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!

June 8, 2011

YAY!!! IT'S WARM!!!!

So, I have concocted a plan.  Many of you may know already about my mixed feelings regarding the Twilight Saga.  On the one hand, like almost everyone I know who has read them, once I started I had a hard time putting them down.  I thought a lot about this and came to the conclusion that it's the angst in them - Stephanie Meyers writes awesome teen angst, which means that teens LOVED the books, and adults read them with an ever increasing sense of nostalgia for that time in our lives when WE felt that way.  It's not that they were particularly good - but they gave me the same sensation that I get when I sit down and watch The Breakfast Club, especially at the end when the credits roll and the theme song comes on...

Anyway, that being said, the movies are awful.  Awful, awful, awful.  And I ADORE them.  I went and saw New Moon in the theater and cackled like a mad woman all the way through it.  If any of you care - by the way - I am firmly on Team Jacob.  After reading the books I was sort of a fence sitter, but slightly more on Team Edward.  The movies, with their spectacularly shirtless scenes, tipped the scales 100% in favor of Taylor Lautner.  I'm sorry - smoking hot, brilliantly bronzed, ACTUALLY BREATHING guy vs. pasty white, scrawny chicken, glitter statue dude; no contest.  

But I digress.  However much glee I get out of the movies, and however much angsty value I can recognize in the books, the fact remains that when it comes to vampires, Joss Whedon is my king in the land of Buffytopia.  His vampires are evil.  They literally have NO SOULS, unless they have been cursed by a gypsy or taunted by an evil demon thingey to get it back.  If you have no idea what I am talking about then you need to come to my house RIGHT NOW and sit down for the next week and watch all seven seasons of Buffy (side note - Jen Bridge, do you still have our copy of Season 1?)  

So my plan is as follows:  The next Twilight movie comes out November 18th.  Between now and then I wish to cast and rehearse a live version of Buffy, the Musical.  Then, on opening night of Twilight, I would like to stage a street performance outside a theater that has lines and lines of people waiting to see Twilight.  We could have a little billboard that says "Our vampires could kick your vampires ass."  Then we could do Dr Horrible's Sing Along Blog for act two, because we need an act two.  

Who's with me?

*****

Charlotte has turned one!  I made her a cake, and she got a pile of presents (all of which are second hand fisher price little people sets.  we've been opening them one at a time over the course of several days.  Yay, ebay!)  Elliot ran around her going "Happy Birthday Today Miss Charlotte!"  and she gave all of us slobber kisses.  It was great.

I am anxious for her to begin walking.  I'm not sure why, I know that it will cause more problems than it will solve, at least for a while, but she WANTS to be independantly mobile so badly, I am hoping for her sake that it will happen.  Thus far, however, she mostly just walks holding on to fingers or push toys or furniture, and if you DO get her to let go of everything she will throw herself at the nearest adult, shrieking with laughter and solid in her belief that you will manage to catch her before she hits the floor.

Betting is now open - pick a date and time when I will miss.  Closest guess without going over wins the pool.

*****

I going to open a food joint some day.  I say "food joint" and not "restaurant" because I'm going to name it "Or the Highway" and I'm going to serve the same meal to everyone who walks in the door.  If you don't want to have the fancy five course dinner I've planned, go somewhere else.  If the family style, giant pot of chicken and dumplings with new peas is not to your liking, walk out again.  The only think that I will promise is that (a) the food will be good and (b) whatever's posted for the day is actually what I'm making, so if you have dietary restrictions you can make your choice ahead of time.  I will cook with things that are seasonal and local - except when I'm in the mood to buy something flown in from China or France.  Since all of you know me if you are planning on coming to town and want to come to "Or the Highway" you can call in advance and ask me to make your favorite foods.  You will be the lucky few.

****

I've been having some issues with Elliot.  Not behavior issues - he has those, but I more or less am confidant in my ability to handle them.  No, the issues I speak of are emotional.  My boy has become totally clingy, and not only that, just recently he's started rejecting other people, in what seems to be a bid for more love from me.  

Lemme splain...

No, that take too long, lemme sum up...

Thank you William Goldman.

Anyway, what I'm talking about, back to that;  the clingy first.  His new favorite thing to ask me?  "Mamma, will you always be with me?"  followed up by "Mamma, do you love me always?"  and that's followed by "Mamma, will you hold and carry me so I won't be scared because you love me always?"  He literally wants me to hold him HOURS out of every day.  He wants me every morning, every night, and all day long every day in between.  Unless he is watching TV or playing a video game (yes, I let him do both those things, every day during Charlotte's nap.  I am a bad mother, but a practical woman) he will not let me leave the room he is in.  If he's happily playing and I get up to go to bathroom he will run shrieking after me going "I don't want to be by myself!"  If he's with Waxor and I get up and leave the room I hear a wail behind me "But I want to be with MOOOOOOOMAAAAAAAA!!!!"

