October 18th, 2012

Elliot asked me what sex was, the other day.  I would tell you the story of how it came up, because that story is hilarious, but I don't want to inadvertently embarrass anyone who might or might not be a central character in that story, so I won't.  Suffice it to say that it revolved around a joke someone made, a birthday cake I made BECAUSE of the joke, and my son's naturally inquisitive nature.

'Nuff said.

Anyway, we're tooling along in the car, and having this conversation.

"But, Mommy, what's sex?"
"Sex is..."  I pause.  This question can be fraught.  After all, I don't want him getting the idea that there's anything wrong with sex, but neither do I want him asking his fellow preschoolers to engage in it.  Hmmm...  "Sex is when adults play with each other's jimmies."
"Why?"
"What do you mean why?"
"Why do they play with each other's jimmies?"
"Because they want to.  You know how sometimes you play with your penis?"
"Yeah."
"Well, when you're an adult, you might want someone else to do it."
In the rear view mirror I see my son give me a horror filled look.
"No, Mama.  I will NEVER want anyone to do that."
"Okay, buddy.  That's okay, too.  You don't ever HAVE to do it."
"Well I WON'T."

****

"I'm all alone, there's no one here beside me.  My problems have all gone, there's no one to deride me!"

I used to think that song was sad.  I was wrong.  That song is a grateful mother's anthem of joy, when her kids are finally distracted.

****

It's been a while since the last one of these.  Part of that is because I've been really busy.  The holidays are coming, and I always feel compelled to make gifts for people, which generally means that from August onward I'm going a little nuts.  Also, this fall I'm finally doing another show.  That's a whole other story (which I'll tell in a minute) but rehearsals are taking up a lot of my time.

But most of the reason you aren't getting updates from me is that I've been mentally forting up.  I don't have a lot to say, or thoughts I want to share with the great wide world, so I've been keeping them to myself.  Maybe this will pass.  HOPEFULLY this will pass.  In the meantime, if any of you feel out of touch, you can always tell me what YOU are doing.  It is relevant to my interests.

****

I'm doing Sunset Boulevard.  Everyone who knows the show, cue groans now.  Everyone who doesn't know the show, feel free to go ahead and groan anyway.  Sunset Boulevard is one of Andrew Lloyd Webber's hardest musical pieces, coupled with non-sympathetic characters, and a really slow plot.  So why am I doing it?  Well, because it had been five years since my last show.  And that's a long time.  So, there you go.

So, anyway, it's been kinda good, and kinda bad.  I'm meeting lots of new people, at least some of whom are nice, and that's great.  Plus, it's fun performing again.  On the other hand, it's a VERY insular group, and the Director is kind of a dictator.  So I'm doing my best to be a good little minion, hoping to win him over.  I have no idea if it's working.  We'll see.

Anyway, part of doing the show is helping with the set (which is fine by me) and helping with the fundraising, which is making me twitch.  If any of you just happen to want to donate to a theater, please, do feel free, but otherwise don't sweat it.  Sometime later this week I have to go drive around to bunch of local businesses and try to get ads for the back of the program.  Sigh.  It means loading the kids in and out of the car a bunch of times, and trying to make a pitch while simultaneously keeping the kids out of the stuff.

Grrr...

****

Blah.  I'm out of things to talk about and the kids have a pile of eight million books they want me to read.  Maybe next time I'll be in better form?  Cross your fingers.

September 25th

Tiff brought to my attention that for those of you that skim these *ahem* I mean, read them quickly, you might have missed that my second book is out.  So this time I'm putting it at the beginning. 

Hey, y'all, my second book is out. :)

******

Charlotte and Elliot love each other.  Except, you know, when they're awake.  Or breathing.  No, really, it's not that bad.  They love each other dearly.  But they fight almost any time they occupy the same space for more than about 27 seconds.  A catastrophic escalation of hostilities is pretty much guaranteed to occur each and every day.  Neither one of them sees the virtue in a measured or proportional response.  I'm just grateful they don't have nuclear access codes.  If they did, we'd be screwed.

That being said, I knew it was going to be hard on Charlotte when Elliot went to preschool.  I mean, sure, she could actually play with one of the eighteen million train sets in the house without her brother freaking out for two whole hours, but she was going to miss him.

I just wasn't prepared for just how traumatic this event was going to be.

Almost every day, when Elliot goes to preschool, I am blessed with two hours of a tear streaked Charlotte asking for him.

"I want my brudder!"
"Your brother is in school, sweetie."
"Less go get him."
"We can't go get him, he needs to finish.  Would you like to go to the library?"
"No.  I want my Ellyiot."
"Well, we'll go get him in a little bit."
"Less go now."
"We can't go now.  Would you like a snack?"
"NO! I WANT MY ELLYIOT!"

This will pass, right?

****

I'm doing some research for book 3, currently looking into naturally occurring antiseptics, and colloidal silver came up on the list (of course.)  In fact, the quote attached to it is as follows:

"...a powerful antibiotic and many organisms can only live for a few minutes in the presence of silver."

All of a sudden I had this blinding thought chain:  Silver really does kill things.  Werewolves!  Guess myth makers knew more than they thought they did.  Wait, silver is ubiquitous now.  MAYBE WEREWOLVES WERE REAL AND WE KILLED THEM ALL WITH THE PERVASIVE PRESENCE OF SILVER!

Like peanut allergies. 

Come with me on this.  You know you want to.

:D

****

Hah!  I have been rereading my old life in the slow lane emails.  Boy howdy, I didn't know anything, did I?  Of course not.  I still don't know anything, but now I've stopped even pretending.  Also, I read something in which I said I was never going to dress a girl in ruffles, or in pink.

Do you know how many of Charlotte's clothes have ruffles on them?  I couldn't give you a precisely accurate percentage, but I'm gonna go with "a fair amount."  Also, pink?  Like half her clothes are pink!  What was I thinking?  I dunno.  I'm an idiot.

****

Here is a sound piece of advice for all parents out there:

Whatever you do, don't watch hospital dramas.

You know what?  Those things are full of sick kids.  And no matter how many times your spouse turns to you and says "Our babies will be fine,"  (thanks, babe)  the truth is that if you are unlucky enough to have a sick kid you just have to cross your fingers and HOPE.

Here's another great piece of advice:  Do not dwell on things during your mid day slump.  It will get you no where good.

****

The kids and I are in slow recovery from excessive screen time.  What happened?  Well, it's been a tough summer for me.  Summers in general tend to be crazy, with all the vacationing and traveling and what not.  It ought to be relaxing and fun, but most years, while I find it fun, I don't find it terribly relaxing.  This particular year there were moments of fun, but it turns out that the changes in my life have made me a little... I dunno.  Not depressed, but certainly moody.  Maybe brooding?  I don't think I have words.  Whatever the case, I have not been my typical self, cycling through happy and snarky as my hormones moved me.  Rather I've just been a bit down, and not dealing with things.  Dishes have been low on my priority, as has laundry, sweeping, cleaning the toilet, and in general being a responsible little domestic.  And I haven't been good about keeping the kids away from the TV/computer.  All I wanted to do was sit around and read, or watch TV, and I wasn't feeling hypocritical enough to impose limits on them that I wasn't willing to maintain for myself.

This has changed, however.  Not my mood, my mood is still skirting the dark parts of town, trying not to get mugged by any of my inner demons.  But in the great tradition of my protestant heritage I have decided that maybe sucking it up and getting on with life is the best way to encourage my mood to creep out of the slums, and back into the brightly lit main thoroughfares of my psyche, where the carnival rides are playing their relentlessly cheerful tunes.

And so, as one of many steps I'm taking to get it together, I have cracked down on the screen time.  Charlotte gets to watch TV while Elliot is in pre-school, and Elliot gets to do TV or computer after Charlotte goes to bed at night until his bed time.  That's it.  And holy bejeezum crow, have they been cranky about it.  I totally understand, and am not really upset with either of them, but I long for the day when the limited TV time is normal to them, instead of a fresh injury.  Yesterday Elliot told me he didn't want to go to pre-school, he wanted to stay home and watch TV with Charlotte.

Eye-roll.

I have to say, though, when they're NOT whining about the TV, they seem to be in a much better mood.  So I guess there's hope for the future.

****

This time of year always makes me think of the National Balloon Rally.  For those of you who never lived in Statesville, the National Balloon Rally is held every year at an old airforce base outside Statesville.  North Carolina weather being what it is, sometimes the balloon rally is cold and rainy, and sometimes it's sunny and warm, and sometimes it's bright and chilly.  You never know.  But, unless the weather's really hideous, every sunrise and every sunset for three days hundreds of hot air balloons launch off the air strip out at the base.  In between launches you can wander around the fair, where there are game booths, food booths, and craft booths, not to mention my favorite, the fund raising booths, which were inevitably humiliating (pay $10 to have your friend put in jail.  Pay $10 for three chances to dunk them in a vat of water.  Whatever.)

The Balloon Rally was a staple of my childhood, we ALWAYS went.  And the Wednesday before it began, our elementary school got out of class early, and one of the balloon teams came and launched their balloon from our sports field.  This was both awesome, and more awesome, because hot air balloons are fantastic and I also got to miss almost an hour of school.

The last years we were in Statesville, we actually ran booths at the fair.  We had a food booth, where we sold spring rolls we'd spent the last month making in our kitchen, and we had a craft booth, where we sold tie-dye, as well as condom fashion accessories.

(Yeah, you heard me right.  Someone donated a giant batch of bad condoms to the shelters.  Because what poor people really need are unplanned pregnancies, I guess.  Anyway, we had a ton of condoms we couldn't give out, for obvious reasons.  So my mom made jewelry out of them.  People loved it.)

