And Then I Exploded and Died, The End.

I just ate about half a pound of beer-simmered sauerkraut.

I feel no shame on this account.

If I still needed proof of the pregnancy, this would about cover it.

Also, I apologize in advance to my fellow inhabitants of the Potomac Region for the blast of unholy wind that will doubtless make its way to the coast later this evening. Because sauerkraut + pregnant digestion = gas that would shame even my dog, and he was born without the necessary higher brain functions to feel actual shame. But trust me... if this was HIS gas, he would be ashamed.

But, for the record? OHMYGOODNESS how I do love me some sauerkraut.

Even if it means I might actually explode outwards from the inner pressure, thus ending a short but beautiful existence in a rare example of Death By Flatulence.

The End. (And you're welcome.)

Under Penalty Of Law

My sister went and tagged me. And, being that I am hormonal and emotional and that holy freaking crap, my boobs hurt, it's actually a relief to have this post write itself.

For the record, though? Vinegar cravings: check. Bloated like a drowned corpse: check. Falling asleep without warning: check.

But a sudden craving for a Wendy's baked potato? Really? And since when does the slightest tinge of hunger mean a wave of nausea? And when did children's television become so emotional? Because I don't remember Oswald getting me misty-eyed before.

Not that I'm complaining.... I mean, this is probably my last pregnancy. I guess I should enjoy the weirdness, aye? In a way, it makes my usual life seem almost... normal. *grin*

AND, away we go.

What was I doing ten years ago?
I was getting ready to run, screaming into the night, from BYU. I'd been in a stark clinical depression for months, without having any idea what depression was. I kept a blanket over my window and slept most of the day, worked nights at a movie theather, and cleaned house for one of my sisters on Fridays. I had no money, only one friend I trusted to talk to, and no idea where I was headed. I was just beginning my journey out of Mormonism, starting to put words to the feelings and ideas I was struggling with. It was the most difficult time of my life.

What are five things on my to do list?
Finish my crochet project
Finish Barack Obama's book, "The Audacity of Hope"
Find 5 new recipes to try out for dinners next week
Research how I'd go about starting a vegetable garden in the back yard
Get ready for my new business venture this summer (more on that in a later post)

What are three of my bad habbits?
Biting my fingernails
Leaving wrappers around the house
Making "to-do" piles on the counter; bills to pay, letters to write, appointments to schedule, etc.


Places I have lived?
Washington, Michigan, Virginia, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, California, Washington D.C., West Virginia



What are some things that most people don't know about me?
I have no known allergies except for very mild hayfever.
I had no idea how to cook until encouraged by my mother-in-law to learn. Now, I'm actually quite pleased with my culinary skills.
One of my most cherished dreams is to write and illustrate a children's book.
I never talk religion with my family, except for one sister I'm extremely close to, and I'm not even sure my whole family is aware I officially ended my membership in the LDS Church.


And THAT, my friends, will bring us to a close for today. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to actually... like.. get dressed, and stuff. My kids are mumbling something about snack time, and I try to be at least mostly-dressed for preschool drop-off in the afternoons.

Yours in sleepy, sleepy, oh my howdy the tired is like a disease and I actually fell asleep folding laundry the other day and can't you see how all these italics are stressing the depths of my tired, tired pregnant..um..ness? Amen.

Rationalizing His Irrationality...

T has been hesitant to spread the good news of our pregnancy, preferring to play it close to the vest and keep it to ourselves for a while longer. I suspect the reason is mostly carryover anxiety from the lost pregnancy last summer, but - being a man - he keeps coming up with alternative (and increasingly improbable) excuses for his reluctance.

Take today, for example:

Me: So did you tell your boss about the baby yet?

T: Not yet. Tomorrow, I swear.

Me: mmhmm

T: Hey, it's not as easy as you make it out to be! How do I bring that up in casual conversation?! What if he's jealous because he wants me all to himself? What if he freaks out because the kid might be his? Have you even thought of that?

Me: Um.. no. And there's a good reason for that. Did you really just suggest that this baby isn't yours?

T: Um.. no? But it could have been implanted in you by a master alien race of lizards. You know, like immaculate conception.

Me: Like Jesus?

T: Exactly! But in alien-lizard form.

