Rainbow Breathing Dragons

Faceplant stunts and baby bumps

2012-02-08T12:49:00.000-08:00

I have insecurity issues about my kids bike riding skills. I mean, they can scale the side of a cliff, identify eight different varieties of snake, and lose their shoes at the top of a tree somewhere, but bike riding? Not so great a skill around here. Charlie just flat out hates to pedal, I have to bribe him with his gummy multivitamin just to make sure he can still do it. And Jamie learned how to ride a bike last year, but since it's about as safe around here as wind surfing on Mars...he can't really do it without my supervision. Nothing is flat, there are rocks and crevices everywhere, the only good part is there are no busy streets or cars to worry about. Guiltily though, I haven't taken the time to help tackle the all terrain with him as much as I should.

The weather has conspired against me though. Southern California is locked in one of those La Nina years where it never rains, and is 75 and gorgeous every day. (except on the days where the devil gets mad and tears everything apart with high winds). Such a nice life...until the wildfires sweep through in 8 months... but we won't talk about that.

Consequently though, the nice whether has Jamie begging me outside to go bike riding with him, every single day. He doesn't really need my help...except to keep him from dying. So I jog alongside of him while he pedals happily around two or three acres like it's merely a walk around the living room. I should be grateful for the exercise. Considering the amount of food I'm putting away these days, it's probably solely Jamie's fault I don't weigh an extra hundred pounds. (although to be fair, Charlie does his fair share of keeping me active). Jamie's not terribly good at braking yet, and he's still in that stage where he thinks you have to pedal all the time. So even when he's careening down the driveway with his pregnant momma huffing and puffing distantly behind him. He's still pedaling with all his might while simultaneously bleating like a baby goat "MOMMMM helLLP! I'm going TOO FAST. I'M GOING TO DIE."

"Stop PEDALING! AND USE YOUR BRAKES"

"I WANT TO DIE." Translation, 'I forgot how to brake'.

This is both why I do an don't freak out (very often) about where we live. Jamie is not the dangerous sort. He does lots of things that might freak other people out, but he is a fully in control kind of kid. Even on the rare occasion he's not in control (like careening madly down a hill), he'd rather pretend he is. In this instance however, I had visions of him flying off the hill and getting an impressive amount of air... something that wouldn't be terribly fun to land. So I ran like a mad woman after him, yelling at him to steer into a bush.

He did. Which promptly sent him over the handle bars where he landed spread eagle in a bush that swallowed him whole like Jonah and the whale. Typical boy though, he crawled out, climbed back on his bike and said "lets do that again." Meanwhile I'm holding my side with a evil braxton hicks and mentally lecturing Robbie to stay put and wait his turn. Please.

Charlie's drama lately, has been more tooth related. He normally is a champ at the dentist and doctor. In fact they do more on his teeth than any other three year old because he begs them. Normally they have a five minute teeth cleaning for three year olds, but Charlie will happily wear sunglasses and watch Nemo on the ceiling while they pick and clean away. I found out the hard way this is only because Jamie sets the bar high, and Charlie follows suit. I ended up at the dentist alone with Charlie who had four cavities to fill, and Charlie just flat out refused. Refused to stand on the scale to see how much sedation medicine he needed. Refused to eat the applesauce his medicine was in. Refused to let anyone touch him. I bribed, and ordered, and cajoled and begged, and finally the promise of a happy meal worked, and off he reluctantly went. Medicine doesn't work that well on him though (much like his older brother). The twilight sedation wore off in half the amount of time they were expecting it to, and they only got halfway done. Halfway done. They had to be joking. I barely got him in the first time, they were kidding themselves if they thought I could get him to go in again. Our options were either, get him back in and cooperating, or put him under general anesthesia. I had a good long heart to heart with Charlie about the rising cost of college education and how much general anesthesia would cost us (peppered with a liberal hint that maybe he should consider becoming an anesthesiologist when he grows up). But Charlie and I did not see eye to eye. "Not covered by insurance" was not an impressive enough reason to go anywhere near a dentist ever again (and we go to a really awesome-non scary pediatric dentist).

I was so desperate, I took him to the toy aisle and let him pick anything he wanted (which he would get after he had the rest of his cavities filled). He picked Woody, who waited patiently for him in the waiting room like the good sheriff he is. I don't know if it was the presence of Woody...or his magic older brother Jamie. But Charlie trotted back to the procedure room like a patient martyr and survived his oral sedation, laughing gas, and local anesthetic like a champ. He is not a very gracious person coming out of sedation though. More like a hungry bear coming out of hibernation. All growls, and scowls and thrashing around the couch when his pillow didn't behave properly.

I keep catching myself wondering how I'm going to take care of a baby. My kids are "easy" now. They can eat, pee and sleep without any help, but yet they still manage to keep me running after them at breakneck speed. I'm ok with Robbie staying put for awhile, but Jamie can't wait until he's here. He patted my belly this morning and told me quite honestly "You look funny mommy. Like you have a food belly, but only cuter because I know there's a baby in there." "Thanks honey, I like your tummy too.

Baby penises and super powers

2012-01-25T10:21:00.000-08:00

Some people might have a hard time remembering to date things with '2012' instead of '2011', but I am so far ahead of the game this year, I've already accidentally written '2013'. If I were really on the ball, I would have made sure it wasn't on doctor office paperwork and insurance information, but right now my brain only works in fits and sputters. There's no gold star though for being one year ahead. It just means when you make mistakes, insurance companies (which are already impossible to work with) become gaping black holes of evil... sucking all your money and sanity.

