Ka Lee For Nee Yah!

T headed out last night for California and the Game Developer's Conference. But I'm not at all bitter. Not at all. I swear. I mean, sure, he'll get to meet Will Wright - creator of Sim City and, more importantly, the brains behind The Sims, which is possibly the most addictive game in history (Or at least a close second to World of Warcraft) and he'll get to drive around in the California sunshine and eat subs on REAL sourdough bread and... but I'm not at all bitter. Really.

I'm really not a "gamer". I didn't grow up with computers - I wasn't allowed to touch our family IBM 386 until I was in high school, and even then it was only for word processing purposes. While my brothers were getting nintendos and segas and playstations I usually got books or clothes. I can only assume it was because I am a girl, and therefore would have no use for the possible career opportunities involved with computers because I was *supposed* to be married by 19 and making babies. SO, I got a late start in the computer arena and had to teach myself html from books and website tutorials at age 21 (because, to the great disappointment of my 432785743826 relatives, I remained unmarried until the ripe old age of 23.)

But I digress. I got into gaming after meeting T, starting really with Diablo 2 (which was totally a gateway drug to WoW.) And now I don't have much time for it, but I still the over-the-top culture of it all. And sure, GDC is more about hard-core game building than about Lara Croft lookalikes in tight leather (see E3 ) but just to sit in a room with some of those creative brains would be like catnip for me. I find a lot of similarities between the creation of some of the game storylines and the creation of a good book. Many of them create totally inclusive worlds with histories and storylines that rival many epic book series currently in print.

Besides the fact that T will be hanging in San Jose, near my old Walnut Creek stomping grounds in the SF Bay area. I've been trying to get back to Cali for about 8 years now. I'm still working on it. Unfortunately, he found me when I tried to hide in his suitcase and informed me I would never make it through security that way and didn't I realize the children might get hungry before Friday. To which I replied "Children? We have Children? I'm sorry, I was distracted by that shiny thing over *there* - on the west coast. Yes, that - see? It's called Sunshine."

Candy In My Heels Tonight, Baybee

Tuesday night was a watershed in motherhood for me. It was my first night out without ANY kids since before Toby was born. (5 months and 2 days, but who's counting?) I drove T's car (the blue batmobile) out to Melissa's house for drinks with the girls.

Turns out, Melissa's house USED to be our friends Dave & Tracy's house. Totally bizarre - two couples we know who don't know each other, but one bought the house from the other over a year ago and I just found this out. The world suddenly felt very, very small.

T had both boys all to himself. I felt a mild terror as I pulled out of the driveway in a car without car seats. As I cranked up the radio, though (to many many decibels over child-safe volumes for the first time in eons) my apprehension gave way to a feeling suspiciously close to that time I "borrowed" my mom's minivan to take my friends out for milkshakes at 2am. "So THIS is what freedom feels like!"

As it turns out, Toby cried for over an hour while I was gone but T, bless his heart, decided not to call me in a panic. Which totally saved my night, because I would not have been able to enjoy the evening as much as I did had I felt I really needed to be home to comfort my little cherub. So, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding at home, I settled into Melissa's comfy sofa and engaged in deliciously frivolous conversation with the girls over a glass of Rum Punch.

For a few glorious hours I felt like my old self -- not Mel the wife or homemaker or the mama, just plain Mel... who is still just crazy enough to entertain a room full of women by shaking her groove thing to the Napoleon Dynamite soundtrack.

Don't bother searching for Flickr photos of THAT particular adventure, I made everyone sign an NDA. Suffice it to say you would, indeed, have known this boogie was for real...

Control Issues

I'm creating a new category for OCD. It won't have any medical credibility, but it's the only way I can think of to explain my own little mental-trap.

I create mental checklists obsessively. Laundry. Dishes. Vacuum. Pick up Toys. Make Beds. Feed Kids. Change Diapers.

The caring for the kids stuff takes priority, especially the whole feeding and changing thing. But I've found that no matter what I'm doing, or how heavily I am sweating in the midst of some back-braking chore, I feel like I'm somehow failing in my duties. If I'm bathing the kids, I feel like I should be doing laundry. If I'm doing laundry I feel like I should be entertaining the kids. When I'm entertaining the kids I feel like I should really be vacuuming.

I know that SuperNanny Jo Frost would say I just need to make up a strict schedule and stick to it - that the kids and I both need the benefit and security of a routine. The problem is, when I get into a routine I start to freak out too. PK described it the other day as that feeling where you know that you were not cut out to work on an assembly line -- the not knowing exactly how the day is going to go is the only thing that keeps the repetetive quality of the tasks from driving you insane. (This is the part where I again mention that PK has to get out of my brain because IT'S BEGINNING TO SCARE ME. Seriously - she is the only other person I have ever met who absolutely cannot stand White Noise.)

But back to topic. This morning I am so overwhelmed by all the chores we left undone when we headed out for a weekend at a mountain cabin, I don't know where to begin. I keep starting and stopping, getting halfway through one task before getting sidetracked by another. In the mean time, Toby was napping in 10 minute increments because I hadn't gotten around to putting him down in his crib until now (where he is presently screaming his head off at the indignity).

I never watch Desperate Housewives - I just couldn't get into it, too campy, too snarky or something - but I got the last few minutes of it when I recorded Grey's Anatomy last night, and I suddenly felt an uncomfortable kinship to Bree Van De Kamp. Here is a woman who is a total control freak with a life that is totally out of control. For a show that I consider way too over the top to be relatable, I felt a squirmy sense of recognition at the concept.

I can't help but feel that on some level, my inner control freak has become so overwhelmed by all the variables I am unable to control (and my innate resistance to hyper-scheduling) that I am paralyzed to the point of near-total inability to act.

Poison Control

Mental Subtitle: Ode to the Mr Yuck Moron Who Completely Ruined My Thursday.

Toby is in the opening stages of the teething game. Basically, he gnaws on everything in sight, gets cranky for no apparent reason, and uses my juggies as human chew toys. This is all lead-up to explain why we had the homeopathic teething tablets out on Wednesday night. It also explains why, after that sleepless night, I was slow-moving and cranky on Thursday morning.

I popped downstairs to check email and order a (very belated) wedding gift for my brother and his new wife. Jack was contentedly absorbed in the Backyardigans. As I finished up in the office, I heard him heading up the stairs. I clicked "submit order", gathered up Toby and my coffee, and headed upstairs after him.

I entered my bedroom just in time to see him taking the bottle of pills from his mouth. 'Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. What does he have?' is the only thing I remember thinking. I set Toby in the bassinet and was to him in 2 strides, doing my level best not to scare the shit out of him, but hell bent on getting that bottle out of his hands.

For anyone unfamiliar, the teething tablets to which I am referring are tiny white tabs about the size of the birth control pill. They are powdery and soft, and dissolve instantly on contact with liquid or with the tongue of a 2 year old. The bottle holds 250 of the pills, and had been about half full the night before. As I took it from Jack's hand, it held about 20 tablets.

Having some rudimentary medical training, I scanned the contents of the bottle for the ingredients... sugar, mostly, coffee (okay, so he'd be hyper for a while)... nothing that caught my eye until "uh-oh" BellaDonna.

All I know about BellaDonna is from reading some Agatha Christie novel where some country squire or other poisoned his cheating mistress with it or something along those lines. Poison being the operative word here.

I read further along the bottle and found the warning right there on the side "In case of accidental overdose contact the poison control center immediately." And, as luck would have it (and long experience, from that time he tried to drink tire cleaner, and that other time when he got hold of the Febreeze) we have a Mr. Yuck magnet on the fridge. I grabbed the clueless Jack and the cordless phone, left Toby screaming in his bed, and ran for the kitchen. I silently thanked God for all that dialing practice I got over the years trying to win concert tickets from radio stations. I got a bored sounding female voice on the other end of the line.

I quickly explained the situation as calmly as I could, told her what he'd taken and about how many, and waited. She sounded confused as to what exactly it was Jack had swallowed. I explained again and offered to read her the NDC number from the side of the bottle. She declined and said "no no, that's okay. How long ago did he take this?"

Tick. Tock. "About 2 minutes ago."

"You need to take him into the nearest Emergency Room immediately. They're going to need to give him charcoal and he'll require observation."

Tick. Tock. "Okay thank you."

A panicked phone call to my neighbor later (she decreed that she was following me to the ER and would take Toby in the waiting room while I went with Jack) and we were on the road. Jack seemed unbothered by mommy barely keeping a lid on her TOTALLY BLOWN MIND until we got in the car and pulled out of the driveway with me muttering under my breath. "Mommy. You scaring me." Crap. "Don't worry baby, there's nothing to be scared of. Everything is going to be okay."

The receptionist at the ER looked at the bottle of pills I handed her. "My son just swallowed half of these. Poison Control said to come straight over." They rushed us back. Doctors and nurses came in and out, took the mostly-empty bottle, made phone calls, had hushed conversations. Our assigned doc patted my hand and said "how are YOU doing?" and it was all I could do to keep from sobbing into his scrubs and screaming "I am a TERRIBLE mother and how did this happen to my baby?! is how I'm doing." I stripped Jack down to his diaper and he was examined. More hushed conversations.

Tick. Tock. Minutes pass. The doctor walked into the room and said again "how are YOU doing?.. because the good news is, he is going to be totally fine."

As it turns out, they called poison control themselves and talked to SOMEONE WITH A CLUE who informed them that Jack would have had to swallow about 3 bottles of the tablets before there would be enough BellaDonna to actually have an effect.

The guy they talked to said "Next time, tell her to call us first. We could have saved her the trip." And bless his heart, the doctor (who I now love so much I may let him father my next child) informed him that, indeed, I HAD called and somebody over there is a total asshat for scaring me unnecessarily and not bothering to actually look up what it was Jack had swallowed.