Standing Still

I have 2 different posts already half-written and now filed away for another day. (Including the meme you tagged me with, sistah S. I'll get there, I promise.)

But at the moment, I am strangely caught up in a feeling of inertia.

My life has been a strange and constant parade of stops and starts, fits and spurts. My growing years consisted of a string of moves every two years or so. There were always siblings going off to college, getting married, having babies.

When I was 9 my dad helped put a bad man in jail, and maybe had a contract put out on his life by some mafia types who weren't happy about it. Police staked out our house and followed us everywhere for days. I only vaguely realized something was happening, and mostly pouted about not being allowed to go ride my bike around the neighborhood for a while.

When I was 13 my Mom's only sister lost her battle with cancer. I remember my last conversation with her; I was baking cookies in our old kitchen in Utah. We talked about her hummingbirds, and whether there were more or less this year than usual. I went to her funeral a few months later; hers was the first dead body I had ever seen. We moved again a few months later.

California was my first settle-down experience. We stayed there for all 4 years I was in high school. Of course, adolescence is hardly a period of stillness. There was puberty to go through, driving to learn, proms to attend, boys to kiss. I got my first real kiss on my eighteenth birthday, which I will forever associate with the preceding loss of 80 pounds. I did a lot of running in those days. It helped to clear my head.

This year marks my tenth year in the DC area. I've moved constantly in that time - as a single girl apartment and house hopping and then as half of a married couple going from a single-bedroom to a tw0-bedroom to make room for baby number one. Finally, as a family we moved to our house here in our country town.

Three and a half years have passed since we came here. We had another baby. We lost a baby. Now we're having another baby. But the big things in our own life have a sense of inevitability to them - a feeling that we're following our plan. Through the struggles here and the joys here, there is a feeling of... resting. A sense that we are standing still. Waiting. As though this is the quiet, sheltered time before life goes haywire once again.

Perhaps it's just that, as a child, the bumps in the road that shaped us unaware begin to get lost in the landscape as we cross the bumps of adulthood. We evolve, and we cope with the present.

Every once in a while, though, there's a moment of absolute stillness. There are moments when the storm of life rages around you, and you glory in it. There come moments in the life of a parent where you must surrender briefly to the chaos, and suddenly find yourself at peace.

When I was 11, we lived in Texas. I stood outside on a chilly early-spring afternoon as a rainstorm threatened the skies above me. The wind blasted in all directions around me, lashing whips of hair across my rosy-cold cheeks. Each gust felt closer to whipping me right up off the ground and spinning me off into the sky. The air was thick with the coming rain and the clouds overhead were dark and menacing in the green-tinted sky. No cars drove the streets and no other soul crossed the horizon in the empty field where I stood. I closed my eyes and raised my arms against the blast, ready to dissolve against the rush of the wind.

Open Letter To My Body.

Dear Body,

It's time for us to have a serious discussion about getting it together, already. To recap?

March 2007: Digestive badness ends in trip to ER
May 2007: Herniated disc in back
June 2007: Miscarriage
December 2007: Appendicitis leads to emergency appendectomy
January 2008: Chest Cold From Hell

I am crawling, inch by painful inch, out of the black hole of the past few days.

Tuesday night, I found my stomach feeling a little on the queasy side. "Ah-HAH!" we thought. Morning sickness! Perhaps an indication that we are brewing a girl this time?

Oh, no. Not so.

February 2008: Stomach Bug brings wish for death

It seems that the stomach bug that gave T a few hours of tummy upset last week, then apparently migrated to Toby for a few bouts of diarrhea and a single puking episode, had made its way to me. And on the way? For fun? It had mutated.

I spent most of Tuesday night in reverent prayer to the porcelain gods. Mostly? Mostly I prayed for swift and merciful death. Anything to deliver me from the waves of nausea and sudden eruptions of vomit. Sesame chicken plus throwing up equals I can haz deaths now, plz?

By Wednesday morning the nausea had passed, and I had moved on to phase II, wherein my bowels made a mockery of every past digestive issue I ever thought was painful and disgusting. I have never lost so many fluids in such a short span in my life. I'll let you fill in the details, as I do maintain some small sense of decency and, really, I am scarred enough from the experience that I will refrain from sharing my agony further. Suffice it to say I was rapidly approaching dehydrated surrender.