I know this is a response to Charlotte and her ever increasing need for attention in her own right, but good LORD!  I feel like I have a cling-on.

And the rejection... he told me yesterday that he didn't love Daddy or Miss Charlotte anymore.  Just me.  It's obvious that this is not true, he's just saying it, but... but... what do I say to that?  I've told him that I love all of them, and that I can never run out of love, so I have plenty for all of them, but that has not helped.  I've told him that if he wants to say that it's okay, but he needs to be nice to Daddy and Miss Charlotte anyway, and that has actually precipitated a tantrum.  He wants me, just me, and all of me.  

How does one deal with this?

****

I have to go lay the law down, I've got two wailing babies in the living room.

May 25th, 2011

HEY!  Those of you who actually follow this on the blog, I've been sadly remiss in posting the new ones.  Sorry.  Check the Title for when I originally wrote the emails.

***

Charlotte is a babbler.  Happy or sad, there is constantly some kinda noise coming outta that child.  All of you sniggering and making remarks about acorns and the distance from their parent trees, or chips and their respective blocks can bite it.  Elliot, too, is a bit of a noise maker these days, as he has discovered singing, and in almost all moments where he is not actively listening to something (music, TV, the sound of my mind slowly leaking away) he is singing.  See previous statement regarding biting it.  Anyway, his songs tend to be either (a) the music I listen to or (b) his own original compositions.  The stuff I listen to comes out both adorable and hilarious (a three year old doing his own personal rendition of Baby Got Back is pretty funny) but the stuff he composes on his own, quite naturally, comes out in a range that is suitable for HIS voice.  Which is high pitched.  And piping.  It sounds like I've got castrated owls forming a glee club in my kitchen, sometimes.

Today in the bath Waxor and I were tag teaming Elliot's questions.  Elliot has reached the "why" stage of development, so occasionally it takes not only two, but three or more adults just to satisfy his curiosity.  Elliot spies some dirty wipes in the trash, and announces unto us:

"Oh look, they have shit on them!"

Waxor goes with "Elliot, shit isn't a nice word."

"No," say I, "it's a special occasion word."

In again comes Waxor "If you want to say it nicely say 'poop'."

"But Daddy," replies our most precocious son, "poop IS shit."

Out of the mouths of babes.

***

I'm gonna do something totally declasse here, so please, forgive me.  I am about to talk about - my weight.  I been losin' a liiiiiiddle bit of weight this past year.  Right after Charlotte was born I topped out at just under 200 lbs.  Now, I am short, people.  I am not statuesque, regal, or amazonian, I am SHORT.  And 200 lbs is an AWFUL lot of poundage on me.  My girl will be turning one in just a few weeks, and this morning the scale stopped at 152 lbs.  I'm pretty happy with that.  Now, here's my point - LAST time I weighed 152 lbs (not counting when I was gaining weight with Elliot, just when I was that weight normally) I was massively unhappy about it.  To be fair, this time, due to all the baby toting, my 152 has a great deal more muscle in it, but still.  I was looking at some old pictures, and I realized that, except for three or four years in my late teens, I have always considered myself to be overweight.  How stupid was I?  I was never happy with how I looked, even when I was perfectly cute and adorable.  Now, from the other end of the scale, I wonder how much time I wasted being discontent over nothing.

I still have some 20 pounds to go, but I will get there when I get there, and I have decided, from this moment on, not to stress about it.  I figure some day, when I'm lying in bed wishing my hip didn't need to be replaced, I will realize I was stupid for ever being discontent with my perfectly healthy, functioning body.   Even if it did look funky in a bathing suit.

***

On a similar note... Zanne and i were discussing Kirstie Alley a few days ago.  She's on Dancing With the Stars this season, and I, at least, am rooting for her, but this week she was having some serious problems because she' not eating enough.  She told the camera "I just forgot to eat"  but we were talking about how that's just code, among dieters, for, "I choose not to eat, because I am trying to lose weight, but that is frowned on so I just say I forgot." and I think I said something along the lines of "Forget to eat, I NEVER forget to eat."

Of course, me and my big mouth, the next day I actually forgot to eat.  Put on your mournful face, this is a story of great woe.  See, I got up in the morning, fed the kids, got Charlotte down for her nap, grudgingly ate my breakfast (really, I dislike breakfast intensely, unless it takes place at 10:30 and involves Champagne), did some work, Charlotte woke up, I fed the kids, and we headed out to run our errands.  It was, at that time, a little after 11, and I didn't even think of eating.  I wasn't hungry, and we had a library to visit, so out we went.  Alas, after we left the library I remembered I needed to go cancel my YMCA membership, so I dropped by to do that, and then Elliot was so distraught that we were leaving the Y, so I decided to take him to playground so he could have some fun.  It was around 1:30 when we got to the playground, and I suddenly realized that my stomach was eating itself.  A quick check of the diaper bag made it clear - I had no snacks.  But we had JUST gotten to the playground, and I wasn't dragging the kids away from that.  I checked again.  Aha!  A cheese stick!  Salvation!  Then Charlotte spied my cheese stick.  Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you truly, if I must choose between being hungry or having my daughter hungry I will go hungry every time.  This is not altruism, this is self preservation.  Charlotte, hungry, is a thing best never experienced.  So Charlotte ate my cheese stick, and I sat there wondering how anyone, anywhere, could really forget to eat.  