What I'm lacking these days in brain power, I make up in super power. Whenever I am pregnant, time speeds up to near hyper-jump speed. I feel like yesterday I found out I was pregnant, I blinked, and now I'm halfway done, I'll blink again and the baby will be here. I won't have his crib ready, or his nursery set up. His cloth diapers won't coordinate with his clothes, and I will be digging desperately through the garage for the boppy, swing, and all important breast pump. Everyone keeps telling me, all you need is diapers and a few onesies...and after all I have two other boys, it's not like I don't have eight rubbermaid bins full of boy stuff.

But to me it's like training for a race. You run your first 5k and you are impressed you even finished. But then you think maybe a 10 k would be fun. Then you find new running shoes. Then you start thinking silly things like improving your time, and running faster than the big hairy guy with the neon shirt and beeping pedometer. Every time you run a race you want to improve.

Blame my competitive first-born-ness, but to me, pregnancy is like the ultimate sporting event. It's like a marathon that takes nine months to cross the finish line. I've finished twice now, and this time I want everything to be perfect. Delusional? Probably. I'll add OCD to my list of pregnancy symptoms.

Jamie prayed for two years for a baby...a sister, so when he found out a new sibling was en route, he naturally assumed it was a girl. After all, why would God only answer half his prayer? That's just silly. If He's going to go through the trouble of listening to a 6 year old at all, God might as well answer the whole thing. Needless to say, "unhappy" is too mild of a word for his reaction when he found out the baby in mom's tummy was a boy. It wasn't that he was devastated, it was more like opening a package from Amazon and realizing they sent you the wrong thing. You very matter-of-factly send it back and ask for the correct one.

It's taken months for him to grapple with the idea of having another boy in the family, but he finally stopped scowling whenever anyone mentioned Robbie, and he started talking to my belly every now and then with a "hey, I got here first, just so you know". In the end, logic always prevails. I wasn't sure what brought about the change of heart until I overheard him tell Charlie. "We're having a baby brother because God ran out of baginas up in heaven and He only had penises left."

So there you go. This apparently is the reason I'm embroidering owls onto hand made baby rompers instead of flowers onto little dresses. :-)

The Double Team

2011-12-13T18:14:00.000-08:00

Nights like last night make having another baby seem utterly foolish, in a take-your-tongue-and-stretch-it-over-your head kind of way.

Jamie has that zombie rattle cough that seems to be going around lately. I think he caught it from a preemie friend of ours, who definitely isn't big enough to handle being a zombie. He's in the hospital with it. Every time I hear my healthy six year old struggle with the congestion in his lungs, I worry and pray for the tiny non-zombie doing the same thing over at Children's hospital. I'm so glad we didn't give it to him...that would make me feel even more like a zombie mom than I already do.

Charlie isn't a fan of zombie brothers and their incessant hacking. Last night was a race to see who could get to mom and dad's bed first. Jamie slept on our floor so he wouldn't bother Charlie in their bedroom, but then Charlie wanted in on the fun too (it was 1am when he decided to pull the "this isn't fair" routine, does he have sibling radar?), so then we tried to put him back in his own bed. That went over about as well as you would expect a second-born to react to being left out. Charlie screamed bloody murder for over an hour, and was inconsolable. Then he was complaining of his legs hurting. Growing pains? So we massaged his legs and sang to him. He finally gave up and went to sleep around 3:15am... approx 45 minutes before Jim had to get up for work. What in the world would you do with a newborn in the midst of that sort of midnight circus?

I love snuggling with my boys in the morning. They like to slip into bed with me after their daddy leaves to work. Sometimes they tell me stories, or whisper secrets. Sometimes we sing songs or pray. Sometimes they drag me out of bed for food...and sometimes they bring the food to me and I prop open an eyeball to find cheerios raining down on my sheets.

But lately it's become a competition. Their morning ritual has started happening at 5 am, then 4 am, then 3 am, now 2 am... We've got two stubborn children fighting over blankets, mattress real-estate and pillow privileges. Not cool. I don't know if it's because Jamie was sick, or if this is the new "normal", but it's stopping tonight. I wish they could just enjoy the morning tradition without ruining the whole thing. That or we need a bigger bed.

Charlie got all his curls chopped off. *sniff sniff* I'm trying to be ok with it, but I miss the old mop.

I had forgotten...

2011-12-01T08:41:00.000-08:00

I had forgotten that Star Tours at Disneyland made me toss my cookies when I was a child.

I was reminded of this insignificant memory when I took my kids to the science center yesterday for one of those "dome" Imax experiences. My kids (who can't sit still through even their favorite episode of Mickey Mouses) were enthralled. I on the other hand, made several frantic trips to the bathroom. All that videography of zooming over mountain tops and running through forests made me realize chasing boys around a park is much easier than I'd previously been giving it credit. At least your feet are firmly planted on the ground.

And then all those mind tricks in the space center. You know, the ones where you sit in a chair, and look in a mirror and it appears like you're floating upside down or something. The scientific explanation on the dutiful placard is lost as my kids race to see what crazy thing the next exhibit will do. They're like a dog team, exuberantly dragging their poor, broken sled along with them. For me it was a game to see how many optical illusions my body can handle before my three month long bout of food poisoning sends me frantically looking for the closest food repository station again.