Thankfully, a passing ice storm kept T home on Wednesday to take care of me and the boys. I spent most of Wednesday in bed. That is, when I wasn't making an Olympic-qualifying dash for the bathroom.

Yesterday was a bit better. I felt weak as a day-old kitten, and Toby spent a good part of the day screaming bloody murder for no apparent reason. Which of course reminded me why I am SO excited to have another one of these small hegemons currently couched in my womb. *sigh*

Today I almost feel human again. Food is going in and coming out at a semi-normal rate, and everyone seems to have settled back into something resembling our normal routine. I'm even making heart-shaped sandwiches for Jack's preschool Valentine party this afternoon. Because recovering from spirit-breaking sickness is no reason to lose my status as Awesomest Room Parent Ever. (Even if that status has been awarded only in my head.)

My lofty goals for the weekend include getting Jack (finally) registered for T-ball and hopefully touching base with my violin teacher, who likely supposes I have dropped off the face of the planet or been struck by a bus.

So, look, Body... It's been a year now. Can we call truce? Please? I feed you organic veggies and plenty of protein. I give you the occasional treat. I even park in the far-away spot at the grocery store to get the extra few paces of exercise! Sure I spend too much time in those comfy leather La-Z-Boy recliners that T's mom gave us, and I might carry around Toby more than carrying around a nearly-two-and-a-half-year-old can reasonably be justified... but... can you cut a girl some slack? Just a little? We both know the cancer is going to get us eventually, so in the mean time, can't we just enjoy the fact that we are not yet thirty? You know, like NORMAL people? C'mon, I'll even get us a spa day this spring. A nice pedicure - wouldn't you like that? Maybe a prenatal massage? I'll feed you more greens and fewer carbs! I'll even get serious about doing that prenatal yoga DVD at least 3 times a week.

So do we have a deal? I'll treat you a little more gently, and you'll ... well, you'll stop acting like you belong to a ninety-year-old woman who should be offering her grandkids a quarter to massage her aching feet. And one of these days, when we are finished with this babymaking business, I'll get us back into running and maybe we'll do a 5k to celebrate our rediscovered sense of cooperation.

For now, though? I'd settle for waking up in the morning without having to cough up half a lung or chomp a handfull of tums before I can begin to act like a normal human being. You know, the absence of acute illness. Baby steps.

Sincerely,
Mel

P.S. If you could also stop with the cravings for ice cream, we'll be a lot better off once this baby arrives. If we hit the 220 mark again with this baby, we're both going to have to deal with that reflection when we step naked from the shower, and I can't afford therapy for both of us. Kthxbye.

The Puke Runneth Over.

You would think that, being the pregnant one in the house, any vomit that needs to be projected in this house might come from me. You would be sadly mistaken, my friend.

In point of fact, I am feeling quite well on the digestive front. A little ginger ale here and there to settle brief flirtations with stomach upset, and I've been good to go. Not so much the case with... well, nearly every creature in the house today.

First the dog threw up on the floor directly in front of the television in full view of the children. And this was no ordinary puke - oh, no. This was a rancid, steaming, fluorescent puddle of concrete-melting sick that made the eyes water and immediately spawned several minutes of reflexive gagging.

It took half a roll of paper towels and most of a bottle of carpet cleaner (and several additional years added onto my therapy tab) but I finally got it cleaned up without actually sicking up, myself. All the while, of course, the boys are pointing and shrieking and generally convinced that the dog is somehow possessed of the devil and just waiting to spew acid venom all over them.

Finally, I was able to compose myself enough to whip up some lunch for the kids. Now, Toby had a bout of diarrhea last night that was... impressive. We chalked it up to the fact that the little moocher had helped himself to a couple of donuts for breakfast yesterday, but by this morning he was feeling lethargic and snuggly and generally Not. Good.

But he seemed to have a healthy appetite and ate a piece of toast and some apple slices for breakfast without event. I was lulled into a false sense of security. I gave him his lunch.

And before he had eaten a single bite, he threw up all over the plate and the kitchen table and his jammies and my remaining threads of sanity.

I threw him into the tub, realized we were late for preschool, washed him up, bundled him into warm clothes, threw on Jack's shoes and ran out the door to get Jack to school before he, too, started leaking fluids.