I'm not sure if my family liked running booths and the fair.  I loved it.  For one thing, I only ever worked very short shifts in the booth.  Most of the time I was free to run around the fair.  I found all the best booths (like the ones where they were giving away free chocolate bars.  The people working the booth were working in hour long shifts, so Tiff and I went back every hour and got more chocolate.) and orchestrated a few coups (like when my friends and I pooled our money to have this guy who made fun of us locked up in the jail cell for half an hour.)  I even saw my band director dunked twice.  It was a good time.

And fall always reminds me. 

Hope everyone is having a lovely yearly transition to the cold times, and enjoying whatever rituals are yours, this time of year.

August 26th

Booooook glorious booooook!  My second book is going to be done soon.  Then I shall see if it was mere freakish chance or if I am capable of repeatedly producing something that other people enjoy.

Keep your fingers crossed, while I'm finishing it up.

****

Someday I hope to write books of a different genre.  I've got two high fantasy plots simmering in the back of my mind, and three non-fictions.  Unsurprisingly, two of these potential non-fiction books are intended to be humerous.  One you've basically all been reading since Elliot was born.  It will be titled: Life in the Slow Lane; One woman's thoughts on the motherhood racket.  Or something like that.

The other will be something along the lines of "Jessica Woodard's guide to being a half-assed homemaker."  Catchy title, right?

On my front porch there is a child's wading pool.  Once upon a time it was filled with sparkling clear water.  Then my daughter (along with her best friend) decided that really, water is nothing unless it is bounded by shining sand, creating a place where earth meets ocean, and sky burns with bright blue fire above.

Of course, their manual dexterity is poor, so instead of creating a mini-beach they just dumped half the sand box in the pool.

Then they started adding other things. 

A Ritz cracker box, which, due to lamination, was curiously willing to float for almost two days before it began sinking.  It's now fully submerged, and I'm half convinced that only the external pressure exerted by the water is keeping the box from dissolving into minute particles and drifitng down to join the sand.

A half drowned doll.  This baby is both loved and cherished, so I can only assume that Charlotte remains unaware of the negative impact floating face down in a pool of water for two days may have on the human body.

There's a spoon and a sieve and a couple of cups, not to mention at this point there are almost certainly any number of dead bugs floating in my poor child's wading pool.

And do you know what I have done about this?

Nothing.

A while ago Waxor poured a little bleach in there, to make sure the bacteria didn't get out of control.  Other than that, I let the kids play.  I mean, I've tried dumping the sand out.  They just put it back.  And I could retrieve the doll but they're only going to submerge her again.  The Ritz Cracker box is already a goner, so I'll throw it away when they're done playing with it.  And I don't care about the bugs.

Maybe the secret to being a half-assed homemaker is infinite practicality mixed with just a dash of slovenly disregard for hygiene?

I dunno.

****

Lemme run a scenario by you.

When Waxor is ill, he stays home from work.  He ignores me, and ignores the kids, and either spends his day in bed or (if he feels well enough) sitting in front of his computer.  This sounds exactly like what you're supposed to do when you're sick, right?

When _I_ am sick, Waxor goes to work.  I am left at home with the children.  Just like I am EVERY OTHER DAY OF MY LIFE.  I do not go to bed.  I do not spend the day on the couch reading, or watching TV, or on the computer.  Because the children are still children, and they still want or even NEED something from me roughly every two minutes.  So when I am sick I just live my life, only in misery because I feel like crap.

Now, does that sound fair to you?

Does it?

****

Today I feel bad.  Remember "You Can't Do That on Television"?  Remember the slime bucket?  I pretty much have the entire contents of that slime bucket, endlessly pouring out of my face.

The children have responded to this by putting very concerned looks on their faces, and couching their demands in sweet and loving ways.

"Mommy, can I have a pancake?"
"Okay."  I haul myself to the kitchen, where I discover that my husband, who is destined to burn in the fiery pits of Tartarus, has eaten the last of the pancake batter.
"I'm sorry buddy, Daddy ate the last of the pancake batter.  Pick something else."
"But Momma," comes his sweetly reasonable voice, "you can MAKE more pancake batter."
I have, at this point, limped back over to a chair and seated myself.
"No, Buddy, not today."
"Why not?"
"I feel bad."
"Well, Momma, maybe you could just stir slowly."
"No, buddy."
"But, Momma, I really, really, really want a pancake."
I turn to my son with misery plain on my face. "Elliot, please, just pick something else to eat."
He sits quietly for a moment.
"Momma, I think you need some medicine."
"You're probably right, dude."
"And then you can make me a pancake."

****

Charlotte has become the most adorable thing on the planet.  Now, you shouldn't take this to mean that my son is any less cute than she is.  Not at all.  But he has been a walking, talking, source of adorablation for quite some time now.  Charlotte has just now come into her most cutest phase, and it is flabberghasting me.

She sings.  This was only to be expected.  She is, after all, my daughter.  But it has been many, MANY moons since I got the same kind of reaction from my vocal antics that Charlotte receives on a regular basis.  We were in the grocery store the other day, and passing by the Lucky Charms.  My eagle eyed child spotted the star on the box, and immediately launched into one of her favorite ditties.

"Twinkle, TWINKLE, LIL star!
Howayewunner wha'choo ARE!
Up a buh da wurl so HIGH!"
Pause
"Hi! Hi Mommy!" 
"Hi Chaz.  What were you singing?"
"LIKE A DI-MUN IN DA SKY!"
It should be noted, that what she lacks in lyrical accuracy, she more than makes up for in volume.  and my fellow shoppers, far from being annoyed at the noise, seem to go out of their way to tell me how very cute she is.  One woman actually melted into a little puddle in the produce aisle the other day.  My daughter slayed her with her rendition of "I love you, you love me."

Waxor's favorite is the Itsy Bitsy Spider.  I think he likes the dance that goes with it.  My personal favorite is Baa, baa, black sheep, because the master, the dame, and the little boy down the lane all get their own personal verses.

Also, the black sheep is apparently in possession of "Wuhl."

In addition to singing, she is enamored of her brother.  Every morning she rises before him, and every morning when he comes downstairs he is greeted the same way.

"ELL-YOT! Das my brudder, das my BRUDDER!  I lub you, Ell-yot!"

No wonder he has a god complex.


Right, so, I'm gonna send this, and then send another, because I KNOW some of y'all just skim these things.

June 6th, 2012

So, in my last LITSL I put in a blurb about my frustration with the war on drugs, and a number of you responded with basically the same thing.  Becca may have said it best when she said the following:

"I don't think it's really ABOUT restricting personal choice for those that insist on keeping this drug war going.  I think it's about making money.  Loads of money.  More money than you or I could possibly fathom.  The kind of money that makes it okay to kill thousands of people every year and allow armed gangs to decapitate 45 people at a go and bury them in a shallow grave.  As an article I recently read said, it's about savage capitalism: "The best example of capitalism working completely free of regulation, with no laws and no compassion is the globalized and armed drugs business."  As with most things that are evil, it's about making money for people who already have too much, and that's what they're trying to protect.  Keeping drugs illegal keeps them expensive, means they have to be protected and fought with guns, which is another profitable business."

Which brings up an interesting discussion.  See, I don't think she's wrong, at all.   But I also don't think your average middle American is running around going "let's keep up this war on drugs, because that keeps the prices high!"  I think the average middle American is buying into the propaganda that drugs are bad and need to be illegal, yada yada yada, which is how law makers justify to their constituents that they have failed to legalize them.

So, here's the interesting part:  how much are we just ants in a hive, do you think?  I mean, how really powerless are we?  If we all stood up tomorrow and asked for drugs to be legalized, could we get it done?  Or are the people making the money really and truly in control?

I want to know what you think.  Feel free to expound mightily.  I'm not really sure how I feel.  Sometimes I think we're ants.  And sometimes I think we're not.

****

Right, so...

Some of you, although surely not all of you, may have noticed that I took a fairly long hiatus from life in the slow lane this spring.  I sent my last email about two weeks ago, and before that I hadn't sent one since mid January. 

That's because things have been afoot, here in my life, and I have not been at liberty to discuss them.  And, with only one thing on my mind, I found I didn't have the urge to babble about stuff that wasn't really interesting to me at the moment.

Recently I've been made at liberty, so now I'm going to share what I've been sitting on for the past several months.

Waxor, it turns out, it transgendered.  He (and I use that pronoun purposefully, since he's not ready to take the plunge and switch) is growing his hair out, wearing women's clothes, and talking about taking hormones.  It's not an overnight thing; it's a process.  But it took me several months to get a grip on it and how I felt about it, thus my hiatus.

I'm not going to go into a lot of detail here.  I'm sure a number of you couldn't care less, since you pretty much only read these emails for the hilarious accounts of the trials of motherhood.  Others of you may be vastly uncomfortable with the idea of knowing more, and that's okay, too.  I'm not planning on forcing TMI on anyone who doesn't want it.  But if any of you want to know more, or want to ask me questions, please do.  I have a whole lot of friends around here who are awesome, but who are also mostly focused on supporting Waxor through whatever transition he goes through.  Those of you who live farther away get the dubious honor of being invited by me to share my own, rather different experience.

****

Well, I really think two heavy topics is more than enough for any one email, don't you?  I think I'll just send this off now. 

May 24, 2012

This is how my relationship with my husband goes:

This morning, in response to an online question, I looked at him and said "I plan on being with you for the rest of my life."  To which he responded.  "I plan on being with you for the rest of your life.  Which is why I'm going to shoot you someday."

"Awww,"  say I, "you would miss me, if you shot me."

"No I wouldn't," he replies, "I'm a very good shot."

And, in a very bizarre way, conversations like this are why I love him.

***

My daughter just walked up to me, while I was working through a tricky scene in the next book. 