Jamie calls his new sibling "chicken nugget". Very confusing when he tells the cashier "my mom throws up all the time because of the chicken nugget." He points and grins, while the cashier looks at me like I'm a walking billboard against eating McDonalds. Whatever the case, it's better than when Jamie didn't know and was only telling everyone "my mom throws up all the time." And I got the "Oh honey, here's a pamphlet on eating disorders."

When people ask if we are going to find out if it's a boy or a girl...we laugh. We want to know so badly, I think both of us are in denial we even have a baby until it has a name. Our big 20 week "anatomy ultrasound" is January 10th. But Jim keeps sending me ultrasound deals that I've already secretly researched myself. Has anyone tried those? Are they accurate? I'm not sure I will believe anyone but a doctor.

Jim is hoping for a girl, Jamie is positive it's a girl, and I'm pretty sure it's a boy. I keep having dreams that it's a boy and I find myself almost buying cloth diapers in boy colors before I remember to stop myself.

And that's the big news in the Ramsey household. I technically hit the second trimester last Saturday, but I still don't feel one whit pregnant. Just crazy.

The soul sucking vortex that is school

2011-10-30T17:58:00.000-07:00

I caved. Sometimes the way you did things as a kid is just the way you have to do it as an adult. I have resisted buying Sing Spell Read and Write to get Jamie to like reading, but I finally went ahead and bought it. (there's a treasure chest and a race track. And I loved it as a child!) He likes curling up and looking at books, but if you ask him to sound out a word, it's like a cute stroller you were pushing turning into a semi truck you have to drag across sand. I hope (God please) that the songs and games in Sing Spell Read and Write will do the trick.

Being a second generation homeschooler has some distinct disadvantages. Or maybe my problem is that childhood is still too fresh in my mind. I cannot make my children do Saxon Math when it was just yesterday I was poking myself with a safety pin and swearing on my mother's, uncle's grave I would never put my children though that kind of insidious torture.

Speaking of torture. I wish I could go back to my 15 year old self and tell her... Being a parent is waaaay worse than being a kid. I'll even go so far as to say infancy and toddler-hood with all it's sleepless nights and temper tantrums, are still far easier than mothering school aged children. If parenting is like a graph...the more dependent your child is, the lower the stakes are, the more independent they are the higher the stakes are. So a three month old requires almost constant, around the clock care, but they can't sell drugs or get anyone pregnant. My six year old can make himself breakfast, feed the dog, and brush his own teeth, but he can also be bullied on the playground or flat out refuse to read and write.

Charlie on the other hand does the bullying on the playground. He's a tiny little chap, and though he's spent a good three years on this planet now, he's only about the size of a sturdy 18 month old. You'd think with his snuggling ways and his small huggable-ness, he'd have a hard time keeping up. Instead, I have to tell kids to take a ticket and line up to list their grievances against Charlie. The best one recently came from a seven year old. "That kid (points to Charlie) looked at me with a mean face." I apologized profusely and gave my child a stern talking to, but if he can already terrorize his older peers with a mere glance, then I can't wait to see what he could do on the basketball court or hockey rink. Last time I checked you couldn't get fouled for just looking mean. Charlie also thinks he knows how to read, but no one can convince him that How Droofus the Dragon Lost His Head isn't about flying motorcycles... or that he's reading it upside down.

If I can stop completely freaking out about whether Jamie should be reading better...whether Charlie should be better at counting now or not. Or wondering, when are they supposed to be able to tie their own shoes again? What if they don't wear shoes with ties? What if Charlie never ever stops pitching a fit over using a fork?

...then I'm really enjoying this stage. Ha. No really.

Lists and Syndromes

2011-09-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

My children are suffering from a serious case of grandparents-syndrome.   I used to catch it as a child myself, so I suppose it's hereditary, common to all Adam and Eve's children.   Charlie spent the six days I was in Ohio, turning into an insufferably spoiled child.   He and Jamie both think the magic of the sun has been transferred into their veins, and the universe has deviated its orbit to now revolve around them. I did not get the memo.

On top of that, Charlie has become a koala bear, clinging to me with feats of defiance against gravity, lest I disappear into the night again. ... a cranky koala bear because he hasn't been sleeping or eating terribly well. ...a adolecent, cranky, koala bear because he suddenly has an attitude like a 16 year old girl. Last week it felt like he could barely string two sentences together, and this morning he put his hands on his hips, with a glare and said "I don't think you're a very nice person anymore. You get me my breakfast now or I won't be friends with you."

Flabbergasted. This stage will have a parent-induced short life span.

Random things I want to remember about this year thus far.

1) We paid Jamie to potty train Charlie.
2) Jamie gave up training wheels.
3) Charlie beat up an eight year old.
4) Jamie lost his first tooth.
5) Charlie started preschool
6) Jamie started First Grade

Thursday night the power went out...everywhere in San Diego. From the coast to Arizona.   It was like the zombie apocalypse without any zombies (although Jim was prepared just in case).    Normally we have plenty of food but a messy house, but the one day of the year I have no food and a spotless house...the zombie-less apocalypse happens. We went out to grab a bite to eat and a few groceries (because we didn't know how widespread the power outage was) and even walmart was closed. There wasn't a single gas station open in the county. The freeway was peppered with fuel-less vehicles on the side of the road. We came back home to our disinfected, foodless house and Jim pointed out, we could live on rabbit stew indefinitely.   Truly, between the chickens, garden and well, we could weather emergencies quite well.   Sure, we'd have to go to bed every night at dusk because locating batteries and flashlights is something of a problem area for us, but nobody can complain about being well rested and well fed.

