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.

June 22, 2011

Fuzzy and Dante gave me a series of books by Simon R Green.  I'm apparently reading them out of order - alas.  Anyway, I think I just found the best line I've read all year, maybe more than all year.

It's a spy series, set in a supernatural world, and the James Bond parallels are rampant.  The book's version of Q (called the Armourer) is working in his lab, and our hero and his girlfriend go to speak with him.  They find him working on a little black box that, as he says, is "supposed to go bang.  And it doesn't."  

So he picks up a big hammer and whacks it a good one.

This alarms the hero and the girlfriend, who take the hammer away from the poor Armourer, worried that he will blow them all to kingdom come, and the Armourer then delivers the line.  The great line.  The one I've been waiting to read.

"You have to teach technology to respect you!  It has to know who's in charge!"

That's exactly how *I* feel.  Oh sure, I love riding in cars and flying in airplanes.  Online games are great and without email most of you would never hear from me ever again.  But that doesn't really make me any more comfortable with technology.  When something fails on me, sure, I feel betrayed, but not like you feel betrayed when a good friend stabs you in the back - more like Holmes felt betrayed when Moriarty pulled one over on him.  It's the betrayal you realize you have perpetrated on yourself, for ever thinking you had finally won over the life long nemesis.  

Someone get me a hammer.  I'm gonna go teach my router to respect me.

**********

I've been thinking about the nature of humor, and offense.  Specifically, those things we find humorous that skirt, or outright cross the line, into offensiveness.  Mostly I've been thinking about this because I recently upset a friend of mine with something I found really funny, and also because I read a comic in which the cops were using some pretty serious gallows humor to get through a really difficult crime scene, and the things they were joking about were things that, typically, I would declare to be "never funny", and yet I could see the humor in what they were saying.

There are things that I don't ever really find funny.  George Carlin says anything can be funny, but I can't imagine laughing at a joke about genocide, or mass oppression.  At the same time, I understand that there are times in all our lives that the only way we can deal with something is by breaking into thousands of tiny pieces... or laughing.  So we make inappropriate jokes, and we laugh.  If humor is a defense mechanism, should we ever declare a joke inappropriate?  

Of course, humor isn't JUST a defense mechanism.  I'm not claiming that.  It can totally be offensive (I mean that in the way of weaponry, not in the way of sensibilities).  John Stewart and Stephen Colbert go on the offensive with their humor all the time.  Mostly I cheer them on.  But bullies, both childhood and adult, use humor to go on the offense.  So is the distinction between an offensive joke and a non-offensive joke not the subject matter, but the intent BEHIND the subject matter?

And if that's the case, do we give a pass to people who make racists or sexists joke, if they really aren't trying to hurt anyone by them?  Or do we think they should know better?  But then we're back to judging by content, not intent.

It seems to me that humor is a tricky thing.   Daddy loves Andy Kauffman; thinks he was a comic genius.  I just think he was an intellectual bully, but I know plenty of people who disagree with me.  Who's to say who is right?  I often say that I don't like humor that is based on making other people uncomfortable, and I don't, but then again, I don't actually know how frequently my humor makes other people uncomfortable.  Among my family, and some of my friends, we tend to make fun of people.  The more we like you, the more comfortable we are mocking you.  Chances are excellent that if I've ever said something even slightly mean to you it means I think we're friends.  (Except for you, Kate R.  I really hate you.  PS, welcome to the email list) But I don't know how many people have actually been bothered by that, and just pretended that they found it funny.  

Chances are good that for every joke you've ever told, either someone out there would find it offensive if they heard it, or it wasn't really funny.  I'm not maligning your jokes, I'm just saying that humor and a capacity for offense seem to be really closely intertwined.

At least, to my way of thinking.

***********

Elliot got plowed under by an automatic door today.  We had gone to the grocery store, at his request, to refill our depleted supply of Kix, and he was, as he so frequently is, dawdling.  I had Charlotte loaded up in the cart, and was trying to cajole Elliot into joining us.

"Buddy, come on." No movement.

"Buddy, you're blocking the door, people need to get in and out." A thoughtful glance around, accompanied by a judicious grope of his penis.  Now that he's found it he's constantly checking to make sure it hasn't gone anywhere.

"Elliot, someone is going to come through that door with a cart and not see you, now get over here."  So he starts to move, and at that second the door swings into him.  WHAM!

Elliot wails and goes sprawling.  I check him and find no lasting damage, merely a sense of injustice fomenting in his tiny heart.

There were several older women standing around (YES, Momma, YOUR AGE, which is OLDER than ME.) and they were all horrified.  I heard many exclamations.

"Oh, I can't believe that hit him!"