And so ended my horrific adventure. Jack was fine, and basically I paid 75 bucks for a cup of apple juice. (Which is what the nurse gave him, then said to push fluids on him the rest of the day just to be sure.)

And of course, OCD Mommy that I am, the kid peed like a racehorse from all the water, juice, and milk I was shoving at him for the next 12 hours.

Inflammation Of The Mast.

Hello. My name is MeL, and today I manually cleared a clogged milk duct in my breast.

Not something I ever thought I would say.

But, yeah, I was coming down with the beginning symptoms of mastitis (inflammation of the breast due to infection from a clogged milk duct). This whole babymaking business is just one adventure after another, I tell ya. I felt like I was coming down with the flu over the past few days, and today I realized there was a hard knot on the left side. Massaging and nursing didn't fix it, but after reading Ask Dr. Sears and finding that I did, indeed, have the little white blister indicating a clog, I followed the directions and Voila! I am feeling much better already. The knot is gone, and hopefully I will be feeling all better by tomorrow.

I refuse to feel ill this weekend. I get to go to Bryce and party with T, PK, JK, and co. for an entire weekend. This may or may not involve me attempting to get on skis once again, depending on how the kids do and if T feels up to handling them alone for a while. Also on the up side, 3 days of opportunities to smack PK on the ass. If you've never had the joy of doing so yourself, you so totally don't know what you are missing.

A Trip To The Woodshed...

"A trip to the woodshed" was my dad's euphemism for a spanking. It wasn't totally inaccurate, as a spanking in our house usually involved picking out which 2x4 from the toy block box you were going to get a swat on the behind with. Before anyone goes calling CPS let me say that, first of all, you are twenty years too late. Secondly, it was never a violent spanking and really the whole process of choosing the block was by far the worse punishment than the actual pat on the backside with it.

Of course, my brother Andy - always the comedian of the family - is the only to actually manage to make my dad laugh so hard he got out of the spanking altogether. He did this by coming back to Dad with a 1x2 block that was about 3 inches long. But that has always been Andy. This is the guy who, after getting married as a 30-year-old mormon, emailed from the honeymoon cruise to say:

"This is AWESOME. Oh, and the boat is nice too."

... All of which has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the jazz band playing at brunch on Sunday at Beans In The Belfry was a fantastic group called The Woodshedders.

Their website describes them as "an acoustic Hot Club *Gypsy Jazz style quintet". I would say that pretty much covers it, but if you still aren't sure what the hell I'm talking about check out some >Django Reinhardt.

Now Listening To: Hungaria. Django Reinhardt with Stephane Grapelli. Sheer genius.

In Absentia

In the small break since I last sat down to ponder my existence in written form (a fancy way of saying "think out loud in print") I realized how addicted I am to venting my spleen on here. All the thoughts seem to build up in my head, like so many buzzing insects, until I sit down and release the pressure valve. Then, I move on with a little more quiet in my brain.

Well, except for the voices in my head. But since I was told that they're loud enough for other people to hear them, too, I don't worry so much about them any more.

*cough*

T's Mom came down on Friday to spend the weekend. It was like having the Mommy Mafia roll into town; she came armed with a cooler full of food to make all the meals for the weekend. I'm not talking hamburger helper, either. We gorged ourselves on orzo with fresh chopped veggies and shrimp, broiled salmon filets, and a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and (pause for dramatic effect) Home. Made. Hashbrowns. Not those grated, deep fried, heart attacks you get at the drive through. Sliced potatoes sauteed and browned with onions. You'll have to excuse me for a moment while I wipe the drool from my chin.

Mama S also arrived with an unexpected surprise for me: a brand-spankin-new Coffee Pot that really looks more like something you'd find in the back room of an experimental NASA workshop.

This coffee machine is to the old machine as HDTV is to the old black and white wooden box tv's. It has a pre-set timer so I can have coffee brewing up before I'm even out of bed the next morning. It beeps when it's done. It lets me choose strength, hot plate temperature, and I can pause it while it's brewing to pour myself a cup without any of those annoying drippies. We're talking twenty-third century coffee technology here, people! As I type this, I am sipping a cup of heavenly brew which is also missing that funky 'je ne sais quois' flavor we got from our old and overly-used carafe. It's a delicious extravagance, for which I am supremely grateful.

Add in brunch at my favorite spot, Beans In The Belfry, and it was a flawless weekend... all the way up to last night. I watched the Oscars out of mild curiousity; mostly I wanted to see how John Stuart would do with hosting. (I think he did great, but it was funny to see how akward it got at times when folks couldn't laugh at themselves. Hollywood types take themselves WAAAY too seriously.) But I digress.

Finally wrapping up the weekend and heading to bed after the Oscars, we stumbled upstairs around midnight to find that Jack was sound asleep in a puddle of his own vomit. The next 40 minutes was a blur of waking him up and stripping down both him and his bed; he got his second bath of the night, a clean pair of pajamas, and a lot of soothing. It became clear that he wasn't actually feeling sick, and most likely just ate something that disagreed with his little tummy. Of course, by then he was wide awake and asking to watch TV. This meant that I ended up in the recliner with him for another half hour watching recorded episodes of Jimmy Neutron.

When I finally stumbled back upstairs around 1am, got him back to sleep in his room, and climbed into my own bed... well, let's just say that I vaguely remember brushing my teeth and I still haven't figured out what I did with my pants.

Just a typical weekend of ups and downs in the bizarre universe that is our life.

Grey Skies, Sunny Disposition

In lieu of anything really interesting to post today, I'll share that my husband just called to prepare me in advance for the fact that he purchased THIS today.


Great, now I need a box of depends and a liter of Malibu...

Rollin'.. Rollin'...Rollin'...

Be it here noted that on this 28th day of February, 2006... TM rolled over. I was afraid that the second time around all these firsts wouldn't be as exciting as they were with JT... today, I finally put those fears to rest.

I squealed like a schoolgirl, and spent the next 20 minutes trying to get him to pull out a repeat performance so I could record it in quicktime with the digital camera. He finally did it again (once I put the camera away) so it's not recorded in easily shared digital format... but it is permanently burned into my brain.

My Baby Is Mobile!!!

Wait.

My Baby Is Mobile???

Dear God. Why was I happy about this again?????

Chaos and Cosmos

I had a moment this evening to ponder a past life.

We live out in what is colloquially referred to as "the country". We're on the down side of a mountain and between us and what I like to call "civilization" is a narrow but dense wilderness, consisting of a large river, lots of trees, a few stretches of farm land, and a couple of vineyards. There's not much out here in the way of shopping; if I want anything less than 20 minutes away my choices boil down to a couple of grocery stores and the local Wal-Mart. Oh, and there's a Dollar General, but I quit going there after a very very drunk man, still reeking of yesterday's urine, attempted to pick up my terrified 2-year-old. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm - he really seemed like he just wanted to continue the one-sided conversation he'd been having with JT - but when it comes to my kids I'm just a teensy but overprotective and paranoid. There are a couple of coffee shops and one very awesome kids' consignment store, but beyond that the pickings are pretty slim.

In a previous life, more often than not, I crashed with T (who was then my boyfriend) at his very cosmopolitan apartment in downtown D.C. Their were more local haunts than you could shake a stick at; we could walk out the front door of his complex and go across the street to this great little Italian restaurant that had a fantastic house chianti and these incredible little crusty bread rolls. We could catch a cab up to Cleveland Park and spend an evening drinking heavy beer and hard cider while we gnoshed on Irish soda bread and chips with malt vinegar at Ireland's Four Provinces. We could take a quick drive to Arlington Cinema Drafhouse and watch a movie with a pitcher and some nachos, or catch the metro to the museum district and spend an afternoon wandering the various Smithsonian buildings. Before I ever watched an episode of "Sex and the City" or even knew what it was, I felt like the Carrie Bradshaw of D.C. (minus the outrageous shoe collection.)

In my heart, I have to admit I'm a city girl. I prefer the hustle and bustle, the car horns on the street below and the ability to get a decent cup of coffee at any time of day or night. I miss wandering anonymously through a crowd and taking a mall for granted. I miss the million strangers all around and bagel sandwiches from Pumpernickel's Bagelry.

But, as fate would have it, for the time being I am a city girl out here in the country. I don't regret our move out here; it's done wonders for JT and he and TM have a real yard to play in. There's enough room to put up a playground or maybe even get them a dog one day (if I can feel up to attempting that adventure again.)

And, even though it gets awfully quiet out here in the sticks, I have to admit that there is something at once wistful and comforting about hearing the lonely sound of the whistle as the trains barrel through town in the middle of the night. I can hear them thundering over the tracks with the soft rumble of a fading storm, unmuffled in the cold night air. Reminding me that I am a long way from the city. Reminding me that I am home.

Proof.

Proof #452 that I am his mother -- He loves pizza as much as I do.


Okay, so there's also those cheeks. But we'll pretend he didn't get those from me.

F this, that, and the other thing...

F for Food, Friends, and Frickin' Fantastic Fun. Good times, indeed.

T had his annual review this week and, hallelujah, he got a promotion!!! We decided to go out and celebrate with crab legs at a local hole-in-the-wall, but quickly changed our plans after an invitation to party like rock stars with some of the coolest people you could ever hope to meet.

When I say "party like rock stars" I mean, of course, that we stayed up past our bedtime, consumed mass quantities of adult beverages, and talked until our voices gave out. And everyone who reads this is incredibly jealous that I got to spend the evening in the company of this gorgeous woman:See? Told you she's a babe. If I could create the perfect amiga in a lab, she'd be exactly like PK. (But a little less hot because, really, no mother of 3 should be allowed to look that good.) Admit it - you want to lick your monitor, don't you?