AHM NOM NOM NOM.

***

Elliot hates having his hair washed.  Hates it.  He hates water in his eyes, in his face, on his head, anywhere in any vicinity above his neck.  Yeah.  Waxor and I aren't super crazy washing people, but Elliot has a tendency to get really bad scabs on his head if we don't wash his scalp several times a week.  So, today, at his request, we shaved his head.  

I hear the agonized wails of the gradparents but really, he's cute no matter what.  And he's very happy that we can now clean his scalp with a wash cloth.

***

The only thing more annoying than having to clean your whole house by yourself is having one other person helping you, when that person is a three year old.  Examples of Elliot helping me are as follows:

Waiting until I've bent down to pick up a toy and then snatching it and running off, shrieking "I'm helping, I'm helping" and then after making several laps of the living room throwing the toy in the general direction of the play area, without actually making it into any of the toy bins.

Grabbing his toy broom and taking my carefully gathered piles of dust and dog hair and sweeping them back out again.

Taking a dusting rag and running around the entire house, making sure to pass his sister ever 3.2 seconds, and each time yelling "Look out Miss Charlotte!" before assaulting her with the cloth.

Uh oh.  He just whacked her with something. Gotta go.

May 11th, 2011

I've decided that Charlotte was a high born Chinese woman in a previous life. She cannot stand to have her feet restrained in any sort of fashion. Unless something else distracts her she will work diligently to remove both shoes and socks, and if I tried to put her to sleep with her socks on (for warmth) she cries.

***

If you are a parent, at some point in your child's life you will do something that you are, if not actively ashamed of, at least regretful over. Something that, like it or not, you really should not have done. For some this will be the time that you lose your temper and spank your child, for others it will be the time that you say something mean and ugly to them, something that you don't mean, something you only said to hurt their feelings. Some of us will regret the time we didn't hold firm, when we knew it was in their best interests for us to stay the course and deal with all the screaming that resulted, and instead we caved. Some of us will regret the time we held too firm, and didn't give our child that little bit of slack they needed, because we were too busy being "in charge."

Many of us will do more than one of these things. Some of us, the lucky ones, will only do them once or twice.

Some of us, the less fortunate, or, perhaps, suited less by nature to be parents, will do them many many times.

Whatever the case, for those of us that are parents we will all have moments when we realize that, if someone were in charge of us, now is the moment that we would be sent to time out. We have erred, mis-stepped, or, as my mother puts it, we have "stepped over the line, buddy." If we were our children we would even now be hearing something along the lines of "you get your ass in that room, and don't you come out until I SAY you can come out."

And we wish someone WOULD say this to us, because, honestly, we don't WANT to be in the middle of this altercation with our kids. We want to be having a nice, peaceful day, or, alternatively, be in time out in our rooms, thinking about what we have done, instead of still dealing with a baby/toddler/child/teenager who is bent on turning us into a raving lunatic.

Today, I had an epiphany. I realized that I was, in fact, being given a punishment. It just wasn't to be sent to time out, because, let's face it, time out isn't a punishment when you're the mother of two.

No, my punishment was that I had to turn to my son and hold him, and tell him that I would always be here, and that he never needed to worry that I would leave him. I have to give him a kiss and speak to him gently, when I was angry enough to beat the ever living shit out of him. And even worse, this was a punishment that I was giving to myself. Punishments you give yourself are worse than any other kind, I think.

There's a bit in one of the little house on the prairie books where Laura realizes that being an adult means you boss yourself around, there's no one to tell you what to do, you have to make yourself be good. She thinks that's pretty awesome, as a concept. Me, I think it blows.

***

I went and saw Thor yesterday. Now, I grew up reading my Daddy's old comics, so I am familiar with Thor's life in the Marvel Universe. I was, shall we say, a bit disappointed with the Hollywood decision to make Thor fall in love with a mortal woman, instead of Sif, who is, after all, a goddess, and a badass, and freaking fabulous in every way. I mean, seriously, people, Natalie Portman vs the living embodiment of all that is beautiful in the eyes of any Asgaardian, packaged with some fairly serious battle skills... who would you choose? Also, Thor as a mortal was still frikken Thor. He was, in no way, Dr. Donald Blake. Well, except in a fake ID kinda way. In the comics Thor really is a mortal doctor. Just saying.

