And on.  My mental state got worse and worse, and I sorta became convinced that a positive pregnancy test was only a matter of time.

So you'll understand when I say I was about ready to throw a parade, complete with ticker-tape, when the crimson tide finally rolled in.  Relief! Not another baby!  Congratulations, WE ARE NOT PREGNANT.

So, of course, we celebrated this reprieve the only reasonable way.  Reasonably INSANE, that is. Because I am crazy.  If you doubted it before, you will doubt no longer.

Into the midst of our finally settled existence, wherein my hormones finally kicked into proper gear and the rabid she-wolf went back into hibernation, I decided to drop a grenade.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the newest member of The Family Aum.  Meet Her Ladyship, The Duchess Stevie Nicks of Cue Ball.  We call her Stevie.

Her turn-offs include being left alone for any amount of time (even if you just needed to make a tinkle and PLEASE, dog, for the love of Bob, stop crying outside the bathroom door!), and sleeping anywhere that is not in our bed, preferably curled up next to your face on the pillow (which is cool and all, except when you wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself face-to-face with doggy taint. I don't care HOW cute she is, there's nothing cute about a dog's bung hole.) 

All that said, HOLY HANNA MONTANA, how cute is she?!

A Funny Thing Happened

Turns out the mag charger isn't as indestructible as you might think.

Turns out that it's not as easy to find a replacement out here in the sticks as it ought to be.

Turns out that weeks later I got used to not having access to the interwebs.  I've been busy doing things like watching my little man graduate kindergarten and making a wedding cake.  And that's just the tip of it.

So I've been away. And now I'm back. And while I'm too tired tonight to put together a coherent retelling of the past few weeks for you, I promise one will be coming soon.  Probably it will mostly be pictures.  I know you won't mind.

Cheers and see you soon.

Am I Yet Living, You Say?

Oh, internets. It has been a wild ride, these last few (blog silence) weeks. And I have all sorts of things to share with you, but - unfortunately for you - my mac charger is still broken and still unreplaced. I KNOW! The horror! (first world problems. I have them.)

So here I am down in husband's basement office to steal a few moments on his computer while the kids are otherwise occupied. Our basement is "partially finished" - which is realtor speak for "has a corner blocked off with what are technically walls and something resembling carpet, but the cats have been using this room as their Special Box whenever hubs doesn't change the litter soon enough and there are at least 3 piles of cat poop in here and I am SO not cleaning that up. Have fun, Babe.)

So ANY-who. Yeah. That's about the size of it around here and - oh! - I cut off all my hair! No, I didn't shave my head early - that's coming in March. No, I just had a wild inclination and I went with it. So now I have a burgundy pixie cut... where "pixie cut" equates to a half teaspoon of surf wax and "LOOK! Hair all done!" Messy-on-purpose suits me as a look the same way it suits me as a lifestyle choice. heh. (take that how you will.)

But I promise to be back in the saddle soon. And I'll tell you all about the exciting world of diaper changing! And Milk Blisters! and CAKEOHMYGOODNESSTHE CAKE. There is a lot of it. And in the mean time, please to be reading here and here and here ... and just meld them together in the blender of your brain, pour into a cup, consume, and you'll basically have a good summary idea of where I have been for the past few weeks. It should last you until I can get a new macbook mag charger. (Hopefully before the next ice age?)

Love and Kisses,
MeL

She Bangs.

So the other day my hair, which has been left uncut and growing free (and so very earth-mother since about June)  was getting in my face.  This was bothering me for some unknown reason, so I did what any reasonably insane woman would do: I cut bangs.  In my bathroom sink.  Which successfully transformed me into a reasonable facsimile of a 6-year-old girl.

I went with it for 24 hours. Partially because - hey, why not? - and partially because it was New Years' Day and everything was closed.  Short of taking a set of hedge clippers to my 'do, there wasn't much to be done.

So yesterday I walked into ye olde local hair salon (the cheap one, because I can't currently rationalize paying the prices at the good place) and off came about 8 inches of hair. 

Long story short, here we are.  Meet MeL 2009.  

Hopefully the hair is just the first step towards a return to MeL 2007 or - even better - MeL 2002.  Which is to say, internets, I have about 50 pounds to lose. Won't you join me as I embark on this obviously insane attempt?