PK also happens to be married to T's bizarrely identical non-twin, JK. The four of us mesh so well, I sometimes get the sneaking suspicion I've stumbled into a John Hughes movie. Animated discussion, copious laughs, and no akward lulls in the conversation. What more could a person need in life, really? Well, maybe good food -- which was also had in abundant supply. I think I'm still full from yesterday, but that may be because I about half a cow and a generous portion of snow crab legs.

The kids were harder to please in the food arena, but I ended the night feeling like super-parent when JT consumed half a loaf of zucchini bread he gaffled from the counter. Hey, he stole food with veggies in it -- we called it a nutritious main course and moved on. TM finally settled down after a long evening of watching the big people party and actually slept for about 8 hours. All in all, a win-win of an evening. CONGRATS! to T and THANKS! to the K's for their unprecendented hospitality.

These Shoes Were Made for Walkin...

The Costco that we go to is part of a trifecta. Costco, Target, and Kohl's department store share one giant parking lot. This entails a very tricky situation, as any of these 3 stores alone is enough to put us in the poor house; together they mean instant death.

Before going on the aforementioned Costco excursion, I stopped into Target with no real list or aim, but a vague notion that JT could use a new pair of jeans and some new shoes. He's been wearing the same "Plaza Sesamo" sneakers for about 6 months now. (he picked them out himself, and they didn't have any english language version ones with Elmo on them. So, no Sesame Street... Plaza Sesamo.)

Target had english language Elmo shoes but JT, being older and more discerning now, shunned those in favor of a pair of shiny new Thomas and Friends sneakers. He immediately realized, to his horror, that he was wearing the toddler equivalent of Last Year's Manolo's and DEAR GOD he had to get them off NOW RIGHT NOW THEY BURN!

I ran distraction while I paid for the new shoes, and before we set off on our Costco adventure he was safely ensconced in his new pair of size 7 and a half sneakers. He wore them in Costco. When we got home, he wouldn't let me take them off.. so he wore them around the house.

When bedtime came, T removed JT's shoes, pulled off his courderoy pants, and changed his diaper. At which point JT went into apoplexy because the shoes were no longer on his feet. So T, being a daddy and somewhat more inclined to sympathy in these situations than I would probably be, put the shoes back on him. At which point JT promptly went to sleep.

I removed the shoes from the sleeping child before going to bed myself, only to be awoken at 6:30 the next morning to wails of "CHOO CHOO SHOES! I NEED CHOO CHOO SHOES! ONNA FEET!"

So he spent the rest of the morning in his shirt, a diaper, and his shoes and socks. I think we got pants on him eventually. At least we've managed to scale down to not actually wearing the shoes in bed... now, they just rest comfortably in a place of honor next to his pillow while he sleeps.

I'm thinking it's safe to say he has his daddy's sense of sentimentality, eh?


Unrelated TM Update: Last night the little angel went back to his old self, at least temporarily. Put him down at 11:30, he woke up at 4am to nurse, went back to sleep and stayed there until 7:30. I actually feel almost human today.

This will hurt.

If you put a frog in a pot of hot water, it will jump right out. If you put it in cold water and slowly crank up the heat, the frog will sit there until it dies. So I've been told, anyway. I would never perform such an experiment, myself. But the concept is there.

My kids are great sleepers. JT slept in his crib, in his own room, from the first night home from the hospital. This time around, I wanted TM close to me. He was so tiny, so defenseless - not to mention so noisy I was afraid he would wake his older brother if put in the nursery next door. But by 5 or 6 weeks old, TM was sleeping 8 hours at night, broken up with just one feeding after 4 hours, after which he would go right back to sleep. For anyone without kids, let me tell you that this is a new parent's dream.

So what happened? Well, like the poor frog, he slowly began to turn up the heat on me. As close as a week ago, I still would have told you "My baby really is a good sleeper, he just has a bad night here and there."

In the last few days, however, it has dawned on me. Not only does he not sleep long stretches well any more, but by the time I wake up in the morning he has somehow migrated to a spot next to me in the bed. He starts out in his bassinet, but wakes every few hours and settles back down only after I replace his pacifier and give him my hand to hold. Eventually, in my zombie-like state of exhaustion, I move him next to me in bed - where he snuggles up to me and finally falls asleep for a stretch of more than 2 hours. And then I get some sleep.

He is a very clingy baby by nature, something JT never has been. If one of my hands get anywhere near him, he grabs for it, pressing it to his chest with both tiny pink hands as though I might snatch it away. It's simultaneously heart-melting and terrifying.

Today I realized he hasn't taken a daytime nap longer than an hour or so in at least a week. He may take only 2 or 3 of these naps all day. My baby is exhausted, and his mommy is not far behind. So, after I got JT down for his "quiet time" (which may or may not involve sleep, it depends on the day) I nursed TM until his tummy was full and his eyes were half-closed. I laid him down in his bassinet and covered him with his favorite blanket. And then I walked out of the room.

After 4 minutes he started screaming. By 10 minutes he was at a full-fledged wail. By 20 minutes I was headed upstairs. I got halfway up when he suddenly went quiet. I waited. Counted to 30. Tiptoed into the room. He startled a little, opened his eyes, then slowly closed them again and drifted off as I watched him.

Progress. Or so I thought until he woke up about 2 minutes ago. He started crying in a sad, half-hearted kind of way. It has built to another scream.

He's safe, he's not hungry, his diaper is clean, and he doesn't have gas. Suddenly, my 2 and a half years of parenting experience leave me totally unprepared to deal with a baby who WILL NOT SLEEP.

I've decided to give him 5 minutes more to try to fall back asleep on his own. This may be a good time to start looking for a book on what kind of therapy will help him deal with the abandonment issues I am currently giving him.

But I'll probably use the time to tear the house apart in search of something with lots of sugar and no nutritional value.

I really need to locate a more constructive coping mechanism.

TP or not TP

The big adventure of yesterday was my periodic excursion to Costco. Some women? They spend a day at the spa, or wander the aisles at Bloomingdales. For me, the true extravagance in life comes from looking at 5 gallon cans of tomato sauce and industrial-sized packs of underwear.

I never leave that store without being at least a hundred bucks poorer, and utterly confused about where the money went. Case in point: My primary purchases yesterday were a 40 pound bag of Cat Litter (you're welcome, honey!), a few bags of frozen necessities (you know, health foods like potstickers and chicken nuggets), diapers, baby wipes, and jumbo-sized packages of paper towels and toilet paper.

I know the size of the items, the sheer quantity, is massive in scale compared to what I would be getting if I purchased the same items at the grocery store. And yet that total on the receipt still boggles me. And, being prone to oversimplification as I am, I can't help but boil it down to one simple question for my self.

How the hell did I spend a hundred and fifty bucks on toilet paper??

Unrelated Aside: The caterpillar is gone. I no longer have to fear waking in the night to find I am in bed with Morgan Spurlock. He did keep the pointy sideburns, but only because I insisted. They're right sexy, those are.

The Wrong Side Of The Bed.

Yesterday I looked at T and said, with no trace of irony at the time, "As long as you don't tease, torment, or otherwise cajole me, today has the potential to be a very good day."

It was still morning, and I knew that, mentally, I was in a place to have a good day. I then asked him if he thought it was at all weird that I could wake up and know right away if I was going to be unable to have a "good" day that day. He shook his head and said, with his trademark shrug "there's an expression for that 'woke up on the wrong side of the bed' - it's totally normal."

That's reassuring -- in a bizarro kind of way. Today I feel pretty numb. I'm finding it difficult to figure out what I should be doing, or what I want to be doing.

I'm a very single-minded person -- I tend to go into tunnel vision when I'm working on something. If I start a painting, pick up a book, or turn on a movie I will get absorbed in it to the exclusion of all else. I don't hear people when they talk to me, I don't see things happening around me. Basically, any senses unnecessary to the task at hand get filtered out in my brain.

When I was working in an office, this was actually an asset, as I could crank out a very intensive project in record time and with no mistakes. Now that I'm a mother, I find that I am so far unable to focus on the role of motherhood and homemaker with that intensity. I am also afraid to focus on anything else because, as a mom, you CAN'T filter out your children and their needs for any period of time. They have to eat. They need diapers changed. They need love, affection, attention. You can't ignore them, it's not fair to them.

Even so, I always feel like there's something else I should be doing. I have a burning need to express myself in some way, to have an intellectual goal of some kind that I'm working towards with the oversight of a boss, a professor, an Auditor of some kind.

You would think 2 gorgeous sons would proivide a total sense of fulfillment. It's not that I don't adore motherhood, because I do. I love going out with the boys and seeing strangers smile at their incredible cuteness. I cherish every "first", and my heart melts at each indication of proof that they love me in return. I enjoy washing dirty faces, and I don't even hate changing diapers.

So what is it that is lacking? Is it something innate within myself? Or is it okay for me to feel like I need something more? Am I a terrible mother because there are days when I think "I'd really like to go back to a regular job now?" or that I'd like to go back to school, and waiting until my kids are all in school themselves seems entirely too far off and in the distance?

Is this why I ate a gallon of rice pudding last night?

Hearts and Handle Bars...

First off, thanks for the lovefest of comments. It comes as something of a shock that the smoke signals I'm sending off into the ether are actually reaching anyone. Even moreso, I'm still wrapping my brain around the idea that y'all might be enjoying what I have to say. Then again, it may be more along the lines of slowing down at a car accident -- you know we all do it -- give in to that irresistable urge to stare at disasters. And "Disaster" is so appropos a descriptive for this little redhead.

Oh, and speaking of disasters... here is my missive for this morning:

My husband has a cute little tradition. Every year, over the Christmas Holidays, he takes a break from shaving. This way, when he returns to work after the first of the year, he has a nice full beard.

Aside: T's heritage is mostly Swiss, but there's some Native American mixed in and the combination somehow came out looking vaguely Arab. His dark complexion and the copius nature of his facial growth have, on more than one occassion, caused him to get funny looks at the airport. And though it's supposed to be random, I swear he's been flagged for a "random check" 90% of the times he has been through airport security since 2001. At least I was finally able to convince him to get rid of his cargo pants with the urban camo print.