"Shea-yah, Mammy."

"Share what, little girl?"  Say I, not really paying attention.

"Shea-yah peints."

"Share paints?" The abstraction abruptly focuses.  "Share PAINTS!?!"

"Yeawp.  Shea-yah peints shfingers."  She says, waving her tiny, paint covered fingers in my face.

"Oh, Charlotte."

"Ohhhhw Mammy.  Fai-yul."

"That's right, baby.  Mommy fail."


***

"Momma?"

"Yes, Elliot?"

"Would you please, please, PLEASE, please, please, please, please, please..."  deep breath... "please, please PLEASE, puh-leeeeeeeze...."

"Please?"

"Yes."

"Please what?"

"Oh.  Ummmm...."

Silence.

"Get me some milk?"

"Yes, Elliot."


****

A Morning in the Life of Jessica:

Sometime around sunrise Charlotte decides the day has begun.  Now, she's a little passive aggressive (she gets that from her Daddy) so instead of just getting up she spends about half and hour flopping around, sometimes in her bed, but mostly on my face.

"Charlotte."  This is the word I mean to say, but it probably comes out as something closer resembling a groan.  "Get off me."

"MAMA!"  The says, utterly delighted.  "Where did you come from?  I thought this was an extremely lumpy pillow I was attempting to squish completely flat with my soggy, diapered butt."  Okay, she really only only says that first word, but she MEANS the rest of it.

"Charlotte, Mama is asleep.  Go jump on Daddy."

My daughter lets out a delighted giggle, conveying without words how adorably cute she finds it that I would attempt this sort of distraction.  Then she reaches out and gently strokes my face.  "Mama."

"Mama is tired.  Go give Daddy a big hug."

"No, Mama.  Mama big hug."

"Okay, give Mama a big hug."  What follows can probably best be described as a wrestling move.  Anyone ever heard of a tombstone piledriver? This is what my daughter does to me, followed by squealing delightedly "Biiiiiiiig Hug!"

"Glahahahahaaghbrpah."

Tiny, demonic giggles fill our bedroom.  They are not soft, in fact, one might go so far as to call them piercing, and yet Waxor sleeps on, undisturbed beside me.  At times like these, an unreasoning rage begins to fill my heart.

"Waxor."

No response.

"Waxor."

He twitches.  I know he's heard me.  He's just playing possum. 

I am going to kill him.

"Waxor."

"Mgph?"

"Get up."

"Unh."

No movement from the other side of the bed.  Charlotte, meanwhile, has discovered that if she lies with her head on my belly button she can try to insert her very small, very sharply nailed toes directly up my nose.  I probably don't need to mention that her aim is poor.

"Waxor, get up and take Charlotte downstairs."

"I am getting up."  Ah!  Words. We're making progress.

"Move faster."

"Geez, just give me a second to wake up."

I lie, quietly seething, as he stretches leisurely and observes with some amusement that our daughter is now trying to scrabble beneath my body, shrieking "No!  No Daddy!  Tummin vivf you, tummin vivf you!"

Waxor takes this as a signal.  Charlotte clearly doesn't want to go anywhere with him.  He lies down and closes his eyes.

"Death, Mikel.  Angry, winged, death."

"Why do you always over react?"

What follows can best be described as an exercise is half-assed measures.  Charlotte doesn't want to go downstairs, so she's not making any effort.  Waxor doesn't really want to get up and take her, so he lies there and says things like "Come on Charlotte, let's go" without making any actual attempt to get her to move.  And I keep trying to go back to sleep, all while still having a child planted on my head.  From my position, face down in my pillow, I speak calmly and rationally.

"I hate you.  I hate you so much.  I would kill you in your sleep, but then I would still have to get up in the morning."

He laughs.  At me.  Because he thinks I'm joking.

I am not joking. 

But it doesn't matter, because once he laughs he's ready to get out of bed.

"Come on, Charlotte, let's go down stairs."  Scooping her up they head down to the living room, with Charlotte calling back over his shoulder;

"Be my mommiiiiiiiiiiiie!"

I sigh and stretch out.  Time for a nap, in my gloriously empty bed.  I shall wake refreshed, cheerful, and ready to face the day.

"Mommy!  Mommy!  I need you!  MOMMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!!!!"

Oh good.  Elliot's awake.

It doesn't take long before I give up and go downstairs.  Coffee, I think.  Coffee will make everything better.  Coffee will make me feel less like some sort of lumbering behemoth of rage and more like a normal, everyday mother. 

I casually brush aside the tiny voice in my brain that reminds me that, as far as I'm concerning, a normal, everyday mother is pretty much exactly the same thing as a lumbering behemoth of rage.  At least until about 9 or 10 in the morning.

Anyway, on to coffee, and glory!  Or at least good cheer.  Or, at the very, very least, the self restraint to pretend like I have good cheer.

"Mommy!  I wanna help you make coffee!"

"Me, tiuuuuuuu!  Me tiiuuuuu!  Hep makin da tofffeeeeee!"

"Alright, guys, hold on just a second.  Let me get the water going."

"I wanna help!  I wanna help!"

"Me tiuu!  Me tiuuu!"

"I said okay!  I just need to put the water on to boil, and then you can help."

"I WANNA HELP!  I WANNA HELP!"

"ME TIUUUUUUU!  ME HEPPIN DA TOFEEE!"

"SILENCE!"

Shocked faces greet me, not just from my children, but also from my spouse. 

"Elliot, do you want to help me with the coffee?"

"Yes."

"Charlotte, do YOU want to help me with the coffee?"

"Yesfh."

"Then will you PLEASE both knock it off and let me boil the water, so you can help me with the coffee?"

"Yesfh."

"Thank you, Charlotte.  Elliot?"

Something vaguely resembling the cry of a wounded basselope arises from my son.

"Elliot, what's the problem?"

"You scaaaaaarrrred meeeeeeee."

"How did I scare you?"

"When you were loud."

Let me be clear for a moment.  This is a child who never speaks when a yell would do.  Unless you really need to know what he said.  Then he whispers.

I apologize to my terrified offspring.  Mostly this involves giving him a hug.

"Me need a hug, tiu, Mama."

"And why do you need a hug, little girl?"

"You stearded me."

Oh great.

The water is finally on.  Tiny fingers take turns pressing the button on the coffee grinder.  Eventually my beans, which do no resemble grounds so much as pulverized dust, get loaded into the aeropress. 

"Now da top."

"No, Charlotte, it's not time for the top yet."

"I wanna do the top!  I wanna do the top!"

"Elliot, it's not time for the..."

"No!  NO!  My top, MY TOP!  I DO DA TOP NOW!"

"HEY!"

Again, my children give me the look of bewilderment.

"No one is doing the top yet.  It's not time."

"Uh, Mommy?"

"Yes, Elliot?"

"When it's time, can I do the top?"

"No!  NO!  MY TOP! MY TOP!"

Sigh.

"What do you guys want for breakfast?"

"Uh... Ice Cream."

"Well, you can't have ice cream."

"Me tiu.  Me want da ife cream."

"You can't have ice cream, either, Charlotte.  Ice cream is not a breakfast food."

"Can I have oatmeal?"

"Sure."

"Me tiu!  Me have da oatmeal."

"Okay, oatmeal for everyone."

"I wanna help!"

"How about you go get a bowl?"

"And a spoon?"

"Indeed, a spoon would be helpful."

"Okay!"

"Me tiu!  Me get a spune!"

I prepare the oatmeal.  Meanwhile my coffee sits, abandoned but not forgotten, on the counter.  Some times it's about making a choice between two evils, ya'know?

"Okay, guys, oatmeal is ready.  Bring me your bowls."

"Uh, Mommy?"

"Yes, Elliot?"

"Did you put the cinnamon in?"

"Yup.  Bring me your bowl."

"Uh, Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"Did you put the sugar in?"

"Yes, I put the sugar in.  Now, bring me your bowl."

"Uh, Mommy?"

"Elliot, I put everything in.  I promise.  Now, do you want this oatmeal?"

"Yes."

"Then bring me your bowl."

Bowls are ladeled.  Half and half is judiciously applied.  Both children are seated, eating away, and finally, FINALLY, I am going to get my coffee.  I stir in sugar and go to fetch my half and half.  From the fridge I hear the dulcet tones of my son.  There is oatmeal on his pants.  He is shrieking like a someone is flaying him, because of a fleck of oatmeal on his person.

"CLEAN IT! CLEAN IT!  I NEED TO BE CLEANED OFF!!!!!"

"Elliot,"  I say lovingly, rationally, not at all resentfully.  "If you would sit closer to your bowl, rather than attempting to fling oatmeal across vast tracks of empty space and somehow have it magically land in your mouth, you would be less likely to drop it on your pants."

He looks a me a moment.  Stunned by my logic.

"CLEAN IT!!!!!!!!"


****

I am so tired of the war on drugs.  Drugs are an inanimate object.  You can't WAR on them. 

But War on Drugs sounds so much better than War on 22 Million Americans Who Want the Right to Decide For Themselves What to Put in Their Bodies.

Let's face it, this is an issue about personal choice that has gotten waaaaaaaay out of control.  And I don't even get why.  There's a drinking age because we fundamentally think that people under a certain age have a high likelihood of making bad personal choices, and we're trying to keep them from giving themselves alcohol poisoning before they're old enough to make the decision to destroy their liver in a rational, adult manner.  Once they reach that magic age, however, they can drink all day as long as they've got the funds for it.

Why are drugs so different?  Laws, at their basis, exist to provide structure and support for society at large.  What is the real difference, for society at large, I mean, not the individual, between a person who has a drink every night and the person who smokes a joint every night?  I honestly can't think of one. 