Jack assured me he was feeling fine, and I cannot express my relief as I dropped him off at his class and watched him run happily away to spend the afternoon coloring and singing. And possibly becoming the typhoid Mary of the preschool set, but really, I swear he said he felt fine (and no temp. I checked.)

I stopped at the store to grab toddler electrolyte solution and various upset-tummy remedies, then headed for home. Toby and I walked into the kitchen to find ... one of the cats had thrown up all over the kitchen counter. Which is, obviously, exactly how I wanted to continue my day.

If anyone or anything else in this house feels the need to sick up, if they could just wait until after, say, 6:30 so that T can take over scrubbing up the mess? That would be just lovely, thanks.

Better Late Than Never (No Pun Intended)

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

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

Yes, that kind of late.

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

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

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

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

I can just feel your anticipation!

Thursday Roundup

* No. I can't talk about IT yet... but I promise to talk about it tomorrow. Then? I promise to talk about IT ad nauseaum thereafter. Mucho mysterioso, no?

* Happy Chinese New Year, and welcome to The Year of The Rat (also known by its former name of Wu Zi). I don't really know much about the holiday, except that in elementary school there was usually a kid from China in my class who would bring little red envelopes with celophane fish in them. Obviously, I am a wealth of cultural knowledge....

* If anyone really, REALLY loved me they would buy this for me. I'd ask for the one from the official site, but they are sold out. Plus, the baseball jersey style will work for cold-weather wear as well as into the summer - once he wins the nomination, of course. *cough* Oh, and then again when he is President Of The Galactic Alliance.

* What the hell is going on in Washington? Do they think that because it's an election year we aren't paying attention? And then of course there's this. Which makes me wonder -- if the the really bad guys are all at this secret camp, doesn't that mean that we know that the guys we're holding in Gitmo GenPop are probably not the really bad guys? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller???

Yes We Can.

Slow, Slow, Quick-Quick..sorta

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

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

Ahem.

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

On to the slow. And the painful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obama '08.

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

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

Still.. Yet... Living.

I have been inexcusably absent of late. I realize. I will explain later, but mostly it involves lots of running around, doing chores, preparing to do our taxes, and even - GASP! - a bit of social interaction not centered around my children. I know! It's like living in some sort of parallel universe, one where I actually feel like a regular person sometimes!

So, then, lacking in any wisdom of my own to share today beyond "don't eat yellow snow" (which is not as useful as you might think, since we have had 2 days of rain and a sadly obvious lack of snow...) I submit instead....

The Zen Parenting Wisdom of Oh The Joys. She rather brilliantly does something that I think many parents struggle to do -- which is to effectively apply acquired life wisdom to the raising of children. Because keeping our cool, actively choosing how to interact and respond to our children: these are things that require conscious choice on our part as parents.

My sister and I had a conversation recently wherein I finally managed to articulate my major Zen Life Philosophy. It's been brewing for a long time, but I was able to put it into words for the first time.

My ultimate goal is to Live Life On Purpose. The most important thing I DON'T want to do is to go with the flow, take the path of least resistance, or live my life according to habit or my emotional responses. Everything in our lives that we are dissatisfied with can only be changed by active decision on our part. It's not going to magically happen -- whether "it" is raising our children to be the best people they can be, achieving the personal or professional success we desire, or even just getting ahead of the housework or getting physically healthier.

My goal for this year is to attack these things one at a time, prioritize which are the most important to me, and actively improve each one. I think that OTJ has hit the nail on the head -- finding the Zen in the Parenting Zoo requires making a decision to bring as much of the Zen to the table as we possibly can.

So how about delurking and weighing in? What are your tricks for keeping your cool and keeping Zen in raising your kids?

Personally? I find that when I'm stressed to my limit, making time for a bubble bath with a hot cup of chamomile tea after the house is quiet can do wonders for my mental state. Also, getting out in the sunshine and letting the kids run around crazy (until I am inevitably lured into joining them and flying around in the fresh air like a five-year-old, myself) helps me fall in love with my rugrats all over again.

Alive and Kicking.. and Maybe Biting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a catch, y'all.

