Seriously? Cool.

November 30th? Seriously? Seriously? Did I actually manage to make it through NaBloPoMo, posting every single day? I committed to something solely for me, totally unrelated to children and mom-ing and wife-ing, and managed to stick with it to the very end?

And I'm not even tired of blogging. It didn't become the burden I expected, nor did it fall away in the craziness of our lives. Colds, daylight savings, even travel--apparently I'm capable of so much more than I believe. Why, I might just write those novels I've been toying with for so long! Finish those short stories! Clean out my closet and scrapbook my youth! Or I could let the momentum slide away amidst holiday decorating and parties and shopping until I'm back to blogging once a week or less.

How about we settle for something in between? Because, in the end, it wasn't about what this did for my blog but rather what it said about me: that I can commit to something for myself and follow through with it, that I have not lost myself just yet. And that, sometimes, I still believe in myself just as much as I believe in everyone else. Very cool. Very, very cool.

Self-affirmation

I'm good with myself. It's taken a long way, and it's not to say that there aren't things that I would change or that I don't hope to improve over the long haul, but I'm good.

Do I wish that every else could see that? Or appreciate that? Or let it go without feeling compelled to make criticisms that I seethe over, trying to figure out how to correct that assessment with a more accurate depiction of the character I've worked so hard to build?

Ah, sure. But really, I'm good. And that's all I have control over anyway.

(Can you tell that I'm still working on this whole affirmation thing? But I did mention that I'm open to improvement.)

The Denim Slipper

I've been on a hunt for new jeans. Seems that my much loved jean maker has changed their shape, and they no longer fit me (Could I have changed my shape? Me? After two kids? And approximately 1300 bowls of ice cream? Perish the thought). So I've been trying on jeans left and right, to find that they gap in the back or pull at the thighs or have the right shape but the wrong color. Which leads me to make the following suggestions:

1) Please, jean-makers, standardize your sizes. Preferably to the brand where I'm a 0. Which is a whole lot less thrilling when you find out they carry a 00. Because, apparently, you can have less than nothing.

2) Also, while you're at it, standardize your details. For some reason, flare cut is now a bell bottom, where my leg ends up looking like an hourglass, my knee unbendable at the tight middle and my ankle swimming in what looks to be a fashionable denim skirt for the calf. Boot cut is now flare, and straight leg means I'm going to suction onto your leg so you bear an unsettling resemblance to a chicken drumstick. Whatever happened to plain old pants?

3) Give me a chance to wear in my denim. I fail to see why I'm paying exorbitant amounts of money for jeans with tears, holes, stains, and whiskers. Is this some sort of conspiracy to take vintage jeans, re-tag them, and resell them at four times the price?

I still hold out hope that I'll find that perfect pair. In the meantime, I'm just wearing my usual suspects over and over again. At least I know the distressed look is still in style.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Here's to a happy Thanksgiving with family and friends. May you have a plentiful table to remind you of the plenties you have elsewhere. I for one am looking forward to our dinner and the three kinds of pie that follow. And I'm thankful, especially, that in our house, it's considered rude not to try all three.

Come again!

We finally got some rain here, which M has been eagerly awaiting. M, who spent months screaming at the mere mention of rain (or a car wash, the heaviest rain storm we ever see) after some unwelcome sprinkles fell on the way home from the park. Dear M, who finally worked his hatred of rain into an absolute infatuation, regardless of the fact that we don't see rain, hardly ever. Poor M, who patiently asked each day we were in Kauai when the rain would arrive (and no, it didn't arrive, not one single day, even though it was storm season in the wettest place on the planet). Beloved M, who returned home still asking, most mornings, if it might rain that day.

Well, it did rain. Last night. After he went to bed. Finished before he got up, too. Dear, poor, beloved M.

The Missing Message

The current bedtime (or, really, any time when we're the least bit still) favorite is Shel Silverstein's The Missing Piece. I have a love-hate relationship with Shel Silverstein (and, as an aside, have you ever seen the picture on the back of The Giving Tree? Because it's beyond love-hate into frightening. I should know; he's forever frozen in the photo from my 19th birthday. And yes, I was still into Silverstein at 19, so you at least know I've been thinking about this for awhile). Anyway, I think his books are insightful, interesting, and finely illustrated in their sparse sort of way. But they make me sad, and the message is so deep I struggle to find it sometimes.

In The Missing Piece, there's a circle with a chink missing. Hence, the missing piece. He goes in search of the missing piece. He's rejected. He finds pieces that are the wrong size. He finds pieces that are the right size, which are either lost or broken. Most of the book focuses on his unsuccessful quest to find his long-lost missing piece.