"ASDFJKL" or "How you like me NOW, Suckah?!".

Do you see? Do you see how I am typing like a normal human and not like LOLCats on the crack?  This is because I now have the ability to use the keys in the home row that are not G or H.  Yes, that's right, the ENTIRE home row except for G and H keys on my once trusty Dell totally crapped out on me, leaving me scrambling for a way to actually type the letters asdfjkl.   Can you BEGIN to understand the massive suckage?

"So how, then, dear MeL, are you now typing in the usual fashion?" you must be asking.

How, my friends, is a magical story indeed... a story of me posting this morning about how my magical MacBook would arrive in a cloud of fairy dust tomorrow, only to then check the FedEx website and realize that my prize had made it onto the truck A WHOLE DAY EARLY for delivery.

I decided to take a celebratory shower. (Well, that and the fly that was buzzing around me at breakfast were the inspiration, really, but let's not squabble over details; I have been without proper computerage for nearly a week now, and my husband has been in the Czech Republic while I have single-handedly parented our small offspring for a whole 5 days, so it's best we don't talk about the drop in standards for my personal hygiene when faced with the prospect of endless hours of Handy Manny and Little Einsteins while attempting to fold 6 loads of clean laundry.  Because I might have to CUT YOU, and we wouldn't want that.)

Actually, we REALLY wouldn't want that, because then you wouldn't get to hear about how I jumped into the shower and had just finished washing my hair when I heard the dog barking to signal someone at the door.  Now, because I had to actually SIGN for this delivery, I faced a small dilemma.

Apparently the dilemma was extraordinarily minor; I jumped from the shower dripping wet and stark naked, threw on my dirty pants and a zip-up sweatshirt and ran for the door in one swift motion.  At least, it was swift in my head -- in reality, it was likely the ponderous and lumbering gate you'd expect of a woman six-months-pregnant, but it felt much faster.

And the FedEx guy?  Bless him with angel kisses and unicorns, he waited for me.  I guess the half-naked urchin children peeking out at him from the windows clued him in that someone was home.  

And so, dear friends, it is that I type this little tale on the pristine keyboard of my beautiful new MacBook.  (BOOK! I CAN TYPE THE LETTER K! AM PARALYZED WITH JOY!)

Tomorrow, perhaps I shall post photos of my new paramour.  Assuming I have gotten over the basking in its beauty by then. (Does licking void the warranty?)  Also, I may or may not post a photo of my dog in a baseball cap... because, at the end of the day, I'm not so much higher brow than LOLCats after all.

Decisions, Decisions...

So we had actively decided to take a family vacation to the Outer Banks this year. I looked up a few likely suspects for a one-week rental house and we tossed around ideas for a few dates.

THEN, Big Daddy T's Mama decided that she is going to treat herself, for her very special birthday this year, to a one-month rental in August... and invited us to spend whatever portion of that month with her that we would like.

Holy. Freaking. Awesome.

THEN, Big Daddy T tells me that Sure, why not, why don't I go ahead and stop pining for the BlogHer conference this year and go ahead and GO already. I mean, it's in San Fran (Hello Old Stomping Grounds!), in the middle of the summer when kids are out of school and weather is beautiful, and it's before I'll be so pregnant that the notion of waddling around San Fran would feel less like a luxury and more equivalent to a waterboarding.

So I'm thinking about it. And I'm also thinking about maybe using his frequent-flyer miles to truck my happy behind out to Rome, Italy and visit with my brother and his lovely wife and their adorable children.

But I can hardly rationalize, even to my spoiled self, taking both trips alone this year. Especially, really, when you include the fact that I'll likely get to spend a few weeks basking in the salt-spray of the Outer Banks come August.

So it's decision time. And I have to figure out what I want to do more... Finally get my chance to accost Dooce and make a fool of myself with the laughing and the weeping on her tiny, tiny shoulder and maybe compare buddha bellies with the also-pregnant Amalah (and probably end up with a restraining order by the time I finish frightening these and the rest of my favorite blogging Mamas..) Except for the effervescent MochaMomma, who I'm sure totally won't take it the wrong way if I happen to suddenly lick her face or perhaps administer a firm smack to her posterior...

OR...