My Milkshake Brings All The Boys To The Yard

Now that I'm married, babied, and hedging on 30, the only (mostly) sane man who would believe I'm a 10 is dependent on me for hot meals and marital favors. Apparently, though, my breasts have taken on a spectacular life of their own. (for photographic evidence, check out my sister's blog here for a photo of us at my other sister's wedding. Fifth photo down, that's me in the red. And yes, I would be the younger sister - by 10 years - even though you would never guess that from the photo.)

So this morning, in the middle of the business meeting for our mother's club, Jack walked up to me and stared thoughtfully at my chest for a moment.

"Mommy? Your boobies look like buns."

(*pause*)

"Do they, then. What sort of buns? Bread buns? Butt buns?"

"BREAD buns!" he giggled. "Why do they look like that?"

"I dunno...."

"I know! Because they're squished next to each other!"

Yup. Still got it.

The Tiny Fist of Iron

Jack's bedtime routine has evolved recently, and he now demands that his evening ends with a story followed by the songs "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Silent Night" (which he refers to as "the commercial song", thanks to a Christmas ad from pampers that showed sleeping babies while a woman's voice sang the carol).

Silent Night is my song, and apparently I am the only one qualified to sing it to him properly.

Itsy Spider, on the other hand, is subject to the whims of a moody four-year-old exploring the rules of command and control. I am expected - nay, commanded - to perform the hand motions, but whether or not I sing along depends on the particular evening.

Tonight, as Jack lay snuggled next to me in his bed, I put my hands into the Official Spider Position and sang the opening bars of the ditty.

"NO, Mom! You're not allowed to sing except on Mondays...."

(pause)

"Mom? What day is it today?"

"It's Monday."

"Oh. I said you're only allowed to sing Itsy Spider on Fridays. You just do the hands part. And then you can sing the commercial song."

"Uh... Huh. Okay."

He's lucky he's cute, y'all. That's all I'm saying.

Parental Advisory: Contains Irrational Levels of Cheer

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

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

"Mommy? How did your voice get scratched?"

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

-------

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

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

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

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

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

Suburban Serenity.

I woke briefly this morning as T climbed into the shower. Snuggled on either side of me were the boys. Two warm little bodies, quiet and still, wrapped around me from both sides. It lasted about a minute and a half before the maniacs arose and the day began.

Fed the dog our leftover scrambled eggs. Because I was feeling generous.

Decided to leave the Christmas tree up... just one more day. It cheers up the living room. I need to hang more pictures in there or something.

No appointments, commitments, or catastrophes to handle today. Just have to get Jack to preschool, grab a few things at the grocery store, and get Toby home for a nap while I settle in to catch up on the new (unscripted!) episodes of The Daily Show and Colbert Report on the TiVO and fold a little laundry.

Every day should begin this way.

Geeks R Us.

Each of the boys is in front of a separate television.

Toby is in the play room playing Lego Star Wars on the GameCube.

Jack is in the family room playing Lego Star Wars: The Original Trilogy on the new xBox 360.

If anyone requires a handbook on The Care and Feeding of Small Nerds? We've got you covered. Just ask T. He is currently hunched over the stove making Hamburger Helper Double Cheeseburger Macaroni (with ground turkey, 'natch) for dinner.

And now he's blaming me for the sad culinary state of our household.

In my defense? I blame him. After all, how am I supposed to do things like.. grocery shop.... and find recipes... when I'm in it up to my eyeballs in Puzzle Quest?

And then it went KA-BOOM!

Christmas happened, and there was much gift-giving and shameless materialism and even a few expressions of sincere affection at our house.

Big Daddy T got his xbox 360 and immediately claimed it as his saucy mistress. Which is only a little awkward, since I end up chatting with his friend Chris over the headsets as often as he does while we play Halo 3. Also while I blast the effing aych-ee-double-hockey-sticks out of the alien scum. Because I'm a lady.

I didn't really ask for anything this year except the Amy Winehouse album, which T neglected to get because (as he pointed out) I can just as easily get it off of iTunes. Instead, he got me something totally unexpected and completely awesome. In lieu of a photo of the actual item (which I somehow neglected to photograph) I will share this radical shot of the scrumptious packaging...