When he finally finds it, he discovers he can't do any of the things he loves now that he's "complete". So he sets the piece down, slowly and gently, and rolls away. The message ends up being one about our own completeness, chinks and all.

But I never get to this message. I'm always stuck on the shattered broken piece, the sting of rejection in the circle's soft apology, the forlorn missing piece left behind. I yearn to see these stories told so that I can see them as beautiful, just as I see the self-acceptance that the circle finally finds. Maybe, shy and often lonely as I am, I identify more with those stories that then one Silverstein tells.

So instead, I enjoy the fact that on the page of most rejection, only on this page, some child has taken their green crayon and scrawled across the entire page. The library "Officially noted" this defacement. But I like to believe that somewhere, some child has done what we must all do. They've taken the saddest moment and made it theirs in vivid color so opposite to the black and white Silverstein uses. We should all take official note of that.

Season up, already

Is it December yet? Because I'm dying to decorate my blog, the only time of year I break out the decorations and doll up my real and virtual house with the timeless combination of red, green, and gold. The giant reindeer are already out at the mall, Christmas music follows me wherever I go, and poinsettias beckon to be bought. But no, it can't be December yet, because I haven't had turkey. I have a mind for food, you see. So no decorating yet. But I'm waiting, not-so-patiently.

It is well

Today is Sunday. Church day. Always been church day. From my little to my kids' little. So we went to church. This is what we do.

We grouse about the collared shirt rule, the dress shoes, the time. We argue about which snacks are in the bag and which books we need and why everyone is rushing (it was all that grousing and arguing, by the way). We manage to sometimes make it on time, but usual not, slip into a side pew, and spend the time half-singing and half-wrangling children who are trying to rip pages from hymnals and color all the offering envelopes they can get their hands on. When it comes time to shake hands, I pretend to be fixing a child's hair or retrieving something from my bag so that my shy self avoids that awkward direct contact. We sing more, we wrangle more, we wait until we can bear it no more before shuffling off to the cry room or the lobby (Why not the nursery or the children's classes? Why, that would be too easy to have small children who wanted to play or learn, or to have parents who were okay listening to all that screaming and crying and messy, terrified protest). In the cry room, which is about the size of a sardine can, we attempt to keep the kids from hitting the walls or fighting over the small supply of books, gradually become more intolerant of climbing/sprawling/whining/etc. before abandoning ship in exasperation, slinking out like heathen to car where we wonder why we ever thought, again, that this would be a good idea.

But there's usually one moment during that singing part when the kids are distracted and the congregation is in harmony and I'm singing to my Lord with my eyes closed and my heart bathed in the Holy Spirit. For that one moment, I am at peace. I am worshipping. I am renewed. I am connecting to God, who is, despite my distraction, always connected to me.

I go for that moment.

Com-meme-nting

Ah, commenters. Those elusive little devils. Tagged by Melissa for a commenters meme, I'm embarrassed to say that I haven't enough to even match the five that Melissa settled for instead of ten. Especially since she's one of the commenters. So it's a few of my commenters and a couple other blogs I like. Because, well, everyone likes memes, right? Right?


My last five commenters (Ten? Let's not make me cry):
Sweet Spot Forget Me Not
The Spice Choir
Feisty One
Keyhook
More than you ever wanted to know

And some questions about them:
1: What is your favorite post from number 3’s blog?
Hitting the Nail on the Head, which so hit the nail on the head, at least for me.
2. Has number 10 taken any pictures that have moved you?
You mean you can put pictures on these blog things? Number 10, you've amazed me already!
3. Does number 6 reply to comments on their blog?
You mean you can reply to comments too? Again, assuming you get comments. Number 6 better darn well reply.
4. Which part of blogland is number 2 from?
She's lurking somewhere in my favorites list. And San Diego. There too.
5. If you could give one piece of advice to number 7 what would it be?
Stop eating 9.
6. Have you ever tried something from number 9’s blog?
Sometimes, when the kids are napping, I lay down on the couch and pretend I don't exist. That comes pretty darn close.
7. Has number 1 blogged something that inspired you?
Feeling Thankful, a whole list of the fabulous things that she does at Thanksgiving. I'm thankful that there are people in this world who are so thoughtful.
8. How often do you comment on number 4’s blog?
Never. But I should.
9. Do you wait for number 8 to post excitedly?
Absolutely. It's the easiest reading I do all day.
10. How did number 5’s blog change your life?
Come now--are you really reading blogs to change your life? Challenge my point of view, perhaps.
11. Do you know any of the 10 bloggers in person?
Oh yeah. And I love to see the overlap between the virtual and real world. Makes me feel kinda special, like an insider. Or a god. But mostly just an insider.
12. Do any of your 10 bloggers know each other in person?
Yep. Do they know they know each other? They might now.
13. Out of the 10, which updates more frequently?
That award goes to #2, who's NaBloPoMo-ing it.
14. Which of the 10 keep you laughing?
All of them, at times. But #3 especially. She ain't called feisty for nothing.
15. Which of the 10 has made you cry (good or bad tears)?
It's tough to make me cry. A tear or two from laughing too hard, some watery eyes from those introspective, insightful moments. Just enough to keep me coming back for more.