Anywho... what I was NOT disappointed with was Chris Hemsworth. Now, Chris Hemsworth has several things going for him. (A) His smile reminds me of Heath Ledger. I loved Heath Ledger, and one of the things I loved most about him was that totally unexpected and awesomely charming smile he had. Chris Hemsworth has the same smile, and I love it. (B) He is totally capable of standing in the middle of a desert and screaming "Heimdall, open the bifrost!" and NOT looking like a silly ass. You might be blowing off this one, but I bet neither you nor I could do such a thing. I bet no one you know could do such a thing. I am telling you, if the man was actually standing in front of me screaming at Heimdall to open the bifrost I would not snigger at him. (C) Have you seen him shirtless? I have, cause it's in the MOVIE. He enters the shot walking away from the camera, and the first thing you think is "gee, how did the costumer find the perfect jeans, to ride the absolute lowest point possible without actually exposing any technical ass?" And then you think "My god, that is a beautiful man." and then he turns around to face the camera, and there is no next thing you think because your brain has become a puddle of formless goo in the face of his superbly gorgeous body which is STILL clad in only some VERY low slung jeans. I say "you" because of course this did not happen to me. This happened to everyone else in the theater. I had been turned into a puddle of formless goo fifteen minutes earlier by the mere realization that a shot like this was pretty much inevitable.

Oh, also not disappointed in Loki. Loki has no shirtless moments, and isn't intended to be a sex symbol to the masses, but has some decent acting chops, which is always nice to see in an action movie. Waxor overheard a guy as we were walking out saying, in all seriousness "I couldn't figure out that Loki guy, I thought maybe he was gonna be a good guy." LoL. I thought he did a good job of skirting it, so that people who knew he was the villain would see it all along, and people who didn't wouldn't get it until it was revealed.

***

Waxor and I have been watching the new Dr. Who. I should probably make clear that, for a long time, Waxor and I were total TV junkies. We had a show every night, sometimes two, that we watched religiously. Tivo made that pretty easy, we'd just save it all up for the weekends or a free evening. Now that we have two kids, and a house that needs work, and our own personal projects, not to mention a fairly consistent social schedule, we just don't have the time to watch a lot of TV. I don't know if that would really stop us, but it turns out we've been having a hard time finding shows that interest us. I mean, we loved West Wing, and Boston Legal, and Gilmore Girls. Most of the crap on now is just that - crap. But we have times when what we WANT to do is sit in front of the TV and veg, so we'll go looking for a series out on DVD that we can watch. Since Waxor used to watch the old Dr Who with his family we thought we'd try the new one.

I, in particular, was pretty obsessed with it. We both enjoyed season 1, with Christopher Eccleston as the Doctor, but OMFG, I am in love with the David Tennant Doctor. And now he's dead. I realize this is not a shock for those of you who watched the good Doctor when he was actually airing, and I realize that those of you who don't watch Doctor Who either don't care or are totally confused that multiple men have played him, but it is relevant to me so I'm talking about it. Thbpt! Anyway, I cried like a baby when he changed into Matt Smith. I hate Matt Smith. I don't want to watch Matt Smith. He is not MY Doctor. MY Doctor wore tailored suits and had spikey hair and wore glasses cause he thought they made him look smarter. MY Doctor was a charming Hard Ass. MY Doctor was the David Tennant Doctor, and no other shall ever replace him.

Phooey to Matt Smith.

***

Last week Osama bin Laden was killed, as I'm sure you're all aware. I first heard about it on Facebook, and then watched with a sort of stunned nausea as all the various forms of media I keep track of went on to throw a collective party. People were tweeting joyous announcements, texting some "boo-yas", and making jokes on the airwaves. If anything in my life has ever driven home to me just how divorced from reality we are, as a society, this was it.

I've come around to the idea that some people really do need to die. I don't know who gets to make that decision, but I know that I wouldn't hesitate to kill someone who threatened my children or my family directly. I can extend that, intellectually at least, to the idea that someone who would choose to kill many people given the opportunity should be killed themselves, to permanently remove that option from them. I still think it's one of the sickest aspects of society, that we would choose in cold blood to kill someone, but I think I can recognize the validity of it.

It's not that we killed him, although that does disturb me. It's the general attitude of "Hey bro, high five" that makes me want to vomit. We killed a man. Not a dog, not a horse, not a cow - a MAN. A real live human being, who had wives and kids and parents and relatives. A man we might have disagreed with, a man who might even have threatened us and made us less than safe, but a man no less. How can we have a frat boy mentality about that? Is it okay cause we weren't there, in the firefight? Is it okay cause we didn't hold the gun that shot his wife? Is it okay because none of us had to calm down his daughter, who was sobbing hysterically in the arms of her wounded mother? No, it isn't. It's not okay. This was an action taken by OUR government, so, like it or not, WE did this. We shot him in the head and in the chest, and then we went on to make jokes about it on Dancing With the Stars.