Anyway, typically the beard stays until sometime in March. This year, however, he decided to trim it up a little early. I filled up his travel mug with coffee and met him at the front door. He had been up in the bathroom finishing up with getting ready for work. For the life of me, I can't determine what he was thinking when he did THIS to himself:

I'm not sure if it's truly a handle-bar mustache, or more of a reverse-mohawk goatee... But as he walked out to the car, I couldn't help but call out (In my best imitation of an Anna Nicole Smith Texas Drawl)

"Ah Luv Yew, Cletis!"

I'm not sure what they'll think at his office... My best advice was to tell them he lost a bet.

The saving grace, however, is that he swore he would shave the rest off tomorrow morning. I think I would have a difficult time kissing him very often if I have to include the caterpillar.

Pudding the hurt on ya...

Using the leftover rice from dinner to make rice pudding seemed like the wise, frugal, Betty Crocker thing to do. After all, JT turned off the rice cooker half way through and what should have taken half an hour to become sticky white rice ended up taking about 2 hours. How could we not use every last hard-fought grain?

So, all of this seemed like a great idea. That is, up until about 3 minutes ago when I realized I just ate almost an entire cup of rice pudding. Suddenly, I'm having visions of the pidgeons they tell you about -- you know, the "don't throw uncooked rice at weddings because the pidgeons eat it and explode" variety.

You would think I would learn not to overeat. I mean,the leftover Gumbo we ate for dinner was spectacular (in spite of the cat puke incident, and the fact that I burned the bottom of the pot while reheating it.) The rice pudding wasn't even that good -- it always turns out better when T makes it, and he was already headed downstairs to his computer for a night of gaming.

So why oh why did I just turn myself into an overstuffed pidgeon? And how big a mess should I expect when I blow?

And most importantly, when I explode all over the walls of the house, do I have to clean myself up? Eh? EH?! That will keep you up tonight wondering, now, won't it?

My Truths For A Sunday.

1) T makes amazing, MIND-blowing, delicious Gumbo.

2) If you leave out an unfinished bowl of yummy gumbo the cats can and will help themselves to some, in spite of the fact that cats have no business anywhere near food made with old bay seasoning and tabasco sauce.

3) Cats will projectile vomit after eating Gumbo.

4) Stepping in cat puke of any kind is not pleasant, but Kitty Gumbo Vomit ( in my bare feet and before my first cup of coffee, none the less) really has to be the worst kind.

Camo Whamo...

What you would have overheard at our house this morning:

Me: Honey, those neon orange pants so don't match his green froggy tee shirt. Can you put Jack in something else?

Him: I think it looks fine.

Me: The pants are also a size too big. He's falling down every 3 steps.

Him: Nah, he's fine.

Me: Is there a reason you are so set on him wearing those godawful pants?

Him: I'm afraid if I take them off he'll get shot by Dick Cheney.

One, two, bring me a brew....

How cool is this?

So if Jack and Toby are going to someday rule the world, as Mama has intended, this means I should start brushing them up on some algebra before I send them off to play with the preschool set, right?

Okay, so actually maybe this just means I can get them to understand how many beers to bring Mama from the 'fridgerator... but anyway, it must be somehow significant... Babies! Math! Look and be amazed!

Hooray for VD!

VD for Valentines Day. At least that's the story I'm sticking to.

I've never been a fan of the holiday, myself -- too commercial, too corporate, too contrived. Yes, I may be a bit jaded, but something about seeing conversation hearts at Wal-Mart on January 2 really turns me off of the whole thing. Especially now that they say things like "Fax Me".
...
Jack woke up this morning with gusto. We met in the hallway at the top of the stairs, as is becoming a morning ritual. He waited patiently while I put on my raggedy flannel robe (over my new pink underpants, in case you were wondering).

"Mommy jammies?" he asked, pointing at the above-mentioned robe.

"Yes. Mommy's jammies."

"Jack have jammies!"

"Yes, you have jammies, too."

"Jack have Me-me," he indicated his faded and increasingly tattered security blanket. He named it before he had really learned to talk. Me-me goes everywhere with us; when we go for walks he wraps it around his head and shoulders like a pashmina. When he goes to bed, Jack settles it next to him and wraps his arms around it. Me-me is the first thing he looks for when he wakes up in the morning.

"Yes, that is Me-me," I agreed.

"Where Mommy Me-me??"

"Mommy doesn't have a Me-me."

He considered this for a moment, while I sat at the top of the stairs so he could climb on for a piggy-back ride down. I watched the gears turning in his head, then saw the lightbulb appear.

Chocolate and Flowers are nice. Diamonds? Sure, I wouldn't turn them down. At the end of the day, though, none of them can begin to compete with my 2 year-old son as he walked over to me and, very gently, wrapped Me-me, his most precious posession, around my shoulders.

"Here, Mommy."

And just like that, I became a convert. Happy Valentines Day.

Panty Raid

Hello Internet. Allow me to share some very exciting news with you. Today, for the first time in over 3 years, I purchased brand-spanking-new underpants. (no pun intended.)

Unfortunately for T, I did not buy enough pairs to permanently retire all of my maternity undies, which are still called into service from time to time. But hey, you can't win 'em all, baby.

Just wait till he sees what I saved for Valentine's day. You know the horrible, disposable, fishnet granny panties they give you at the hospital after you give birth? Oh yeah, baby. Somebody is getting SOOO lucky tomorrow night...

Snow Job

We got about 8 inches of snow, all told. We did some driving as it fell last night, and it wasn't pretty. We got trapped behind an SUV going 5mph down route 9. This means we were going attempting to go up the mountain without momentum. While usually I am of the "don't attempt to pass in a snow storm" mentality, the Complete Idiot in front of us was causing me to have to brake around hairpin turns on icy roads, so as soon as there was a wide road and no oncoming traffic we cranked it up to a beefy 9 mph and passed him. After that, we made it home without further incident.

I learned last night just how stressful it actually is to drive in bad conditions with your sleeping babies in the back of the car. I like to say that I am not a religious person, but I do think I am a spiritual person. Last night, I begged several deities AND the Buddha to see us safely home as I white-knuckled the steering wheel and tried not to look in the mirrors to check the kids "one more time".

When we got up at the crack of 10am, T borrowed the neighbor's snow blower and cleared the sidewalks and walkway. Then he dug his car out so he could get it off the street and into the driveway behind mine. He and Jack played out in the white stuff for about 5 minutes before the cold was too much for Jack. T finished their snowman by himself, then came back in for hot tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. (Hey, it's what my mom did and it's the perfect cure for the snow chills.)

We spent the remainder of the day enjoying the warmth of Indoors. I made a point to finish the second half of last week's episode of Grey's Anatomy. Before last week, I hadn't watched it in a while. This is the part where my paranoia kicks in, because I swear they wrote this story line simply to suck me back in. Somewhere, an ABC executive is rubbing his hands together in an evil way and cackling about the success of his dastardly plan.

For anyone who missed it, the 2-episode sudsfest included the following subplots: Resident and show regular Miranda Bailey goes into labor. Bailey's husband gets in an accident on the way to the hospital for the birth and ends up in surgery for a closed head injury. Meanwhile, some guy shoots himself in the chest with a homemade bazooka and is rushed to the hospital via ambulance before anyone realizes he has UNEXPLODED ammunition in his chest. He also has the hand of the delicious Christina Ricci in his chest, playing a paramedic who was innocently attempting to stop the bleeding. Once they realize the shell is in there, they evacuate half of the hospital - except for the operating room next to the bomb because (of course) Bailey's husband is in there with a skull flap open and blood being sucked off his brain. And of course, once Miranda Bailey hears this news, she goes into a panic and clamps those knees together, refusing to give birth while her husband is in peril.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to. So much emotional manipulation was packed into 2 hours of television, I may need a box of Godiva just to get me through the wreckage of the next few days.

Half of me is totally mortified that I actually stared, with baited breath, while all of this unfolded. I am ashamed to admit that I actually talked to my television set, pleading with the characters to make it all come out all right. This half of me bemoans the fact that I wasted 2 hours of my life on this melodramatic drivel.

The other half of me rolls her eyes and says "Shut the hell up, it's damn good T.V. and by the way isn't Patrick Dempsey dreamy?" And now that you mention it, Yes, he sure as hell is.

Projected Failure...

I just checked woot and realized we missed the opportunity to get a projector for $500. Not that we have $500 to blow on a projector, but..

Okay, at second glance it appears it was probably for the best that they sold out before I got there. After all, I have a new freezer that I need to fill with Stuff. It must justify its existance, just like the rest of us. But still.... Projection TV! $500! Neat. I so love woot.

It's snowing.

And even I have to admit that it is beautiful. Not much is sticking yet; there is just a silent cascade of delicate flakes drifting down over the world outside. It is cold, and gray, and lovely in a heartbreaking sort of way.

*Burp*

I just had a rendez-vous with a man named John... Papa John, to be exact. God, I love pizza.

I just heard it's supposed to snow through the weekend. This is not great news, as we have not one but TWO birthday parties to attend tomorrow. I'm keeping my fingers crossed the weather holds until Sunday. After that, it can snow as much as it likes. In fact, that would be great -- I'd love to have T working from home for a few days.

Thank Goodness It's Friday. At least we'll have a few days to enjoy each other's company, and torment the children. And What Not To Wear just started, so I'm going to go get my fix. I am totally addicted, in spite of the fact that I have The Fear that someone will nominate me for the show. Not that they would pick me, thank God. I've never even been picked for jury duty (*knock-on-wood*) let alone for something that involves the ability to spend someone else's five thousand bucks.

Binge By Proxy...