Way to be positive

D: You can't die from exhaustion, right?
B: Actually, you can.

When no one else will

There were time when I was a kid, when my mom would rave about something I'd done or tell me how beautiful I looked, that I really felt she was patronizing me. Not that I could have identified that feeling at the time, but the falseness echoed in my ears. She can't really mean that, I'd mutter inside. She can't possibly be so blind.

As a parent, I'm starting to understand that it isn't always false. Blind, maybe, but not false. I see my kids and think they're incredible. I recognize their character flaws, often because they share them with me or B, but they are always overshadowed by their fabulousness: M's willingness to share, his great sense of humor, his energy and creativity; K's intrepid nature, her free-flowing smiles, her eagerness to participate. I can't imagine how anyone could not want to be around them, at least a good portion of the time.

But the thing is, I know how kids are. I remember being told that I was no longer a friend. I remember being made fun of. I remember being excluded. I remember the painful lump in the throat and the burn of tears held steadfastly behind red eyes.

I saw it yesterday for the first time. M has a couple friends with which he plays frequently. The three of them have known each other since before their first birthdays. Most of the time they play together so nicely. But the other two are girls, and he's a boy, and the differences that have had so little effect in the past are starting to hedge in. The girls dance around as princesses, as M fights fires. M charges off down a hill while the girls shimmy down in hesitation. The girls spin through ring-around-the-rosy; M prefers to hack at the sand with his shovel. Every time I see this two-on-one divide, my stomach sinks.

And then yesterday, as we were leaving a restaurant, the two girls joined hands and headed down the path. M hurried alongside, reaching out for a free hand. Both girls withdrew, pushing past him with their shoulders and whispering conspiratorily. He didn't see it, just laughed and ran on ahead. But I got a glimpse of the future, and that burning feeling came right back, fresh as if I were in elementary school all over.

I thought it was bad enough to live through that pain once. How cruel, then, to have to live it all over again, only though the experience of the two people you think deserve it least of anyone in the whole world? I hear my mother's words, her encouragement, her support, and realize that she meant every last syllable. I'll mean them too, when I say the same thing. That anyone could see otherwise--even though I know, sadly, that they certainly will--is already beyond me.

I hope they have good friends, dear friends, sweet friends, and that they are good, dear, and sweet in return. But like so much I face as a parent, it's out of my control. All I can do is whisper those words, wipes those tears, and hold the hand when no one else will. It won't be the same--hey, it probably won't even be appreciated--but maybe someday they'll see that it wasn't just about them.

She likes me, she really likes me

Many thanks to my friend Kristi--the one who always reminds me of Keira Knightly, only better--for the Kreativ Blogger award. I'm just thrilled that someone actually remembers my blog's name, especially considering how, well, miscellaneous it is. So the award is thoughtfully accepted and generously passed forth, as is the link to Kristi. She's a fabulous mother and charming friend, in addition to that pretty face.

The rules are:

- List six things that make you happy

- Pass the award on to 6 more kreativ bloggers

- Link back to the person who gave you the award

- Link to the people you are passing it on to and leave them a comment to let them know.

6 Things That Make Me Happy

- Summer rain

- Dark chocolate peppermint ice cream from Cold Stone

- Waking up after seven o'clock to find that everyone is still asleep

- The sound of the garage door opening, the signal that B has arrived home from work

- Running around with the kids in the backyard or park

- Writing a story that comes out just the way it sounded in my head

May I have the envelope please...

Making Things Up

The Spice Choir

My Year In Durham

Senna Adventures

Sophia and Dalia

And YOU--that is, those phantom readers that I imagine read my blog from time to time. A girl can dream, right?

$10 of sleep, hold the meth

I've always been a napper. I trace it back to my last year in high school, when I started at 7 and finished by noon. After lunch, I'd curl up on the couch and take a little snooze until my afternoon choir class. I made time for naps in college, naps when I worked part-time post-college, naps during grad school. Even after the kids were born, I'd go so far as to lay down with my baby just so we could both get some shut-eye.

