Birth day

Today is a national holiday:  my daughter's birthday.  She is SIX!  It feels like just yesterday they were telling me they could see her hair as she was crowning, that they were putting her on my chest, still covered in that white goo and looking at me with huge dark eyes like some kind of confused alien.  She is my biggest challenge (or at least ties with her little brother...) and my greatest reward.  I want to keep pinching myself, trying to get straight that I get to be her mother, that I get to watch the DD show every day.  Even on days when I am dying to change channels, it stills ends up having been worth watching.

I still feel a strong belief in the existence of God, or at least a higher power, a unifying force or cohesive fabric.  One of the things that keeps me there is her.  I can't bring myself to even think that I am responsible for making her, or creating her in any way.  I am good with my hands, but only a mighty force like God could have made something this beautiful.

Happy birthday, Sweet Pea!  Momma loves you.

My name is not Solomon

I remember when Thursday night = start of the weekend, at least unofficially.  Not anymore.  I was out after dark, sure, and I had a guy in my car.  I was taking him back to my place, planning on getting his clothes off and getting him into bed.

Reality check:  he's my two-year-old son.  Who's crying.  And his sister is also crying.  They are waging WWIII over a very small but very soft and pretty white lap blanket.  Each one has brought their A game.  She's sobbing passionately and making dramatic pronouncements about never getting what she wants.  He is very righteously playing the "I had it first card" and politely wondering what sister's problem is.  Technically, he did have it first, but when she requested it and I offered a trade for a larger blanket, he pitched his own back-arching sobbing fit.  I wasn't going to give in just because of that, but she ended up throwing it back at him just to shut him up.  (And she wonders why he always does that.  It's because it works!)  I ended up giving the blanket to him, because he did have it first, and that was the closest thing I had to a legal precedent.

Sigh.  I'm almost afraid to see what TGIF will bring.  Stomach flu and fist fights?  Stay tooned...

Word of the Month

I have a new favorite word that I will proceed to mercilessly drive into the ground.

[See alt. entries "Suck It!" and "*SIGH* What??" in your Phoenix-to-English dictionary].

On the [Media Giant Not to Be Named] Mouse television show, they occasionally call for a set of predetermined "tools" that they'll need to complete the show's "mission."  Who knew that it would be so handy to have a giant hairdryer, a purple key, and a bunch of bananas constantly at the ready?  Each of these fabulous items is called a "mouseketool."  Some of you know where I'm going with this...

It just sounds like the best thing ever to say when irritated but not actually mad:  "Don't be a mouseketool!"  "He's such a mouseketool these days."  Much better than "asshat" or "moron."  Even saying it I'm already smiling and kind of not mad anymore.  Ah, the power of cartoons.

So remember, kids, our thought of the day is:  "Don't be a mouseketool!"

Putting the X in Xmas

We put up our Christmas decorations every year on the Friday after Thanksgiving.  We don't go shopping, or even leave the house if we can help it.  It's just how we roll.

Anyhoo, we were busily decorating the tree.  It always ends up with one person delegated to put a hook on each ornament, and everyone else to hang the ornaments.  First DH was putting the hooks on, then DD, then me.

DD says, matter-of-factly:  "Mom is the head hooker."

"What?"

"You know, hooker.  She's hooking the fastest of all of us.  I'd say she's the best hooker here.  I think she should be the one to hook from now on."

Thanks for the vote of confidence, honey.  I love the innocence of five-year-olds.  And I want to know what my "top hooker of the year" award is going to look like.  Maybe something in a stretch lace?

Someone's sharing too much...

Faintly, through the baby monitor:  "Daddy... Daddy... Daddy..."

DH goes up to deal with it, comes down chuckling.

"Did you hear what he wanted, over the monitor?"
"No."
"He was whispering.  I had to keep asking him to repeat it until I got it."
"What did he want?"
"He was whispering: "I'm putting my finger in my nose!"

Oookaaaay.  Thanks for the update, little man.  I think I'm going to post that as my next Facebook status.

Idioms

I think idioms are the most interesting part of any language.  They really give you the flavor of a culture.

What's even more fun is living with little people who are learning them, who don't quite get it the first time.  DD's friend has been sick the past couple of days, including quite a bit of vomiting, DH reports during dinner.  DD then leans over to me and whispers in a knowing voice "yeah, she ate a lot of cookies last night."  DH starts to crack up.

I bet you can finish this one...  Yes, the friend's father actually said "she tossed her cookies."  I can just imagine DD's mental picture of that one.  Her friend, perhaps hiding cozily in an upstairs closet, busily tossing cookies into her mouth.  Mmm.  Tossing cookies never sounded so good!