I've never really watched The King Of Queens, but it somehow made it onto our DVR this week.

Kirstie Alley was on, and there was a running gag that involved her sticking to her diet by having other people eat the things she wished she could have while she watched.

I sooo need to get me one of those. Who wants to volunteer to eat me a dozen Krispy Kremes???

You Are My Sunshine...

God Bless Children. Especially Mine.

After my emotionally draining morning, I went upstairs, got dressed, got the kids ready, and we headed out in search of Elsewhere. I just needed to get us out of the house for a few hours.

Last week at a playgroup, someone told me about Beans in the Belfry. It is my new definition of Nirvana.

BITB is a coffee shop inside a church from 1910. Seriously. High ceilings, overstuffed and mismatched chairs and sofas (and even a few church pews, used as benches), a coffee bar and AMAZING sandwiches. (I tried the Old Berlin, which is basically a panini-fied Reuben. FAN-TAS-TIC.) Jack and I shared a sandwich, Toby napped in his car seat, and I sipped a steamy caramel latte.

Spirits instantly lifted, we left there with renewed smiles on all our faces. Stopped at CVS to drop off 4 disposable cameras that have been kicking around since around since Jack was born. Dropped off a bunch of T's work laundry at the cleaners.

We're home now. Jack took his nilla wafers up to his clubhouse for a snack and a nap. Toby is blissfully snoozing in his bassinet.

I really should be napping, as well, but the babysitter will be here shortly so I can go for my walk/jog. I'll try to nap after we take her home.

Funny how a day can start out on such a down note, but the smallest thing can give you hope enough to get you through the day better than you started.

The kids were better than angelic, and Jack hugged me so long and so hard I wondered how much of my blues his 2-year-old brain had picked up on. Every night when he goes to bed, we sing him "You are my sunshine". Today, he reminded me that it's more than just a song -- I really mean it, every time. The 3 men in my life are the ray of sunshine that get me through my dark days.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.

To Whom It May Concern...

I couldn't really give a good reason why I started this blog, nor a good one as to why I continue it. Most days, it is a dumping ground for the silly thoughts that flit through my brain. Then today, I read JJD's entry over at empire, and I cried. For someone as emotional as I perceive myself to be, I really don't cry often. I couldn't figure out why I would cry .. after all, the emotinal events in the life of a distant friend, one connected to me only through T and very little even then, could hardly reasonably strike such a nerve.

After a few minutes, I realized it was the raw honesty of it all. Not something I allow myself very often, especially in a public forum. I decided that, maybe just this once, I would cast my thoughts out into the ether without censorship or grooming.

Because, maybe just this once.. in the cacaphonic whirlwind around me, I can find a brief circle of stillness in which I will have a voice.

So here are some truths about me.

I avoid making phone calls to strangers - be it the insurance company, the pizza place, whatever - at almost any cost. It terrifies me.

I'm terrified to open the door to a stranger.

I have never had a desire to hurt myself or anyone else. I am terrified of death - maybe even obsessed with the fear of it. I wish I could live forever, and make everyone I love live forever, too.

I go through up/down periods of energy. One day I will clean the entire house, top to bottom, do all the laundry, and take the car to the car wash. The next day I will spend entirely on the couch, in my pajamas, unable to do anything more than feed the kids and change diapers.

I would wrestle an angry tiger with my bare hands to protect my kids.

I am a compulsive eater, especially when I am sad or angry. As a teenager, on more than one occassion, I ate an entire can of frosting. With a spoon.

I am sometimes paralyzed under the weight of my own sadness. I don't know why, or what to do about it. I have gone through these periods of 'mourning' periodically for as far back as I can remember. They don't strike without warning, but in some ways that is worse -- feeling the slow cold of it creep over me as the days go by. Once it is in full force, it is crushing.. but not absolutely. I ride a roller coaster of good days and bad days - manic and depressive, though I don't really believe the medical classification is literally appropriate to me.

I can hide behind a smile better than anyone I've met. The only person who sees through me is T. I can't hide from him. Partly because he is so much a part of me, but not just that -- it's who he is. No one in his life has ever been able to hide from him. He looks out of those eyes - so brown they're almost black sometimes - and he sees it as it is, without pretext or disguise. So, he sees me. But he doesn't plumb the depths of what he sees. I think he's afraid to, because the hurt there is so raw and unmended, and because he can't fix it. He can't fix me, and so he carries my hurt like it was his own wound. And trust me, he has wounds enough of his own - adding to his burden is a constant spectre in my head. Knowing that he believes that if he could just love me enough, if he could just find the magic bullet he could make me happy and make me sparkle. Knowing that it just doesn't work that way. It rips at me, leaving a little bloody trail of regret behind. Because I want to be happy - if not for my own sake, then for his.

I don't want my little boys to grow up and remember a mom who always seemed sad, even when she was happy. I remember a mom who was that way - is still that way. You want to tear your own heart out and hand it to them and say "here, maybe this one will be a little stronger, a little less easily bruised".

There are days when I feel myself slipping away, drifting off into the fog. I want to scream - to shake myself awake. I tell myself what a terrible, self-consumed person I am. I want to slap myself silly, because there are people worrying about me and I don't want them to worry. I want to take myself off of their long list of worries.

I seem to spend my time walling off as much emotion as possible until the dam breaks and I am overwhelmed. Then I start the process over again. I guess today the dam broke. Just reading JJD. Because I remember how it all started, and that I was hurt. I don't think I ever admitted, even to myself, just how much it hurt.

I have not yet learned to grok old hurts, to consume them and make them a part of me, and to move on. I have learned to understand a lot of things, in retrospect. But it's not the same thing. Just understanding isn't enough -- I have to learn to accept that I am powerless to change the past. I have to learn to do it soon, before I completely miss out on the future.

Hit or Mrs.

My adorable 13 year old babysitter came over this afternoon to watch my kids while I went for my bi-weekly power walk. I'm really hoping to turn this into a bi-weekly run, but so far my knees have been uncooperative and so I have stuck to walking.

Anyway, this sweet little twig of a girl called me Mrs. I stared at her like she had suddenly grown a second head and said "wait, WHAT did you just call me?" *blink* .

"well.. umm... my dad insists on it."

"Okay. When I'm at your house, you can totally call me that. When you are here, though... Please, PLEASE call me Mel."

I can't decide if I broke some cardinal rule about undermining someone else's parenting, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I can't bear to be called "Mrs" in my own house.

The whole episode was almost as upsetting as when the 20-year-old cable installer called me "ma'am". I will NEVER be old enough to be a "Ma'am". I didn't have the nerve to tell him so, though. I just died a little, on the inside.

Magic Hands.

Last night was a long night.

Toby has been exhibiting growing difficulty staying asleep at night. He's restless, he tosses and turns, and he often wakes up and has difficulty getting himself back to sleep.

After a few nights of misery and eventually putting him in bed with us, last night I moved the bassinet next to my side of the bed. Each time he woke up, I reached over and gave him my hand to hold.

And it worked. He grabbed it with both tiny hands, wriggled back into a comfortable position under his blanket, and drifted back to sleep. Then I drifted back to sleep with two tiny, warm hands gripping mine.

My hands. They are Magic.

Now, if only my hands, they were detachable... then maybe we could finally start putting him in his crib.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

I've added a new subsection in the right column.

See? -------------------------------------------> Over There--------------->

It will be a periodically updated list of things I lust after. Because I'm an Internet Window Shopper. It's incredibly difficult to get out to real shopping with the 2 boys, not the least because I live a minimum of 30 minutes away from any malls or decent stores. SO, instead of going out to window shop and see things in the "I wish I could but we would go broke" category, I window shop on the internet.

This is not in any way a forum for me to ask anyone to buy me things. Well, unless you are flush with lots of extra cash and you REALLY REALLY want to. In which case, how could I be so heartless as to deny you the joy of giving to someone less fortunate than yourself? But at the least, I will grant you the title of My Internet Sugar Daddy. See, that sounds like a fair trade, right???

Actual Actualization in Actuality...

Every morning Jack has a Pediasure shake for breakfast. He calls them his "milk shakes" and has a devotion to them akin to the worship some people bestow upon their various deities. The child would go without food or water if we let him, and consume nothing but these thick, vanilla-flavored beverages.

Personally, I don't get the appeal.. but to each his own.

This morning, I poured the shake into a sippy cup and handed it to him. Jack took it with a very polite "thank you"... then pondered a moment and said "Actually, Mommy, I want a cracker" as he pointed at the box of saltines on the counter.

He has never used the word "actually" before. More bizarre is the fact that he used it in the CORRECT WAY.

Added to the fact that we watched Serenity last night, and I'm starting to be convinced that my son is a secret goverment project. I'm just waiting for the subliminal messages in SpongeBob to trigger him into super ass-kicking mode. I can picture the other toddlers on the ground, nursing kicked shins, while he towers over the gruesome scene.

...

After re-reading the above paragraph, I can't decide if I'm just REALLY sleep deprived or if I should actually start worrying about my mental stability... But don't worry, the voices in my head will give me that answer soon enough. I just wish they wouldn't yell.. I'm not deaf, after all.

Step Into The Freezer...

Today we became the proud owners of 9 cubic feet of Icy Cold Freezer. This is fantastic, as I now have room to actually make use of the bulk frozen foods section at Costco.

Not to mention it's a handy place to store the bodies while we figure out where to bury them.

Which reminds me of a bumper sticker my friend Natalie had on the wall of her apartment at BYU..

"Friends help you move. True Friends help you move the bodies."

Which is neither here nor there, really, but just thinking of it makes me miss Nat and some of those wild nights at clubs in Salt Lake City. (Yes, there were clubs in Salt Lake City - even before the olympics.) In fact, I have to confess that I once made out with a complete stranger on one of those excursions. It was a one-time foible on my part - so much so, in fact, that I still remember the details -- his name was Nathan and he was in the navy. And I was wearing a little black dress and a pair of super sweet knee-high black boots.