"Poor little fellow!"

"Oh honey, are you all right?"

What does his heartless mother say?

"See, that's why I don't want you to just stand around in the doorway."

************

This may be my last LITSL email for the summer, unless something so momentous happens that I just HAVE to send one.  Soon Coury and Daniel will be here for two weeks, and then we'll all be in CA at Tiff's house, then Been, Daniel and Joseph will be here through the beginning of August, and then I'm supposed to be maybe meeting some people in NYC, if we can all actually agree on a specific date.  So I'll be a little busy.  Everyone have a lovely couple of months.

June 16th, 2011

Everyone give a big life in the slow lane welcome to my cousin David, his wife MJ, and my friends Zanne and Rob.  They're newbies.  They have no idea how bizarre these things can get.

********

So I slit my wrist today.  It was neither serious nor intentional, only an incidental dishwasher unloading mishap, but I walked around with a Winnie the Pooh Bandaid on my wrist all day and felt whimsically emo.

Just like Panic! At the Disco.

********

I just had the following interchange with my son.

"Momma, what's wrong?"

"I just hit myself in the mouth with your head."

Consider.

***********

A friend of mine, Rob, linked this book to me:  Cinderella Ate my Daughter.  http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0061711527/littlebluewor-20

It's a book written by a woman who was known for her perspective on girl's psyches - and then she had a daughter.  I've only read a few pages of the introduction, just what Amazon will let me look at without buying it, but I think I'll check it out of the library and read it.  She starts the book talking about how her daughter went off to her first day of preschool in her striped overalls, clutching her Thomas the Train lunchbox, and by the end of the week was demanding skirts and a Disney Princess Bag.  It seems like her main goal is to explore the feminization of little girls in our culture, and how that affects them.

Now, on to my point.

It got me thinking about things we do, or don't do, to teach our children, and how effective we're really likely to be.  When I was a kid my parents wouldn't let me have a Barbie, until my grandmother did an end run around them and gave me one for Christmas.  From then on there was a slowly waged epic Barbie War.  Momma let me have the Barbie dream house, but she insisted on making panels that went over the walls, turning the rooms into a school room and a library, instead of a kitchen and a bedroom.  I was allowed to keep the day to night Barbie my grandmother got me, on the condition (I am not making this up) that I played with her in her "business suit" as often as I played with her in her "clubbing clothes."

Truthfully, I'm pretty sure the only thing I learned from any of this is that the more you are denied something the more you long for it.

My parents read me stories like "baby x" (which I loved)  and encouraged me to play soccer (which I didn't) and made up a few final lines to Humpty Dumpty which went:

"Then along came the queen/with women in force/ and put Humpty together/ quite quickly, of course"

Which I found only natural since I was convinced that women were awesome.

I wore a lot of skirts back in those days, but it was only because - due to my anatomy - I found pants pretty uncomfortable (too much butt for pants cut for a normal child).  I was encouraged to be smart, and clever, and witty.  I'm sure they would have encouraged me to be strong and brave and robust, as well, but I was such a hopeless bookworm that THAT was a losing battle.

So, you'd think that I'd know better that to judge myself by my appearance, right?

But when I was in sixth grade my school did a production of the Nutcracker for the Sixth Grade Christmas Play.  We had auditions and everything.  For the purpose of filling roles auditions were opened to fifth graders, but it was whispered around that the sixth graders would get preference in casting.  I went and auditioned for the role of Clara.  I knew all the lines.  I sang the song with all my little heart.  I was really hoping for the role.

And wouldn't you know it, they gave it to a petite blonde girl.  To add insult to injury - she was a fifth grader.

Now, this would just be another story of not getting the part you want, except for this;  after the cast was announced (we were all standing around in the hallway and the teacher in charge of casting read the list aloud for us)  the teacher drew me aside to say,

"If it had just been on talent, we would have cast you.  But, you know, Clara needs to look the part."

I was outraged.  My parents (although relieved cause this meant we could leave for Christmas Vacation early) were also outraged.  Everyone I ever told about it was outraged.

But I learned my lesson pretty well, I think.  People judge on appearance.  Even when they shouldn't.  Even when they should know better.

And before any of us (myself included) get up on our high horses, let's be real.  We all do it.  I mean, we don't all choose the petite blonde over the chunky brunette for the lead role, but we all judge on appearance.  Even if it's mentally calling some guy tacky for walking down the street wearing a shirt with a pair of boobs in a bikini on it.  Even if it's rolling our eyes at a young 20 something woman who lets her bright red thong show above her exceedingly low cut jeans.  Even if it's MC Hammer and his pants.  We ALL judge on appearance.  Yeah, you can say that we're judging them on something they have control over.  They don't HAVE to wear those things.  But we aren't just casting aspersions on their judgement, are we?  Everyone be honest, now.  You assume things about them.  You assume they aren't as smart, or aren't as well brought up, or aren't as aware that NO ONE LOOKS GOOD IN HAMMER PANTS.  Don't you?  I know I do.