Commute

To the driver in front of me:

I'm guessing you feel proud of that swollen SUV you're driving, as you serenely proceed down the freeway at five miles under the speed limit, in the passing lane.  You probably feel quite studly as you talk on your cell phone, elbow propped casually on the armrest, wearing your crisp blue and white striped shirt with white collar and unfastened French cuffs.

The truth?  You look like a douche.  Pull over.

This has been a public service message from The Grumpy Commuter.

Personal Space

Deep breaths.  Calm, zen, serene.  Today is the first day of the rest of my---

MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY

[singsong voice] Yes, my love?

Can you open this?  Can you open this?  Can you open this?  [all without taking a breath or pausing]

Okay.  There you go.

Deep breaths.  I am a tree, swayin--

Mooooooom?

[normal voice, still calm] Yes?

Can I have some candy?

You just had breakfast less than 5 minutes ago.  No.

WHYYYYYY?  WHYYYYY?

You know why.  You just ate.  Ask me again after lunch.

Calm, zen, I am filled with love....

MOMMY?
I'm in here!
Mommy?
I'm in daddy's office!
Mommy???
I'M IN DADDY'S OFFICE!!!
MOMMY??
DADDY'S OFFICE!!!!
[appears in doorway] Mom!

[through clenched teeth]  What?

Um, um, do you know blue fan is?

[momentarily confused, then remembering said fan is broken] I dunno.
Can I work on computer?
Yes, you can use the one in the playroom.
Playroom?
Yes.
You use computer?
Yes.
Oh.  [leaves]

I think it's time to consult Dr. Pepper.  The Budweiser Institute is closed until 8 pm tonight.

Mom in the Mirror

Caught myself doing a signature Mom (my mom, not yours, unless your mom is my mom, in which case, hey guys thanks for visiting my blog!) move today:  the full-face rub.  Put one palm on each cheek, and smoosh around in circles.  Repeat.

I remember watching her do this and think "wha?  why would anyone ever do that??"  But I get it now.  It feels darn good.  And if your choice is the full-face rub to loosen up a tension-induced sour rictus of irritation or letting loose a shotgun spray of sarcasm, well, the full-face rub at least makes your face feel nice and tingly.

Rejected Members of the Spice Girls...

• Pumpkin Spice (she was too seasonal)
• Old Spice (think that one's obvious)
• Pickling Spice (too smelly)
  

If Barely Controlled Anger Were Wishes, Berkleys Would Ride

Or is it, if anger were horses, wishers would beg?  Or if horses rode Berkleys, someone would die?  Okay, so trying to alter that old saying doesn't really make sense, on reflection.  Also, if you don't know Berkley is my maiden name, also not very clear.  Did I mention the anger, not quite boiling but close?


I need to find a middle ground.  I'm either trying to please everyone, think of things from every angle, every view point, or I am car-off-a-cliff-stomp-baby-caterpillars-cuss-in-front-of-the-children mad.  I think that's why my blood pressure is too high and I've picked up a good twenty pounds in the past year.  I'm trying to put them down, but they appear to be stuck firmly to my ass.

You know that Three Stooges move, where Curly (?) wipes/slaps his hands down his face, turns around on one heel and goes "whub whub whub"?  Feel kind of like that.  "Hey, Screaming, how's it going?"  "Oh, all right."  TRANSLATION:  "I'm trying not to bite anyone, at least not before lunch.  Stand back a bit, will ya?  My teeth are itching."

Cat tries to up his lifetime ER vet total, yet again...

So I have a cat who will attempt to eat anything that is either a plant or that is long and stringlike.

1. ER vet at night after discovering him looking queasy after dismembering a fleece ribbon toy.  Extensive x-rays prove he didn't manage to swallow any of it.

2. Regular vet all day plus ER vet overnight after he ate an Asiatic lily.  Flushed kidneys for 24 hours. Luckily none the worse for wear.

3. Tonight I am bathing the kids when I hear from downstairs.  "Yuck!  What is that?!?!?  [Cat'sName]!  What did you DO?"  Turns out he took advantage of a little quiet time to take a closer look at my witch hat, the one festooned with long streamers of netting.  Based on the goo evident on one of the streamers, he managed to get about a foot of it down his throat before abandoning the experiment.  No ER, but he did try.  E for effort?

