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Thursday, June 30, 2005

Crazy Is As Crazy Does

I come from a long line of crazy women. Not crazy in the eccentric way like my father in law. No, I mean crazy in the should-be-strapped-down-to-a-table-and-have-electroshock-therapy kind of way.

Today I joined the illustrious women in my family.

I was at my OBGYN appointment and the doctor asked me how I was, how the post partum depression was. I answered that I was fine. And just to illustrate how fine I was, I burst into tears. I am fine. But I'm not fine.

I'm not angry and crying anymore. I don't walk through the house slamming things down on tables and randomly yelling at innocent people, though that is more a testament to my self control than a lack of desire to do so.

If you were to see me out grocery shopping, I would seem surprisingly normal. I wouldn't yell or make a scene, even if you cut me off with your cart and grabbed the last package of hamburger buns. I might even smile and make a joke about it. But inside I'd want to tear your face off and then stomp on it for good measure. So this isn't normal? People always comment to me that I am so "calm" and "peaceful" and "patient" and they want to know my secret. I never know what to say because those words do not describe how I feel.

I don't know how to describe how I feel now, other than a resigned sadness. It's like a aura that hovers in the air around me, almost palpable at times.

The doctor asked me if I had friends that I talked to. She seemed a bit worried when I asked, "Do you mean in real life?" and responded, "Well, I don't mean imaginary friends." That made me laugh because I never thought of the people I know via the internet as imaginary per se. But now I will, because it makes me seem even crazier. And hysterically laughing and crying simultaneously at the doctor's office, will make her rip out that script pad faster than the speed of light.

Well that and when she asked me what I like to do in my free time. I didn't want to mention my imaginary friends again or even mention the internet, because nothing screams crazy like "plays on the internet". So I said shopping. Which would have been a fine answer, I think, except that she asked shopping for what? And I blurted out, "Groceries!" Good God almighty why would I say that.

It's a good thing I didn't mention the internet, because that would have seemed crazy.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Ascots, The Newest Fashion Accessory

My father in law is recovering from his open heart surgery better than anyone could have hoped. He even turned down the good drugs the day after his surgery. That generation is strange with it's inability to accept narcotics with pleasure. Rob walked through the corridor of the intensive care unit seeing room after room of people, mostly men, mostly older, in obvious discomfort. He was afraid of the condition in which he would find his father. His worry was for nothing. Lou was sitting up straight in his bed, hands behind his head, watching tv.

I think he was probably complaining about something.

We're a lot alike in that regard, him and I.

Neither one of us is easy to live with, and that was never more apparent than when we lived at my inlaws house for four months while we we were trying to buy our first house. I was pregnant with my second child and had terrible morning sickness (a misnomer for all day long sickness), it was a very hot summer, and the smell of food cooking would send me running to the bathroom.

My father in law wakes up very early in the morning. Very early as in 3:00 am, closer to the time I go to bed for the night than when I wake up. After he drinks his very weak coffee made from a combination of recycled coffee grounds and fresh ones, he begins to make dinner. Yes, dinner for that night. When I would wake up at a perfectly respectable hour like 8:00 am, there would be my dinner sitting on the counter already cold, wrapped in plastic wrap, staring at me while I ate my corn flakes.

It happened that this particular summer my brother in law's garden had a rather prolific crop of zucchini. I made the error of telling my father in law how delicious the zucchini was the first time he prepared it.

From that day on,for four long months, I woke up every day to find cooked zucchini on the counter. I begged my brother in law to just go out to the garden and stomp on the plants, to stop the never ending zucchini hell in which I was trapped. It has been ten years and I have not eaten zucchini since. Just writing this makes my mouth water and causes me to dry heave.

It is entirely possible that he was trying to drive us out of his house as quickly as possibly with the never ending zucchini cooking. In the end, he gave us several thousand dollars we needed towards our down payment to hurry things along.


Recently the town in which my inlaws live, built a new huge senior center. My father in law was telling Rob about it, and how big it was, and all the activities that would be going on there. After he was done, Rob said that it sounded like fun and asked when he was going to head over there.

My father in law looked incredulously at Rob and emphatically stated, "I'm not going there. It's full of OLD people!"

We laughed at this, because when you are 80 years old, I think you can safely call yourself old. There really aren't too many people older than you. But he won't go. He doesn't want to hang out with old people who have nothing better to do than to talk about how they are falling apart bit by bit, unlike himself. Come to think of it I already do that, maybe I should go and play pinnacle with the geriatric set. It would have to be better than Candyland with the preschool set.

My father in law has recently developed a fondness for ascots, and wears them everyday. He developed this penchant for them after he had his cataract surgery and could see his reflection clearly for the first time in 25 odd years. I imagine that it would be shocking to wake up one day and suddenly see yourself 25 years older. He looked in the mirror for the first time after his surgery and screamed, "When did I get wrinkles?!? What happened to my neck?!?"

I asked my mother in law what she said and she told me she was too busy running away to hide so that he didn't get a good look at her. So now he just wears his ascots to the grocery store and fancies himself quite the ladies man.

He is an eccentric, crazy, old kook. And yes, I say that with love. If I don't have a mildly offensive nickname for you, it means I don't like you, and therefore have a really offensive nickname that I dare not utter in your presence.


The day after his open heart surgery, Lou was talking with Rob's mother on the phone while one of the nurses tried in vain to take some blood. She kept poking and poking him with the needle and was having trouble getting any blood. My father in law got annoyed and said on the phone, "I have to go. This nurse thinks I need a transfusion, she can't get any of my blood." Then he hung up, setting into motion a series of events.

My mother in law heard transfusion and panicked.
She called her daughter, Rob's sister, who panicked even more.
Rob's sister called the doctor, who was completely baffled.
The doctor called the nurses, who were confused.
Except for one nurse, who vaguely remembered the conversation.
She went to his room and reprimanded him like a child, because "you don't joke about such things when you are old, in the hospital, and have just had major surgery."

He told her that no one has a sense of humor. Because clearly this is the perfect time to make such a joke... when else would it be funny?

Rob and I agree. We are the only people, aside from him, who found it remotely funny.

Oh and when Rob visited him in the hospital, his father had a dozen eggs for Rob to bring home. Why? Well doesn't every occasion call for giving your youngest son some random food item that was on sale the previous week, or month, or even a year ago, in the case of the frozen hostess cupcakes or the mini snickers bars in the Halloween themed wrapper we get in August. It is a tradition that we fully intend to pass on. So Miles, be forewarned.

I am so thankful that crazy old kook is doing well. I'm thinking of buying him an ascot in one of these fabrics. Embrace the crazy, I say.