Funny the things a person remembers. I couldn't tell you any of the classes I took my freshman year of college, or who any of my professors were (except for Frank Fox, who was really cool and had a totally awesome son named Dave who I adored and wish I had kept in touch with. He was a great friend.)

So apparently getting the freezer has led to me pulling a few frozen memories out of my brain and thawing them out for inspection. It all feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways it was. The really funny thing is, things that happened almost a decade ago feel like they happened in another lifetime - but I met Allie when I was 12 and it feels like yesterday. And here we are: both married, I have 2 kids, she will soon be Dr. Allie, and we have no more algebra homework to do.

Time is a bizarre and baffling thing.

The Case of the Mystery Poo

The other night I was up in the nursery changing Toby's diaper. I heard the doorbell ring, and heard Jack shouting "Daddy! Daddy!" I fastened up the velcro tabs, snapped on Toby's jammies, and headed downstairs. This was all of about.. oh.. 20 seconds.

I arrived at the door to find Jack looking curiously out the window, the door still locked, and no T in sight. Looked out the window - no car in the driveway. Curious, indeed.

I opened the front door and looked out. Nobody in sight at all. Dusk was settling, and the neighborhood had settled into the half-light of 6pm on a January day. I shrugged my shoulders, closed the door, and went to get a drink of water. I paused at the sink, the water running unnoticed down the drain.

Something was niggling at the back of my brain. What had I seen? Something out of place... there was something... something on the porch?

I walked back to the door. Opened it. Looked out the storm door and down onto the brick porch.

And there... in the purple light of evening, were 2 white tissues. Strange. But wait.. what's that? Under the tissues? Why.. it's a pile of poo. Not just any poo, mind you, but exceedingly Fresh poo of the Very Large Dog variety.

My mind quickly runs through the list of neighbors... have I unwittingly offended someone? Did the new neighbors next door find the poo in their yard and assume it was from us? But we don't own a dog... and I can't see the people with the Missouri license plates putting poo on the doorstep of someone they just moved in next to. They don't engage in that sort of behavior in Missouri. Neighborhood juveniles engaged in a random act of delinquency? But why target our house?

And so the mystery of the poo. I examined the poo from a safe distance. Pondered it. Took note of its characteristics in my best rendition of a CSI. (The hot Marg Helgenberger kind from TV, not the actual CSI guys who are in way worse shape and don't even get to slap around witnesses.)

The Poo was well-formed, still in its natural extruded form, and fresh enough that - had it been carried from another location and placed on the porch - one would think it would have been somewhat mooshed in the transporting.

And so I come to the conclusion that someone actually allowed their very large dog to poo on my front porch. They placed tissues on it for some unknown reason, then rang the bell and beat a hasty retreat.

My brain begins to throb from the detailed observation of The Poo. I become less concerned with its origins than with where it is headed next. The idea that I might have to actually have any sort of contact with The Poo beyond my piercing visual observation is inconceivable. I feel my pulse beginning to race, and the opening symptoms of a mild panic attack begin to creep up on me...l

Just then, I knight in full plate armor rides up on his steed. The white stallions muscles ripple in a sudden beam of sun which illuminates the sky behind him. He raises his sword high into the sky, denouncing the heinous besmirchment of my maidenly honor. The stallion rears up with a mighty scream and the knight charges forward, tabard streaming behind him like a ribbon in the wind...

That is to say: Just then, T pulled up in his shiny blue car and came up the walkway towards the door. He saw The Poo, heard my Incredibly Brilliant deductions on its origins, grabbed a handfull of paper towels and, in a matter of secoonds, had removed The Poo to an undisclosed location. (also known as the dumpster.)

My Hero.

The Mystery of The Poo remains unsolved. If you or anyone you know has any information on the perpetrator of this Heinous Crime, please call our tip line. A reward of Our Undying Gratitude has been offered for any information leading to the apprehension of this dangerous (and very inconsiderate) fugitive.

State of Disorder...

I didn't watch the State of the Union address last night. My mom would be horrified... but really, I couldn't bring myself to witness the train wreck. If I hear him say it "nuke-you-lar" one more time, I may claw my own eyes out.

Sorry, Mom. But if it helps, I can give you something else to obsess about... I'm a registered Democrat.

But I still wouldn't vote for Hillary.

Today was a bit of a washout, though I did manage to keep Jack from tearing the house apart completely, so it should still be presentable for the playgroup here tomorrow. It's the first time I've hosted an official Mom's Club activity. I can't decide if I should pull out the only turtleneck sweater I own and go all conservative suburbanite, or throw caution to the wind and rock my new "Who wants a Sugar Daddy?" T-shirt.

The only thing I know for sure is that Mommies at playgroups expect snacks. On that note, I'm heading to 7-11 in search of Coffee Mate and pastries. As I am going totally alone, this is the Mommy equivalent of what a night out at the clubs used to be. Except now, instead of body glitter, I'm wearing baby spit-up. (For the uninitiated, "spit-up" is what you call baby's puke. It's supposed to sound cuter, I think - but really it just allows me to be in denial that my life has actually come to the point where I voluntarily leave the house wearing someone else's vomit.)

Bedtime for Bonzo...

I really wish I could say that something of note happened today. I could tell you that I finally finished the Next Great American Novel (tm). I could say that I did 100 sit-ups and leg lifts until my thighs turned to jelly... or that I suddenly found the answer to unlocking the unified field theory...

But then I'd be a big fat liar.

I did manage to get my walk in... I only did a mile because it was FREAKIN' FREEZING outside, and my knees persist in aching and my hip popped again. I vacuumed the house. I straightened up the main rooms in preparation for the playgroup I'm having here on Thursday. I put away the toys and changed about 15 diapers. I went grocery shopping and made Hamburger Helper for dinner. I drank a Diet Coke.

I think I need an upgrade. Isn't there some sort of chip that can be installed to my brain to help me look at life in a different way -- so I can find fun where there is none? My friend Renae told me about a friend of hers who, when stuck on a 5 hour layover at the airport with her two kids, made up a scavenger hunt to keep the kids entertained. Me? I'm more of the curl up into a ball and curse the fates kinda girl...

And it's midnight. And I'm still awake. Even though I was up at 3am with a screaming 3 month old infant.

Something is fundamentally out of balance with the universe when I'm feeling this much in a rut and it's only Tuesday.

POMEGRANATE.

The 30 Year Old Virginian...

Okay, so he doesn't live in VA anymore, but congrats to my Big Brother, Andy, on getting hitched yesterday. And also congrats to him on the fact that I am certain that, at this very moment, he is enjoying the hell out of his hot new wife.

A moment of silence for the end of his life of celibacy.

Okay, now we can start taking bets on whether or not she comes back from the honeymoon pregnant...

Tag, I'm It!

Okay, so nobody tagged me but it seemed like a good way to kill 15 minutes...

Four jobs I've had:
1. Nanny
2. Tele-survey phone girl for the "Beef - it's what's for dinner!" people
3. Towel Girl at a gym
4. Medical Secretary

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. Princess Bride
2. Gun Shy
3. Zero Effect
4. Groundhog Day

Four places I've lived:
1. Vienna, VA
2. Provo, UT
3. Walnut Creek, CA
4. Plano, TX

Four TV shows I love:
1. Scrubs
2. Good Eats
3. Deadwood
4. The Daily Show

Five highly regarded and recommended TV shows that I've never watched a single minute of:
1. The Sopranos
2. Arrested Development
3. Six Feet Under
4. The Bachelor
5. The Wire

Four places I've vacationed:
1. Disneyland, Anaheim, CA
2. Maui, HI
3. New Orleans, LA
4. Cozumel, Mexico

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Pizza
2. Gumbo
3. Chocolate
4. Steak

I'm a girl of simple tastes, I guess.

Four sites I visit daily:
1. google.com
2. dooce.com
3. woot.com
4. cnn.com

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Asleep in bed
2. On a cruise
3. Anywhere in western Europe
4. San Francisco

Who am I gonna tag with this?
Just Empire. And only because I think he'll have to admit he doesn't watch Desperate Houswives religiously, which totally damages his homo cred.

Permanent Ink...

It may come as a surprise that I have a tattoo. It certainly surprises me from time to time.
I feel that I have told the story of how this came to pass so many times, it might help to record it somewhere. For posterity, at the least, but also because it's a good reminder for me.

I won't go into all the details of how I came to the following conclusions -- I'll likely be working that out in therapy in the near future. Instead, I'll skip to the crux of the matter.

I am not the most graceful person. And anyone who remotely knows me will recognize that sentence for the gross misunderstatement that it is. Due to my propensity to injure myself making the smallest and most inane of gestures I have collected various scars, including 2 on my face. I didn't have control over getting these scars. I did not choose to receive them, yet they changed my appearance in small but irreversible ways.

Likewise, I carry a mixed bag of emotional scars from past events that were beyond my control. I guess I'm referring to what most people call "emotional baggage" - the stuff that seems to follow you and color the way you approach every new situation you come across. Like the physical ones, I did not choose the emotional scars.

Over the years, the emotional wounds began to give me a perspective on life that I didn't enjoy. I spent some years depressed - cover the window with a blanket, go days without eating, stay in bed for 18 hours a day depressed. Slowly but surely, following an incredible series of events that included a move across the country and the biggest life decisions I have faced yet, I crept out of that hole and began to live my life again.

And so to the tattoo. A tattoo is a sort of scar, but a scar received by choice - which serves as a metaphor for me taking control of my life and learning to own my decisions. The symbol in the center is a kanji - a japanese symbol. No, I have no connection to Japanese culture whatsoever (except an enduring love for anime) but the symbol itself inspired me. It has a broader meaning than a simple word, but basically embodies happiness - Joy.