Seriously, is the cat that stupid, or is he some kind of McGuyver of the feline world, trying to store up useful items for his next mission?  He's lucky that a) I love cats, b) I love THIS cat particularly, and c) that I didn't have to take him to the ER.  Free cat, anyone?  Not a picky eater!

[No cats or witch hats were seriously harmed during the writing of this post.  But if the kitty doesn't stop rubbing and nipping at my arm while I type, someone small, black, and fuzzy will be strongly discouraged from occupying my air space...]

Updated Recipe

I was getting started on the cheesecakes I made for yesterday's party, when DD came in the kitchen and asked when I was going to start making the Marshmallow and Chocolate Chip Pie she came up with.  I hemmed and hawed and did some tap dancing, and with DH's help I put the pie experiment off until tonight.

In the kitchen again today, DD and I had a discussion about what would be in the pie.  We agreed it should be a cold pie, so no eggs.  I said we should start by figuring out the crust.  She suggested marshmallows.  Hmm.  I pulled down a couple of tiny soy sauce bowls from the cabinet, and we got to work.  Two marshmallows, spread as thin as marshmallows can be spread, formed the bottom and top crusts.  The filling was as many chocolate chips as one could reasonably cram into the shallow "pie pan."

I guess the simplest recipes are the best.  DD and DS liked the pies very much.  I think, though, that I'm going to declare them a "seasonal" treat.  And the season just ended.  :-)

Rock Song

Son:  "I gonna sing a ROCK SONG!"
Me:  "Okay!  Let's hear it."
Son:  [strums strings of painfully out of tune child-size guitar]
Son:  "Rock song!  Number one!  It's a rock song!"

I smell a gold record.  Or a dirty diaper.  One of the two.

Marshmallow and Chocolate Chip Pie

I asked DD if she had any ideas for dessert for an upcoming party.  She responded immediately:  "Marshmallow and chocolate chip pie!"  So... what's in that, besides the obvious?  Here's the recipe:

Brown sugar, of course
A couple of eggs, probably
A crust

"Do you mix in any of the marshmallows and chocolate chips, or just put them on top?"
"Both."
"Do we bake it?"
"Yee-auh!" (said in super-high-def-exasperated voice)

Hmm.  We may have to try making this, just to see what happens.

Reminder

Yesterday I was reminded just how much I don't know about the world.  I know that there are poor, hungry, oppressed, hopeless people in the world.  I know it intellectually yet vaguely.  It is so easy to forget, as I wallow comfortably in my own stew of problems.  Little problems, some bigger ones, but magnified all out of proportion as I focus on them narrowly.

It's hard to think about the enormous problems in the world, because it makes me feel so powerless and ineffective.  I can't think of a way to fix everything, so I choose to bury my head in the sand and do nothing.  That doesn't make sense either.  I don't let myself think too much about things like death or rape or anything bad happening to a child, because I don't have a way to make sense of those feelings.  I feel like if I let myself fully feel them that I will start crying and never stop.  And what use is crying over things I cannot change?

Human beings have such capacity for cruelty.  I know we have also an enormous ability to love.  How do you make any headway in such an ocean of problems?  I feel a responsibility to do something, but no clue on what to do.  It's the same conundrum that keeps me from moving effectively in a single direction in my own life.  There are too many choices, too many directions, too much to do.  I know logically that I need to pick one direction, one task, one idea, and follow through completely.

But if I knew how to choose and commit to keep moving forward, I'd be doing it already.  How do you learn this skill?  I need it.  I feel guilty being so unfocused.

Special Skill Set

DD just spent the last five minutes trying to freak me out by crossing her eyes repeatedly.  "Why don't you like that?"  "I just don't.  Quit!"

But it got me thinking.  She's good at crossing her eyes, she likes tea... (wait for it...)

She's my eye-crosser tea daughter!
(I'm always getting that backwards.)

I'm Just Here for the Marshmallows

We went to DD's school "Math Night" tonight, and it was actually pretty fun.  The teachers came up with some interesting exercises, and it was fun watching my girl smoke her way through all of them.  I'm her mother and everything, but dang that kid is smart.

But the absolute best exercise was creating a graph out of Halloween marshmallows sorted by color.  I tried to "explore deeper"and turn it into a math problem by asking how many white ones we'd have to eat to match the number of orange ones.  Next thing you know she looked like a chipmunk preparing for winter, and I was left wishing I had faster fingers.  It's getting serious.  She's beating me to the processed sugary goodness.  I'm not ready for the apprentice to surpass the master.