Does it make you feel like, as a society, we are completely amoral? Cause that's how it makes me feel.

And, let's not forget, in the cacophony of back slapping heard across the nation, there were very few whispered acknowledgements that, once upon a time, this was our guy. A guy we trained and outfitted. A guy we were grateful to have on our side. And then when he turned on us we treated him like a rabid dog and gunned him down. Then we threw a kegger.

If I seem angry or bitter about this it's because I am. I'm not ranting about the US here, I'm not arguing with the military action we took. I'm not saying that he didn't need to die. I don't know for sure, and that's not the argument I'm making here. I'm just sick in my soul about our attitude.

***

I realize that, aside from some well placed lust in the middle, this email has been really serious. Sorry about that. Blame it on the rain. I try not to unload the heavier thoughts I've got in this mass format, but sometimes my fingers fly away from me, and there I go, acting like I've got a thought in my head beyond mothering and being funny. Next time I promise to do better.

April 28th, 2011

Well, I seem to have acquired a pair of mice.

See, Waxor and I have a mouse problem in our house. I mean, the place was uninhabited for over a year before we moved in, it's surrounded by some fairly lush vegetation, and it's old, so having a mouse problem really was forseeable. We love the fact that our house's "situation" makes our property the most popular one in the area for birds, we don't mind the groundhog that lives in our side shrubbery, and we've done a decent job of beating back most of the insects that thought they belonged in here. But the mice... the mice are persistent. And they leave little footprints in the butter.

So we set traps. We were gonna catch them alive and release them into a field, but we discovered two important things. (1) is that house mice and field mice are totally different breeds, and if you let a house mouse go in a field you might as well have killed the poor thing to begin with, because you're only condemning it to a life of starvation anyway. (2) is that it is actually illegal in MA to transport a rodent that you caught in your house or on your property OFF your property alive. Apparently all exterminators in MA carry teeny tiny gas chambers in the back of their vans. How gruesome is that? Anyway, having been given those two important facts we decided that we could be adults and just set traps for them and try to kill them as humanely as possible.

All last summer we caught mice, and when winter came their numbers tapered off, although I wasn't convinced that they weren't just hibernating. Sure enough, once the weather started to warm again we found more little footprints, and set our traps back out. We've only caught one or two so far, so it seems like maybe we wiped most of them out last year. Either that or the rest are still asleep.

So with that little introduction... the other night I was getting ready for bed, and I hear Waxor on the stairs.

"Jessica... Jessica, come here."

I go out and behold a truly remarkable sight - Waxor is standing on the landing of our stairs, facing off against a itsy bitsy teeny tiny mouse.

"Go get something for me to catch it."

So, I go to attempt to get something, but before I get back Waxor has captured the little bugger in our frog vase.

"What do we do with it?"

Both of us stare at one another. We realize that the smart thing to do would be to kill it. We've been killing mice for a while now, and we know we can't just let it go. On the other hand...

"I don't think I can kill it in cold blood."

"Yeah, me either."

So we put it in a large plastic box, give it some cheerios, put in an egg crate it can hide under, and plan on figuring out what to do in the morning. It is at this point that I make a serious mistake.

"Let's call him Tibbers."

Never, ever, ever, ever name an animal if you don't want to keep it. That's all I'm saying.

So, the next day the kids and I go get an aquarium and soft wood chips and a water bottle and set Tibbers up in his cage. But wait, you say, I thought you said "pair" of mice.

Oh I did.

That night I am going upstairs to get ready for bed. Same time, same place, and low and behold, there is ANOTHER MOUSE. Having worked so well as a mouse catcher before I once again utilize our handy frog vase to catch this one, and then I take it over and put it in the cage with Tibbers.

We're calling mouse #2 Nibbler.

So now we have two mice. They like each other, so they aren't both boys. We're hoping they're both girls. Otherwise, we will shortly have MORE than two mice, and I don't know what we'll do with them all. They really are adorable, though. I know, I know, some of your really hate rodents. Fine and dandy, but these guys are cute.

Speaking of cute... yesterday Charlotte was playing with one of Elliot's rain boots. She had her pacifier in her mouth, and the boot in both hands, and it seemed like she was trying to stick her hands down the boot, but that requires a bit more coordination than you might originally anticipate if you are sitting on the floor and shorter than the boot, and therefore cannot just stick your hand straight down in. Anyway, she was working at if for a while, and I couldn't figure out why the boot was holding her attention so well, when all of a sudden she succeeded and pulled two MORE pacifiers out of the boot! It was like a baby magic trick, and she was soooooo proud of herself.