And then they got bigger. Their schedules got less predicable. We moved into the realm where I couldn't sleep with them and they often wouldn't sleep without me. Soon, I found that I couldn't get to sleep in the small window I found during which both naps overlapped. And after awhile, after countless attempted naps, I accepted that the opportunity and ability had passed.

But the odd thing is, I still try. I know, logically, that I don't have the time to fall asleep, that they won't be quiet long enough, that I will stir at the slightest noise, keeping myself just that little step away from sleep. And most days I'm good to get some exercise or clean the house or do something that perks me up and brushes away the sleepy cobwebs from my mind.

When I'm sick, though, or have only gotten a few hours of sleep--or, as in today, both--I still lay down. I can't help it. Exhaustion seeps through my bones and drags me to my bed. And I let it, even though I will climb out for every child's call with a grumble, that I will eventually get up feeling groggy and frustrated and sleepier than I did before I laid down. Why torture myself? Because the mere thought that I might just sleep is too tempting. My mind's eye brings forth an hour's nap from which I wake refreshed and re-energized, so much more thrilled to play with the kids, filled with so much more excitement for our afternoon. It conjures up pictures of a fun afternoon with play and walks and laughter, such a stark contrast to the dragging crawl of the morning.

It's like an addict looking for their next hit, only for a mom it's sleep: perfectly legal, healthy, and beneficial. If only you could buy it on a street corner and smoke it in 30 seconds while the kids are eating a snack.

I like to remind myself, even when I've lurched crankily out of bed, that my actions reflect a deep hope that maybe things will be different, just this once. More often, though, I see myself as a mouse in a maze, endlessly pounding my head at a blocked corridor when I should really just turn around and try a whole other route. But it might work, right? Just this once?

Being Sick Makes Me Punchy

And that's about all there is to say on that topic.

K-isms

Yellow = 1 sauce. Derived from mustard, which is yellow. Do not give her mustard, though, because she will push back her plate in disgust. Usually indicates whatever sauce M is eating, as long as it's not actually yellow. 2 to color. Used in response to Mom's one-time lesson that a marker was actually yellow, as in the color, but refers now to the act of using any pens, markers, pencils, or other implements to impart color to objects. Certainly not restricted to the color yellow or the medium paper. Just check out the black pen she put all over the puppet theater after asking to yellow.

Baa = I want to get up in my car seat by myself. Used repeatedly without indication or explanation as to why such a complicated and unrelated phrase became shortened to baa. For the record, baa is also correctly used as the sound for a sheep. Apparently this all makes sense to K.

Eesh = Shoes. I almost feel this is some sort of dyslexia, since the closest thing I can see is that shoes backwards is seohs. Except that involves seeing it in writing, which isn't how eesh started. How did eesh start? I don't know, but I'm guessing, like the rest of this, that she used it once, I guessed correctly what she meant, and the little cogs clicked into place that this word got her what she wanted. Bright, but also confusing.

Jee-Jee = Jesus, as in the song Jesus Loves Me, which is the last song I usually sing to K before she goes to sleep. Jee-jee is actually a pretty accurate approximation of Jesus for an eighteen-month-old. I just think it's cute that when she gets tired enough of my rocking and singing, she asks for her final song, and that the final song she asks for before she falls asleep is about Jesus. Always leaves me feeling that even if I've obviously goofed a few things up, the day has ended right.

Super Mega Ultra Fun Surprise Day

AKA Day Out With Thomas. If you're not familiar with it, Day Out With Thomas is a traveling program that visits railway stations with a real Thomas engine in tow. Kids can ride Thomas, watch Bob build Thomas an imaginary shed, play with tons of train related toys, and beg for presents in the gift shop. Believe it or not, the expectation of M and K's joy brought tears to my eyes as we parked. And yes, I'm more than a little embarrassed to admit it.

M and K did have fun. They ooh-ed and ah-ed at Thomas. K was so excited to be on a train that she nearly threw herself out the window. M had to climb aboard "Scoop" on three separate occasions. We had to beg M away from the toy train set before Mommy fainted from hunger and the gusty Santa Ana winds blew us all to oblivion. All very much the tear-bringing fun I expected (without all the actual tears).

At lunch, tired and dusty and thoroughly worn out, I asked M what was the best part of Super Mega Ultra Fun Surprise Day:

"Riding in Oma and Opa's car to lunch."

Not quite what I had in mind, so I asked again, specifying something actually at DOWT.

"Seeing Oma and Opa."