Sometimes people bring up the addictive quality of drugs.  After all, we regulate morphine to keep addictions down.  But alcohol is addictive, it's just addictive to a much smaller percentage of the population.  There are illegal drugs that are less addictive than alcohol.  Why?

Drugs can certainly be dangerous.  I know that.  But so is sky diving.  Which is why an experienced diver teaches you how and takes you on tandem jumps until you're ready to try it on your own.  But we don't tell people that they can't jump out of a perfectly good plane, just cause it's not safe.

Because we're all about free will.

Right?

RIGHT?!

So, it's been a really long time since I sent one of these.  I've been busy.  I feel like I have a whole lot more to say, but in the interest of not dropping off the face of the planet completely, I shall just send this now.

January 19, 2012

This past Sunday was UUCH's annual Martin Luther King, Jr Breakfast, which they hold jointly with Calvary Baptist.  I was there early (as the choir was singing) and Waxor came and brought the kids for the actual event.  During one portion three young men got up to speak about MLK, and Elliot, who was sitting on my lap, held the following whispered conversation with me.

"Mommy, what are they talking about?"

"They're talking about Martin Luther King, Jr."

"Why're they talking about Madrinufer King?"

"Because we're celebrating his birthday."

"But he isn't here yet!"

"That's true, baby.  We're just celebrating his birthday because he was a good man.  He won't be here.  He isn't alive anymore."

"Why?"

"Because some people were scared of what he said, so they shot him."

"What did he say?"

"He said we should all be nice to each other, no matter what we look like."

Long pause from the boy

"Do you think we should be nice to each other, no matter what we look like?"

"Yes.  But, Mommy, why were they scared?  Why did they shot him?"

"Why did they shoot him?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know baby."

"I don't know, either."

***

Bless me, friends, for I have sinned.  Today I failed as a mother.  The good thing about being a mother is that you always have a chance to keep trying, to make up your failures.  The bad thing is that each new chance to try is another chance to fail miserably.

Goddess, save me from myself.

What did I do? You may ask yourself.  Nothing so terrible, at least, not on the face of it.  See, I was going out to run a few errands.  I'm sick, and I'm night weaning Charlotte, and both those things together mean I'm not fully on top of my usual game.  I didn't get coffee at home this morning, so I decided to stop by Dunkin Donuts and get some.  And while I was there I thought it would be a nice treat to get the kids some munchkins.

Big mistake.

See, normally the kids get up around 7 with Waxor, and eat a little something.  But with the night weaning, and the night wakings that has incurred, they aren't doing that anymore.  We all get up together, between 8 and 8:30.  Which would be great, except sometimes I forget they haven't had any protein, and just go ahead and give them donuts, thus pretty much ruining my entire frikken day.

It started, I guess, with Elliot.  But it's not like I can really blame him.  I put the gun right in his hand.  See, I got munchkins, and I went ahead and got a whole pack, figuring that would be plenty for Elliot, Charlotte, the few I'd eat, and leave some leftover for Zanne and Jocelyn, who were running errands with us.

But that meant I had a big box of donut holes in the front seat. 

And my son, who is NOT DUMB, knew it.

"Mommy, can I have another?"

"You've already had five, Elliot, and five is how many I told you that you could have."

"But, Mommy, can I have another?"

"No, Elliot."

At this point, Charlotte speaks up.

"Morah, Mama, morah duh-nuh."

Alas, the tangled webs we weave when attempting to be fair.  You see, Charlotte had only had TWO munchkins.  So, like a FOOL, I say to here 

"Here, Charlotte."

Chaos.  Dismay.  Horror.  Utter indignation.

"Elliot, you have had FIVE.  Charlotte has had TWO.  Which is more, two or five?"

"Five" comes the sullen response.

"So Charlotte gets to have a few more, because you both get to have the same number."

For anyone who was paying attention, you'll realize that Charlotte had three more to go, and, as you may have guessed, EACH TIME she got a new one there was yelling from the boy.

To compound my guilt, I also unintentionally put Zanne in the same situation, because Joceyln, who is ALSO not dumb, wanted to help herself liberally to the munchkin box as well, so once she had her alloted number there was slight unhappiness from that corner.

Is that all?  No, no it is not.

See, then we went to Joann's, and for one of the first times ever I let the kids run around out of the cart.

Do you know what Joann's stocks?  About a billion and one things that small people want to grab and throw on the floor.

It also, apparently, stocks older women who start chatting with you and will NOT be quiet and go AWAY, even when you are clearly losing track of your children while simultaneously getting NOTHING done.  And here is where I made my second mistake of the day.  In my desire not to offend a complete and total stranger, I stopped being fair to my kids.  After all, _I_ fed them the damned donuts.  _I_ made the decision to go to the infinitely fascinating craft store.  And _I_ let them run around outside the cart.  So why did I attempt to reply politely to the crazy old lady who was giving me child rearing advice, instead of attempting to deal politely with my insane, sugar riddled children?  i don't know.  But I used up all my patience on the old lady, and then had none left.

Which made it even more ridiculous that I went ahead and made mistake number three; attempting to go to yet another store instead of just going home.

I tried.  I really did.  I put them both in the cart while in AC Moore, and I told them I would drive it like a race car if they would hold on.  I made vroom noises.  I tried to interest them in the beads in the jewelry aisle.  But it was too much, and I should have started being entertaining (instead of grouchy) long before if I really wanted any chance of keeping things happy.  So all I got was a cart full of children trying to alternately sit on each other and push each other over the side.

We left.  On the way out the door Elliot noticed the lollypops, and started asking for one.  Relatively politely, I will admit, but I still told him no.  That he'd had enough donuts and he wasn't getting any more sugar until he ate some protein.  

OMMFG.

While walking to the car he cried, telling me he wanted a lollypop.  While buckling in he wailed, proclaiming his need for a lollypop, and his lack of interest in protein of any kind.  While driving home he shrieked, attempting to burst my eardrums with his pent up lollypop longing.

Finally he announced that he would eat some salami, first, for protein.

You know what we don't have any of in the house at the moment?

Did you guess Salami?  You did?  You get a prize.

So, while I tried to get Charlotte inside, and get her coat off, Elliot stood outside on the stairs and wept.  While I I took my own coat off and opened the packages we'd gotten in the mail, he yelled.  And while I double checked the internet order and discovered, yes, they HAD sent us the wrong item, he began screaming bloody murder at the top of his inhumanly strong little lungs.

Which is when I went out, snatched him up, and threw him in time out.

This story goes on.  It gets worse.  There's the part where I finally got both of them to agree to eat hot dogs, and when I got them hot dogs Charlotte threw hers on the floor.  There's the part where Elliot insisted I had to apologize to them both for being angry, and refused to take a bite of his food until I did so (which led me to hotly declare that that was fine, he could just STARVE.)  There's the part where I utterly lost control of myself, shrieked right back at Elliot, included Charlotte in the tirade, and then locked myself in the bathroom while wordlessly wailing my misery, leaving the children to join me in a macabre harmony from outside the bathroom door.

It's been a bad day.

***

My cousin MJ sent me an article about motherhood.  All mothers (or future mothers, or fathers, for that matter, let's not be gender biased) should read it, as it's pretty good.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/glennon-melton/dont-carpe-diem_b_1206346.html

***

Alright.  I realize this email is baby heavy.  I realize that it's also been less than chipper.  What can I say, some times, it's just like that.  I shall leave you with my new parody song, and begin afresh, trying to have a happier email next time.

AHem...

On the first night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

An hour and a half awake.

On the second night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the third night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Three wrenched covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the fourth night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Four flailing limbs

Three wrench covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the fifth night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

FIVE DISDAINED PACIFIERS!

Four flailing limbs

Three wrenched covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the sixth night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Six mournful glances

FIVE DISDAINED PACIFIERS!

Four flailing limbs

Three wrenched covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the seventh night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Seven pitched fits

Six mournful glances

FIVE DISDAINED PACIFIERS!

Four flailing limbs

Three wrenched covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the eighth night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Eight shrieking screams

Seven pitched fits

Six mournful glances

FIVE DISDAINED PACIFIERS!

Four flailing limbs

Three wrenched covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the ninth night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Nine drowsy nods

Eight shrieking screams

Seven pitched fits

Six mournful glances

FIVE DISDAINED PACIFIERS!

Four flailing limbs

Three wrenched covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the tenth night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Ten minutes peace

Nine drowsy nods

Eight shrieking screams

Seven pitched fits

Six mournful glances

FIVE DISDAINED PACIFIERS!

Four flailing limbs

Three wrenched covers

Two crying jags

And an hour and a half awake.

On the eleventh night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Eleven times the anguish 

No minutes peace

No drowsy nods

A billion shrieking screams

Eternal pitched fits

Nothing but mournful glances

ALL THE DISDAINED PACIFIERS!

Every flailing limbs

Lots of wrenched covers

Non-stop crying jags

And a whole damn night awake.

On the twelfth night of weaning my daughter gave to me...

Twelve hours sleep.

Shhhhhhh...

And on that note... bye, y'all!

January 13, 2012

Yesterday I ate nothing but pie.  I had pumpkin for breakfast, apple for lunch, and pecan for dinner.

Do I feel guilty about this?  No I do not.  Because my entire freaking family has had the stomach flu.

Pie hardly seems like sufficient compensation.

Good pie, though.

Happy New Year, peoples!  Despite the inauspicious start I'm feeling good about this coming year.  Elliot will be starting preschool, Charlotte already practically sleeps through the night, and Waxor and I are both taking more time for ourselves, branching out in new ways, and just in general enjoying life more.  We've got friends getting married, which makes for good parties; adventures planned, which makes for good stories; and our house is maintaining its value in the market, which is totally boring but provides a nice comfortable feeling of not being totally screwed.