And so, I made the conscious decision to be scarred with Joy. To me, this means that every day I wake up and, whether it's a good day or a bad day, I take every opportunity I can to remind myself that I want my life to be marked by Joy - by the things I choose, and not the negative things that happen to me by chance or because of someone else.

And there you have it. It wasn't an act of whim, or youthful rebellion. I won't be turning 40 and deciding to have it lasered off my back - just like I won't ask a plastic surgeon to remove the little scar next to my eyebrow from where I passed out in the park and bonked my head when I was 17. It's a part of my face. It gives me character. Kinda like the little wrinkle that shows where my smile lines are.

And it totally freaks out the Soccer Moms. :)

Mending Wall...

Something about this time of year makes me yearn to reach for a book of Robert Frost poems, a steaming cup of tea with cream, and a big comfy chair to curl up in.

Unfortunately for me, there are two very large (and yet very small) obstacles to this aim -- named Jack and Tobin. Yesterday, however, there was a zen moment where the moon was right and all the chakkras came into alignment, and both boys actually slept AT THE SAME TIME for about an hour - During which time I got a hot soak in the tub, managed to hilight my hair, and made use of the French Seaweed Mud Mask (because apparently French seaweed and mud is superior to all other kinds of seaweed and mud) that I got in my stocking for Christmas. And my skin feels fantastic today, thankyouverymuch.

I felt absolutely decadent. I mean, a BATH. In the middle of the day. And quiet time to contemplate the condition of my pores. And more quiet time to contemplate the wrinkle that has formed on my left cheek, right along the smile line. (It's a badge of honor, that one wrinkle. Perish the thought of ever botoxing proof that I really do smile more often than I frown - in spite of rumors to the contrary.)

Of course, the moment of zen was later pulverized when Toby decided that sleeping was a secondary concern to crying for no apparent reason in 2 minute bursts every 10 minutes through the night.

I parried with a "fine, sleep with me in the bed".

He returned with a 4am feeding demand.

This back and forth continued until he fell soundly and silently asleep. I celebrated my victory, vindicated by his little baby snoring. Then, I realized it was 7:30 and T was shaking me awake to see to Jack so he could leave for work. All the while, my little ninja slept soundly in his crib, secure in the knowledge that he had ruined Mommy's chances of making it through the day without a nervous breakdown.

Something there is that doesn't love a sleeping Mother. That wants her awake. That sends the sobbing infant to rouse her, and topple her sanity in the sun... (shameless murdering of Frost there, by the way. It's really a lovely poem.)

It's 9:25am. Can I go back to bed yet???

Good slumbers make good Mommies.

I Need A Shrink To Help Me Call A Shrink.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
~Emily Dickinson, "Time and Eternity"

In which I share "Too Much Personal Information..."

As T and I discussed blogs and various other topics last night (and I changed the heading to include a reference to sex which he thinks is totally unjustified since, as he put it, I have never discussed our sex life on here in any reasonable amount of detail) -- I was recalled to a conversation with a coworker of his.

We were at a poker game with several of the guys from his office. I was there (pregnant with Toby) to socialize with my friend Paige, who is married to one of T's coworkers. Anyway! Point of story:

T made one of his typical smarty-pants remarks over his shoulder as he walked out of the room... His coworker turned to me and said, sotto-voice, "uh.. YOU married him."

And, sweet, innocent-looking pregnant mommy that I was, I smiled, shrugged, and said, "yeah... well... I was drunk. And he's hung like a rhino."

Dentist, Schmentist...

Over the years, I have been in several serious relationships. Some of these have ended on good terms, some of them have ended horribly, and all have involved hours on my back, lots of tears and the exchange of large amounts of money.

I am referring, of course, to the many dentists who have come and gone through my adult life. One was fantastic, but when it took me 2 years to get the money to pay for a series of treatments I was too embarrassed to go back. One was horrid, screwed up a root canal, and tried to drain what he thought was an abscess (which is probably actually a very small cyst) by puncturing it without first providing me the benefit of local anesthetic.

My latest dentist is actually a practice where I have now seen 3 of the dental docs - all of whom have been so far stellar. The hygienists and various assistants are 99% female, and they all know me by sight and name and always remember to ask about my kids. They all knew when I had to go in for an emergency root canal the day I left the hospital with Toby, and remembered to ask at my cleaning today how he is. They also demanded to see photos, and (geek that I am) I had my digital camera at the ready with a plethora of recently shot photos and quicktime videos.

When Trip asked me to marry him, I told him (in no uncertain terms) that he first had to be aware of a few things. Some of those things are none of your business, but one I will share. I told him point blank that, over the course of our marriage, he should expect to invest the price of a very nice cadillac into the care and repair of my teeth. At the time, he thought I was kidding. He has since learned how deadly serious I was...

For the first time in my adult life, however, my dentist has worked with me to put together a treatment plan, and they have perfect awareness that I won't be able to pay them for all of the work up front. They have no problem letting us make monthly payments, and in the mean time they have been seeing me every 4 months for a thorough cleaning and to monitor the status of my problems. (Which are too numerous to list here. My teeth have all the stamina of a large brick of chalk..)

If you want to understand how I feel about my dental life at present, you must imagine my life before. Picture a draconian chamber of torture, complete with dull, rusted blades and a wart-nosed receptionist named Elga who has more hair in her eyebrows than on her head. Now picture stepping from that room into a state-of-the-art surgery theater, where a doctor with the bedside manner of Patrick Dempsey on Grey's Anatomy waits for me past a receptionist with the face and charm of Reese Witherspoon. And, thanks to extra-frequent total cleanings and good advice, I can state - for the first time I can remember - that my teeth have not developed any NEW problems in the last six months.

As I ponder my situation, I can't help but wonder... who would have thought a person not into S&M could ever feel so kindly disposed toward a place where you fork over buckets of money in exchange for intense pain?

Down the Rabbit Hole....

Or, more accurately, the cat hole. You see, we have this little hole cut in the basement door to provide the cats with unmitigated access to their litter box, while keeping our adventurous toddler at bay. The basement stairs, they are unfinished you see. They are the builder's stairs, hard and wooden with but a bit of carpet rolled down the center.

As Jack is unable to access the basement area without assistance, he has discovered that he can still explore the basement by living vicariously through the toys that he shoves through the cat hole. Onto the Stairs.

Today, one such toy - a truck to be exact - was hiding in the shade of one of the steps near the top. With Toby tucked into my arms, I stepped blithely onto the Staircase of Doom, unaware of the fate that was about to befall me.

Surely as a bear relieves himself in the woods, my foot found that tiny toy truck... and down I went. Feet flying comically (and yet not at all comical) out from under me, I landed flat on my back on the stairs.

Maternal Instincts combined with Superhuman Speed and I managed to cling for dear life to the precious bundle in my arms.

Apparently my superpowers do not extend to a resiliently bouncy body, though. With several loud cracks and a few muffled thumps, various parts of my anatomy were bruised and battered. One wooden stair cracked me upside the head. I'm fairly certain my backside is currently a mottled shade of purple and blue. I need a jumbo sized bottle of Ibuprofen.

But Toby is okay, angry red scratch on his cheek notwithstanding.

And Jack and I had a little talk about putting toys down the cat hole. He listened with rapt attention, then pointed out to me that, whilst I was engaged in my losing battle with gravity, he had opened the new air filter I purchased yesterday and turned it into Pop Art. That will teach me to pay extra for the nicer filter.

Anyone know of a nice band of wandering gypsies interested in purchasing a gently-used toddler?

Tom Waits for No Man...

This afternoon Jack and I sat at the kitchen table, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sharing a banana. It's one of those dreary, rainy January days, and we turned together to watch the fat raindrops landing in puddles on the deck outside. I sipped at a cup of coffee (a spiced blend which, when combined with french vanilla creamer, becomes a dangerously addictive substance. *insert contemplative sigh here*) and realized that Tom Waits was still in the CD player.

For anyone who doesn't already know, Innocent When You Dream is a Tom Waits reference.
It feels so vulgar to type that out loud. If you didn't already know that, you should be taken out back and flogged vigorously with a wet noodle.

It was an odd moment - so perfect in its wistfulness, so beautifully dreary. The sound of the rain echoing off of the gravelly sound of Tom's wail.

It was then that I realized, half way through my PB&J, that I really wasn't hungry anymore. I think the frozen moment had put me in a strange mood, and I sat there realizing that I was going to leave food unfinished on my plate. The last time I can vividly remember doing this was when I was maybe 6 or 7 years old. I was a picky eater back then - and by picky, I mean I would literally pick at my plate for a half hour or so and then call it quits. Anyway, I had food on my plate in front of me, and I had no appetite... So I sat at the table until bedtime, because I wasn't allowed to leave the table until I had eaten. I wonder if that marked the beginning of my issues with food - which has become a lifelong obsession. Looking at it objectively, there's nothing at all wrong with not finishing every bite on your plate -- in fact, it seems obvious that when a person is full, said person should STOP eating. Amazing how the obvious can get so lost in the shuffle of obsessive-compulsive behaviors.

So, I stopped eating. I threw away half a PB&J sandwich (I can hear my mother thinking, at this very moment, "Sacrelige! Wasted Food!") And you know what? I feel fantastic. I may have just turned a corner in this battle with my butt. I wonder if it's appropriate to send Tom Waits a thank you card...

The Best Laid Plans...

I have to be careful what I say, because I believe in Murphy and his stupid law. And I'm waiting to find out what the third torture in our trifecta of evil happenings will be.