I could finally have a real excuse to get a passport and, at long last, set foot in Europe. Not just any part of Europe, but ROME, people! The architecture, the history, the art, the FOOD. I'd also mention the wine but, sadly, the fetus in my belly makes that impossible. But still... ROME!

Seriously, I should always be faced with such dilemmas. Like winning the lottery and having to choose Bulk Payout or Incremental. Still and all, though, it's going to be a difficult thing to make up my mind....

Better Late Than Never (No Pun Intended)

I am late posting this, I realize. And now that it's Saturday there is a good chance that you people have lives (as opposed to, say, yours truly, who is at this moment also watching Johnny and the Sprites and just realized there are no children in the room. Send help. And cookies.)

But I have good reasons. I really do. You see, I am also.. well, LATE.

Yes, that kind of late.

Because I have not yet achieved optimum crazy, we will be welcoming Small Person Who Expects To Be Fed and Cared For Number Three this fall. Somewhere in the interim we will also be holding a "Bon Voyage and it was nice knowin' ya" party for the few parts of my body not yet covered in stretch marks.

Actually, though, so that there's no confusion here: We Are Ecstatic. I am ecstatic. Of course, I am also so tired that I keep falling asleep before nine o'clock. And I may or may not have eaten an entire pan of peach cobbler before bed last night - can't say for sure.

But, yes. Hello internets. In case you didn't already know?

Fertile as the Tennessee Valley in this house. Enjoy your weekend, and tune in Monday to hear more fascinating facts... like how I suddenly can't eat my favorite breakfast sandwiches, or how all milk and cheese suddenly smells like feet.

I can just feel your anticipation!

Slow, Slow, Quick-Quick..sorta

Let's get the quick-quick out of the way first, shall we?

I am still sorta slacking. But not really. But I'll explain more after Thursday afternoon. No, I can't explain that statement further right now, but suffice it to say that after Thursday I will be back to blogging with regularity and I will explain everything then.

Ahem.

Second quickie? I am still sick. Yesterday I was feeling better. Today I am feeling worse. Also I think I might have blown my nose hard enough this morning to extrude a small piece of brain tissue. Chomp on THAT visual for a while. And then realize it was about 10 times more disgusting than you imagined it.

On to the slow. And the painful.

I am fairly ambivalent when it comes to football teams in general and the Patriots in particular... But, being married to a rabid Pats fan, I do my wifely duty and cheer them on. Last night we had a few friends over to watch the game and gorge on way too much good food (Hello Puerto Rican Meatballs, and where have you been all my life?).

And so it was that slowly, yet surely, my husband's soul was crushed last night. All his hopes and dreams, the incredible high of this past season, the anticipation of a "Nineteen games! Undefeated!".... these things were smashed to teeny-weeny-smithereeniez.

So, to get to the crux of my dilemma... I can't bring myself to really put more sincerity into it than a wistful "Oh, that's too bad, isn't it." How, then, dear internet, am I possibly supposed to cheer up poor T? What is the accepted protocol for this sort of thing. Is there a hallmark card for this scenario? Or do I just have to ride it out until the start of Soccer season? (When he can put all his hopes on his other team, the one I actually care enough to root for on my own, our beloved D.C. United). (Not that I actually watch all their games with him because.. hello!.. scripted television requires my attention, y'all.)

The only other competition that might be able to cheer him is the Super Tuesday race tomorrow. I usually don't get rabid about politics -- I try to be as measured as possible, keeping my mind open to new information, etc. But in this case, I'm actually getting hopeful, nay, excited at the possibility of the DNC actually getting my candidate on the ticket this year.

It all really came together for me after the South Carolina primary. It was the first time I had actually listened to a full speech by Barack Obama, and by the end of it I was nodding my head with enthusiasm and even occasionally pointing at the television and (okay, if I'm totally honest) also maybe I was yelling "Yes! Exactly!" like a bag lady talking to her cats.

But at that moment, I bought into it. Into the evangelizing, into the stirring words and the impassioned voice. At that moment I believed that my vote might actually count for something in this next election, that maybe this godawful war in Iraq won't really trail endlessly on into the next century, that maybe the economy doesn't have to stay in the crapper. Most importantly, I began to think it possible that the intolerance and the paranoia that have stripped away so many of the sacred civil liberties that should be protected in this country - the very things that give us something worth protecting and defending - could be restored.