Again, not something to justify the hefty per-ticket price. This time I specified something at DOWT not having to do with Oma and Opa.

This took a little thought. Then, with glee: "Getting Dodger the Deliverer!"

Which we bought at the gift shop in extravagant addition to that ticket price. Along with Trix, whom everyone calls Trixie for some reason I'm yet to understand, and with which K entertained herself for the rest of the day. I suppose we could have just met Oma and Opa at a toy store and gotten away for a mere $13.00. But then what would I have cried about?

Selfish, lazy, mediocre...

And I did it. Added a picture to my NaBloPoMo page, that is. But no blog posts. I guess people are just going to have to click on over to find out what I'm doing.

In the non-virtual world, I've been tied up with sick kids. Again. I feel like I should tattoo "Beware of Germs" on our foreheads. I feel like my friends are going to start avoiding us and the germs we seem to crawl with. I feel like a failure. I wash hands diligently, feed the kids lots of fruits and vegetables, take multivitamins and supplements, avoid cold-bearing friends and places, etc. And still: the kids get sick. A lot. So much so that I'm starting to have people comment on it.

Look, I know why the kids get sick. They have inherited allergies, asthma, and eczema that tax their immune systems, thus making them more vulnerable to colds. But there is so little I can reasonably do about the allergies. They have some medications (M at least) and we've cleared the house of the big culprits. Still, too much running and coughcoughcough. A little cold turns into a big ordeal. I know it's not enough.

But the alternative? Trying a bunch of radical changes that may or may not do anything, other than throw our whole life for a loop. If I was assured that these changes could help our kids, I'd do them. Even if they were tough. Even if they seemed un-doable. But I don't know that.

Okay, but I do know that I ought to just try. I mean, it's my kids and their health. But it seems like such a huge thing to do that I find myself praying, thinking, hoping that things will just resolve themselves on their own. Isn't that how we are about so many problems, parenting or otherwise? It's just a phase. Or, It's just this one time. Or, It's not really a big deal. We tell ourselves these things when the nagging little spirit within--often the Holy Spirit, if you're of faith--is telling you otherwise.

Why? Human nature. Laziness. Denial. Envy, even, of other people who have it so easy. Common sense, which tells me that other people are fine without these extreme measures. But we're not fine, right? And these aren't other people. They're us.

And I know parents who've made similar changes. I know they've managed, that they live happy lives, but it seems like such a big change fraught with such uncertainty. So what made them decide to do it? And does the fact that they made the same decision that I continue to avoid make me a worse parent? Or just a realist? Just some combination therein?

It just seems like I can't manage the daily stuff. How in the world can I tackle something so big? Where do you come up with that strength? Or am I just shortchanging myself? Because I know--regardless of whatever else there is--that I'm just a capable of a mom and person as anyone else. It's just a matter of application.

And today, the only application I've managed is a fork and knife to the Pizza Hut lunch buffet. And my NaBloPoMo page. And the photo book I'm making for my grandmother. Which seems in writing like a lot less necessity and a lot more avoidance. Great--Now I can add shallow to growing list in my head.

Decor, NaBloPoMo style

Visited my one friend on NaBloPoMo. Gasped in awe at her snazzy homepage. Switched to my homepage. Sighed disappointed. Fiddled around a bit. You can change your background? To flowers? Or chicks? Another way to procrastinate!

Still cannot figure out how to add my actual blog posts to the page. But at least my page is pink. With flowers. Hoping to do something before NaBloPoMo is over. Rapidly losing hope.

Another reason why time sucks

Yesterday was Veteran's Day, one of those holidays important enough to leave our trash by the curb for an extra day and let all the kids off from school, but not important enough to have your spouse off from work too. Since it was one of M's usual preschool days, I tried to be extra excited about Veteran's Day this year.

"You have a vacation day today!" I said brightly yesterday morning.
"Is it a preschool day?" M asked slowly.
"Yes, but you have vacation! A holiday!"
He cocked his head a little. "Can I go to preschool?"
The sinking feeling I've been getting a lot lately opened up in the pit of my stomach. "You don't have preschool today. It's vacation!"
M lowered his head and fiddled with his plate. "But I really wanted to go to preschool."

Apparently vacation doesn't mean much for a kid who thinks every preschool day is his "break" from Mommy. I try not to take that personally, although I'm really not sure how you take it any other way.

No matter. I promised him a fun and special lunch, right after we went to K's usual swim class. B stayed with M on the side, brought lots of trucks for him to play with, and pointed out our happy waves and smiles. At the end, he walked up to me, that same longing look on his face, and asked, "Now can I go in?" Repeat this scenario about ten times--compounding guilt exponentially--and you'll get the gist of the next hour.

