Wednesday, December 19, 2007

I considered the ubiquitous Christmas photo for the month of December, but then I thought, my, how predictable. And we all know how I feel about predictable.
So, why not this?



We have honed the art of"naked running" in our house. It is a nightly ritual, practiced by all three toddlers simultaneously, and generally accompanied by ear-shattering shrieks, piercing screams and the percussive shots of slammed doors accompanied by little feet. The dog may also join in. My role appears to consist of wrapping the damp bath-towel around my head and lying on the floor until the procession has exhausted itself. I'm not entirely sure that this is what the sleep-books had in mind when they recommend that one establishes "bedtime routines" for your children.
Perhaps this explains why that book deal on child-rearing remains elusive....

Wednesday, November 07, 2007


Hallowe'en can be remarkably intimidating. First, there's the putting-on-of-unusual-clothes. Closely followed by the approaching-of-strange-doors, and the reciting-of-odd-phrases.
This is generally forgotten in the immediate-ingestion-of-all-received-goodies, but still..

Little P. not only refused to wear the "hat portion" of the costume, but headed home as soon as all pertinent candies were collected and her job as "nemo" was complete. This Hallowe'en thing is a lot of work, you know.


Big Brother also kept an eye on Little Q., who wore the hat portion of this ensemble for about 37.2 seconds before ripping it off her head and flinging it into the bushes.


Big Brother as "worker-man" for the festivities of fall....Note the lurking presence of Guard-Cat, who patrolled the neighborhood and kept monkey-business to a minimum.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007



I love this image.

The girls have learned how to unlatch the gate, and now, the world is waiting at their fingertips.

I'm sure there's a profound metaphor or something lurking just beneath the surface here, but really, why ruin the moment?

Friday, September 07, 2007

We have been working hard to entertain ourselves. In a town where entertainment seems to consist largely of things for the testosterone-laden-21-year-old-Army male, this can be something of a challenge.
But today's adventure was photogenic, if nothing else....




We have collected the buds of a rare tree.




We have also plucked and consumed the berries from an unidentified shrub. Yum. NO! SPIT THAT OUT!!!!!!!



And we played with bubbles. And I would like to apologize to the neighbors, even though they are unaware of the fact that I had decided they were responsible for the disappearance of our bubble machine. Ummm, turns out it was behind the gas grill. It's just that assuming it was stolen and blaming someone else seemed so much more logical. At the time. Ahem.

Thursday, August 23, 2007



We've Moved.

It's been epic. Really truly epic.

And what else is there to do in your house - with three babies, a dog, a stitched-up cat and your parents - while you wait a week for your furniture to arrive?

Why, play house-soccer, of course. With Grandstan.



I still don't know where the goal was, but it looked like everyone was having a pretty good time.

Will post more, soon!

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Symbols for Sale.

For those of you who know me well, once upon a time I drove a monster truck. And had a kick-ass camper that slid into the back of said truck, making me look part gypsy, part very cool world-traveller (and some might say, uh, part red-neck). But I scoff at these naysayers. Scoff, I tell you. The camper was cool. Ask Michele. Ask her where she was when it was pouring down rain and the winds were blowing and the nights were long and cold, and, ummm, Fort Stevens had deer running through tents. On second thought, given that Michele was in a tent and I was nice and warm and dry, maybe we'd best NOT ask her. 'Kay? She might get cranky.

Suffice to say, I loved my camper.

And this week, I realized that the camper was also, on some weird pop-psychology level, a symbol. The camper allowed me to believe, however convolutedly, that I could pick up and go, turtle-like, with everything I need, right there on my back - well, the truck's back...okay okay, the truck's bed, factoring in $3.00 plus per gallon for diesel, it would be moderately more expensive than your average turtle, but I digress. The camper and I went to some marvelous places, saw some marvelous things and it played a part in some great memories. We have, history, you know?

Given that the camper also spent some time in my parents' garage, I believe it symbolized something for them, too. Perhaps - though I'm no psychologist - the fact that their children will never stop using their home as a storage unit.