I didn't sleep well, but it wasn't for lack of air conditioning, but rather the war I waged against black widows.   My natural sense of eyesight is so poor, I've learned to trust my children explicitly when they say something like "snake!" or "spider!".   They're straightforward little kidlets without the tendency to "cry wolf", but one of these days the joke will be on me when I jump three feet for an invisible rattlesnake. So when I tried to wash Charlie's hands in the middle of the night and he kept twisting his legs around me trying to avoid being put down, saying "scary spider mamma...bad spider" I knew it was a black widow.    That's the third time this month, that Charlie has seen and avoided a black widow directly in his path. It freaked me out so bad, I went on a black widow hunt and killed two more.   Unbelievable.   No wonder I couldn't go back to sleep.

Just in case there are a few people left out there who haven't been scared away from ever visiting me. I got stung by a scorpion in my kitchen while Julie was here.

Between that and the black widows, I sort of hop, gasp and dance through my house at night.

2011-09-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhh....sometimes I wish for the good old days where my only concern was keeping Jamie alive.    When he popped into this world unexpectedly, I got an unexpected dose of reality: Keeping him as a living and breathing homosapien on this planet is hard work.

Nothing's really changed on that front except now instead of I.V's and blood transfusions, it's paragliding with a paper bag off a cliff and trying to cut up lemons with forbidden kitchen knives (attempt number two today at homemade lemonade).

But....

On top of all of that, (which I still maintain is a full time job) he now has to do things like read and write, start math, and go to school. Suddenly zero to five years old seems like it was so easy.   I spent thirty minutes yesterday trying to stay calm, practicing my breathing like I was in a LaMaze class, while Jamie struggled to read things that were easy for him to read at the end of last year.   The letter U is apparently incomprehensible to him, but he can talk about epithelial tissue all day.    He can barely write his name (a prewriting worksheet is a rare form of torture unless it's disguised as a maze), but he can draw you a disgustingly detailed picture of the e.coli bacterium ("google images+germs" is his friend).

There are so many things about him that I don't understand. To quote an Anne book, he's nothing like my personality, and I have at least a dozen of them.   When I was a kid, I had to prop my sleepy eyeballs up with spoons in the morning, while I surreptitiously shoveled my oatmeal down the garbage disposal. I could barely remember my own name before 10am. Jamie this morning made his own breakfast and had three lessons of math done, while I was still attempting to wake up.   Since it was before 10am, I couldn't figure out how he successfully completed math lessons he had no instructions for, until he proudly showed me the teacher's manual he'd gotten out of the bookshelf and meticulously copied all the correct answers from.    I was surely not prepared to give the "cheating talk" this morning, and like Amelia Bedelia, I don't think he really got it either. He was rather proud of himself.

Yesterday I was so depressed by his abysmal reading and writing capability, Jamie climbed into my lap and asked me what was wrong.   Since my Ohio trip to Nona's funeral, I've turned over a new leaf and am trying to be uber encouraging like she was. I told Jamie that unless he stopped jabbering about connective tissue, and improved his handwriting, he was going to end up a doctor. He must have taken it to heart, because at the moment, he's got magazines tied up all over Charlie as splints for all of Charlie's broken bones.    Charlie is wailing that he doesn't have any broken bones, but Jamie's not listening. He tried to doctor the dog, but Barnabas is smarter (and runs faster than Charlie).   We all think Jamie's bedside manner could maybe improve, he's a little too gleeful.
Maybe more writing worksheets will help.

Big Shoes

2011-08-24T21:16:00.000-07:00

Of all the people one should be nervous to meet, normally tiny little Italian women aren't one of them. And yet ten years ago, when Jim took me home to Ohio to meet his family, it was his Nona he talked the most about. Nona would have the final say on whether or not I was accepted in the family. The man I loved, loved his grandmother, and I sure hoped his grandmother would love me. Or at least like me. Or at least... you know... let me kiss the feet of her favorite grandson.

Then I met Nona. Her arms wrapped around me with an "amore baci bella" and she hung on like she was never going to let go. Like she was single handedly going to move heaven and earth to take care of me. She made me feel like her favorite grandaughter and I wasn't even her grandaughter...yet. Somewhere in there I figured out she had 21 favorite grandchildren. She added me to the mix and made me feel like a celebrity. Knowing her made me feel like I knew a celebrity.

She taught me how to make homemade pasta and gnocci, and was the first person to tell me you could pour sauce over polenta or risotto. She danced, sung, cooked and told stories like it was bursting out of her and she could do it forever.

...and I'm sure she's dancing now. In heaven. She slipped between the halls of earth and eternity in the wee hours of this morning. And while she would assure me vehemently that she was ready to meet her savior, I can't help but feel robbed and desolate. There's an aching hole in my heart that matches the bigger one in my husbands heart.

Jamie is worried she's going to have all the fun in heaven without him, and he'd like to hurry up and get there so he can play with her. I hope no one listens to that request.

He also wants to know if she's having dinner with the tooth fairy. He lost his first tooth, and surely Nona has the inside scoop on what mysteriously happened to his tooth.

He wishes she'd come back and give him his tooth back. I selfishly wish she would too.

Cardboard Robots

2011-06-09T15:14:00.000-07:00

Did you know...