Yes, a Coach purse. My husband is attempting to upgrade me from the ground level up, and it seems that my $10 canvas mommy bag from Walmart was as good a place as any to start. So, now I carry my fabulous (still big enough to hold a diaper and small spare wipes) purse with me everywhere I go, and try not to think about the fact that it cost as much as I would spend on clothes in a year. Okay, so for a year that number may be pitifully low. Which, incidentally, is the other part of my directive: Buy Nice Clothes. Which I will totally start working on... as soon as I lose the last 15 pounds.

The boys got too many toys to enumerate, sadly. The highlight, I think, was the kitchen set I got from JC Penney for $35. Of course, at that price, I knew there would be a catch. I just didn't know there would be 175 or so of them. You see, the kitchen came totally unassembled. I wish I had taken photos to share, but I was apparently so stricken at the realization that every. single. piece. was unconnected, I sorta blacked out for a few hours and somehow got it put together just before dinner.

Of course, after their recent introduction to Toy Story, they had to get matching Buzz Lightyear action figures.


And then their heads exploded.

After Christmas, of course, I headed to parts west for my sister's New Years Eve wedding in Salt Lake City. I have all sorts of anecdotes I am sure I could share - and still yet may - but for the moment, let's just stick to the highlights of the trip.

- The Kaboom. In the first 48 hours that I was gone, T and the boys all came down with fever and chest cough. The cat got trapped in our bedroom overnight with T and peed on our bed. The boys got into the Christmas stockings and ate, between them, an entire package of chewing gum. The boys also left the stockings laying out which brings us to the part where the dog ate 3 entire Tobleronne bars. The dog, by the way, is fine. I, on the other hand, and still somewhat grief-stricken at the loss of the chocolate. But I'll be okay. Time heals all wounds, and all that. Eventually.

- Saw "I Am Legend" with my sister Shannon and her teenage son. Their family is so fan-freaking-tastic I hardly know where to begin. Theirs is one of the few places I can walk into and feel immediately at home. We had good conversation and some lively debate, and even added a little icing to an already sweet relationship. Also, she makes me brave in my style choices and reminds me that, in all ways, just being myself is quite good enough. Even though her 11-year-old daughter can play circles around me on the violin. Hey, at least my teenage nephew (who has the most wickedly awesome hair, by the way) was willing to sit with us at the movie. So at least I haven't reached "sit three rows back and pretend not to know the adult" status. Yet, anyway.

- Got to have Sushi with Dr. Allie and another old acquaintance. The sushi was awesome, the Saki was hot, and the chance to catch up and let our hair down was priceless.

- Sat next to my last surviving Grandma at the wedding. She had one of her more lucid moments, and we had a nice chat. And she didn't comment on the pierced nose or the wild hair, just laughed at my jokes and let me put my arm around her during the ceremony and generally acted grandmotherly.

- At our wedding five years ago T and I gave the DJ explicit instructions about the type of music to play for the first few hours of the reception. With T's dad being retired military and currently in government, there were a fair few military and government-dignitary-types present. My sister, of course, did a little flirting and convinced the DJ to play Nelly's "It's getting hot in here (so take off all your clothes)" in the first 10 minutes.

It took five years, but I finally served up the payback. I had a little chat with the DJ, agreed to take any and all blame, and finally served my sis a dose of her own medicine. Being Utah, of course, she got the benefit of the DJ dubbing out the more offensive parts of the song (not so at our wedding, for the record) but still. Payback was sweet, baby.

- Watched fireworks at eye level on the 23rd floor of the Wells Fargo building in Salt Lake City at midnight. It was a weird moment - no T to kiss or snuggle up to. Just me, standing in a room of family and strangers, a little island unto myself. I was exhausted, oddly serene, and fiercely homesick. I think maybe it took being so far away from my home and our own little family to realize how much those things are the center of my life. Extended family is lovely, and it's nice to catch up once in a while, but if I had to make a choice... I'd choose T and the boys over anyone or anywhere else in the world every time.

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All in all, more has happened in the last few weeks than I can properly record. I'm ready to move on into 2008. I'm sure I'll probably look back here and there, and toss in a thing or two I forgot, but for the most part... I have already moved on. I'm ready for something good - no - GREAT to happen. I'm ready for a new year.

As soon as I get over this gnarly chest cold, that is.

Mousey Christmas To All.