Given this man's personality, it wouldn't surprise me if he out lived the lot of us.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Paint, Not Just For Walls Anymore

Guess what I did this weekend?

You can't see the huge drip of paint that fell off the ceiling right into my eye and sent me screaming and running to the kitchen sink. I don't think that there could be any worse paint job than painting a ceiling, and a wainscott ceiling is the worst of them all.

Click on the photo to see the before and on-the-way-to after. I need to finish painting it this week, in between being a basball shuttle service, so that we can tear up the ugly carpeting and put down the tile floor that has been sitting in boxes in our house for well over a year now.

And then I can welcome my new chair home and into the room.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Take Me Out To The Ballgame, Over and Over and Over Again

No, I'm not in prison, just living in my own personal baseball hell.

In the morning... baseball CAMP! In the late afternoon, baseball practice for two different All Star teams at two different times! I feel like I am living in the YES network... all baseball, all the time! yes, I am shouting! Look at my overuse of exclamation points!

I did take some time during the morning baseball camp to go to the Hitchcock Furniture store. There I spied a chair that I fell in love with. And it with me. I called Rob and told him that the chair is beckoning for me to come back and get it. Even though I am miles away at my own home, I hear it's pitiful lament. The best part, I told Rob, is that it is on sale. Now it only costs a small fortune.


Me: What is today's date?
Rob: The 25th I think.
Me: Oh, our anniversary was yesterday. Happy Anniversary.
Rob: Happy Anniversary! Why do we always forget?
Me: I don't know. Maybe because we didn't have a wedding we don't feel connected to that date.
Rob: We never forget the anniversary of our first date.
Me: Or the first time we had sex.
Rob: Maybe we should just celebrate that from now on, our sexaversary.
Me: I just don't think that is as socially acceptable.
Me: It's a good thing that we married each other, I think there are other people who would be really upset about a forgotten anniversary.
Rob: Did you really know that it was our anniversary and you were testing me to see if I remembered?
Me: No, why would I do that?
Rob: (laughing) Because there is some really big present that you want and you want to guilt me into buying it?
Me: Nah, you should know me well enough by now that if I want something I just talk about it ad nauseum. Then you finally get sick of hearing me talk and you tell me to just go and buy it.
Rob: So what is you want?
Me: I'm not sure yet, I'll let you know.

Ummmm, honey, I know what I want now.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

It's All Fun And Games, Until Someone Loses An Eye

If you don't hear from me again for a long long time, it is because I am sitting in prison. I will have murdered my neighbors who think that 10:30pm on a Sunday night a week before the Fourth of July, is the perfect time to set off noisy fireworks.

And having done that, there would have been nothing left to hold me back from going after a father I met today at a picnic for the Little League coaches and their families. He kept telling my 2 yr old, "Watch Out! Don't poke [insert someone's name] in the eye." She had no intentions of poking anyone in the eye. But he said it at least twenty more times. Clearly this man has issues.

I can't rehash the entire event and how completely aggravating this man was, unless I want my blood pressure to rise again, but somehow his needy children attached themselves to me and I couldn't get rid of them. And they were annoying, in a way that other people's children often are.

I have enough of my own children to look after, frankly, without taking care of kids that I have never even laid eyes on before, and likely never will again.

They wanted me to get them drinks, get them snacks, play with them, pat my baby on the head, talk to them

"Can I tell you a joke?"
"No, I don't like jokes."
"You'll like this one."
"Trust me, I won't."

My ears were beginning to bleed. I finally asked the little girl where her mother was, and for a brief moment I thought oh god, if she tells me her mother is dead I am going to feel so bad, because all doubt of my eternal soul going to Hell would have been erased. But she wasn't dead,
"She's in New Hampshire, on vacation."
"I can see why."

My kids had a great time. They ran around and played baseball, kicked up huge clouds of dust on the field, and in the case of two of them, rolled around in the dirt on the pitching mound. All the dust and dirt stuck to their skin, coating them with a dark tan. I was pretty close to hosing them off in the front yard rather than allowing them into my white tiled bathroom.

The culminating point of the event was when my two year old picked up a stick and threw it at the annoying man's annoying daughter. Guess where it hit her?

Thursday, June 23, 2005

How To Deal With A Clogged Milk Duct

1) Discover breast is very sore, even after nursing baby. Determine that a milk duct is clogged.

2) Force infant son to nurse some more in an attempt to unclog duct

3) Massage sore breast.

4) Put hot compresses on sore breast.

5) Put hot compresses on sore breast, while massaging.

6) Use google to find out what else can be done for stubborn clogged milk duct.

7) Force infant son to nurse while standing on head in modified yoga position while doing the football hold.

8) Swear often.

9) Try hottest compresses that you can stand. Suffer first degree burns on nipple and surrounding breast area.

10) Massage breast some more.

11) Squeeze breast and nipple as hard as you can.

12) Give a moment of thanks that no neighbors can see into your windows due to the summer foliage and therefore are not witness to your walking through the house feeling yourself up all afternoon.

13) Greet husband at the door demanding he squeeze your nipple, hard.

14) Tell husband to stop smiling, this isn't about sex.

15) Assure him that no, it also isn't like the "pull my finger trick" either.

16) Find a white spot on nipple and determine this is the cause of all milk duct troubles.

17) Get a needle and repeatedly stab nipple in hopes of unclogging milk duct.

18) Engage in even more colorful swearing.

19) Marvel at the amount of things you bump sore breast into.

20) Force infant son to nurse more, this time with him in modified yoga headstand.

21) Invent new swear words.

22) Have husband tell you to stop playing with your breast, words you never thought you would hear in this life

23) Sit on couch clutching cold beer to breast.

24) Tell husband he has no idea how much it hurts.

25) Have husband respond that he is sure it hurts and how could he have any idea the magnitude of the pain since he is just an inferior male.

26) Tell husband not to forget that.

27) Have husband assure you that he knows you never will let him forget.

28) Clutch sore, burned, bruised, stabbed breast in hand.

29) Decide to just go to bed and hope poor breast is better in the morning.

30) Chug beer as sleep aid.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Happy Blogoversary* To Me

The post that started it all: June 22, 2004.

It has been a year now that I have had this blog. Incredible really.

It struck me that people who know me in real life would probably surprised at some of the things that I highlighted about my life and some of the things I have left out. Everything that I have written in true, but it could never be the whole truth.

It has been a fun year. To recap the highlights... I was pregnant, drove with all my children to Disney World, did lots of grocery shopping, did lots of laundry, survived the plague that I thought was signaling the end of the world, gave birth, had some post partum depression, bitched and moaned about all the people in the world that I came in to contact with, and painted, a lot.