That is, of course, only on the personal level.  On the political scene, both at home and world wide, I am petrified.  Politicians do nothing but lie to us, and everyone seems okay with that.  Not to mention we're losing civil liberties right and left, and Ron Paul, leader of the crazies, is the only presidential candidate actually talking about it.  What is wrong with this picture?  I'm gonna go with "pretty much everything."

And internationally... holy bejeezum crow.  Honduras is now the murder capital of the world; Iran is going to be bombed by someone (unfortunately probably us); China is at war with its own villages; Haiti is still trying to crawl up out of the earthquake two years later, but everyone's forgotten them; loggers are burning children to death in the Amazon; and Nigeria's in an uproar.  There's more, I could go on, but you get the point.  The world is uneasy.  And I am uneasy about it.

So what am I doing about it?  Not a lot, as it turns out.  But I have a plan.  Want to hear it?  Doesn't matter, I'm'a tell you anyway.

At first I wanted to run for congress, but, truthfully, that's a huge job, and I'm not ready for it yet, the kids are still too young.  So, new plan... School Board.  I know, not exciting.  Won't help Nigeria.  But it's a thing I care about.  I think school funding needs to be addressed in a serious way, which likely needs to happen on the state level.  So, I'm going to try to get elected to the school board for the next two years, so that I can learn more and hopefully make some positive changes locally.  Then, when Charlotte is old enough for pre-school, I'm going to run for the MA General Court.

This, I feel, is worthwhile.

Still won't help Nigeria, though.

***

A long time ago, when ladies wore corsets and men went off by themselves to drink after dinner, married women were cool.  I don't mean frigid or reserved, I mean they were the "it" girls, the ones to be seen with, the froods who totally knew where their towel was.  This was, of course, because unmarried women had to guard their reputations, which was no fun for anyone, and married women were safe from pretty much any scandal, as long as they kept their copious cavorting on the down low.  So they drank and flirted and ran amok, and a good time was had by all.  Except for the unmarried girls, who had to wear pastels and stand by the wall while the married ladies wore bright colors and danced with everyone.

Also except for poor people, or married ladies with awful husbands, but we're not talking about reality, we're talking about my own personal musings which center on one particular topic, so please, stop distracting me.

Married women were cool.

WHAT HAPPENED??!!!??!!

I don't know and I don't care.  I'm calling for a cultural revolution.  Down with our worship of fresh faced infants barely out of diapers!  I am a fascinating societal icon, damnit!  

This is my bandwagon.  I invite you all to board.

***

Let's start with Charlotte, shall we?  The tiny little demon is freaking adorable and frighteningly similar to myself, personality wise.  This means that you will all love her, and I will go into hiding when she hits the pre-teen years.  Some Charlotte-isms:

"Daddddiiiiiieeeeeee!"

"Where's Daddy going, Chaz?"

"Sawl Mines."

"That's right.  He's headed to the salt mines."

"Baih, Daddie, sawl mines!"

"Can you say goodnight, Charlotte?"

"Baih Niagh!"

"Now can we go to sleep?"

"Ahhhhhhh.... nawp."

"Chaz, do you want something to eat?"

"Hawt DAWG"

"You want a hot dog?"

"Yahp."

"Okay.  Do you want it hot?"

"Yahp.  Halp."

"Okay, you can push the button."

"Buh-uhn.  Halp.  HAWT DAWG!!!!!!!"

These are just a few of the conversations that pepper my average day.  At times I wish to just turn on a camcorder and run it all day long, because I know this will be fleeting, but when I do finally whip out my phone to try to record something for posterity, it never seems to come out as cute as she is, right there in person.  And I know that, as time goes on, my memory of it will fade.  That's because I look at Elliot now, and I know that I no longer see him clearly as a two year old, or even a three year old.  All I can see him as is my four year old dude.

Elliot's birthday was sad for me.  Not all day long, just a little, at the end.  He's so big now - not even remotely a toddler anymore.  Now he's a little boy, and before I know it he'll be a big boy.  Then he'll be a teenager, and we all know that won't go well.

Currently, though, he's so smart.  Charlotte's the one who's constantly doing new things, so I think sometimes Elliot's brain gets overlooked, because we fail to realize how cool it is that he knows so much.  Of course, he still thinks babies come from seeds and grown in a uterine garden, but I think that's more because I failed to explain properly.  Maybe I should give it another go.

A conversation with Elliot:

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Elliot?"

"Mommy?"

"What, Elliot?"

"Uh, Mommy?"

"Elliot.  I am listening.  Spit it out."

"I love you."

"I love you, too, buddy."

"Can I have some chocolate?"

"Nope."

"But, Mommy, I love you."

"And I love you, my little con artist."

***

Do you have on/off switches in your life?  The kind of thing where you can either ignore something, or care passionately about it, but you can't just be well informed and unaffected?  This seems to be cropping up a lot for me.  I guess the best example is the news.  I am having a really hard time actually keeping track of what's going on in the world without wanting to run off and DO something about it.

Speaking of doing something:  Anyone who lives near DC, anyone who can get to DC by Tuesday, anyone who doesn't have an 18 month old that they REALLY don't want to take out in the January rain being called for Tuesday in DC; go to Occupy Congress.  The only position you have to agree with is the one that says that laws should be made with the people's rights in mind, not the corporations profits.  Seriously, aren't we all behind that?

*** 

I was going to make this much longer, but it's been a while since my last email and since I wrote that last segment I should probably send it out before the 17th.  :)

Love you all!  Anyone who actually writes me back gets brownie points.  I might even literally bake you brownies and send them to you.  You never know.

December 12, 2011

Merry Winter Holidays, People!

Whether you plan to light the yule log, keep vigil the longest night, celebrate the rededication of the temple, hold your breath in a stable somewhere, or finally press charges against that fat man that breaks in every year, I hope it goes well for you. 

I recently heard someone refer to this time of the year as "these darkening days."  I'm pretty sure he meant that literally, our days become shorter and shorter here in the Northern Hemisphere, until it seems as though we begin and end each day in darkness, only seeing the sun for a few precious hours, if at all.

I think it's valid for life, though.  It might not be at this particular time of year, but we all have darkening days.  Days when things just seem to get worse and worse, and little by little the things that bring light and warmth into our lives slip away.

That's why I love the winter holidays so much.  The annual recognition that eventually, light comes to us all.  That the days will get longer, the sun will return, and no darkness lasts forever.

So I'll say it again; Merry Winter Holidays, People, and A Happy New Year!  May the new year bring goodwill and joy, and instead of peace let's wish for revolution, revelation, and fewer darkening days for us all.

November 21, 2011

This morning was fine.  The kids woke up cheerfully, Waxor got ready (it took him two hours, which is a wee bit long, but then, we'd gotten up early so he had the time.)  We all ate breakfast, and everyone kissed Daddy good-bye and sent him off to the salt mines.

Then all hell broke loose.

It started with a toy.  Of course, right?  There's this train track.  Not a TRAIN, mind you, just the V-tech track that it runs on.  We got it at the Salvation Army a few weeks ago.  The track has the alphabet on it and you can play four or five different learning games on it.  Great toy, right?

WRONG!

See, the kids love it.  BOTH kids love it.  So I pretty much treat it on a first come, first serve basis, meaning that they have to share, but whoever started playing with it first has right of way.

So this morning Charlotte was happily pushing buttons ("V!  This is the letter V!  Very good!) when Elliot decided that he was having none of this.  Have I mentioned the toy folds up?  So he starts trying to fold the train track, with his sister inside it.

This does not turn out well.

"Elliot, stop trying to fold up your sister."

"NO!"

"Eya!  Eya! Holp!"

"Charlotte, I am helping.  Elliot, I am going to count to three, and if you do not leave your sister alone I am going to put you in time out, do you understand?"

"I will not listen to you anymore because you're saying som'fin I don't like!"

"Nonononnnnnnnooooooo EYYYYYYAAAA!"

"One."

"I did not hear you, you stop!"

"Holp!  Holp! Nonono!"

"Two."

"STOP SAYING THAT!"

"EEEEEEYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAA!"

"Three."

Boy is separated from sister.  Boy is placed on stairs.  Mother looks sternly at boy.

"You are in time out."

Boy starts to get off stairs

"Elliot, you better put your butt back on those stairs, or you are going to your room for time out, and I will SHUT the DOOR."

Boy sits back on stairs.

Charlotte and I go back to what we are doing.  In Charlotte's case this means pushing the buttons.  As Elliot sees Charlotte still playing with the toy in question he begins shrieking at a volume that is only slightly less than that which might possibly rupture eardrums and cause pregnant women to spontaneous begin labor.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO--"

Pause for breath.

"--OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I calmly get up, go over to the stairs, and hoist my screaming son into the air.  About this time he realizes he has made a tactical error.

"No!  No! I want to be with you!  I want to be WITH YOU!  Put me down!  Put me back!  You put me back right now!  LISTEN TO ME!"

I deposit my son on his bed, walk out, shut the door, and tie it shut with my bathrobe tie.  My bathrobe tie has been PERMANENTLY appropriated for this usage, because otherwise I have to stand there and hold the door shut.  And Been?  I was wrong, all those many years ago.  It DOES take more than once.

I go back downstairs and try to do dishes.  Charlotte, having forgotten that she's mad at Elliot, hears one of his more pitiful screams;

"I'm firsty!  I need my milk!  I'm so firsty!"

So, being a sweet little girl, she goes and gets her brother's cup of milk and carries it up the stairs to him.  Upon reaching the top of the stairs and discovering that she cannot complete her delivery she, too, begins crying.

"Eya!  Molk, Molk!  EYA MOLK!"