The Top Three Requested Songs in the Party Bus Known as the "Black Car"

Mamma Mia
Whoop Sixxy-Six   (AKA "Route 66," in this case sung by Natalie Cole)
Hey Baby   (No Doubt, feat. Bounty Killer)

And I thought I was tired of the Veggie Tales CDs.  It's like a VH1 Behind the Music reunion, but without the booze.  Lots of shouting, everyone wants to be the lead singer, no respect for the roadie.

I need to come up with some more kid-acceptable tunes to add to the mix.  The "Black Car" has a reputation to uphold, after all.

Hardware Cloth

One word of advice about hardware cloth cleverly fashioned into a charcoal briquette screen: don’t lose yours. If you’re trying to grill dinner for a large group of people and you’ve left it pretty late to get the fire started, be sure you at least know where your charcoal sifter is. Without it, you’re fucked. Yes, dear brother-in-law, you can help me with the grilling. If you could kindly squat down and crap out a square of hardware cloth, we’d be in business. Dad actually said that, made that suggestion so calmly, so matter-of-factly, to his brother-in-law that you got the distinct feeling that he would truly welcome it. If BIL had farted one out and said “here ya go” he would have delightedly gone on his way. The dirty looks my Aunt gave me as I laughed hysterically have stuck with me, though this was several years ago. I’ve wondered if she assumed we were laughing at her husband, or laughing to encourage Dad. I was laughing because Dad said it so earnestly. There was no sarcasm there, none at all. Yes, BIL, that would be the best help of all.

Bacon

Yes, you can cook a whole pound of bacon for 13 people. No, we won’t be throwing any out. Yes, I think we can eat that much. I think we can eat that much in the first 30 seconds.

Denial (Not Just a River in Egypt)

Nope, I have no idea why you would be so angry with me. You want to tell me something I don’t like? Great, I’ve always wanted to go on a guilt trip. I hear the buffet is exceptional.

Who needs pets when you have children?

Periodically I get this urge to get a dog.  Something little but fun, sweet, you know.  I realized on the way to work today that there's no need.  From the instant DS sat up in his crib this morning, he was a dog.  No "Hello, Mommy!"  Just "Woof!"  That prompted DD to resume her favorite role of cat.  It was impossible to get down the stairs without tripping on our two actual cats plus the two method-acting pets.

It's like living in the middle of an improv exercise.  And that's, in a nutshell, why I love love love my little family.

Cows in the Yard

When you hear the phrase “cows in the yard” bellowed in the early morning, it helps if you’re a dog. Dogs apparently know instinctively that this means you must chase the cows. You love chasing cows! To a person, though, someone not living and breathing the daily reality of the farm, it’s like someone just started shouting random facts. Air under your chair! Ants in the earth! Gravity applies to you!

Write What You Know

But that’s just it, you see. What do I know? I always go around and around about that one, like a snake swallowing its tail. Do I really know this? Or do I just think I know it? A shallow surface understanding, just the merest brush with competency, or the deep, visceral, instinctive knowledge that comes only with extended experience. Do I know anything that well? Not my children, not my friends, not my family. Not even myself, not really. You’d be surprised by all the shit that comes out of me. I am.

"I don’t want to." Most days could be summed up with that phrase. I’m a three year old trapped in a thirty-six year old’s body. Ack. I’m lost, I’m numb, I’m scared of everything and nothing. I used to write poetry, but not anymore. I used to feel positively fucking lyrical. In tune with nature, in love with the idea of trees and rocks and the spirits of the wood. When did I get so cynical, jaded, tired? I want to spring out of the bed like DD does. I want to go from unconscious to galloping in ten seconds flat with no effort, no self-awareness. Just the plain joy of being alive.

Write what you know. Shit. How many years you got? Because when you get me rolling, there’s plenty to say.

If I Had a Magic Wand, Would I:

• Use it to lose 35 pounds.
• Be in France eating 35 pounds of cheese and croissants.
• Be spending 35 Pounds on shoes and tea in Bath.
• All of the above (but not necessarily all at the same time or in that order).

Waffles

If you don’t like cooking for large groups, please don’t do it. If you insist on doing it, please don’t make something that is extremely slow, like waffles. It’s a bad idea, one that makes you homicidal in under five minutes. Who wants to spend the post-breakfast period mopping up the blood, sweat, and tears? Not even my sister enjoys that, and she likes work.

No!

It is apparently not necessary to make a full request. All you have to do is to make the first humming sounds in a supplicating tone that precede a request, and you can initiate a full refusal without ever forming actual words. I think there must be some high-frequency pitch that passes between my parents that only they can hear. I wish I could tune out all the rest of the crap they say to each other that I can hear.