That postal workers are trained in creativity-humor-inducing-mechanics? I am working on getting a passport for Jamie and I've discovered they've either got realistic looking robots with cardboard innards working at post offices these days, or they have highly trained specialists that guarantee you'll either laugh, go crazy, or become an alcoholic.

"I'd like to set up an appt for a passport."

"We offer passport appt's 9:45-11:00"

"I'm assuming that's a.m.?" *chuckle....chuckle (poor attempt at humor)*

"We offer passport appt's 9:45-11:00"

"Do you offer appts after work or on Saturdays by any chance?"

"We offer passport appt's 9:45-11:00"

"Do you know of any other place I could get a passport appt with longer hours?"

"We offer passport appt's 9:45-11:00"

"Hello? Is this a recording?"

"We offer passport appt's 9:45-11:00"

"I see. hmm... I'm traveling to Batidalunga, which I'm sure you know is a planet in the Ruditary solar system, their president needs me to clip his toenails, and I'm sure you understand...it's imperative I get a passport appointment."

"We offer passport appt's 9:45-11:00"

"I know I sound like a human, but actually I'm a highly trained Chimpanzee with an intelligence quotient that is illegal on nine worlds. Do I still need to get a passport?"

"We offer passport appt's 9:45-11:00"

"Thank you so much for your help, it's been great chatting with you, if I need anything else, I promise I'll bash my head in with a baseball bat first."

***

See? It's genius. I would never have even thought of Batidalunga prior to making that phone call, but now, after calling every post office in the area, I can tell you Batidalunga's national holidays, how they paint their road signs, and what the squirrels there eat for breakfast. Batidalunga post offices are always happy to help you get your passports, in fact, in Batidalunga they send you your passport for free along with a box of cheezits.
Thankfully, there is one post office in the good U.S.A. that accepts passport applications until 3pm. Three in the afternoon! The sacrifice that must involve, it makes me tear up a little.

Oh...but psyche

They wait until you get there before they tell you that's not true.
But no worries, that's just part of their highly lauded humor training exercises. Whether it's training for them to keep a straight face while they tell you this, or whether it's to test your ability to laugh and roll with the punches, I'm not sure. Probably both. More effective that way.

Considering Jamie rent his clothing, wore sackcloth and ashes, and wailed "I'll never get to see my Grandma and Grandpa again... Why won't that mean mean man give me a passport?" I'm pretty sure he failed the test miserably. We'll give it another go as soon as I find another place.

Dragon Pizza and The disappearance of Charlie

2011-05-22T18:36:00.000-07:00

I thought Jamie was my stubborn child. Now I'm eating my words. I guess all two year olds are conniving, iron willed little tornadoes of furiousity? We managed to clear out the church cry room. You know...the place where noisy little kids are allowed. Either every other child in there was overly angelic, or Charlie really is that bad. Neither one is very comforting to me. I'm pretty sure the thought forefront on everyone's mind was "Supernanny/Nanny 911 candidate."

I feel like I need to turn in my resignation as his mom, or wear a sign on my head that says "I really do discipline this child."

I haven't figured out how to outmaneuver a kid who throws a fit intentionally so he will get punished. i.e. If he wants to leave the grocery store, he throws a tantrum. He knows he'll get in trouble, but getting in trouble is better than doing something he doesn't want to do.
If he's not allowed to get out of time out until he changes his attitude, then he just pretends he likes sitting there. There's almost no such thing as a punishment where he loses. At least not yet. We're still working on it.

He woke up at three in the morning and demanded cereal and mickey mouse with all the imperialism of an emperor. When that didn't work out so well for him, he stubbornly refused to sleep the rest of the night. Where does he get the will power to hang on that long? I finally "won" that battle, just as Jim's alarm went off and he and Jamie got up for the day.

I'd say how I love getting only three hours of sleep, but truthfully, I don't have room to complain. Normally, they both sleep fine. I'm pretty sure even with the evil spawn that took my sweet baby's place, my life is pretty fun. We get up, we eat strawberry pancakes, and spend the rest of the day either building giant cities out of playmobil, legos and lincoln logs, or we play Jamie's new favorite game. Dragon Pizzeria. Every now and then you stumble across a real gem at the library, and this book is our current favorite. Two dragons who make pizza and deliver it to fairy tale people? The possibilities are endless. Jamie makes the pizza, Charlie delivers it, and together they think up every possible pizza to character combination you can think of. Did you know Frosty the snowman likes ice cream pizza? Lemon drop pizza for Dumbledore, applewitch pizza for Aslan and melon pizza for Appa. The storms we encounter getting from Narnia to Hogwarts are insane. My kids can't carry a tune in a bucket, but they make good sound effects. Probably because they aren't children with human mouths and vocal chords. They're actually dragons. So they say.

Maybe that's why I'm having such a hard time with Charlie. Apparently I need to pick up Dragon Parenting for Dummies.

The post in which life turns out better than I thought

2011-01-31T09:28:00.000-08:00

Love is a tricky thing. But when you're a teenager, you feel like an expert.

8 years ago today, Jim asked me to marry him. I'd never been so sure of anything in my life. When we went through premarital counseling, Jim's pastor told us that even though we couldn't imagine ourselves more in love, and we wondered how we could love each other more than we did... give it another day, somehow you discover you love each other just a little bit more.

True words.