Reality rarely mimics the movies, but I do, on occasion, actually beat my head against solid objects.  It is oddly comforting.

I fetch the girl.  I distract her (via a clever application of the jack-in-the-box that is actually a monkey.)

"Nomkey!"

I go upstairs.  I open the door on my no-longer-screaming-but-still-sobbing son.

"Youdidn'tlistentomeandIwantedyoutolistentomesoIamsadgivemeakissandtakemedownstairsandgetmesomemilkcauseyoudidn'tlistentomewhyidn'tyoulistentomeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?"

"Elliot, you are not to scream at me like that."

"I *sob* was *sob* screamin' *sob* cause you wasn't LISSENIN!"

"I wasn't listening because you were in time out."

"I didn't want to be in time out."

"I know, but you didn't listen when I told you to leave Charlotte alone."

"SHE WAS MESSIN WITH MY TRAIN!"

"No, she was playing with the train.  You were messing with HER."

Thoughtful pause.

"But I'm so firsty."

"Would you like to come downstairs and get some milk?"

"Yes, but I need you to carry me."

"I don't think so, buddy.  You can walk downstairs on your own."

"I cannot, I'm so tired."

"Then you're going to be up here a long time."

Do I really need to tell you what happens next?  If you guessed "Elliot begins wailing again"  then you are correct!

Wash, rinse, repeat.  No, I am not kidding.  We went through almost exactly the same scenario a complete second time, with the only real variant being that the second time I actually took the train and put it away, and almost everything went faster, because he'd expended so much energy pitching a fit the first time he didn't have the stamina for the second go round.

***

Today is Monday.  Monday, November 21st.  In case anyone has missed this, that means it is the Monday BEFORE Thanksgiving.  I have, thus far, received 4 emails from companies advising me that "Black Friday Deals Start Now!"

WTH?

I'm sorry, Mr or Ms Email Person for Old Navy/Target/Amazon/Ebay/Etc.  What you mean to say is "Okay, we all realize that black Friday is completely arbitrary, and only a giant shopping day because so many people have the day off from work.  We ALSO realize that if you're getting this email you are likely a troll who does all your shopping late at night online, and don't care if sales are high, you're still not going out in that madness.  Since that's the case, we would like the opportunity to secure your holiday dollars for ourselves, rather than our competitors.  Please come spend your money with us, and we will pretend it has something to do with Turkeys."

Turkies?

Turkii?

TURDUCKEN!!!!!!

I love turducken.  Anyone who does not is either crazy or a vegetarian.

(Lil side note:  I even know vegetarians who like turducken.  It's hard not to like.)

***

Charlotte adores baby dolls.  I mean, she loves them with a passion.  Elliot likes them, too, but he no longer LOVES them (although he did.)  Anyway, when we go shopping ANYWHERE the kids always want to cruise the toy aisle, and, being a fairly magnanimous dictator, I generally allow them to do this.  We hit the vehicles ("Oh look, there's THOMAS!"), we coast on by the expensive V-tech stuff ("Mommy, can I have my own computer?"), we take a gander at the stuffed animals ("It's a cat!" "Mee-yow!  Mee-yow!"), and inevitably we come to the doll aisle.

"BAY-BEEEEEEEEEE!"

It's like her little head explodes.  Elliot will generally point out to me the more activity oriented dolls (like the Strawberry Shortcake who comes with a color change dress and a little spinning platform you can spin her on.  He spins that sucker like mad, and I can't help but feel bad for the little red-headed piece of plastic.) but Charlotte goes straight for the baby dolls.  Doesn't matter how realistic or what it's intended to do, she loves it.  

This obsession of hers has led me to many long minutes in the doll aisle, and I've come up with a few questions.

Why do they make drink and wet dolls?  No one thinks it's fun to change a baby's diaper, why do we assume that a little kid will want to do so?  Also, why on earth would we give a child who may, or may not be potty trained ANOTHER way to pee on the floor?

Has anyone told the people who make those babies that laugh spontaneously when they sense motion that their dolls are CREEPY?!

Why do dolls only come in caucasian and caucasian-painted-brown?  

Why do they bother selling outfits for dolls that are intended for children under the age of 4?  The kid is just gonna strip the baby naked and never dress it again, first chance they get.

If I spend long enough in the toy section I get the urge to go home and throw all the kids toys away.  I feel like they could have more fun and get more out of some cooking lessons, or being taught the practical applications of geometry.

***

I took an IQ test on my phone the other day.  It was fascinating.  The questions could be divided firmly into two sections - most of them went into the "whether I answer this correctly or not, I understand the pattern/logic they are asking me to apply" catagory, but a few went into the "whaaaaa?  Where's the pattern?"  catagory.  I wish I could go back and look at the exact same test again, and show it to some other people, and see if they can identify the pattern for me.

They were invariably the kind where they showed you pictures set up in a square, and a question mark in one of the slots, and you were supposed to identify the picture that needed to go there.  It's not that TYPE of problem that I can't answer, a number of them were fairly simple.  But some of them were... really weird.  At least, to my own personal brain's way of thinking.  I just could not find a pattern.

***

Do you believe in random psychic (for want of a better word) STUFF?  I was just putting Elliot to bed, and he was lying there and I was playing sudoku on my phone, and all of a sudden I got this really strong impression of one of my friends, like he was there, with me.  Anyone find this weird?  Plausible?  An excellent plot for my next book?  Speak up.

Speaking of my book... I have gotten to THE scene.  The scene in which our hero and heroine, in all their youthful joy and blooming innocence, finally, at last, after much soul searching _get_it_on_.

I am somewhat at a loss.  They are in a wood.  In the middle of winter.  See what I'm saying?  It's COLD, people.

There's something DISTINCTLY non-romantic about saying "she shivered and pulled the fur back over her shoulder, squealing at winter's bite on her tender skin."

It just doesn't evoke that head over heels FEELING.

Commentary is invited.  Unless it's snarky.  If it's snarky, you have to take a number.

***  

So, since this is likely the Thanksgiving edition for the year, I should say something thanksgivey, right?

Hmmm... There's a hymn we sang recently, it goes like this:

For the beauty of the earth

For the beauty of the skies

For the love, which from our birth

Over and around us lies

That covers it, doesn't it?  For these things, we are thankful.  For the beauty, for the love, for that which graces our life with generosity and strength and truth, we give thanks.

Also for flowers that bloom unexpectedly in winter

And for good dance music.

For anything that makes your blood beat faster

And for the exhilaration you feel when you make an impossible jump.

For scents that remind you of every good time you've ever had

And the laughter that went with those times.

For the hard times

Those moments that bring us back to ourselves no matter how far we have strayed.

For all this and more, our lives in their completeness

We give thanks to the universe, to whatever else might be out there, and to the people who share our lives with us.

And on that note.... Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all.  You'll likely hear from me once more in December, and then, holy bejeezum crow, it's gonna be 2012 and a whole new year.  Which means we'll be headed into Year Four of the Life In The Slow Lane Cycle:  Year of Changes.

(power of positive thinking.  don't be a downer.  go with me on this one.)

November 20, 2011

Hello peoples,

I am in the midst of an existential... not crisis, no, but, maybe hullabaloo?  Yes.  I think that's appropriate to the ridiculousness of the situation.  I am in the midst of an existential hullabaloo.

Details, details, boring boring details.  I'm not even sure what the details of said hullabaloo ARE.  I am lacking the concrete-itude of thought that would allow me to put word and concept to my hullabalooing.

Suffice it to say that I feel all my time is full, but I am doing nothing. 

I scurry, scurry, scurry, to sit around and wait.

All my creative impulses have fled me, like rats from a hullabalooing ship.

I have doubts about my skill and talents as they relate to parenting.  I have doubts about my skill and talents as they relate to pretty much EVERYTHING, but the parenting one is the one that is getting me down.  

I have guilt concerning my comfortable status in the world.  I realize that my identity as an activist is valid only if such things can be hereditary, and I'm a little mortified by that.  Maybe a lot mortified.

I squirm with the knowledge that my problems are, as my father would call them, "first world problems".  And they still bother me.  So I squirm about that, too.

I wish to look all these thoughts in their beady little eyes and DEAL with them.  I love to DEAL with things.  It is one of the great satisfactions in my life when I can DEAL with something.  But I find, as I try to grasp one of the slippery little buggers and expose it to examination, that they are too tricksy for me.  

I loathe tricksy thoughts.

October 21, 2011

Charlotte's got a new favorite game.  I'll be sitting, working, goofing off, whatever, and up she toddles.

"Ah peeeeeeeee!"

"Chaaaaaarlotte..."  This comes out as a groan, as this is only the five bajillionth time she's said this in the past hour.

"Ah pee! Ah pee!"

"You want to pee?"

"Yahp.  Ah pee. Ehl-ya."

"You want to pee like Elliot?"

"Yahp.  Ehl-ya!  Ehl-ya! Ah pee!"

Groan.  Off to the bathroom we go.  Charlotte opens the potty, puts Elliot's potty seat on, pushes the stool into place, and turns to me.

"Ah peeeeeeee!"

"Okay, baby girl."

Now, at this point I have one of two options.  I can go easy route, which involves just lifting her, with her clothes ON, onto the potty seat for a minute.  Or I can go with the more roundabout route, which means I take her pants and diaper off and let her sit for a moment.  Easy is faster, roundabout more educational.  I tend to fluctuate.  But it is important to note, it makes no difference to Charlotte WHICH I pick, because under no circumstances is she actually going to pee in the potty.  Nor will it alter her next several steps in the slightest.

I pick.  I put her on the potty.

"Ah peeeeeee!"

"You peed?"

"Yahp."

"Ready to get down?"

"Ah pee, Ah pee."

"Do you need to wipe first?"

"Yahp."