I was going to write something about all the people whose blogs I regularly visit and have had the privilege of getting to know this past year, but by god that is a daunting task and I really should clean up this house because my husband is returning home from L.A. early in the morning and I don't want him to have a coronary as soon as he walks in the door. As it is I am eating a bowl of faux ice cream** out of a Winnie the Pooh plastic bowl, because all the rest of them are in the dishwasher washing right now.

He loved California the first day he was there. He said the weather is incredible. But I guess everyone else thinks that too, because there are too many people. I'd hate it. Unless we somehow became millionaires and could buy a normal sized house with a yard. The people he met there had an almost perverse pleasure in telling him how much their tiny houses cost. Who in their right mine spends $600,000 on a two bedroom, one bathroom house with no yard? Must be something in that California air that makes people crazy too. Unlike us sane New Englanders who live in huge drafty old houses and take a perverse pleasure in telling people how much we spent to heating them last year, that would be almost $5,000.

You know that you have a good marriage when after almost 11 years of marriage you miss your spouse when they are away and can't wait for them to return.

Hurry home, honey, the remote control is missing. And yes, I have looked for it, sort of.

Also, there is something is stuck in the disposal and I have an unnatural fear of sticking my hand down the drain, even when the disposal is turned off. I fear that it will turn itself on like a scene from a Stephen King novel.

And I have had my fill of those home improvement shows that you detest.

But back to my blogoversary.

All of you people over there on my sidebar are the ones who have made this fun. You have made me laugh, made me think, and at times made me cry. I'll probably never meet most of you, but if you were ever in the neighborhood I'd have you over for coffee or a beer. Or both! Coffee flavored beer!

And here today at the big yellow house, proving the more that things change the more they stay the same, we are setting up the pool. And no, I don't think it is filled yet.

* I don't know if this is an actual word.
** IBS and lactose intolerance are the pits

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Six Months, More Or Less

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It is unbelievable that half of a year has already passed since you were born. I find myself watching you everyday as you learn and discover new things and I want to commit them to memory. I know that by next month I will have forgotten what you are like right now.

The way you like to inhale and sigh really loudly so that you never fail to scare me into thinking that you are choking. Or the way you jump so enthusiastically in your jolly jumper, that you end up bouncing off of the trim in the doorway and spinning around. The way you hate to fall asleep and will scream for an hour every night while I try to settle you down. Nothing works, nothing makes you happy, but yet every night I feel compelled to try the same things. You just don't want to allow yourself to fall asleep. Yes, even the screaming I don't want to forget.

I hope I remember the way that your eyes light up when your siblings come to play with you, and your deep belly laugh when they tickle you. I don't want to forget the way your brothers run to you at the first sound of displeasure from your mouth, and how that always makes you smile. I can only hope they always treat you with as much love and compassion when you are two years old and destroying their things. Of course they usually will pick you up and then come and find me no matter what I am doing. And they always seem a bit surprised that I don't want to hold you while I am using the bathroom.

You have a special place in our family as the youngest. I feel happy that I don't have to store all the memories of your babyhood and childhood myself. Your older siblings will be able to tell you stories of what you were like when you were a baby. You will probably be thirty years old and I will still refer to you as my baby. I promise not to do it in public, or at least to try not to.

You still don't sleep through the night, not by any stretch of the imagination. But that's okay. I have full confidence that you will one day. Even though there are times in the middle of the night when I think, 'For crying out loud, just go to sleep already.' Mostly I savor the moment and rub your small head.

I never want to forget the way you you crawl around on your stomach . I love the way that you pull your legs up underneath you so that you are in a squatting position, like a frog. Then you try to hop, though you often just end up in the exact same position you were in.

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I know that it won't be much longer that I get to see that toothless grin of yours. Soon enough there will be some little white buds poking up out of your gums and it will hurt when you bite my shoulder.

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I have just started giving you cereal and baby food. So far you haven't been impressed. Though you did like the taste of birthday cake frosting Rob gave you this weekend, so perhaps you are just picky. Oh goody! I am not sure how much food is actually making it into your stomach. I put a spoonful of cereal into yourmouth, you push it back out with your tongue, and then I try to scrape it off your face with the spoon before you smear it everywhere with your hands or feet. Yes, feet. You think they taste yummy covered in cereal.

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Last week you had your first experience with a baby teething biscuit. You loved it, except you would drop it and scream so hard that you wouldn't notice us trying to hand it back to you. So we would have to stick it into your mouth like a plug.

The next day, you had a rash all over you face. I'm not positive it was from the biscuit. It could have been from you dragging your face across the carpet that hadn't been vacuumed in days since the vacuum was broken. It could have been from getting pelted in the face with sand at the windy beach while you slept.

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Things you like:

eating paper that you find on the floor, this includes ripping pages out of books and magazines
jumping in the jolly jumper
crawling on the floor
your pacifier

Things I like:

that you can entertain yourself for short periods of time
the way your eyes light up when you see me

Things you dislike:

laying down
the airplane noise when I try to "fly" the spoon of baby cereal to your mouth
being strapped in your carseat
the back of my head

Things I dislike:
that you are growing up
that I will never remember it all

Because All The Cool Kids Are Doing It

I now have a Flickr account too.
You can click over there on the sidebar to see them.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

In Which I Realize Life Is Like Junior High

To my lovely next door neighbor,

Today you told my husband he was mean. You demanded that he apologize to your son, not for a particular incident, but rather overall mean behavior.

You are right, he is so very mean.

It was mean of him to volunteer to coach a team that no one else would. A team that would not even exist if he had not stepped forward.

It was mean of him to leave work early three days per week and sacrifice his Saturdays in order to coach.

It was mean of him to ask the boys to at least call and let him know if they aren't going to come to the game, because there is quite a bit of thought and planning that goes into the batting order and field positions. Last week only seven boys showed up for the Friday evening game. That makes nine boys who didn't come or call. We had to borrow two boys from the other team. I would have called all nine of those boys when I got home and asked for an explanation, but he didn't do that because he is mean, unlike me.

Or, perhaps you were referring to his interactions with the boys on the team. It was mean of him to forbid the boys from leaving the dug out and going to buy food at the snackbar during a game. God knows going without junkfood for a couple of hours might kill them.

Likewise, it was mean of him not to let the boys play whatever position they want to play whenever they want to play it, including his own sons. Perhaps next time he'll let 6 boys play first base simultaneously, really the team couldn't do much worse.

Perhaps he was mistaken about what this coaching job would entail. Because my husband has no desire to have a 12 year old best friend. If you want someone to to baby your twelve year old, I suggest coming and doing it yourself. And frankly at 12 years old, being told to "walk it off" if you are hit in the leg with a ball is appropriate. In the words of my infamous 10 year old, "It's a baseball, not a bullet. You'll live." Nothing warms my heart like my 10 year old cynic.