Recently I sent a short email to just a few people which I began and ended with the announcement that my husband is a douche. Now, this was a joke, as he had done something monumentally silly, but it drew my attention to the fact that I am frequently derogatory of him in jest, and I wish to make sort of a public apology. The truth is that Waxor is a wonderfully patient and loving person. It cannot be easy to live with someone like me, "someone like me" being an individual whose hormones drive her moods to rival the inconstancy of the moon (no, not incontinency, inconstancy. Go read Shakespeare, you goob.) It isn't even easy living with me when you ARE me, and let's face it, I am pretty understanding of myself when I'm being an ass. So, to sum up, my husband is NOT a douche, he is, in fact, a lovely man, and I appreciate his vast capacity to deal with my BS.

On another topic, Charlotte is currently painting my toes with the cream cheese off her matzah.

I've been in a state of internal upheaval these past few months. For those of you that don't know, I had post partum thyroiditis, which is a fancy way of saying that my thyroid went through a hyperactive stage and then a suppressed stage after I had Charlotte. The hyperactive stage was great, I felt awesome; but the suppressed stage kinda sucked. I had low energy and felt like the world was ending. The thyroiditis is cleared up now, but my hormones have been in some kinda hideous wacky flux - I went to my midwives and they were like "yeah, if you start bleeding cups an hour then go to the hospital, otherwise, it'll clear up." The physical symptoms of that aren't that bad to deal with, but the mood swings - yikes. Anyway, like I said, internal upheaval. This has all coincided with my least favorite part of the year, aka, spring that is still really winter, cause it's so damn cold, and with Elliot deciding perhaps it's time he got into the "mommy I love you so much that I must be with you every second of every day and oh by the way if you don't do exactly what I want when I want it I will scream at you for hours on end" game. It's not a fun game. It's more like a game that makes you want to run into the road and get hit by a car.
So a few days ago I was ruminating on PPD (that's post partum depression, for those of you who don't already know that) because Kay was down here last week and observed that I was sort of hiding from my children, and mentioned that she thought I might have it. PPD, that is. So I was thinking about that. One of the things they always tell you to look for is the urge to hurt yourself or your children. I was watching Elliot working his way towards a full blown tantrum and thought "Show me a mother of a three year old who hasn't wanted to slap the shit out of the little fucker at least once, and I'll show you a friggin saint." It's true, no? So how do you TELL if you've got PPD or are just a normal person with a limit to your patience? Maybe it's all in the level of intent. As long as you're just thinking about it randomly, sort of in a "wouldn't it be nice if I could" kind of way you're fine? As for the hurting yourself - I don't think about hurting myself, that would HURT. I do daydream about winding up in the hospital for something temporarily serious, though, so that I can have a few days to myself. I keep trying to come up with something that would require hospitalization but wouldn't require me to have a lengthy convalescence at home. I mean, yeah, a broken leg might put me in the hospital for day or so, but then I'd be home with the kids AND a broken leg. No, I need something serious but immediately reversible. I'm thinking appendicitis. Quick surgery, a few days of peace, and then home again with a new scar and a well rested psyche.

What does that say about a person that they think emergency surgery sounds restful?

On the upside, the weather here is improving. This might sound like a minor thing, but it isn't. It means the kids spend time outside everyday - making them both happier and more content, not to mention allowing them to sleep better at night. I get to open my windows, which makes me feel less trapped in the house, even on days when I don't go anywhere. And I get to wear my sundresses. I love my sundresses. A day in a sundress is always just a little better than a day in pants, even if the exact same things occur. Sundresses MAKE it better. If I just had a friggen bonnet I could be cheerful all the time.

Yesterday we spent a couple hours outside. Elliot repeatedly buried and then excavated his green rubber duck. Charlotte discovered a specialized mix of peat moss and fertilizer and moisture holding pellets, formulated as prime seed starting mix, and left outside in our last rainfall. So... dirt. And then she ate it. I let her. She was so happy. And dirty. Then she clapped her little hands and held them out in the imperious manner she has which indicates she is ready to be held. I laughed at her naivete and carried her at arms length to the tub, where I immersed her completely in warm water until most of the dirt parted ways with her body. She loved it.

I'm'a go ahead and send this now. Surely I've forgotten something I was going to say, but then, that gives you something to await with baited breath,doesn't it?

April 13th, 2011

So the other day, Elliot accosts me in the bathroom.

"Mommy, what are you doing?"

"Shaving my bits." (Oh yeah, you're all like TMI, TMI! But really, it's not that bad, and it's integral to the story. Just suck it up.)

"What does bits do, Mommy?"

"Well, when you're an adult they grow hair."

"They grow hair?"

"Yup."

"Are you shaving your penis, Mommy?"

"No, honey, Mommy doesn't have a penis. Boys bits are penises. What I have is called a Vagina."

"A Jina?"

"Close enough."

"But what does bits do Mommy?"

"Well, they grow hair. And also, when you're an adult, you can use them to have sex, and make a baby."