We had a difficult relationship. Strict parents, with different ideas on how things should be done. He lived in Ohio, I lived in California. We both got semi kicked out of college, where we had school faculty trying to forbid or destroy our relationship. Lies, separation, lots of rules. We used to fantasize about how amazing it would be to just lay intertwined and watch a movie. How awesome it would be to talk for hours without someone telling us it was inappropriate. Living under a bridge somewhere, sounded like a happy ever after.

Everyone told us that marriage was hard work, but I secretly thought that marriage sounded a whole lot better than whatever the heck you could call our strange dating experience.

I know eight years isn't a lot of time, but so far I've been right. Marriage is so so so much easier... and amazing... and romantic. Everything I thought it would be. We still cling to each other and think, we belong to each other. And it gives us shivers.

I had absolutely no idea what I was doing at 19 (still don't), but somehow I got the perfect person for life.

Although clearly I knew nothing about exposure or white balance back then.

Pill Pinching Sky Jumpers

2010-12-23T07:50:00.000-08:00

When you've never been in a car accident before... a four car pileup with police and ambulance seems like a big deal. But a week on the other side of it and its barely a blip on the Christmas madness radar. Jim and I both flinch and hold adrenalin contests every time there's so much as a hint of a vehicle behaving abnormally on the freeway, but considering everyone escaped with their life and their health intact... I'm pretty sure that's cause for sheer gratitude.

I wouldn't go so far to say we're into near death experiences around here, but lately it does seem Charlie has a penchant for trouble. Like a cat who can climb a tree, but can't get down. He gets himself onto fridges, cupboards, garage shelves, boulders and trees, but then instead of being the type of kid who's brave and daring. He starts yowling for help after instantly concluding he's about to plunge to an early demise. Funny thing is, it didn't strike him as dangerous to peer over the edge of our hill and then just leap off. It seems like going Princess Bride style all the way down our hill, would be a more appropriate escapade for Charlie to freak out about, but no, that seemed like a good idea to him. I sustained more damage plunging after him in full emergency-mom mode than he did. Humbug.

There was also a brief stint where Charlie tried out his skills as a prescription pill napper. A frenzied call to Poison Control and I learned that alzheimer medication, thyroid and calcium is not a dangerous combination for a two year old to take. Who knew. I'm sure The Children's Hospital is grateful to have one less kid in its ER this season.

Jamie and Charlie were given swords and candy last night after dinner. Weapons and Sugar. Baboons with firecrackers and bullhorns could not have been louder or wrecked more havoc. They slept with their swords like true warriors. After all, you never know when you might need a foam and plastic weapon to call down wrath from heaven.

Now we're off to build an epic gingerbread castle. May I be granted grace and patience.

Bye bye binkie

2010-11-15T10:12:00.000-08:00

Trip to the dentist today revealed Charlie's teeth and bite are officially taking a hit from the pacifier. Booo...

Never could get Charlie to call it his binkie or any other such cute name. He calls it his "wire". Appropriate I think, considering it's attached to him at all times (if he has his say in the matter).

I know he'll survive, but I'm not sure I will. This was the last remnant of babyhood he had left.

Trafficking Nail Polish Remover

2010-11-11T16:41:00.000-08:00

There have been days in my life where everything went wrong, I ran out of gas, burned a hole in my favorite shirt, spent three hours driving somewhere only to find it closed... whatever. Then I became a mom, and almost every day is like that.

Last night Jamie got up at 1:30 with a splinter in his foot that I misdiagnosed and paid for by 5 am. Charlie kept throwing his covers on the floor only to wake up a shivering little mass of tears. I'm so good at navigating the space between my bedroom and theirs that I can do it without putting on my glasses or turning on any lights...that is unless the dog decides to plant himself somewhere in the middle, in which case the floor gets a german shepherd/blind girl sandwich. The funny thing is, almost every night is like that. Charlie sleepwalks into a closet door... Jamie wakes up thirsty (and by the sound of it, will die any moment of dehydration)... Jamie is convinced we're all going to eat breakfast without him... Jamie is convinced he can't sleep without the dog... I'm pretty sure it's been a good 5.5 years since I last slept through the night.

But it's not that motherhood is difficult and exhausting, it's more like your body morphs and adjusts and you have loftier goals. Because all those bad days? Really not that bad. I try to think of it like a CEO. If a pizza delivery kid had to run Google for a day, it would probably be the worst day in his life, at the very least it would be the most challenging day of his life. But if you're a real CEO, then you wanted that job, it's what you'd been working towards your whole life. So all those lives you have the capability of ruining? All the Stress? All that money you have to answer for? It's really just your new normal.

So when I got caught shoplifting at Target for stealing finger nail polish remover, I reminded myself it was not an unusual day. This was my idea of fun. I could have been on the phone like Jim, talking to cranky doctors and working out contracts. Instead I was profusely apologizing to a Target employee for my son who had tried to be helpful by bagging up our purchases...prematurely. Curses on reusable shopping bags. They sit in shopping carts tempting small fingers to fill them. I walked away from the experience, only to discover two more (very small) unpaid items in my bags, which I then had to confess and pay for. I got in even bigger trouble the second time, and they certainly didn't congratulate me on my responsible values.

Today I brought home a forty dollar bottle of champagne I did not want, but yet somehow bought anyway. I'm not sure what happened. Costco is one of those places with checkout counters where you go one way and your cart goes the other way. Not a good situation when you have two tap dancing monkeys in the cart. They escaped, I of course was a whole counter away (not close enough to enact a successful death stare), and acrobatics ensued. There was more employee angst, and suddenly I ended up at my car with a receipt for way more than I thought I'd spent. Some people would never make a mistake like that, they probably have a policy against signing receipts without looking at them. However I am not one of those people.