It was very nice of your husband to play coach for the day last week when my husband was away. I told my husband he needs to be as nice to the boys the next game. He should let our two boys play every inning and play whatever position their little hearts desire, the way your husband did with your son. Because apparently you can be unfair and still not be mean.

My husband told you that he would be happy to apologize to your son if he had truly hurt his feelings, because he would never want to hurt a twelve year old. I told my husband that he could do that over my dead body. We don't always get everything that we want in life. That is just how life is. At twelve years old your son should be able to face that fact. And, as his mother so should you without calling to complain that my husband is mean for not granting your son's every desire.

You might have heard me outside in my yard when I was grilling last night. My 4 year old kept stealing slices of cheese that I had laid out to go on top of the hamburgers. I finally yelled, "Stop it! I am mean. You have two mean parents. MEAN MEAN MEAN. You better get used to it!" And then I cackled.

I thought about it later and realized that was probably mean of me. So when I drove by your house and saw that you were out in the front yard working on your flower gardens, I waved, but you didn't wave back. You were looking right at me, but perhaps you didn't recognize me. I know that there are so very many people who drive green 15 passenger vans, and pull out of my driveway. That's why I honked the horn, repeatedly.

I know you didn't ignore me on purpose. That would be mean.

Your next door neighbor,

PS- My mean husband had no part in this letter and would probably be horrified to know of it's existence.

Friday, June 17, 2005

So I Married A Lunatic

Sometimes I think the phone changes words, adding to voices inflections that don't exist and putting meaning behind words that was never intended.

He says: The weather is great here. It's so nice and peaceful.

I hear: I don't have to listen to your whining and complaining, and I don't have to listen to those loud children or crying baby either.

He says:The hotel is nice. It is right on the beach. When you are on the balcony, you can see miles and miles of beach line.

I hear: I am standing outside on the balcony, with my binoculars, oogling women jogging down the beach... topless.

He says: I went out to this fabulous restaurant with some co workers. The food was incredible.

I hear: I am so glad I don't have to eat your cooking. No matter how many ways you prepare chicken, woman, it is still chicken. I get to eat with interesting fun people who have interesting fun things to talk about, not silly baby stories or stories about online friends I have never met. And they are not wearing what is essentially pajamas, pretending it is real clothing. Nor do they have spit up all over their shoulder.

He says: Then we are going to go out for a few drinks.

I hear: Then I am going to get drunk so I can dull the pain of my life with you and talk to attractive women who have probably brushed their hair in the past 24 hours. And these beautiful scantily clad women will think everything I say is so intensely interesting.

He says: Is something wrong? Are you having a bad day?

I hear: Good Lord, you ungrateful woman, what is your problem now?

He says: Blah blah blah

I hear: You suck. You suck. You suck.

Thank God he doesn't travel much anymore. I hate phone conversations.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Perception Of Perfection

Today I pulled out the art supplies for my children and asked them if they wanted to design a poster for a contest. As I watched them work, I was struck by their differing personalities. My happy go lucky child dives right in. He sloshes paint and water around. He is happy with the process. He produces many paintings and declares each of them so damn good he doesn't know which one to send in to the contest.

Then I have a child who is paralyzed by the very idea of producing something. He has gone through twenty sheets of paper in as many minutes. Every line he produces on his paper is not good enough. He is critical of all of his ideas. When he does have a good idea he doesn't follow through because he becomes paralyzed by the small details. Nothing is ever good enough.

It is frustrating to watch him. I want to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake. "Get over it. No one is perfect."I want to say.

He reminds me of myself.

How often in my life I sit where he is now. How often I do nothing, not out of laziness, but out of fear. I mean, what is the point of doing something if you can't do it perfectly. Perfection, however, is paralyzing.

I have an opportunity to do something that I really want to do, and I am blowing it. And I know I am blowing it, and yet I feel paralyzed.

Why? Because it is easier to give the excuse that I am busy with my kids, my house, my life than to put forth the effort and be rejected. It's easier to tell myself that I needed to scrub out my kitchen sink with the green scrubbie pad and bleach and then take an old toothbrush around the edges where the edge of the sink meets the counter. Or that I needed to go through my clothes drawers and take out all the things I no longer want and put them in a pile for Goodwill. It's easier to type this up for my blog. Or a myriad of other excuses with which I attempt to console myself, as I let this opportunity slip through my fingers.

I haven't even told my husband about it, because I don't want to disappoint him with my failure to follow through. Because after 11 years of marriage I still feel like he is sticking around until someone better comes along, someone more perfect. Yes, I'm crazy. Don't you wish you were married to me?

Last night at the boys' baseball game I was talking to one of the mothers when she came to pick up her son. She wanted to thank me for sharing my husband with the team, which was very sweet of her. Then she said, "But you have it all under control. You are so perfect and composed all the time. I don't think I have ever seen you flustered or lose your patience. You are so together... I bet everyone says that to you."

I had to look over my shoulder to see if there was someone standing behind me that she was talking to. I answered, "Only people who don't know me very well say that." I am nothing if not self deprecating. Look at me, I can't even accept a compliment gracefully. She laughed and said she knew that wasn't true.

But it is true.

My son just held up a painting, "Now this one is the bestest one yet." I resist the urge to ask about the big scribbled out area on the upper right quarter of the paper. He doesn't even see that huge glaring mistake on his paper, that imperfection. The rest of the painting, which is quite nice, cancels that out for him. Perhaps that is perfection after all.

How I long to be like my 6 yr old. To slosh about in the paints, have fun with it, and be happy with the results, imperfections and all. To get messy with life.

I'll tackle that opportunity I have been putting off as soon as I finish typing this and cleaning up the kitchen. Oh and the vacuum isn't working and I really need to vacuum, so after I fix that. Oh and the laundry needs to be put away. So I'll have to tackle it later. Tomorrow at the latest. Really.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Am I On Candid Camera?

Because sometimes I feel as though that is the only explanation for the people that I encounter in my life on a daily basis. It's like I have a homing device implanted in me which sends out signals, calling for all the freaks in a fifty mile radius to come to me.

Arriving at the beach yesterday, the man who works at the ticket booth, taking the money and giving out a beach pass for the day, had bright pink nail polish on his fingernails. Maybe he wanted his hands to look pretty for all the people he'd be taking money from all day, I don't know. They weren't well done.. The polish was clumpy and all over his skin. You would think if you were going to call attention to your hands like that you would at least do it well. But then I noticed he had baby barrettes all over his hair, which was short, so that his hair stood up in tiny little clumps all over his head. What is up with that look? What is the message he is trying to send to the public? I am gay and child-like?