"What does Jinas do, Mommy?

"Well, like I said, they grow hair, and they have sex, and then babies come out of them when they're born. You and Charlotte both came out of my Vagina."

(at this point Elliot looks skeptically at this particular portion of my anatomy)

"But, how does the baby get in there, Mommy?"

"Well, when your an adult and you're ready to have a baby, a man puts his penis in a woman's vagina, and thewoman has part of the baby, and the man has part of the baby, and the parts go together and a baby grows out of them, and when the baby is done baking, it comes out the woman's vagina."

"The parts go together?"

"Yup. They're very tiny. Like when we plant seeds in Mommy's garden and the plants grow from the seeds. Theseeds are very tiny and they grow big plants, and the parts of the baby inside Mommy and Daddy are very small, and they grow babies. Sometimes."

"Bits grow hair?"

"Yup."

Colossal sigh and shrug

"What next?"

Later he tells his Yaya the following information: Babies grow like seeds in gardens. The parts go together and then they bake and come out Jinas. And when you're into adult, bits grow hair.

:)

Since I've related a conversation with Elliot, it seems only fair to do the same for Charlotte.

"Hi Miss Cha Chizzle."

"Bleeeerrrrrrraah."

"Really?

"aaaaaaaAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGHHHH."

"Okay, hold your horses, I need coffee first."

"ANGAH angah ANGAH!"

"I don't actually think your head will explode in the time it takes me to pour my coffee."

"AGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."

"Or, I could be wrong."

Okay, so, seriously, I'm only sending this email out because someone mentioned to be that it had been ages since I sent any pictures of Charlotte. And I have a ton and will post them to the internets soon, but, in themeantime, here are pictures of both my charming children. :)

The stories are just an added bonus.

April 12th, 2011

Note to blog readers: for some reason I can't make it stop highlighting the word "the." Sorry

People who have never nursed a baby might assume that its a calming, soothing thing. I mean, there are all those pictures everywhere, of smiling mothers gazing adoringly at their tiny offspring, gently guiding a full and nurturing breast into the small one's mouth. The little one's eyes are closed in bliss and contentment, and all is joy.

Of course, it isn't really like that.

Nursing is an interactive event. Sure, you might get a few days of soothing bliss right after your baby comes. Those are the same few days that you get in which you think (foolish you) "Gee, my baby just sleeps all night!" It's before your baby really wakes up, see. They haven't realized yet that they've joined the world. Once that realization hits they wake the HIZZY up, and along with that comes your introduction (or, sometimes, REintroduction) to the sport of competitive nursing.

First of all, babies do not, I repeat, do NOT come with a GPS locator that tells them where your nipple is. Recently Charlotte's preferred method of finding my nipple is to ignore it completely, and instead attempt to dive headfirst into my armpit. I don't know who told her there was breast milk to be found there, but whoever it was should be found and shot. Anyway, where ever YOUR baby thinks your nipple is, be it shoulder, armpit, or naval, you will find yourself wrestling with your baby to get them back to breast level. Once you've got them correctly located you will, of course, have to let go of them in order to grab your boob and steer it into their gaping maw. And, once you let go of them, they're going to dive right back into your armpit. Or naval. Whatever.

Let's say you actually get them latched on. Hooray! They're gonna let go. That's right, as soon as they get thebeloved nipple they have been so arduously spelunking for they are going to spit it out. Why? Well, because you haven't actually had let down yet (aside for all the non-nursers out there - let down is when all the water in your body suddenly rushes into your boobs, rendering the stored milk fats therein drinkable, and rendering you, thenurser, totally thirsty. Babies can't get much out until let down occurs) so they think you've given them the wrong nipple.

"Not THIS one, Mom!" They say in their tiny baby minds "THIS one doesn't have any milk in it. If you would just give me that one in your ARMPIT I could get somewhere!"

So you stick your nipple back in, because, after all, it is the baby sucking on said nipple that causes let down to occur (unless you're in public with no breast shields, then EVERYTHING causes let down to occur, thus soakingthe front of your shirt.) But your baby is disgusted with you.

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOM. I SAID that there's not MILK in this one. Knock it off!"

You, being an idiot, start to reason with your baby, who cannot speak English, only tiny baby Gurgles.

"Sweetie, I know you're hungry, if you'll just stay on there a minute the milk will come out."

"Bleghcrassssssssspth."

Which means "You can't fool me lady. Stick me back in that armpit."

Sigh.

If you're unlucky let down will take so long that your offspring will begin shrieking in rage at you. Then, when all of a sudden your boob starts squirting out milk, the poor thing will drown. It sounds roughly like this.

"AAAAHHHHHHH!"

"Baby, just latch on."

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

"Sweetie, I promise the milk is coming."

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Let me just stick this right back in there for you."

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHGlurgbrugbrubgurbgurbgurbgubgurbgrg...HACK."