Which brings me to supermoms. They don't exist. Everyone complains bitterly about the hapless supermom, but it's so far past cliche these days it needs to be stricken from the English language. Supermom is made of glass and stuffed with straw. We only set her up when we want to rant about someone but can't name names. We do it (I think) to make ourselves feel better, which is what I'm doing now. I just compared my life to a CEO, and yet I've stooped so far below what a good mom should be, I don't even know what she looks like anymore.

But I did buy an unopened Psalty record today at the thriftstore for a dollar. That makes me happy. It makes Jamie and Charlie happy too. It's been a long time since I rocked out to "Arky, Arky".

Oh, and I lost Charlie somewhere in a McDonalds playplace. Those twisty, plastic maze things swallow children whole.

The year of the bees...

2010-11-03T14:57:00.000-07:00

So many things I want to write down to remember. Like Jamie can read now, Charlie has finally made it out of the zero percentile for height and he says "peep-a-peet" for "trick-or-treat". Jamie did not inherit my sense of direction, as he quite regularly tells me things like "are we going to take the 15 or the 125 to Great Grandma's house?", he also works as a mini navigation system if I'm off in la la land. I get annoyed because driving used to be the only time I could think for a few minutes without being interrupted, but those days are gone.

Mostly though, this has been the year of the bees. If bugs were chess pieces. Spiders would be rooks because they can only move laterally. House flies and ants would be pawns and bees would be the queen, because they move every which direction and have an uncanny ability to check mate. Last year we had whole nests of bees and I lived in holy fear they would sting us...of course, we never got stung. This year there is nary a bee around. A few in the garden, a few flying here and there but nothing out of the ordinary. My poor children however, have had the worst luck. Jamie got stung in the foot, and it swelled up so bad it looked like someone blew up a latex glove and painted it purpley red. Last week he was playing outside and a bee flew up his boxers and stung him right in the nether regions. I sort of panicked, not knowing if private parts needed different treatment for stings than other areas, so I called his ped. Turns out abnormal swelling and itching are the biggest symptoms of a sting in that area. All week I've had to explain to concerned looking parents that Jamie really isn't doing what it looked like he was doing. Thankfully everyone was more than understanding and it healed up just in time for Charlie to get stung in the neck on Monday. It looked like a jungle native nailed him with a poison dart to the carotid artery. Such a pleasant picture for one's baby. It got him out of his scheduled immunizations that day though, so I guess there was a silver lining from Charlie's perspective. I sympathize with his pain, as I personally would rather take a whole platter of vaccinations over a bee sting.

I almost feel like banning the outdoors as I'm pretty sure we must have blinking signs over our heads saying "sting me...sting me.". Although yesterday I caught Charlie trying to catch a bee with his bare hand, so that may have something to do with it as well. Our trusty dog is an ever present help in times of trouble as Barnabas views bees as a tasty delicacy. He snaps them right out of the air and eats them with grace and panache. I need to clone him though, as he has a hard time being near all three of us at the same time.

I took Charlie's two year old portraits finally. You'd never guess it was the same location as Jamie's. Amazing how the landscape can change so fast. Charlie's such a funny looking little chap. I tell Jim he has as many moods as a pms'ing girl...until I'm actually around a pms'ing girl and then it's manifestly obvious he isn't nearly as bad as I think he is.

Zach The Horse

2010-10-07T09:42:00.000-07:00

He was a part of my childhood, a constant presence that followed me through to adulthood. I nearly accidentally killed him in 2005, but old age finally caught up with him and the sweetest horse that ever lived, died yesterday.

(Hannah and Zach in Spring 2004)

He was a great big, chestnut gelding, with a gigantic head and an even bigger heart. Despite the fact that he was easily the most laid back horse on this hill, he maintained such respect and genteelness, he was at the top of the herd's pecking order (second only to Kayla who is neither nice nor sweet). Kids learned to ride on him (including myself), and while he would never in a million years be anything but gentle, he stubbornly ignored all commands until you learned to sit firmly in the saddle and issue them correctly. The best part was, that unlike most mellow horses, he still had that spark of personality in his eye and he could run like the wind out on the trail.

Once, Jim and everyone else on the hill was out of town. I was home alone with the infant Jamie, it was a foggy, dark night and someone knocked at my door. I cautiously asked who was there, got no reply and after commanding my beating heart to calm down, I opened the door to...nobody. Thinking I had been hearing things, I locked the door and turned the TV back on. This time there was a knock at my kitchen window. Again, I gave a quivering "Hello??" before sticking my head out the window and seeing...nothing. By the time the third knock came, I was beyond all semblance of calm or brave. I got the shotgun out from under the bed, despite having no idea how to load it or even where the shells were (don't judge me). I figured if worse came to worse, it was also the closest thing to a club I had in the house.

Sure enough, another knock came at the front door, and this time I was crouched and ready for the sinister intruder. I threw open the door, empty shotgun at the ready, and into my living room swung the biggest horse head you've ever seen. Seems someone (me probably) forgot to lock the corral gate, and Zach was snacking his way in circles around my house.

Good thing I don't know how to load a shotgun.

We miss you Zach, and I'm sad my kids won't get to grow up riding you.