1) Trip dropped his car off for an oil change and tire rotation the week after Christmas. We didn't hear from the dealer for a few days -- no big deal, right? I mean, it's the week after Christmas, they're probably just short-handed from the holidays, right? Nyet, my friend. Here to follow is a lot of car talk that I can parrot, but don't actually understand: On the "test drive" (which I believe is code for "trip to the race track up the road") the engine blew a cylinder - which had to be repaired, and which also vented metal bits into the turbo, which then required all new bits and pieces. Got the car back after a week and a half. Still broken.... leaking coolant so the engine tries to overheat, and the turbo isn't working at all. Dropped car back off at dealership on Saturday. Reading between the lines, you may have figured out that this means T is driving MY car, leaving me stranded at home with the baby and a very cabin-fevered 2 year old. The only bright spot? (If you can call it that). Because the whooping West Virginia mechanics are the ones who blew up the car in the first place, so far we haven't been tagged for any of the repairs. Let's hope it stays that way as we go forward...

2) Trip's computer drank the purple kool-aid, people. And THEN it ate the pudding. And then it blew up the motherboard. The motherboard, which is a few years old, had to be replaced.. but the really fun part is that the new motherboards available don't work with a good deal of the current hardware we had... SO... Saturday also involved a trip to Best Buy to get an off-the-shelf emachine which, all things considered, wasn't so bad except that it blew the sum total of the expendable cash we had.

I think I just realized that #3 in the trifecta already occurred. You see, the above badness means that we had to cancel our plans to go to NYC for the Chemlab show. Which means I didn't get to lick any part of Jared Louche, and Trip had to miss the show and the chance to meet up with the TSC folks. Instead, we spent our weekend watching football and Signing Time DVD's. Not a horrible way to spend a weekend, mind you, but a considerable let down after the big adventure we had planned.

At least the weather is improving. Is it Spring yet!?

The Longest Yard

I remember my parents having some shindig or other when I was a little tyke. I was sent up to bed, and relegated to listening covertly from the top of the stairs to the tinkle of glasses and low buzz of conversation below. It was gut-wrenching, really, the desire to go down and share in the festivities.

I was reminded of that feeling today, as we made plans for the weekend. Turns out Chemlab will be performing on Saturday at Albion Club. We're planning to drive up Saturday morning and spend the night in the cheapest non-sketchy hotel room we can find. Trip will hit the show while I entertain the boys in the hotel room (Thank God "Madagascar" should be on the pay-per-view menu). I would sell any of several favorite appendages to get to that show, but at least I'll be just down the way. And we'll get to meet up with some of the weird and wonderful (?) guys from TSC. No, there's no link for it and yes, that's intentional. If you were supposed to be there, you'd already know the URL.

SO! I'll be mere yards from the show, and the illustrious Jared Louche (nee Jared Hendrickson) who is quite possibly one of the most charming and gifted individuals I have come across in my lifetime. At the very least, the man tells a damn fine story, and if you missed the Jared Louche GlamRock hour when it used to be on TotalRock.com then you should slap yourself silly right this minute. It was sheer bliss. We lived in our tiny matchbox of an apartment in Herndon. It had one bedroom and not much else, but it did have a fireplace and vaulted ceilings, so we could pretend it was a penthouse haven. Friday nights, 2 bottles of red wine, a fire in the grate, and Jared's buttery gravel voice walking us through our Friday evening.

Those were the days before marriage, before kids, and before a mortgage. It was brilliant, really, and one of those things you wish you had appreciated more at the time. It's also one of those things nobody else can ever really appreciate, which pisses me off because I won't ever forget it. "I'm a Damn Genius." God, that man can tell a story.

Skeletons in the closet... Junk in the trunk....

My mood today is somewhat maudlin - in this case, referring to webster's second definition: 2 : weakly and effusively sentimental, rather than the first : 1 :drunk enough to be emotionally silly.
I'm sure I would fit definition 1 if I could, but I haven't been "drunk" since... oh, before I found out I was pregnant with Tobin... which is to say at least a year. (Holy Dry Heaves, Batman! Has it BEEN that long??)

Adding to the general gloom is the fact that my email client apparently gorged itself today on all of my email from the past 3 years, digesting it right out of existence. This means that I am starting over from scratch. There are currently 3 emails in my inbox, and one of them is from Papa John's confirming my order from earlier tonight. That's just sad on many many levels. Oh, and my address book? Also gone. Somebody hold me, I've lost my connections to the outside world...

Add to this the fact that Trip's car sniffed some glue, his computer drank the purple kool-aid, and my car registration is now officially expired and can't be renewed till we pay the property tax (which comes out to enough money to feed a small third-world nation for the winter.)

This is not a promising start for a new year.

It doesn't help that I have given up sweets until I can lose the bulk of this baby weight. (pun intended.)

I am officially tracking my progress towards my goal weight. If I make it public, at least I will feel there is someone to hold me accountable for doing something stupid like, say, oh... gorging myself on a large pizza.

*Burp*

And why am I craving butterscotch ripple?? I ASK YOU!!!

Current Weight: 200 pounds
Target Weight: 160 pounds
Ideal Weight: 145 pounds

Current Size: 18 .... Dear Heaven, that's frightening.

I think it's time for a little John Stuart injection to boost my humor.

The Overcash Prophecy

Apparently, according to my friend Robin, the chinese will be taking over the planet in the next 20 to 30 years, and we should all be educating ourselves in the mother tongue now so as to have a leg up when The Appocalypse comes.

I am now recording this for the future. Consider it my own little time capsule, so in 2026 I can look back and say "gee, he was right" Actually, I guess I'll be saying the chinese equivalent, but I am but an egg. I need a good decade to begin to master another language, and I'm still working on ASL.

There ya go Robin. Now get your butt on a train and come visit your honorary nephews. Who else is going to teach them about The Doctrine of Carl Sagan??

He lets me keep him humble....

What you would have overheard as we practiced sign language with our 2 year old today:

"This is the sign for choo-choo train."

"Wow. Cool. Cuz when you rub your fingers together like that, it actually sounds like a train."

"Uh..no.. because it is the motion of a train moving over tracks."

"No, it sounds like a train"

"Dear, this is SIGN LANGUAGE. Created for the DEAF."

*Blank Stare*

"Oh. Yeah... Shut up."

Hit and Run...

I know I've been sporradic with my posting of late, and I can only plead Holiday-itis. Between playgroups, christmas parties, cookie swaps (2 so far), more playgroups, and shopping and wrapping and decorating.. I'm amazed I still find time to pee and brush my teeth between bouts of laugh/sobbing and emoting on my hair. Speaking of emoting on my hair, yesterday it again paid the price for my emotional outbursts... I cut off 6 inches or so and it is now in a short layered bob around my head. This is good because it is what I refer to as "wash'n wear hair" - meaning I can wash it, squoosh a little mousse or gel in it, scrunch it up and go. This is not so good because when they say a "bob" they don't tell you it means you will end up actually looking like your name might be "bob".

Which reminds me, I used to use the name "Bob Oswald" to register all my software. That's neither here nor there, really, but is somehow humorous to me now....

Any road, I now have short, fabulous soccer-mom hair and I may have to put some streaks of purple just so I can still freak everyone out at the Mommy and Me playdates. Note to self: now might be a good time to buy combat boots. You know, before I give in to the brainwashing and become TOTALLY establishment. (I still refuse to buy a membership to Wee Gym, so at least I still have a few hold-outs.) And when I get invited to Gymboree again, I can always flash my tattoo and shake up the cultist mini-van set a little.

Oh, and Mom if you ever read this... thank you for never forcing us to sit on the lap of some guy's husband dressed as Santa. Jack went willingly, but I was astonished at the number of moms who were content with photos of their precious little darling sobbing uncontrollably in the lap of a complete stranger. Seriously. My therapy would be a lot more expensive if you had forced me to sit on some guy's lap against my will every year.

Oh..and if the real Santa is reading this... I was only kidding about the soccer moms being in a mini-van cult. Please bring me a mini-van. I need something that will haul all the toilet paper I'll be buying at Costco. And we'll leave you the good cookies this year, not the ones that I burned because I was wrapping presents and forgot I had put that last batch in the oven. And I'll forgive you for never bringing me a radio controlled car "because they were for boys". K, Thanks.

Archive Asylum

I copied the entries from the LJ I had started for our little family over to here, for posterity, since when the new site is up and running the Blog links will undoubtedly be pointed here. I marked the subjects with a none-too-subtle [ARCHIVE] in them to avoid confusion since this is the "new" Blog.

Then again, the term "confusion" would imply that anyone actually reads this drivel. And if you do... well, you have my sympathies. Have a coke and a smile, and try not to poke yourself with sharp things.

Love,
MeL

Reasons to love Jack...

He bites his sandwiches into shapes, and then plays with them. Today, his grilled cheese sandwich was a pirate ship (which he sailed around his tray, saying "Pirate, ARRRHHHG!") and then a Telephone (which he put to his ear and spoke into, which was adorable despite the toast crumbs and cheese grease he got in his hair).

Lately I've been giving him Zerberts on his belly. (You know, when you press your lips against the skin and blow, making a "PHHHHBBBBBTTTTT" sound...yeah, that one.) He loves these, in the way that one loves and hates being tickled. That's the part that's nothing extraordinary. The part that makes me want to grab him and squeeze him till he pops is that he calls them "Zoo-burps". I gave him ZooBurps for half an hour today, just to watch him lift up his shirt and say over and over "Zoo Burp, Mommy! ZOO BURP!"

Now if I can just keep his dad from teaching him other bodily-related games, all will be well. (IF he starts making fart sounds with his arm pit, heads will roll.)

December already?

November, what happened to you? And how did you escape me so fast? I suppose the answer is that amidst the Thanksgiving hub-bub, settling in with the new baby, and trying to get a leg up on Christmas shopping... November quietly slunk away into the corner and sulked until December came to the rescue and he could punch his card and disappear until next year.

The Christmas shopping is nearly complete, the house is decorated, the tree trimmed... nothing to do now but bake until my arms fall off and then eat until I explode. Ah, this truly is the season of joy....