And there's where the crux of the matter lies. The camper has been living in my garage now for a year (yes, getting it from my parents' home to our house was an adventure unto itself - a story for another time), and as my garage also happens to be, umm "co-owned", shall we say, by my lovely husband, it was beginning to pose a bit of a problem. It turns out that said husband did not see the beauty of the camper, did not see the limitless (ok, limited by how much diesel one could afford) possibilities inherent in said camper. The freedom, the adventure, the get-up-and-just-go. No, my husband saw only that the camper TOOK UP SPACE.
Space that he would rather have used for something wildly esoteric, like, say, a car.
Hrmph.
After a year of wearing me down with subtle suggestion, like, "Gee, if I had space in the garage, I could build you that new bed you saw in the Pottery Barn catalog" and other helpful notions, it dawned on me that some day soon, the camper and I would have to part ways. Sentimental attachments aside, I was beginning to have a hard time visualizing where my three toddlers would sleep in the camper, given that there is really only one - very small but comfortable - bed. Even if the three babies and I were to sleep in the one - very small but comfortable - bed, where would dear husband sleep? Hmmmm. And the refrigerator in the camper? Very Very Small. Great for holding the necessities of life for one (cream for my coffee, butter, and umm, a few goodies from Trader Joes), it was far too small to accommodate a monster jar of formula, baby yogurts, toddler string cheese and the myriad other weird foods demanded by my offspring. Reality was knocking. I was trying hard not to answer...

So the camper went on Craigslist.
For Sale. To the highest bidder.

And yesterday, the camper became the property of a cute boy graduating this fall from university, who will be celebrating said graduation by driving/camping across the country and down to Baja.

So the camper? Still a symbol. But sadly, no longer in my garage.

Saturday, February 17, 2007


The birthday girls in all their glory. Sitting on the floor and eating pens kinda-glory, but glory none-the-less.


The birthday girls' cupcakes. The "angels" cupcakes are chocolate with cream cheese and chocolate chip filling, and the "roses" are lemon cupcakes with lemon curd filling. Unfortunately, the photos of them cramming pink frosting into their mouths and smearing it into their hair were somewhat unsightly, so I'll spare you the horror.

In short, it was a lovely day. Happy Birthday my little ones!

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Today the girls are One. One. Year. Old. First, there is the incredible realization that we - all - have survived the first year of this, umm, adventure. There were certainly many nights when I had a strong suspicion that we would not live to see the rising of the sun, but rise it did. In retrospect, I think the human brain is conveniently hard-wired to forget the staggering lack of sleep, the utter exhaustion of nursing two babies simultaneously and the bottomless pit of dismay at the endless crying marathons. But. SURVIVED! WE DID IT!

And now? And now, we have these two amazing creatures who are celebrating their first year of life here on Planet Earth. If you're at all allergic to saccharine, you might want to skip the next bit.
These little people are truly extraordinary. Both girls swing their butts like hula dancers at the first hint of a song - be it a jingle on tv, a CD of baby songs, or their Dad singing the most-god-awful-off-key-rendition of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" ever known to humankind. The sight of those little diaper-clad bottoms rockin' out to Bob Dylan is enough to warm the cockles of any heart. Actually, the sight of their bottoms is heart-warming in virtually any situation (poo-filled being the obvious exception). Apparently, I have developed some sort of motherly ardour (read "Obsession") with my babies' butts. Seriously? They are the Most Adorable Butts placed on the globe. Bath time is soooo sweet I almost need insulin afterwards. And generally a change of clothes, but I digress.

The girls have also developed a penchant for "giving". They take great pains to bring me gifts every waking hour of the day and night. These gifts include, but are not limited to: wads of used kleenex, pages torn from my Cook's Illustrated Magazine, shoes (mine, theirs, their brother's, anyone foolish enough to leave a shoe lying around), books, toys - of course - bottles, sippy cups, and clean clothes rescued from the laundry basket and liberated to the living room floor. The constant gifting is all the more impressive, as the girls must Locate the Gift, and then Distribute the Gift. Gift distribution is hampered modestly by the fact that crawling while carrying shoes/bottles/moist kleenex requires a technique of dragging/hauling that makes me really want to equip then with baby backpacks. Or purses. On the upside, the technique does result in cleaner floors. On the downside, the once "clean" laundry Gifts are, shall we say, "embellished" with festoons of dog/cat hair, miscellaneous food remnants and odd grey streaks that remain unidentifiable. It's enough to make a girl walk upright. But - no rush there, ladies, take your time, Muma can happily wait a little longer. Really.