But we don't judge anyone as harshly as we judge ourselves, do we?

Little thought experiment:  When was the last time you noticed someone in Target wearing their pajamas?  I assure you, it happens all the time.  Do you notice?  Now, when was the last time YOU wore PJ's in Target.  Some of you may not shop at Target, substitute your grocery store instead.  For those of you who have never done it - is it because never, in your entire life, have you ever needed something quickly before you happened to get dressed?  (If that's the case, Kudos to you)  Or is it because you would be too embarassed to go out in your jammies?  For those of you who have done it, how conspicuous did you feel?

My point here is that there are plenty of people who wear their jammies to Target.  Maybe you're one of them.  If you aren't, unless you're super organized, there's a good likelyhood that the only reason you aren't is because you would judge yourself.  Way more harshly than anyone else will judge you.

See what I'm saying?

Wait, I feel like I've gotten off topic...

Back to girls and their self image... I paint my nails on occasion.  I enjoy it, I enjoy adorning myself.  I also periodically dye my hair, shave my legs, and, on very special occasions, wear make up.  I do all these things because I like to do them.  No one (at least, no one who matters) has ever suggested to me that doing it makes a difference to them one way or the other, and I sort of go as the mood takes me.

Sometimes when I paint my nails I paint Elliot's, at his request.  He particularly likes it when I've got the purple out.  In theory, painting Elliot's nails is an exercise in gender non-conformity, and therefore, to at least some people's thinking, a good thing.  By the same token, painting Charlotte's nails would be a bad thing.  But there's no way I'm gonna paint my son's nails when he asks and not my daughter's.  That would be affording him a freedom I didn't allow her.

Should we really be telling our girls they can't have plastic high heels?  Or should we be telling our boys they CAN?

And, honestly, does it really matter?  Is one ill timed comment by their sixth grade teacher going to wipe out all we've tried to impress upon them, anyway?  Should we just teach them self worth, and then let them decide on their own how much they want to enter into the visual appearance fray?

I dunno.

**********

Today is a good day to tell you some of the reasons I adore my children.  Which one should I start with?  Let's start with Charlotte, since she's currently discussing her feelings at the top of her lungs.

Charlotte likes to give kisses.  She will crawl up to you and, on whatever portion of your anatomy seems good to her at the moment, apply her open (and drool filled) mouth.  While doing so she will make the following noise. "maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..."  and upon making contact she goes "...AH"  It's adorable.  If you are too far away for her to reach she will cram half her hand in her mouth while making the same noise, yanking it out on the final "AH".  This is how she blows kisses.

When Waxor leaves in the morning Charlotte crawls over to the baby gate through which he has just disappeared and blows kisses down the stairs, forlornly calling "Daa daa.  Daaaaa daaaa!" in between them.  When Elliot falls and gets hurt she crawls up and hugs him, bestowing copious kisses on his back.  It is really and truly the most adorable thing in the world ever.

Elliot has discovered his imagination.  The other day I heard him in the living room say "Momma says..." and keep talking, but I couldn't understand him.  I went in to find out what he wanted, only to find that he was playing Momma and Babies with some Fisher Price Little People.  I consider it a triumph that the Momma was doing something nice.  I figure there were good odds that the Momma was going to be putting the baby in time out, but no, she was telling the baby to hold her hand, because cars can be dangerous.  I have never in my life loved anything as much as I loved his piping little voice telling the imaginary baby to hold tight so it could be safe.

Unless it's how much I love the fact that sometimes, when Charlotte is falling asleep in my arms, she reaches up and puts her hand on my face, like she's just giving me one last reassurance that she loves me.

Or unless it's how much I love that Elliot calls his father a noob, and tells Waxor he's going to pwn him.

Or possibly how much I love that Charlotte races to the stairs on her hands and knees, climbs three steps, and then calls to me "Mama!  Up!"  with an imperious tone, in case I hadn't gotten the memo yet that she wants to climb.  

Or, perhaps, how much I love when I get hurt or am upset, and Elliot comes up to me and gives me a kiss and says "There, Momma, a kiss will make it all better."  That one gets me every time.

I really, really, truly love my children.  Isn't that amazing?  Other parents will get me, peeps without kids might not.  Babies make you crazy in a way that nothing else in the world will, but at the end of the day, you adore them beyond reason.

And on that note... I'm sending this.  Ta all!