I drove off laughing to myself when my 10 yr old said, "Do you think someone dared him to look like that today?"

That must be it. Clearly there is no other rational explanation.


We schlepped all our stuff from the van to the beach, which seemed like 5 miles walking through the sand, and the kids run off to play at the waters edge. I sat down on my seat and noticed the two young women near us taking pictures of each other in their bikinis. And at first I was happy for them and their positive self esteem, and for daring to wear bikini bathing suits despite the fact that their bodies were not made for such displays. But then my happiness turned to horror as they rolled around on the sand, arching their backs into very playboyesque poses. Did they not notice all the other people on the beach? They splashed water all over themselves and posed with these pouting lips in the water.

But, they were so bad at it all that I began laughing. It was like watching a train wreck. I just couldn't avert my eyes.


Sadly, I have no pictures of the bathing beauties.

But I did get a photo of the next bikini wearing freak.

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Can't see her?

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This woman laid out on her lounge chair, pulled out a razor and began shaving her bikini line and upper thighs. What the hell? First of all, Ouch! Dry shaving your bikini line. But secondly, isn't that something better suited to the privacy of your own bathroom? And isn't pulling out a razor and shaving on the beach just calling more attention to your hairiness than if you left it alone?


To file under why I hate people:

As we were leaving the beach, we had to walk a long for a long stretch across the sand. The sand had become very hot from the sun and we were all walking barefoot. It didn't bother the older kids at all. My feet were burning at about the half way point. I started running and picked up my two year old who had begun to cry. I am running across the hot sand holding my two youngest, when my 4 yr old started to scream that his feet are burning. I yelled to him to put his stuff down and stand on it or else run as fast as he could across the sand to the grass. Luckily my 10 year old has feet impervious to pain, because he ran and picked up his brother and carried him to safety. Of course for the rest of the day we had to hear, from him, about what a hero he was.

The people who were sitting on a blanket near him started laughing and making fun of my four year old burning his feet on the hot sand. Grown up people laughing at a child. I was so angry I could have strangled all four of them with my bare hands, except that would have meant that I'd have to walk back across the hot sand. Luckily for them my desire to preserve my feet was greater than my anger towards them.


Right now Rob is on a plane to Puerto Rico. He'll be home for a day and a half and then be off to Los Angeles. I'm wondering when my business trip is. Isn't there a mother's convention that I need to attend somewhere?

My father in law's open heart surgery was rescheduled for tomorrow or Friday morning, the doctor isn't sure yet. Rob had wanted to be at the hospital to see his Dad before he went into surgery and to sit with his mother while his dad was in surgery. Everyone told him not to cancel his trip. I just hope that was a wise decision.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Raise Your Flags

Today is my third son's birthday. Son number three.

The heir, the spare, and the nobody cares.

I can never think of my three oldest sons without the image of the three sets of feet tapping along to the tune of the tv show My Three Sons.

Today he is eight years old.

I remember how I was convinced he was going to be a girl. There was no doubt in my mind at all. When they said "It's a boy!" I thought they were joking. All the nurses were mildly disturbed that I kept saying, "You're joking, right?"

I gave him my last name as his middle name. I had always thought I would pass it on to a daughter. After being in labor with my son I announced I was never doing that again and gave him the name.

I remember Rob bringing his two older brothers to the hospital to meet him. They were 29 months old and 15 months old.

I remember having three different sized diapers in my house. Those were the hardest days of my life.

I remember potty training my eldest son later on in the summer. Son number two potty trained himself shortly thereafter.

I remember what a sweet personality my third son had and how he never cried. In an effort to make up for lost time, he now whines more than I ever thought was humanly possible.

I remember thinking I had it all figured out. It would take two more sons after him to show me that what I had figured out was humility and a taste for my own words.

I remember my mother in law telling me I should tape his ears down to "train" them not to stick out. I said that at least if he wore glasses we knew they would be able to stay up. Thankfully his head grew into his ears. Now I'm hoping his head grows into his teeth.

I remember that the year he was born his birthday fell on the Saturday before Father's Day. I had hoped he was going to be born on Father's Day since the first two were born on "holidays" and Rob and I both have "holiday" birthdays.

I remember being disappointed until my father in law told me on the phone the next day that it was Flag day. Every year my father in law will tell me it is Flag Day, as if I somehow forget from year to year. This year on Flag day I won't be talking to him. He will be getting his chest cracked open and his heart removed from his body in an effort to unclog his two completely blocked arteries. I look forward to him reminding me again next year.

I remember my son's unbridled love for his pacifier, which lasted for four years.

I remember how when he was potty training he would cheer for himself when he went in the toilet.

I remember how he dropped his pacifier from his mouth into the toilet and screamed as it was flushed away. It happened often. And it never stopped being funny for the rest of us.

He is the quintessential happy go lucky child. He skips around the house and has a penchant for show tunes. Rob thinks he might be gay.

He loves to make up jokes or ask absurd questions in an effort to be funny. (For example: Is it called Minnesota because they sell mini-sodas there?) His laugh is so infectious that we all laugh in spite of ourselves. Or as my 10 year old will say, "I'm not laughing because it is funny. I'm laughing because it is so dumb I can't believe anyone would say that!" But he doesn't care why we laugh, just as long as we do.

The thing that strikes me the most about having a large family is that all our stories are intertwined. It is impossible to talk about one person without delving into a memory of someone else. I sometimes wonder if this is why I have very few memories of my childhood. As an only child there is no one to remember with. No one to say, 'remember when?' No one to help put snippets of memories into a broader context.

My third son was admiring his globe collection the other day and suddenly sighed. He told me he felt like Alexander the Great. And why was that? "Remember when he wept because there was nothing left to conquer? Well, I weep because I look at the globe at all the places I want to go and visit, and there are people already there. There is nowhere left to explore. People are everywhere. I hate that."

I know my son, I know. It's true that sometimes the apple doesn't even fall from the tree at all.

To my third son I say, Happy Birthday. And remember should son number one and his runner up fail to fulfill their duties, the kingdom is all yours. Try not to look so thrilled.

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Sunday, June 12, 2005

Taking A Vote

Today I was upstairs in our attic going through some packing boxes that we haven't unpacked yet. Yes, I know I have lived in this house for over two years, what is your point?

I was looking for a vintage 1950 era fan that we have and I thought would be perfect on our sunporch, as well as looking through some old fabric I have to see if I could find any to make some throw pillows for our wicker chairs. I just sewed new seat cushions for the chairs out of a blue and white ticking

I came across an old skirt. I remember buying it 13 years ago (God, I am old) at the Goodwill store because I liked the fabric and thought I could turn it into something else, like throw pillows. But today I was looking at it and I thought, hey why not just wear it, as the skirt it was intended to be. It is a wrap around skirt, just below knee length. It reminds me of some fabric I have from France, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't wear that one as a skirt.