But the biggest gift? The biggest gift has got to be the expression on their faces - dimpled, largely toothless grins and sparkling eyes, as they hand over the latest treasure with a flourish worthy of Liberace. How can you NOT fall in love?

So, there you have it. Happy Birthday, Ladies. So amazingly glad you are here.

(We're planning a celebration on Saturday, hope to have pics for you all, shortly thereafter!)

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Vas Deferens. Not only the name of a British punk band (curious? Apparently they have a page at MySpace - I'll leave that research up to y'all), but also the term for a portion of the uh, male reproductive system. Those of you paying attention in sex ed. class in 9th grade, you already knew that. But have you ever seen one up close and personal?
Ha.
Guess what I did today?
That's right. Up close and Verrrrry Personal - this particular specimen of Vas belonged to none other than my Significant Other.

After debating the pros and cons of various birth control options (ha - WHAT options, exactly? ) we agreed that a vasectomy would be the way to go. And Hubby claims I wanted to make him suffer just the teeny-est bit. Which is unfair. I didn't really want him to suffer, I was just WAAAY over being the one on the hospital table, drapped in green cloth and told that I'd feel a "little tugging" (as two linebackers/doctors sawed at my body like I was an entire old growth forest).

So. Vasectomy as birth control. Right. "Everybody" says it is only mildly painful, a quick procedure. In fact, you can go here and read ALL about it. With excrutiating detail. And photos. In colour. And Significant One wishes to add that the painless part - yeah, not so much. Looks painful because it IS painful. What else did I learn? The Size of a Vas varies greatly from individual to individual, and might I also add that, while I had always visualized the Vas as a sort of spaghetti thingy (not that I spend my days visulaizing the Vas, umm, that would be, well, weird) it was closer to, say, elbow macaroni. Which probably makes you not want to eat pasta anytime soon.

But really, it was fascinating to watch the whole procedure take place and Hubby was exceptionally brave, especially in light of the fact that the ENTIRE team in the operating room was comprised of Women. Who were brandishing sharp things at his Wedding Tackle. Well, more than just brandishing, really, they were actually cutting out bits of his Wedding Tackle. While discussing eyebrow waxing. Seriously. I could not make this up if I tried. And then they take the little umm, bits, that they have removed and they place them in vials. Seperate vials, marked "left" and "right". Which all seemed very mysterious to me. I immediatley visualized The Vas Deferens Museum. Row upon row of gleaming glass vials with little, uh, bits, floating in crystal clear preservative, with, perhaps little name tags. (Oh god, maybe I DO visual the Vas...more than I realized).

Oh, and speaking of Wedding Tackle? Today is also our third wedding anniversary. That's right. To celebrate three years of marriage, I held my honey's hand while watching a team of women slice and dice his bits like a human Veg-o-matic. And then brought him home, propped him in bed and placed ice packs in strategic locations. Where he's to stay - for two more days.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.

Friday, January 12, 2007



Only moments before the unfortunate demise of a pretty white flower.
The dreaded "E" word. Yes, I'm talking "exercise". You know, it just stresses me out. I'm already stressed out about the health of the kids (let's see, we've had vomiting, diarrhea, and now we appear to have green-snot-noses with a promise of sore throats on the horizon, all within the past three weeks). I'm stressed out about the fact that my toddler hates his preschool. I'm stressed that I can't keep up correspondence with all the friends and family I adore. I'm stressed about money and time and WILL MY BRAIN EVER RETURN??? I'm stressed that I'm stressing too much.

So, to have emails from various listservs pop up (undoubtedly in the wake of New Year resolutions) extolling the virtues of Exercise and suggesting Helpful Hints to Ease Into Exercise, well, it makes me stressy. And snappish.

Bloody hell, do I have to worry about THAT, too?