Into her tiny hand goes enough toilet paper to wipe an entire battalion of toddlers.  I carefully extract some so that it merely enough for a small scouting squad.  She cheerfully pushes it through her legs and into the toilet, never once making contact with any part of her body, even if I have removed her diaper.

"Ah duhn."

"You're done?"

"Yahp."

"Ready to get down?"

"Yahp."

Off she goes, to announce to Daddy and Elliot "Ah pee!" and the adventure is over, at least for the next 15 minutes.

 ***

You know a lesson that I have to learn over and over?  No matter how much your kids like prunes, don't let them eat more than two.

***

Becca sent me an article about a woman who's son has Tay-Sachs.  It was heartbreaking and thought provoking.  Highlights are as follows:  Her son will not live to be three years old.  She sees that most parents "parent for the future."  Parenting a child with a terminal illness means you don't parent for the future, you just parent for *right*now*.  At one point she says "We have a very permissive household."

I've been thinking about it a lot.  Most parents DO parent for the future.  We have to, right?  You can't let your children have cheesecake at every meal because it could do hideous things to their health, not to mention their food choices the rest of their lives.  You can't let your kids stay up all night long because, in addition to needing at least a few hours to yourself, it would be horrible for them.  Right?  Right.

So I've been finding myself, oddly enough, slightly envious of this poor woman.  Not actually envious, of course, because I would never in any reality trade places with her.  No, the fact that my children are healthy and whole is, quite possibly, the greatest gift I have ever been given.

But I wish I could parent more for right now.  I wish I could let my children do what they wanted, without the worry of what it might mean in the future. I think maybe that's the biggest thing that you never learn until you become a parent.  Your parents never WANTED to tell you no.  They wanted to say "yes" and make you happy.  But they had to worry about how the choices of today would affect tomorrow, so they sucked it up and said no.

Today I was trying to put Charlotte down for a nap.  She's been fighting me on that, recently, and I had been upstairs with her for an hour, trying to get her to sleep.  I was lying there with her and she reached up and patted my face so sweetly, and said "Ah.  Mama." and then gave me a hug.  And I thought "to hell with it.  Every so often, let's just live for the now."

"You want to get up, baby girl?"

"Ahyah!  Elh-ya!  Upah!"

"Alright.  Let's go."

Now I'm gonna go get Elliot some nut crackers and cream cheese.  AFTER I give him a great big hug.  Cause that's what he just asked for. :)

***

Yesterday I sat down and sent Zanne and Rob the following letter.  As I was most pleased with the result I have decided to quote it you, verbatim.

"From the Desk of Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte, first of that name, Royal Sovereign of all that exists between Bathroom and Crib, in the Kingdom of Woodwaxia; as penned by her most beloved mother, the Dame Jessica, Dowager Empress of this realm, and keeper of the Royal Kitchens; to her sister Monarch and Playmate, Queen Jocelyn of Spaihtsmohndium, to be imparted faithfully by her loving parental scribes; Greetings.

We are writing to express our continual and unremitting debt to you for your most gracious and generous gesture in introducing us to the wonders inherent in the joyous and most magnificent ice cube.  Heretofore our efforts at exerting never-ending demands upon our Royal Mother were limited in scope, being bounded by necessity by the physical limitations of the hot dog.  Namely, that hot dogs do not disappear of their own volition, mere moments after presentation.  Having been given this new horizon for demands I cannot begin to express my satisfaction.  During the course of dictating this letter alone I have asked for an ice cube no less than three time.

Bless you, bless you, bless you, my most loyal and courteous friend.  We will declare a holiday in your honor, here in the Kingdom of Woodwaxia.  From this day forward, October nineteenth shall be known as the day of Queen Jocelyn, the day of melting cubes.

Rejoice!

Until we meet again, your Majesty, I shall hold you dear in my heart.

Queen Charlotte Cha-cha Chiztastic"

***

We're sorry.  The person you were trying to reach no longer exists.  You have been connected instead with *Jessica's*Inner*Demon*.  If you would like to reach the original *Jessica*, please hang up and try again.  Your call will be completed at the appropriate time.  We apologize for any inconvenience, and hope you have a nice day.  Goodbye.

October 17, 2011

Imagine a penguin looking in a mirror.  Now, penguins have personality.  Doesn't really matter how symmetrical the beaky little penguin features are, there's just something charming about them.  So this penguin, looking in a regular ol' bathroom mirror, gets a pretty good view.  Our little penguin friend sees a charismatic little face attached to a reasonably flexible neck, and with this partial and therefore skewed vision of his little birdy self he heads out the door, feeling both cute AND adorable.

Now imagine that our friend the penguin is confronted with a sneak reflection.  Walking up to the doors of the grocery, perhaps, or in the windows of a passing car.  Now he sees all the way down.  He sees what those extra silverfish have been doing to his wobbly penguin thighs, and what effect that second mackerel has had on his doughy penguin bottom.  Suddenly our friend no longer feels cute and adorable.  Rather he feels plump like a turkey, ready for Thanksgiving.

And he's not supposed to BE a turkey.  He's SUPPOSED to be a PENGUIN.

This story is an allegory.

In case you didn't get that.

Charlotte is a tiny little sneak thief.  Today I got them both settled with their breakfasts of choice; Charlotte asked for Oatmeal and Elliot wanted Kix (milk on the side.)  Elliot finished about half his bowl, and then announced a sudden need to visit the restroom, so I helped him out of his chair and helped with his Pajamas (mostly he can use the potty himself now, but footie PJ's are hard to deal with when you lack coordination and body awareness.)  When I came back I found an amazing thing.  Charlotte had vacated her booster seat, crawled off the bench, under the table, up into the Captain's chair Elliot was using, and had coolly polished off both milk and most of the rest of the cereal.  She had her cheeks stuffed to overflowing, and 3 or 4 Kix in each hand.  When I said to her "Charlotte, are you stealing your brother's breakfast?"  Her response was unintelligible, but exceedingly cheerful.

Or, as cheerful as one can be, when one is using one's mouth as a personal moist Kix distribution system.

Greetings, fellow homo sapiens!  

Yesterday I was in a horrendous mood.  Today I feel better!  The sun has come out, and that's delightful, but you know what the best part was?  I checked my book on Amazon, and someone I DON'T KNOW wrote a review of it.  A good one!  Of course, I suppose it could be someone I know in disguise, but I choose to believe it was a stranger.  Of course, she said she'd be looking for more by me, so I think maybe I need to stop typing this email and get back to writing my next book...

In just a few weeks I'm going to be turning 33.  In the mythology of the JHC (aka, my family)  33 is a portentous age, the age when you finally, at long last, become an adult.  You understand everything, know what you're doing, and you can magically suck liquids through a chopstick.

It's fine if you don't understand that last one.  You're probably just not 33 yet.

Anyway, with my impending adulthood nigh, I am beginning to think about all those years when I yearned to be an adult.  When I was positive that all the good times in life were being had between the hours of my bedtime and midnight (they were, that wasn't a lie).  When I was positive that when I was an adult I could eat popcorn whenever I wanted (also not a lie, but not as gratifying as I thought it was going to be.)  When I was sure that being an adult was, in every way possible, better than being a kid.

That last one was totally a lie.

Don't get me wrong, there are awesome things about being an adult.  Being one now (or, almost anyway) I can safely say that I would not voluntarily go back in time to when I was a child, unless I could hop about at whim (be a kid for 15 minutes and then zip right back into grown up land again.)  But it isn't uniformly better.  And when my children inevitably say to me "when I'm grown up I won't..."  I will say right back to them;

Don't be in such a hurry to grow up.

Being grown up means that when the dog poops on the floor YOU have to clean it up.

It means that the dirty laundry, full sink, and disgusting bathroom, none of which you made messy yourself, are on YOUR to-do list.

Being the grown up means that when everyone is sick, and someone HAS to go to the store, you sigh and get the car keys.

Grown-ups empty the trash, the compost, the recycling, and the mouse traps.

Being grown-up means that you have to listen to someone else's side, even when you are mad at them.

It means that you have to say you're sorry first, even if you weren't the most wrong.

It means you don't rub it in when you're right.

So, yeah, bedtimes suck, and it's nice to be in charge of your own choices.  But don't over look the charms of being in charge of nothing and getting to act your age, when your age gives you license to run free.

Just saying.

***

Do you live with someone?  If you don't now, have you ever?  It is a truth of life that living with someone is frequently difficult, and the more intimate your relationship, the more difficult it is.  Therefore room mates that never see one another might rarely disagree, while a couple will fight frequently.  It just recently occurred to me that having children is a bit like moving in with someone new for the first time.  Sure, there's that honeymoon period, where they can't talk and have very few opinions, and as long as you're with them they're pretty content.  But soon they start to have wants and demands of their own, and you find your ways and manners clashing.  And it is a VERY intimate relationship - possibly the most intimate you will ever have, so on a scale of "Don't care enough to fight about it" to "I love you so much I will beat you to death if that is the only way to make you see the light" it comes in way closer to the second one.  It's really shockingly like moving in with a significant other.  It varies in two highly significant ways, however.

1) The inequality in the relationship is permanent and absolute, and therefore you can NEVER expect them to suck it up and be the bigger person.

2) If it all goes sour, no matter what happened, everyone, including you, will think it was all your fault.

***

I keep dreaming about a couple people I haven't seen in a really long time.  In these dreams someone is with them - a person I've never met, but is significant to them in some way (parent, child, partner, whatever.  You get the gist)  In the dreams the other person disapproves of me A LOT.  I find these dreams both weird and disturbing. 

Now, if I haven't seen you in a while you may feel free to think that I am talking about you.

If I've seen you recently, I'm not.

Of course, one's definition of "recently" can vary so greatly, that's what makes the game fun!