It made me really feel for M. I know a lot of parents worry so much about not having enough time to spend with their second child, but the thing is, M doesn't remember that I spent a lot of time just with him, so there's not really much difference between the two. He doesn't remember that we did take swim lessons for months before K was born. He also does not remember, apparently, that he hated swim lessons, that they were filled with more screaming than splashing and that he never did learn to kick/paddle/hold his breath the way his sister has already done. This was because he wouldn't actually let go of me the entire lesson. He doesn't remember that we used to take long walks, just the two of us, that we ate lunch together every day, just the two of us, that we were one Mommy-M team against the world.

But it's in there, all the same. And I think it must generate a longing that I don't think I'll ever see in K, that subconscious desire to have that time back. So while parents are so busy worrying about whether they'll be there for the second child the way they were with the first, I think they are also forgetting that they exchange that focus for the one they had originally, the one that still lingers somewhere in the back of their first child's mind. And there's nothing I can do to pull it out, nothing I can do to trade in all those times for the ones he now lacks.

We did have a fun morning, despite the pouting and confusion and guilt. We shopped and the kids played with displays and ran through aisles and then we picked up lunch and took it over for a picnic with Daddy. On the way home, I said brightly, trying to put the morning behind us, "Now wasn't that a fun vacation day?"

"Yeah," M said reluctantly. "Now can I go to preschool?"

I'm a little quick on the uptake, obviously, but I will no longer mention vacation. Ever. Unless we're going to Oma and Opa's. Because that trumps everything--even a break from Mommy.

What is one-half inch per month?

1) Do not try to cut your toddler's bangs yourself.

2) If you do try to cut your toddler's bangs yourself, do not do it while she is standing or sitting up, when she is free to turn/twist/look away at the worst possible moment.

3) If you do it while she is standing or sitting up--thereby cutting the bangs unevenly--do not try to even them out by cutting off a little more.

4) If you do try to even them out by cutting off a little more, try not to obsess about the fact that her beautiful blond bangs now fall--still uneven--in the smack middle of her forehead only a few weeks before your first ever family picture session.

Well, at least I'm no longer obsessing about the holiday party. Exactly how fast does hair grow anyway?

Work cut out and stacked chest high

You know those days when the kids are actually occupying themselves--and playing semi-civilly with each other--so you end up distracted by the craft you're trying to set up and the recipes for that holiday party you're obsessing over, until you look at the clock and realize that it's already nap time and you rush everyone off to nap only to come back in and discover that the consequence of that quiet play is a house knee deep in toys, paper, dishes, books, and laundry, all spewed about like the vomit of some hideous clutter demon?

Today is one of those days.

Weekend highlights

--M discovered pumpkin rolling. That's where you set your pumpkin down very carefully at the top of the driveway, then give it a little push and watch it roll into the street. Or into the foot of the adult positioned at the bottom of the driveway to prevent pumpkins and the small children chasing them from going into the street. And yes, fast-moving pumpkins hurt. Bonus laughter for pumpkins that careen into the planter. Amazing that the Halloween pumpkin is so much more appreciated after Halloween.

--K began using two word phrases, just as "Dada, boo-boo." Not as in, "Dada has a boo-boo," but rather, "Look, Dada! I have a boo-boo here on my foot and I want you to see it, acknowledge it, kiss it, and then get me something to eat, drink, and play with." Anyone who thinks two words cannot possibly incorporate all that information has not raised children.

--I began planning a holiday party. This is meant to be a fun event where we can have lots of friends celebrating together with their small children celebrating underfoot. With cookies! And finger foods! And cider! And Christmas carols! This is not meant to be something where I obsess about whether the invitation sounds good / people will want to come / the food, drinks, and entertainment will satisfy / the guests will all leave in disappointment. Right. Now repeat again to self. And again. And again. Did I mention I obsess? Sigh...

Craft: Felt Houses

Per Melissa's wise suggestion, today's blog post brings you the felt houses.



It's a great project to cut out six squares, rectangles, triangles, and circles, then assemble them into six houses. Even greater if you have children who are old enough to use scissors with some level of accuracy. Mom will still get to cut out the mouse, and if you think cutting a mouse freehand out of white felt is easy, I'm ready to hire you for future projects.

Then you put the houses on the felt board with the mouse hidden underneath one lucky house. Eyes open, everybody sings: "Little mouse, little mouse, come out to play! In which little house are you hiding today?" (No, three-year-olds hardly ever get that grammatically correct. Mom's working on letting it go).