I put it on today to test it out, but I'm not sure. I am no fashion maven. As a general rule I try not to wear things that can also double as home accessories and upholstery. I'm pretty positive that horizontal stripes are not a good thing on anyone.

So now I have a poll. Look at the picture of the skirt and then select one of the following:

1) Nice skirt, you should wear it out in public proudly.

2) It's okay, but better just wear it at home.

3) It would be better as throw pillows.

4) I wouldn't be caught dead in that.

5) My grandmother has curtains that look just like it!

6) Oh my God, it is hideous don't wear it, don't turn it into throw pillows, in fact, just burn the fabric right now.

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Saturday, June 11, 2005

Alas, There Was No Snowman With His Hat Blown Off

Yesterday I spent a good portion of the day bemoaning the fact that I could not connect to the internet wirelessly, unless I sat right next to the router. Which defeats the whole purpose of having a router. A fact that the first customer service representative in India could not grasp.

"But, what is your problem? You can connect wirelessly, no?"

"Why, yes I can. IF I AM TOUCHING IT. And that, for me, is a problem."

Things slowly and steadily went downhill from there.

They had me download things. They had me turn my computer on and off. Disconnect from the router. Reconnect the router. Do the same thing over and over again. Which I think is part of the plan, to wear you down and aggravate you so that you'll just go buy another one.

The second woman told me it had probably stopped working because it had interference from my microwave. Which is an interesting theory, considering that my router is on the third floor of my house far away from my kitchen... and oh yeah, I DON'T OWN A MICROWAVE.

For my third customer representative I had a man who laughed. Every suggestion he had for me to try he would laugh while he said it. I didn't think that was a good sign.

The next man had me unplug my router from the outlet, plug it back in, push the reset button down for 20 seconds, and then repeat the process three times. Being the dutiful customer that I am, I did it, though it seemed rather absurd. It didn't work.

His next suggestion, "Do it again, but this time push the reset button for 30 seconds each time."

"Do you think that is really going to work?"

"No, I don't think so. But what are you going to do?"

"I could try banging my head on my keyboard. If it doesn't work at least I might become unconscious and not have to deal with this anymore."

"Well, you can try."

Who says customer service representatives don't have a sense of humor.

When I called back for the final time I got the brutally honest customer service representative.
He asked me two questions, "Are the lights on or off on your router?"

I told him that they were blinking.

"And when did you buy this router?"

I answered truthfully, two years ago.

"Ah well your router is no good. You need a new one. It is not under warranty any longer. So go buy a new one. Don't call anymore, I can't help you."

I think he may have said, "Sucks to be you!" but I was laughing too hard.

Rob went out this morning and bought me a new and better router. I think my withdrawal symptoms were frightening him. Either that or he realized he was going to have to talk way too much to me every night and that I would complain bitterly at his tv viewing habits. Which in a nutshell can be explained as turning the channel every time a commercial comes on and never quite making it back to the same show.

I am now back to relaxing on the couch with my laptop. My connection is fast. And there is no interference from my non existent microwave.

Friday, June 10, 2005


(This started off as a comment to my entry below on Little League. But it became so long and off the main topic that I decided to post it as an entry in it's own right. It is long and rambling, but I don't have the time to edit it as my wireless connection is still down (imagine me shaking my fist at the sky here and wailing)and I have landscapers outside digging up my yard with heavy equipment and small children who seem hell bent on getting run over by earth movers. Such is my life.)

What will my children remember?

I doubt they will remember the number of baseball games they have played. Time will ease their memories of how many games were lost. But they will remember that their father was there to coach when no one else was. They will remember that we made their desire to play a sport a priority for eight short weeks. They will remember what making a commitment means, inconveniences and all.

Next week my husband has to be out of the country on a business trip and will miss one game. He has asked for a parent volunteer to step in. Guess how many people have volunteered?

I'll be there. With five younger children, ages 7 and under.

I'll be there, sweating my butt off and my hair getting gray faster than I can color it from the stress of having to keep the two and four year olds out of trouble.

I'll silently curse the people who thought putting gravel everywhere around the fence ,where the bleachers are, was a good idea. My children will each weigh approximately 20 pounds more from all the gravel they have stuffed in their pockets to bring home. They'll tell me we don't have good rocks at home. And they are right, we don't. I like it that way. But I won't tell them that.

I'll be there. Not because I love baseball, but because it is important to them. I'll scream their names as they come up for bat. And when my tiny little 9 yr old pitches I'll scream, "You go, little man!" Later on he'll tell me he heard me cheering for him and he thought it was cool. I know that we are quickly approaching the time when I won't be able to do anything cool in his eyes. But, thankfully, we aren't there yet. He doesn't yet realize how very uncool I am. So I will cherish it, take it as a bittersweet compliment, probably giving it more weight than he intends.

I'll be there and I'll cheer for the other kids too. The ones whose parents aren't there, for whatever reason. When they come off the field after the game I'll give my children high fives and tell them how awesome they are. Whether they won or not. I'll commiserate and congratulate.

And we will talk about the game on the way home in the van. And we will laugh together. At some point I'll probably say, because I seem to have said it every other time, "So your team sucks, so what? *You* tried your very best and that is all that *you* can do." I'll make a mental note to remember that advice and be kinder to myself.

We'll probably stop to get drippy ice cream cones on the way home. The babies will fall asleep in the van and I'll have to carry their sweaty sticky bodies into the house. I'll nuzzle my face into their necks and inhale their baby smell. I already know that time passes so quickly and soon this stage will be over for me.

Their little bodies will sprawl across the couch and they will be in that deep sleep only small children are afforded. I'll wipe them down with a cool wet washcloth, trying to get as much of the dirt and icecream drippings off of them that I can.

I'll carry my daughter upstairs and put her to bed. I'll study her face for a minute after I lay her down, and brush the wisps of hair, which have curled up from the heat, off of her face. Even though she is asleep, I'll pause at the bedroom door and say, 'I love you.' I think she can hear me in her dreams.

Their older siblings will be running around the house re-enacting various parts of the game. I'll probably yell too much at them to settle down and go take their showers. I always seem to yell too much. But I'll laugh too. In spite of myself, my children will make me laugh.

And after what seems like an eternity, the children will all be in bed. I will kiss them all, tuck them into bed, and sing "twinkle, twinkle little star" a few times. Like I have every night for the past ten years, and like I will for at least the next ten, or however long they will let me.