Anyway, if you know something about dreams and the subconscious mind, please, feel free to tell me what my mind is saying.  If you happen to be someone I have not seen in a while, and you have a person of importance to you that really dislikes me, please feel free to tell them I've gotten the message.

If you live within four hours of my house please rsvp for my birthday party (Oct 29th, 6 pm, costume from one of Joss Whedon's masterpieces).  Am I talking to you?  Well, think hard.  Do you live within four hours of my house?  THEN YES! I AM!.

A simple yes or no.  That's all I'm looking for.

If you live MORE than four hours away you only need to tell me if you're planning on showing up.  Otherwise I'll assume you're not coming.

Now I' have to go deal with my insane and screaming children.  Bye!

September 28, 2011

Hi everyone,

Today my son looked at me (he was about to receive some chocolate chips) and announced "I am three, so I can have three."

"That seems right to me"  Say I. "How many can Charlotte have?"

"One."

"Why?"

"Because she is one."

"Of course.  How old is mommy?"

"You are five.  You can have five."

Many women would have been flattered.  I just felt gypped out of quite a bit of chocolate.

So, where to start?  Let's start with the small, and work up to the big.

Charlotte is definitely small, but getting bigger every day.  She speaks--in words only I can understand, mind you, but still.  Should any of you come to visit this glossary will help:

Booo: Boob.  As in, give me some boob.
Booooa:  Boom.  As in, I fell down, now give me some boob.
Chglahlah: Chocolate.  As in, give me some chocolate, it's the only thing in the world better than boob.
Dada:  Daddy.  As in, Hello Daddy, give me back to Mommy so I can have some boob.
Eya:  Elliot.  As in, Hello oh God of my idolatry, greatest thing in my existence, paragon of all to which I aspire, teach me thy ways and let me back in thy wisdom.  

Charlotte is a rough and tumble little girl.  I have heard stories of my childhood, that involve me leaping from things in the assurance that I will be okie-fine.  I say, with a certain amount of confidence, that Charlotte has inherited this tendency from me.  It's funny, because Elliot has always been such a delicate, cautious little dude.  I never really worried that he would injure himself from over enthusiasm.  WIth Charlotte I worry about it almost every day.

She's a cheerful little person.  People that she likes are greeted with giant smiles, everyone else she stares at mistrustfully until coming to some inner personal judgement about them, where upon she either demands to be picked up or avoids them like they don't exist.  That's my baby, already versed in the fine art of the cold shoulder.  I don't know if it's just her nature, or if she's learning things from Elliot, but she's already much more manipulative than he was at this age.  She perfectly capable of noticing that no one is paying attention to her, and then calculating whether a well timed shriek or a well placed adorable smile is more likely to get her noticed.  

In some ways Elliot gets a way better deal - he doesn't nap, he gets to stay up later, almost all the toys are technically "his" and he can actually ask us for what he wants, which means he tends to get it in a timely fashion.  But in some ways he gets a worse deal.  Waxor and I have started scolding him for pulling stunts to get attention, but we tend to smile indulgently when Charlotte does it.  Of course, we smiled indulgently when Elliot was 1.5, too, but HE doesn't know that, and I think he feels the difference.

Elliot has gotten over some of the snit he was in all summer.  We went through a few months there where every other day was melt-down central.  Now I have my sweet boy back, at least, almost.  I think it's helped that Waxor and I are making a conscious effort to pay more positive attention to him, not because he's acting out, but just a few minutes here and there every day.  He still decides to lose it about once a day, but I've gotten to where that's easier to handle and we just move on afterwards, instead of that being the beginning of a day of horror.  

Elliot can now use the computer all by himself.  Not fully, of course, but Waxor bookmarked a Thomas the Train page for him, and Elliot can open up firefox and click the bookmark all by himself.  He also surfs youtube on his own, and yes, that does worry me a little bit.  Due to our lack of cable TV Elliot had never really been exposed to commercials, but you know what his favorite thing to watch on youtube is?  Yup, toy commercials.  Those advertisers are evil, evil geniuses.

Right now it's 10 am, and the kids have been up for about two hours.  Elliot has eaten a spoonful of peanut butter.  Charlotte has had a hot dog, half a cup of milk, another half a hot dog, a yogurt, about three tablespoons of peanut butter, and she's nursed.  Twice.  You'd think she'd be one of those little butterballs, but she isn't, she just a very normal sized little girl, maybe a bit on the skinny side. Which leads me to wonder - what exactly is Elliot fueling his body on?  Is he, in fact, a breathe-airean?  Because, seriously, the boy doesn't eat enough to stay alive.

On to the larger news... two items.

Item number ONE!  We are not moving to Seattle.  Most of you will be scratching your heads, wondering why that is news, but for those of you who have been in touch over the summer, the answer is no, we're not moving.  And yes, I am quite excited about that.  The prospect of buying a house over there had me all... jumpy.  Also, we've done all this work on our house (in case we needed to sell it) and I have to say, it's looking nice.  And I am looking forward to living it in for a while.

Item number TWO!  I have written a book.  Yes, seriously, a whole, entire, complete, actual book, hopefully the first in a series.  I'm taking fairy tales and writing humorous romantic adaptations.  While I think my chances of getting a publishing house to take it are above average (doesn't everyone think that?)  having looked into the realities of royalties (particularly in Romance publishing)  I have decided to go the self publishing route.  Hooray for Amazon and the Kindle, I say.  Anyway, It's up, now, on Amazon.  If you want to read it (because I have not inundated you with enough of my words, and you long for more) it's under my name and it's called Before the Midnight Bells.  Feel free to check it out.  Word of caution.  It really is a romance novel, if you don't care for the genre I wouldn't read it.  Just saying.

Also, if your read it and you like it, give part of the credit to Zanne.  She edited the book for me and it's about a gajillion times better for her work on it.

Why are you still reading this email?  Why are you not ALREADY READING MY BOOK?!

On a related note, does anyone know a book reviewer?  I can cold send it to a bunch of people, but then it goes in the slush pile, and who knows when it gets read, then...

[Interlude:

C: Mama?

J: What is it, Chazzie?

C: Boo (pats chest)

J:  No, you don't need boob right now.

C: Mama, boo. (pats chest even more emphatically)

J: Are you thirsty?  Do you want something to drink?

C: Hnyah

J: How about milk?

C:  Hnyah.

J: okay (gives Charlotte milk) there, is that better?

C: Hnyah

(J goes back to what she was doing)

C: Mama?

J: What do you need, Chaz?

C: Mor, Mama. Mor boo.

end of interlude.]

Oh, I forgot, in the background, Elliot was shrieking "She said BOOOOOOOOB!  She wants BOOOOOOOB!  She needs to take a naaaaaaaaaaaaaap!  Can I watch THOMAS NOW?!"

My son love Thomas the Train, and my daughter loves Shoes and Purses and Baby Dolls.  I did not do this on purpose.  I have always let Elliot play with the toys that appealed to him, whatever phase he was in, and, to be fair, he does like babies, and he likes carrying things in back packs, which I suppose is similar to a purse.  And Charlotte, of course, also enjoys trains and other wheeled vehicles.  But Elliot's favorite toy is a train, and Charlotte's favorite toy (aside, of course, from which ever toy Elliot has in his hand RIGHT THAT SECOND) is shoes, closely followed by dolls and purses.  As a parent raised on stories like "Baby X"  I feel like I've failed somehow.  But I cannot help it that Thomas is blue so Elliot likes blue, and Charlotte, like any sensible person, seems to have a preference for purple.  I cannot help that Elliot disdains dolls (although he likes real babies) in favor of steamies and diesels.  I cannot help that Charlotte is at her most blissfully happy when she has a sparkly purple purse draped over one arm, and is clopping around the house in someone else's shoes, calling "Bayyy-Bie?  Baaaaaaaayyyyy-bie?"

Also, my children are brilliant.  That is just a side note.  I have been told, by people who know these things, that they are merely developmentally on target, but I have seen a lot of the kids out there in their age groups.  I am convinced that my kids are teeny tiny little braniacs.

Do not tell me different.  

You are wrong.

Waxor is working on several project right at the moment.  He's still programming Bokku for the Big League Chew guy, and he's planning out a DnD game that he's going to run locally.  He's also been thinking about doing something crafty, and also geeky.  

One of my dear friends just had her very first baby, and another dear friend has just told everyone that she's expecting her very first baby, and I am going to get to see BOTH of them this fall, and I just found this out in the past 24 hours.  Isn't that awesome?

Doesn't that make the rest of you want to visit?  Or possibly procreate?  Or both?

OH, hey, speaking of visiting...  This year Waxor and I will NOT be throwing a Halloween party.  I have had some varying luck with them in the past, and this year I am just too tired to deal with it.  

Instead we are throwing a birthday party for ME!!!!  Now, to be fair, this party will be held on Saturday, Oct. 29th, and it is a themed party, and you are expected to come in costume.  But let us just be clear.  It is NOT a Halloween party.  It is a BIRTHDAY party.  For ME.

So, all of you are invited to my birthday party!  It's Oct. 29th, starts at 6 pm, here at 709 River St, Haverhill MA.  The party is Joss Whedon Themed, and if any of you just said "What?"  You are uninvited.  No.  I'm kidding.  But you have to go sit down and watch all of Firefly as a penance.  Waxor and I will be attending dressed as Spike and Drusilla, and if anyone feels inspired to go the Buffy-verse route we could use an Angelus.  All of Whedon's various creations are valid, however be advised that if you choose to go the X-Men comic route you will be cool, but no one will get it.

If you can't come, but would like to celebrate my birthday anyway, may I suggest you curl up with a good book?  Perhaps MY book?  Just a suggestion.

Going away now, before my head explodes.