As a side note, Elmer's glue will not hold felt pieces together. You will keep adding more glue, only to find your toddler running around with errant roofs while your preschooler screams. Hot glue works like a charm. And you can make your own felt board from a cheap frame (like this one from IKEA, only $4.99) and duct tape. Really. Just don't look too close at the finished product.

DLT Day 6 (Not that I'm counting)

Seriously? Four o'clock? In the morning? In the f***ing morning? Again?

When you can do two loads of laundry, a sinkful of dishes, answer your email, drink two cups of coffee, and make a series of patchwork felt houses for the kids all before seven o'clock, you deserve to write a token post for NaBloPoMo.

You also deserve to skip exercising, cleaning the bathrooms, scrubbing the showers, sweeping the kitchen, and folding washed laundry. Deserve to, but don't. Yes, well, that whole Socialist spiel had some nasty repercussions on my conscience.

Gimme, gimme; Share, share

Had a discussion with a Republican the other day, a very good friend whose intelligence and thoughtfulness I hold in very high regard. We talked about the election in rational, respectful terms that only endeared her more to me. Through the course of the conversation, we talked about how we'd both been hit hard by the house market, and how we wouldn't likely get anything from the current bailout since we'd been smart enough to not default on our loans or rack up exorbitant credit card debt, and how (somewhat) unfair it seemed that we wouldn't get anything for being responsible, while other people who hadn't been so responsible will likely get a bail-out.

I made the suggestion, in the course of the conversation, that our future president (YEAH!) is practically a Socialist. This made her blanch, of course, as it makes most people, but I give an inner whoop.

See, if I had to commit to a party, it'd be Socialist. I don't commit, mostly because I decide each issue on its merits and don't want to ever be tied to a party line. But I also don't commit because of the negative stigma associated with Socialism. Which, to be clear, is not Communism. But just the same, I'm feeling that my blog is now being pinpointed by government search engines. Hope they can also appreciate my grumbling re: Daylight Losing Time and cute anecdotes about the boy and girl.

I'm not sure what we all have against Socialism. Why shouldn't we share what we have? Isn't that how we teach our children: don't take things from other people, always bring enough for everyone, if you have two things and your friend has none then you should give one thing to them, etc. But at some point, it seems to shift: maximize your earning potential, be the top of the class, make lots of money and buy yourself what you deserve.

Had another conversation with same friend today. We were discussing cars with another friend. I mentioned that one of the reasons why we chose our car was because it was less expensive than an SUV (yeah, as if it wasn't already obvious that I'd be one of those moms with a mini-van). We compared our recent car purchases; her SUV came in $12,000 more than my car. She pointed out that I didn't get the high-end accessories and gadgets that she did. I pointed out that it was just a car. Yes, she said, but I intend to keep mine for a long time, so I got the top of the line.

And this seemed so indicative of me of the distaste for Socialism. Because the truth still stands: the car runs the same, leather interior or back-up camera or not. But most Americans don't see it. They see that they deserve these things, that they've earned these things, that they want these things, and that, if they can access the money or credit for them, they should have them. Because they can. Because other people cannot. It's part of what we use to define ourselves against other people.

It's not that I don't have nice things, or desire nice things. But at the end of the day, when I see an adult value that clashes with the way I'd raise a child, I feel compelled to question it. If we value it in our children, if we strive for it in the future generation, isn't it just as important for us now? And wouldn't it be so much easier, instead of trying to change the future through children that we ultimately cannot control, for us to change ourselves in the present?

Oh, right. But the things are all so bright and shiny and lovely. Maybe we're more children at heart than we realize.

But he's forty with good teeth

Today was M's first official visit to the dentist. I strongly suggested that we go to the pediatric dentist his friend used, thinking it would be so much more fun and exciting.

"No," he insisted. "I'd just like to use the dentist mommy and daddy use."

I prodded more, pointing out the toys, television, and fancy decor. Still no dice.

So we go to the regular old dentist, starting with the regular young hygienist. She tries her darnedest to entertain M with the rubber glove bit and the dancing finger. Wrong kid. M continues to gently rebuff her with nearly soundless No, thank you's. She seems perplexed, but grudgingly goes on with a nearly perfect cleaning, after which the dentist pops in for review. Again, he tries to engage the boy with a whale of tale--literally. All the while, M sits with his mouth opened wide, as if wondering when this strange people will just get on with the work at hand.

As soon as we get the all clear, we're presented with a smorgasbord of stickers.

"I'd just like one of those firemen," M says politely.