I'll go downstairs and pick up the articles of clothing that have been discarded around the house and bring them to the laundry room. I'll straighten up around the house and kick the random shoes into a pile before I flop onto the couch.

Children will come downstairs, in turn, needing water, to use the preferred downstairs bathroom, get a hug, get a toy that has been forgotten, or just tell me something of earth shattering importance that has been forgotten until that moment. After several rounds of this I'll tell them that I am off duty and all further discussions will need to wait until morning. Someone will test this.

As I go to bed that night I'll check in on my children, all finally asleep. I will marvel at how big they are sprawled across their beds. The sight of their scraped knees and bruised shins will make me smile, because it will mean they were having fun playing outside. I'll see their sunkissed cheeks and the freckles across their noses. I can almost see the young man that my eldest son will grow into, his bed filled up with gangly arms and legs. I'll pull the sheets up and cover them back up.

Before I leave their rooms and close their bedroom doors, I'll pause for a moment to hear them softly breathe. Even though they are no longer babies, I still need to do this.

They don't know I do this. They will have no memory of it. They wouldn't understand anyway. Not until they have children of their own will they understand.

And days similar to this one will happen again and again. Another chance to do it better. Another chance to be the mother I long to be. Such is the benefit to be the younger children in a large family.

What will my children remember? I don't know.

I hope time will soften the edges off their memories. I hope that they remember me kindly and forget the times I lost my temper. I hope they will realize I always tried my best, though at times it probably won't be enough, and I will disappoint them. I will hurt their feelings, without ever meaning to. And some of their deepest hurts I probably won't know about until years later. I hope they will remember a childhood of laughter, and less of sadness. I hope they remember me as a better mother than I felt like I was. I hope they remember how important they were to me. I hope they will forgive my failures.

This is how I'll remember it all. I hope that it is good enough.

I'll hope I was good enough

Thursday, June 09, 2005

The Injustice Of It All

Why would my wireless internet connection suddenly decide not to work, forcing up to the third floor of my house, where it is at least 30 degrees hotter than the 90 degrees it is in the rest of the house, and be forced to plug in? Why?

Why would this happen on a day when I have both the small kids napping at the same time and could, ostensibly, surf the net and type up a witty post? One which you will not be able to read anytime in the near future since the sweat that is pouring off of my body right now will no doubt cause the computer to short out. Either that or I will fall to the floor from dehydration and be forced to lick up the puddle of my own sweat to survive.

My husband thinks that God is trying to send a message that perhaps my time would be better spent doing something more productive around the house like clean.

If God is a man, that is probably precisely what it is.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

The Politics Of Little League, or Why I Hate People

It is a good thing that I do not have to coach my children's sports teams. Really, it is. As much as I love my own children, I seem to have a strong dislike for many of those belonging to other people. And an equally strong dislike of their parents, whose fault it really is that I don't like their kids.

I am getting a bit worried, however. You know how in many marriages there is the person that everyone likes and then they look at the spouse and wonder why they are with that person. Well, I am that person. In my marriage, Rob has always been the nice one.

But now, with coaching this team, he is coming into frequent contact with townsfolk. He is being forced to interact with people on a regular basis. He is beginning to crack under the pressure.

What do you say to a parent who can't find their kid's baseball uniform and has him come to play the game in some ridiculous outfit?

Or to the kid whose dog has chewed through his baseball hat for the second time?

Or the kids who don't wear cleats?

Or the parents who have never shown up to a practice or a game, never.

What about the fact that not a single father of the 14 boys on the team has EVER shown up, EVER.

Or what about the parent who will call and say my son isn't coming to the game today because it's such a nice day we are going for a hike/bike/kayaking/just don't feel like coming?

I know what I would say. The crux of my remarks would be personal responsibility and commitment and how, as parents, it is our responsibility to both teach and model them.

The season lasts for 8 weeks. Eight measly weeks, of which there is one left. Surely you can defer your bike ride for a day or a week even. Or have we just become that much of an instant gratification society?

The night before last there was a game. The forecast was calling for rain and possible thunderstorms. The game had not been cancelled, because they usually wait until it actually rains or looks like rain to do that, imagine that. I had a kid on the team call the house, while it was still bright and sunny out, to tell me that he wasn't coming to the game. His mom told him he couldn't go.

Damn, because Rob was going to have the kids all stand out in the middle of the field with their metal bats held over their heads while a thunder and lightening storm raged on. I had to bite my tongue.

I begged Rob last night, please do not make me be the nice one. I just can't handle it.

Monday, June 06, 2005

The Big Yellow Albatross

Taking a break from eating my bon-bons and watching soap operas on tv.

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This past weekend Rob put up new clapboards on this small portion of the house and put the trim around the new picture window. A picture window he installed in the fall and we never got around to finishing before the endless winter came.

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Look, there is Rob cutting a hole in the side of the house for the window, while standing on the rickety ladder and using a power saw. Notice I am standing a far distance away, out of danger in case he falls. I'm a nice wife like that.

Remember the screened in porch we paid a contractor boatloads of money to build for us, and was in danger in collapsing, well Rob fixed it.

I then painted the porch exterior and stained the steps. It looks great now and we are happy with it. This week a landscape contractor is coming to tear up our front yard, move the plants and trees, and put down grass seed, to replace the green weeds we cut short to give the illusion of grass now.

My new motto: Painting, It's Almost Like Having A Hobby, Except For The Enjoying It Part

Saturday, June 04, 2005

A Fly On The Wall

If you are going to tell me to take a shortcut, you really need to tell me the direction in addition to the route number. I am directionally challenged and will not realize I am driving in the wrong direction until I leave the state.

"Well, Christine, it seems as though you have made up your mind and are not going to be happy until I give you an antibiotic prescription."

I am feeling like a junkie, pressuring the doctor for my drugs. "Gimme the prescription. I'm jonesin' for some amoxicillin"


No they're not all my kids. I thought it would be fun to bring other people's kids to my doctor appointment so that we could have the fun of all trying to cram into this teeny tiny room and touch all the fragile equipment.
Really? My blood pressure is slightly elevated? I wonder why.


Could I put some of those dog flea and tick collars on the kids?


I took the kids out to eat after my appointment at a real restaurant... one with a dedicated kids menu, paper placemats to color on, and plastic covered menus, but a real restaurant nonetheless. I heard several people count the number of children out loud while pointing, a practice I find very odd. I am unsure what I am supposed to do when they are doing that. Congratulate them for being able to count to seven?

Rob, attempting to paint while I nursed the baby, "I am just not as good at painting as you are. You are just such a good painter. Oh look, it's splashing everywhere. I am ruining my clothes. You are so good at this, it's unbelievable. I'm getting vertigo on this rickety ladder. You make this look so easy. My tendonitis is acting up in my elbow."