Perhaps what you should take away from this is that nursing is rarely calm, advertisements lie, and babies are dumb.

****

My back has been giving me trouble recently. Those of you who have known me as an adult are probably thinking that this isn't really news, but my recent back issues are more than my typical gripe. I seem to have overstretched or under flexed or wickey wonkied my lower back somehow with all the lugging about of small children that I've been doing. It's getting worse and worse, and now it's to the point where I can't stand up without taking 15 seconds and forcing my back to go fully upright. It's like my back is about 80 years old. ANyway, Wednesday I have an appointment with a chiropractor, who I hope will tell me something like "The only way to fix this is for you to go to Greece for a month" but is far more likely to tell me something like "I'll realign you, and then you really need to spend less time lugging kids around." Keep you fingers crossed for the greece thing, though.

Fast forward like, a month. Hey, I've been busy. Turns out it WASN'T Greece and it WAS more serious - I really messed myself up sneezing in the wrong position, and I've been to the Chiropractor about 15 times in the past four weeks trying to get everything straightened back out again.

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

Sometimes I look at Charlotte sleeping in my arms, and I think how comfortable it must be to be a baby and have a mommy. As we grow older mommies are still good - after all, we love them and they love us - but no longer can they fix every ill in the world. Eventually we become sufficient unto ourselves, and our mommies are sad but proud that we don't even truly need them anymore. But as a baby - how awesome to have a mommy. Mommy fixes everything. Mommy makes all the hurts better. Mommy comforts, consoles, and brings joy.

Of course, Mommy also straps you into the car seat and leaves you there to suffer, but that is beside the point.

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

ZOMG!!!! I started this email in October of last year. Now it's January. I knew I would be busy of the holidays, but this is a little re-donk-ulous, isn't it?

I'm feeling a little guilty about my lack of emailage. Not because of you guys - after all, most of you never write me, so I only think it's fair when I don't write you back. :) No, I feel guilty because of the perponderance of email I sent out detailing Elliot's little advances, and I haven't been good about doing the same for Charlotte. I keep imagining conversations with my daughter when she's in her teens, in which I hand each of them a stack of print-outs, and Elliot's is several inches thick and Charlotte's is four sheets of paper, and she looks at me and says "What the HELL!?" and I say "Sweetie, you gotta understand, two is a lot harder than one. Less alone time on thecomputer." and she looks at me in disgust and slams the door to her room and turns the stereo up to manslaughter and I go have a glass of wine.

Of course, if she doesn't do it about the emails she's bound to do it about something else, so there's not much point in worrying, is there?


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

Alright, this is getting ridiculous. It's now April I haven't sent one of these out in, like, 8 months. So, real quick, before I get distracted again, here are the familial updates:

Charlotte is a crawling, standing, cruising, shrieking velociraptor of wonder these days. She very happy, very energetic, very on course developmentally, and very, very loud. Takes after her mommy like that. She's adorable, and she has some of her own made up signs that morph depending on what is most important to her atthe moment, but I understand her so that's okay. She gets into everything, and I fear for the day she figures out how to climb stairs. She adores her big brother - he is the light in her universe and the joy in her daily life. She chooses to express this adoration by pestering him no end, wrecking all his train tracks, and shrieking at the top of her lungs if he refuses to grant her the attention she so obviously deserves. :)

Elliot is a little delicate these days. He loves his "baby sister, Miss Charlotte" but he fiercely resents the fact that Miss Charlotte gets carried and he has to walk like a big boy. He mostly didn't want to be carried, or held for long periods of time, or snuggled with during the day, before Charlotte was born. Now it seems like every time I sit down I have one baby and one toddler attempting to turn me into the world's crankiest bean bag. I feel compassion for him, but somehow that doesn't keep me from wanting to tear my hair out every time I hear "Mommy, pick me up, put Miss Charlotte down and Pick ME UP!"

Aside from his realization that he is not the center of the Universe, and his ensuing crisis of faith in Mommy's love, Elliot is doing well. He's bright and creative and really super cute. Also a pain the butt, but that kinda goes with being a three year old. Good days are the days when he is less of a pain then he is adorable, but I will tell you frankly, not all days are good days.

Waxor and I are both doing really well, within certain strictures. I've had some health problems, mostly related to being post partum. We're both having some tired issues, mostly due to having children. Aside from those two very significant things we're great, though. We're mostly handling the crazy 3 year old issues well, as well as theshrieking velociraptor. We've got games to play and friends to hang with and places to go often enough that we don't go stir crazy, but not so often that we never get to be home. All in all life is just fine.

I hope everything is fine with all of you, and I seriously would type more, but Elliot is throwing a fit about going outside and Charlotte is pointing to her mouth and Waxor just took off upstairs (like a coward. :)) Gotta go. Hopefully it won't be 8 months before I send another one.