I'm a bit flustered that they're working so hard with so little success. "And then we can go do something special, just you and me," I say to both him and the dentist, just so they might see that his mind is on another kind of reward.

"Yes," he replies earnestly, "like go get some coffee."

All of which leads me to believe he's a forty-year-old soul trapped in a three-year-old's body.

And then I think about it some more, and start wondering whether perhaps I've squashed his child's spirit through the course of my parenting. And I'd really worry, except then I peek into his room at nap time and find him goofing around on his pillow with an entire daddy-shirt stuffed into his underwear.

"Why do you have a shirt in your underwear?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even and curious and, most importantly, without laughter.

At which point he pulls the shirt from his underwear, heaves a sigh highly indicative of fun spoiled, and says, "Just go, Mom."

Ah, yes, three years old. I never thought I'd be so glad to see it.

And I woke up at 5am

Having already: made homemade apple turnovers for breakfast, gotten M off to school, had a flu shot, gone to writing group, saved a gagging child while successfully dodging gag, picked up M, made M's favorite lunch, fed kids three oranges even though they both swear they don't like them, swept the floor, done the dishes, and VOTED... I'm calling nap time for a short bout of exercise and some Wii.

I know, you were all looking forward to more complaining about DLT. Well, it'll just have to wait. We all have to reward ourselves sometime.

DLT Day 2

So we've got one kid adjusted, and one moving the right direction. And the winner of the most stubborn internal clock goes to... me. Sigh. Four AM again. After being up for an hour in the night. And struggling to fall asleep. Can anyone explain to me why someone so flipping tired could manage to botch a full night of sleep, again?

But it's two days down, and, what, one hundred twenty to go? See, tired people can be positive too. And a little sarcastic. And bitter. And... okay, not positive at all. Mention your additional hour of sleep / sleeping in child / gingerbread lattes at your own risk.

Daylight Losing Time

Daylight Savings Time ended last night. Which just smacks of irony in our house. See, these two small children have no understanding of the "fall back" principle. And neither does their mother. So we all ran our schedules an hour behind yesterday, went to bed an hour late, and woke up this morning at 5:15 like usual. Er, make that 4:15 today. I'm already feeling frighteningly off rhythm.

This brought up an endless conundrum in our wedded bliss. B is a night person. I am a morning person. Since we usually only get a limited amount of time to spend together--that's in the evening, during that tiny little window after the kids finally fall silent--we stay up late to maximize that time. And in all practicality, if we were to get up early instead of staying up late, the kids would be bound to wake up early too, wondering why we were just hanging out them and how soon we could add pancakes to the mix. So we stay up late. And B sleeps in. And sometimes I sleep in too. But not often enough. My body just doesn't work that way.

So you throw an hour lost in the evening plus the hour lost in the morning, and I'm tired. And cranky. And wondering why the word savings is involved at all. And bitter at all the people raving about getting that extra hour of sleep. And curious at how other couples negotiate the dicey dance between time spent together and time spent getting much needed and long overdue rest. Because I'm feeling like the music runs to the tango and I'm moving to the polka.

And I'm yet to figure out the positives of this whole time shift. Our after-dinner walks are nearly impossible in the pitch black, the kids want to wake up when the sun comes up anyway, and the dark-early days make me want warm and indulgent comfort foods like meatloaf, stews, and apple pies. Which, okay, sound yummy. Score one for daylight losing time.

NaBloPoMo

So for some reason, I thought it would be a bright idea to join National Blog Posting Month, which, if the title wasn't clear enough, is a challenge to post every day for the month of November. It's sad when you wake up at 2:30am on November 1st panicked about managing to get your first post finished in time. Just wait until I'm right in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner and I feel compelled to write about the consistency of the stuffing or the inanity of napkin rings.

Which brings me to the more significant question: how am I really supposed to engage readers for an entire month when I'm not even sure what I'm doing in the first place? I mean, I started this blog over a year ago with a temporary title that somehow managed to take up permanent residence.

But I suppose that's the heart of the blog. I'm always walking lines, drifting from one side to another. I'm a stay-at-home mom to two small but demanding children, and also an intelligent young woman and writer. I'm into balanced nutrition and exercise, and also into burgers and fries and nightly desserts. I try to treat issues holistically, and also reach for Tylenol the minute the kids sprout a fever.

So you find a little bit of everything here. I won't say that I don't use these pages to sometimes record cute things the kids do or the insanity of my daily life, but mostly I try to work out what that life is, the one that never really settles into definition. It's a bit scary, drifting, and this blog gives me the chance to work that fear into something liberating.

Okay, so that's about it. I think. Maybe? Speaking of line-walking...