In the frantic and rabid race to "go out and get our enemies and crush them where we find them" etc, etc, etc hawkishness of the recent-past, I have done some serious soul-searching. I honestly believe that if the US turns into a place where we justify the use of torture, where we spy on our own citizens without warrant or probable cause, where we detain people for months or years without the benefit of legal protection or counsel... if we continue further down the path that the current administration placed us on... well, in my mind, we become a country and a way of life no longer worth defending.

If you have to destroy it in order to defend it, you've already lost the battle.

And listening to Barack Obama, rereading some of his previous speeches and looking at the people who would be working with him and around him were he to become the next president...

I can't help but begin to hope that all the things I love most about this country - about the way of life we profess to protect, the ideals we hold as our foundation - might be restored and even magnified, after all.

Obama '08.

*Stepping carefully down from soapbox, because I am clumsy and fall down quite easily*

Okay, I promise, no more hot-buttons for a while. Just hot tea and a warm couch. SNIFFLE.

Alive and Kicking.. and Maybe Biting.

I swear I'm still here. Just very, very tired and attempting to keep up with the pace that these men in my life are setting for me. It's not easy.

Especially when two of them are running circles around me most of the day, attempting either to strangle each other or pile on the dog.

Fear not, however, for I shall return. Soon. With more brilliant and fascinating parenting tales. Like how Jack is learning to wipe his own behind after making magic in the potty.

And yes - I really did marry a man who refers to that particular activity as "Making Magic". And I still consent to sleep with him on occasion. Even though he is passing this mystifying colloquialism on to our children.

But he also washes dishes, so really... like so many things in life... it's a trade-off.

Like how you, dear internets, wait to see what else I will come up with or what catastrophe will yet strike our little family. It's like watching a train wreck, isn't it? You want to look away, but you're captivated against your will.

Also probably a fair description of what is must be like to be married to me... the woman who shares your personal scatalogical vernacular with the world.

In truth? I'm fairly cartain that, beyond the oft-mentioned impressive rack, he only puts up with me because I will play video games with him and because we both like our steaks a bit bloody in the center.

I'm a catch, y'all.

Parental Advisory: Contains Irrational Levels of Cheer

My voice may be cracking like a pubescent teenager (thanks to The Cold That Will Not Die), but I soldiered on and gamely attempted to sing Jack's bedtime song. Sure enough, it was as painful to hear as it was to sing. Like listening to a CD after it's been put through a garbage disposal.

Finally, Jack tilted his head to the side, looked at my quizically, and said:

"Mommy? How did your voice get scratched?"

I so love the way his little mind works. Four-year-olds are awesome.

-------

Days passed, and my voice is now returning to my normal timbre. (If "normal" translates to "roughly the tone and pitch of a sixteen-year-old girl").

My body is still in open revolt - and it is, indeed, revolting at present. I really need to find a home for the rest of the Christmas fudge before the weight I lost creeps back up on me... in the form of dimpled, fudgy thighs. Despite this, though, the last week has been something of a honeymoon period. I find myself enjoying activities I usually dread: doing laundry, washing dishes, consciously breathing before 8am.

I think that my week away was some sort of watershed event -- though, for the life of me, I can't figure out exactly what epiphany I had. Maybe it was being around my family without being paralytically self-conscious for the first time in a decade or more. Maybe it was the reminder of some of the dysfunctional relationships that rampage through my kin. Maybe it was just the opportunity for breathing room and the chance to gain a little perspective.

Whatever the cause may be, this unexpected wave of Joie De Vivre is coming in past the swells and heading for the breakers. Tonight I actually took down the exterior Christmas decorations - and it's not even February, y'all! I may have to stop myself before I put an end to world hunger or single-handedly resolve conflict in the Middle East. Or clean out our basement storage. (That last one, by the way? Easily the most difficult. I would post photographic proof, but then you would all be privy to my dark, dark shame, and then I'd have to avoid your calls and screen all my evites to make sure we don't accidentally attend the same party because ...awkward!!!)

But suffice it to say I am doing my best to accomplish as much as I can before whatever Happy Hoodoo this is wears off and I'm back to glaring menacingly at the breakfast dishes and cursing the heavens when Toby manages to remove his diaper and use his crib as a urinal. At least for now, though, it really is All Good.