Sigh. I know. I know I need to get out there, get the bod moving, get back into action and all that rot. Got it. But when the ParentCenter email reads "Tip: Put your child into the stroller just before naptime and get going. By the time you come home, your child will probably be asleep, and you'll have had your fresh-air exercise for the day." I want to reach through the computer to that silly little author and rip her manicured fingertips off. (Come on, you KNOW she's freshly manicured).

Apparently other mothers have had the same reaction, because the author's tagline reads only "Babycenter Editorial Staff" . So, let's review, shall we? You want me to take my tired cranky twins and toss them in the stroller, then exhaust myself by going for a walk (I can't even imagine running, so I won't bother putting it down as an option), and when I return home I am to do , what, exactly, with the now sleeping-beauties? Leave them to nap in the garage? Perhaps cover them with a tarp out in the driveway until they rouse themselves? Park them beside a space heater on the front porch? Because I guarantee you, if you try to pull one of those limp, deeply sleeping bodies out of that stroller, a beastie will rise up, a screaming, squalling beastie, kicking and purple with rage that you have disturbed her sleep. And tho' you may rock her, and cuddle her and coddle her, offer her bottles and juice and a favorite stuffed kitty - THERE WILL BE NO MORE SLEEP FOR HER. SHE HAS HAD A NAP. SHE IS DONE.
And that means, no nap for Mama.
And just where do you think she inherited the screaming beastie from, hmmm?

I rest my case (and my ass). There will be no stroller exercise for me. Too stressful, don't you know.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Friends came calling!!!!!
Before you cringe, yes, the announcement that Real Live Adult Humans came to visit me IS worthy of at least four exclamation points. So, nyah.
The one thing I look forward to when Other Adults come for a visit is, well, Adult Conversation. No, no, not "Adult" conversation, you gutter-minds, I simply mean the linguistically and contextually mature and gratifying exchange of ideas, concepts and knowledge with friendly faces.

Also, the opportunity to indulge in scurrilous gossip.

So one wonders, then, how I managed, in a roomful of adults, to bring up the subject of poo. Am I sooooo saturated in Mommyhood - that world of spit-up, laundry, dishwashing, lullabies and yes, dammit, yes, POO - that it seeps out, unbidden at any and all opportunities? I'm trying to remember how it happened. I know we were discussing writing - dissertation writing, to be exact - and I suppose I provided the brilliantly insightful metaphor that SOMETIMES, when you're writing it all feels like you're producing, um, poo. Now, to mangle the metaphor further, I went on to point out that SOMETIMES you feel like the poo ought to be flushed immediately, because it is stinky and nasty and unredemable, while OTHER poo is lovely and useful and necessary, in order to make roses bloom and corn fields florish. Et Cetera, painful et cetera.

You see why I need more Adult Conversation in my life?
I'm just sayin'.
Thanks Heather, Dwayne, Shannon and Sam - and, uh, apologies for the Poo.

Monday, January 08, 2007

Caden says "this is Caden, working. On Crown Moulding".
Change. Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Somehow, I don't do well with change. Me, the girl who used to be able to load all of her personal belongings into her pickup truck and drive off into the sunset on a moment's notice. More or less. Now, it would take more than your standard Mayflower van-line to carry all my crap and the thought of driving - or sailing? - off into the sunset, while tempting on some fronts, will never happen because it would be profoundly irritating to have to create a whole new Schedule all over again. Yes, Schedule deserves to be capitalized. With three kids under the age of three, a Schedule is as close to Nirvana as we'll ever be - it's the equivalent of the Holy grail, and once found, it is not to be idly departed with, simply because, say, the cleaning persons have decided to arrive an hour later than agreed upon.

Which is ultimately at the root of my problem today. The Grail of our Schedule receives an irritating ding every week, when our cleaning persons and the babies' morning nap schedule collide, creating cranky babies, cranky me, and crank-rolls-downhill-so-the-toddler-is-pissy-now-too, thank-you very much. Added to our diarrhea and vomit-filled weekend, and you have a Monday morning that no expensive caffeine-filled tea can possibly make better. I know, because I am on cup number three, and everything still sucks.

I'm eyeing the pick-up truck as I write.