Me, "How about you just say you don't want to do it? I can totally see past your empty flattery."

Rob, getting down from the ladder, "Well, if you're going to be like that."


Later on.

Rob, bemoaning the state of the kitchen while cleaning it up.

Me, "Wow, you are so good at cleaning up the kitchen. I can never do it as well as you. You don't splash the water from the sink all over the floor. It's incredible, really. I have never really cared enough to line the kids water bottles up on the counter in a perfectly straight line, in alphabetical order no less. But when you do it, it seems effortless."

Rob, "Do I sense some sarcasm in your voice?"


"We screened the back porch in to keep the bugs out. When you leave the screen door open it defeats the whole purpose. And, frankly, it aggravates the crap out of me."

"Now, leaning on the screens so that they form a permanent impression of your face, that's not aggravating at all."

Friday, June 03, 2005


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Damn ticks.
Like I have nothing else better to do than go to yet another doctor.

The best part of the experience so far, because I'm sure it will get better, was calling the doctor's office and having the secretary tell me that the doctor won't want to see me. They tell patients to call back and come in when they get sick with flu-like or arthritis symptoms. Are you freaking kidding me?!?

I was speechless for a moment before I told her that, according to the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society, the protocol for erythema migrans (fancy name for bulls-eye rash) with no constitutional symptoms was a 6 week course of antibiotics. If this type of rash is present treatment must begin immediately as that is when treatment is the most effective. There is no definitive blood test for Lyme disease.

She wanted to know where I had read that. I hated saying that I read it on the internet, since that makes it seem as though I read it on some insipid mommy and me message board, and not a medical journal.

So now I get to drag seven kids to the doctor's office with me, should be boatloads of fun. It's times like this I wish I had gone to medical school instead of pursuing a master's in English (yeah that was worthwhile) and law school.

Throw a dart at me, I'm done.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Well, That Changes Everything

Yesterday I was driving in the car to my dentist appointment to have my stitches removed. During this past week, I have become quite adept at cutting my foods into tiny pieces and chewing with only my front teeth. I had thought that only being able to eat soft foods would help me to lose those last few pounds this week, but no. What I found instead is that I eat even more soft foods that "normal" foods because there isn't the chewing factor. I have decided that I am relatively thin because I am just inherently lazy.

The dentist is about an hour and a half drive from my house. They are located in a town I grew up in. It was a nice place to grow up, though I can hardly recognize it anymore. The conspicuous consumption and ostentatious displays of wealth make me ill. And prove that money doesn't buy good taste. And driving in the little car on I-95 surrounded by huge SUVs, frightens me. I feel like I am in a go-cart with my ass dragging on the pavement. I sit, gripping the steering wheel with my white knuckles, telepathically willing all the other vehicles to stay in the respective lanes. And silently cursing all the people clogging up my highway.

So yesterday, I was absent mindedly listening to the radio when from the backseat I heard my two yr old singing along to the radio. It was the old Bob Marley song, Jammin'.

A song that would ordinarily prompt me to jam ice picks into my ear drums rather than suffer through it.

But, as I have already established, my life is not about me anymore.

My daughter was singing "jammin, jammin, jammin, jammin"

And it was cute, but the song was still annoying. Irritating, overplayed, and annoying.

I looked in the rear view mirror and she was dancing in her carseat, still singing, "jammin, jammin, jammin..."

Then Bob Marley sang: We're jammin', we're jammin, I hope you like jammin' too"

My daughter raised her arms over her head, and screamed, "YES. I LIKE PEANUT BUTTER AND JAMMIN"

My hatred for that song lessened just a tiny bit.

If A Five Month Old Had A Blog

This is what he would write.

I have decided to multi task this week.

Eating and sleeping were taking up far too much of my valuable time. From this point forth, I will begin nursing and sleeping simultaneously. This goes for both day and night.

I will learn to type, with my heels. Whenever my mother sits down with her computer I will scream like I haven't nursed in months. There is something about the tap-tap-tap of the keyboard that makes me hungry. My mother calls me Pavlov's dog. She will then attempt to nurse me while she types, thus giving my feet access to the keyboard. I give myself bonus points for hitting the screen with my arm.

I will be happy in the exersaucer for exactly 53 seconds before I begin screaming. Coincidentally that is the exact amount of time it takes my mother to go into the bathroom and sit down. When she returns, I will demand to be held in a standing position outside of the saucer so I can play with my toys while being held.

I will use diaper changing time as the perfect opportunity to practice my rolling over technique. Hopefully timing it to coincide with the precise moment my mother is holding my legs in one hand and attempting to wipe my poopie butt with the other, thus rendering me into the "wheelbarrow" position. I will refuse to roll over onto my back, even going into a handstand position to prevent it.

When ever I am put in my bouncy seat I will use the opportunity to do my stomach crunches. I will not let my head relax back on the seat. If my mother tries to force me back into a reclining position on the seat I will pop up like a jack in the box. And when I get tired of this I will flop my torso over onto my legs and scream. But I will. NOT. recline.

Whenever anyone is looking, I will pretend that I can not crawl. It is much easier to scream and have them fetch me toys. Once they are not looking I will crawl over to whatever small, dangerous, exciting thing I can before they notice. When they notice and pick me up, I will scream and grab fists full of hair from the sides of their heads, until they scream. Because that makes me laugh.

I am done with the baby gym. There is only so much working out I can do underneath it. It has lost it's excitement for me. Anytime I am placed remotely near it, I will begin screaming. I prefer to workout now on my stomach doing push ups. I will lift my entire torso off the floor and then lower myself back down. Occasionally, at the end of my workout, my arms will give way from fatigue and my face will crash to the floor.

Speaking of toys, I do not like to be placed on the floor with toys around me. I want my mother or my siblings, to hold they toys above my head, shake they toys, and sing silly songs. Under no circumstances should they avert their eyes while doing this.

I have instructed my 2 year old sister to wake me anytime she sees me sleeping, by any means possible. Options include yanking out my pacifier, laying on top of me, squeezing my face, and as a last resort head butting. If she is unable to physically reach me she is to scream "Sleeping, Baby sleeping!" as loud as humanly possible until I come to my senses and open my eyes.

And, finally, I will smile and giggle at every opportunity. That is the way I keep them all under my spell and doing everything I want.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Quote of the Day

Four year old son, who fell asleep during the first ten minutes of the Star Wars movie, but insists he did. NOT. sleep.

You know what is really weird about the new Star Wars movie? It
didn't show you how Anakin turned into Darth Vadar.

And because we dare not mention his "not sleeping" during the movie, we simply said:

Yes dear, that is weird.