So last night we're engaging in some holiday chicanery - you know: baking, talking, watching socio-politically aware movies (Blood Diamond was very good, if not very Cheer-inducing).

Not a creature was stirring....

When what to our wondering eyes should appear? But a mouse, which we noticed just as he scurried under the oven.

Chloe the cat noticed, too. She took up a post in the nearest corner of the room and waited. And waited. And then, being a cat, was distracted by something shiny - perhaps a puff of tinsel, or perhaps the sushi we were eating for dinner.

Whatever the reason, be it tinsel or fish, I believe we all wished the same holiday wish: for that little grey mouse to be gone.

But holidays are crazy, there's just so much to do, so we all shrugged our shoulders with nary a clue how to handle this unwelcome guest.

Until this morning, you see, when I was preparing to roll out the dough we mixed up before bed. I opened the drawer that's under the oven, where we keep all the pans for cookies and muffins, just in time to see the top of his head.

Our mouse had taken up residence in the drawer.

At the first sight of me, of course, he disappeared beneath the pans. I was left wondering what I was going to do about a mouse in the drawer. Also, I wondered how I would remove the pan I needed without crushing the little vermin. Because the last thing you want to remember when you are baking is that this is the drawer where you had to sterilize out the smashed remains of a possibly diseased rodent.

I removed the pans, one at a time, and found the mouse - stunned into a lifeless lump - at the bottom. I covered him with a tupperware and scooped him up. Then I stared at him. Did I accidentally crush him with one of the pans after all? He seemed to be breathing. Was that a twitch of the whiskers? I stared at him, wondering what to do, until several minutes had passed.
I puzzled puzz'd (yes, till my puzzler was sore) when something happened I hadn't expected before. The little mouse sat up, revived. So I thought a bit more, then opened the door, and behind the fence set him free, still alive.

It must be that Christmas is practically here. I can think of no reason except "time of year" that I felt such concern for a mouse. Especially one that caused such great stress (not to mention a big heap ofpoop, er, I mean "mess") in venturing into our house...

So Merry Christmas to all, the tall and the small, and be sure to show how much you care....
Share smiles with abandon, show kindness at random, and from further terrible mouse poetry may you be spared.

Rest, Relaxation, and Return to Reality

The Inn was everything we hoped and more. Today, I actually feel almost human. Also, I am no longer experiencing one giant anxiety attack in regard to Christmas and everything that still needs to be finished before Tuesday morning.

Here are a few of the high points of the evening and morning at our B&B retreat. WARNING: I may wax romantic and poetic and whatnot. Old houses and unbridled pampering will do that to a girl.

The Inn opens with a tavern, complete with incredible antique furniture, paneled walls and a grand piano beckoning for a passer-by to make themselves at home and coax the music from its aging ivories.

The passageways in the main house are impossibly tiny, built to suit smaller bodies of a bygone era. Exposed beams along the high ceilings had the delicious, velvety patina that comes with the aging of hard wood under rich lacquer.

Dinner in front of the fireplace served on antique tableware. Seven courses of pure bliss. A filet mignon so tender, she wasn't kidding when she handed me the butter knife and said "you really won't need this."

The "Winter Cottage" welcomed us with a giant, antique bed perched on Tuscan-tile floors. The jacuzzi tub was deep enough for the swirling bubbles to reach my chin. The gas fireplace cast dancing lights on the hand-painted walls and vaulted ceiling. The crisp, embroidered linens felt clean and cool on the skin.

Morning brought a cascade of heavenly, scalding water in the giant, tiled shower. Coffee and muffins by the fire, Pellegrino and fresh fruit. A view of the Manor house and the stream, emerging like spectres from the fog as the hazy clouds lifted in the warmth of the morning sun.

Returning home was surreal. Waving goodbye to T as he drove off, alone, into the rest of the day. Wandering from the cold and the quiet into the bustling warmth of our chaotic life. My taste of luxury was traded back in for our modest home, with its messy kitchen, the piles of dirty laundry waiting to be washed and clean laundry to be folded.

Then two tiny pairs of arms grabbed hold of my legs, sticky kisses were planted on my cheeks, and I found that - though I enjoyed every minute of our brief getaway- when it comes to my messy, chaotic life... I am already spoiled beyond what I deserve. The rest is just icing.