Catch A Falling Star With Air Pirates

2010-10-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

It's a good thing mom's don't have quarterly reviews, or managers overseeing their projects...because I'd be fired in a hot second. I'm pretty sure most people don't howl like a coyote when their son's carseat malfunctions and has to be taken out of the car, the straps all redone and the carseat put back. In my defense, installing a carseat correctly almost requires an engineering degree these days and if you're already late for work, it quickly becomes disastrous. So disastrous that my children have taken to admonishing their carseats before they climb into them. "Now be nice to mommy carseat, we don't like it when she yells."
Embarrassing.

Then there are days like yesterday where I look around in amazement and wonder how I won the mommyhood lottery, since I'm pretty sure there is nothing more fun than eating a picnic dinner, outside, during a thunderstorm, while discussing how air pirates manage to sail their airships around lightening. Epic. Since we're west coasters, we don't see much in the storm department around here. I celebrated by making beef stew, which we were dutifully trying to eat at the kitchen table when Jamie suggested raindrops would be so much better than his breath at cooling down his food. I couldn't fault his logic, so we packed up our dinner and headed outside. I'm sure you're not supposed to eat a picnic in a thunderstorm, since I really know nothing about lightening safety, but how can you resist the thrill of raindrops in your steamy soup while you laugh and get soaked, the ground rumbling beneath you as the sky sounds like it's being ripped apart? Later it was hot baths for everyone and snuggles on the couch while we worked through a stack of picture books and ate ice cream. Basically, my idea of a perfect day.

Jamie is at that age where he doesn't have a clear grasp on the difference between make believe and reality. Most of his playing involves some sort of dragon/harrypotter/airbending/moving castle mash up. Charlie is at an age where his vocabulary is just now blossoming into motor mouth, and while I only understand a fraction of what he says, he does say some things quite clearly. Like "pancakes", "Mom", "Dad" and "Barnabas"... it worried me though, because why doesn't he say "Jamie"? He has more aunts and uncles than most people have christmas lights, and those names he's got down pretty well too, but Jamie? Never crosses his lips. Jim finally figured it out when he went through all of our names with Charlie and then pointed to Jamie. "What's his name?"

"Aang"

Apparently Jamie has completely convinced his little brother to call him "Aang" from Avatar The Last Airbender. I should have picked up on it a long time ago, since Jamie introduces himself as Aang half the time, and at the playground it's not unusual to hear multiple kids calling for Aang. But I never caught on that when Charlie is yelling for Aang all day...he's really referring to Jamie. I figure Jamie must have exuded some powerful, big brother influence, because I cannot get Charlie to say Jamie at. all.
Frustrating.

I finally got around to taking "Aang's" five year old portraits the other day. Tried to do Charlie too, but that required a longer attention span from both my children and the sun.

The storm is gone today and the morning sunlight was reflecting so brightly off a little metal bowl in the front yard that Jamie looked out the window and gasped in delight. "Mom, a star fell into our front yard." Nothing could convince him he hadn't actually caught a falling star, and so the tiny metal bowl is tied to his waist. He won't let Charlie touch it, because it came from outer space.

Pediatricians And Sharks

2010-09-28T19:41:00.000-07:00

Our Pediatrician's office was spawned in the pits of hell. It was one of those things that slipped through in the mass confusion surrounding Jamie's birth. We hadn't picked a pediatrician yet, since we weren't expecting him for another couple of months, and consequently our insurance picked one for us. Trust me when I say...don't ever do that.

After five years of wanting to poke sharp things through the phone receiver every time I called and talked to Atilla the Hun, you'd have thought I'd have found a new pediatrician, but for some reason, fate thwarted me every time. I jumped at random strangers when they mentioned they loved their pediatrician, and have begged more offices in tears than I care to confess at the moment. But our kids have state insurance, and consequently I run into three problems. 1) Not very many Pediatricians accept it (not that I blame them) 2) If they do accept it, they're not accepting new patients (despite my attempts at bribing them with chocolate and tales of my children's angelic temperaments) or 3) I can't understand anyone in the office because they all speak Spanish (reason #327 I should have learned that language).

It didn't really matter too much because my kids are rarely sick. The only time the office from hades made me truly angry was when they gave Jamie the chicken pox vaccine after I specifically asked them not to. Most of the time though, they were just rude, bored and treated me like I was a teenage mother. Last time I was in there, I finally had it with the ramshackle, toyless blip in the universe. A joyless place where kids go in shrieking and come out screaming.
I got home, pulled out the PCP list and started googling every single name until I had amassed a list of reasonable sounding physicians. After much haggling with the insurance company, I finally managed to get a Dr. for my kids who both spoke English and was accepting new patients. Heaven!

Dr. Regina Mangine

I hadn't needed her services until this Sunday when Charlie came out of the church nursery with a bum hip. I hoped it would get better overnight, but of course it didn't, so off to the new doctor we went (with much fear and trepidation on my part).

I shouldn't have worried. The waiting room had toys (shocker) and books (oh the joy), and sharks! Real ones. They had a giant aquarium that rivaled the zoo in stature and exotic looking fish. My kids were so enthralled, it would have been worth the trip just for that. Charlie's hip on the other hand confounded everyone from MA's to Dr's. Something was definitely wrong with it, but no one could figure out what. They wrote me an order for an ultrasound and sent me home with instructions for ibuprofen and rest (yeah right). He's completely fine today, so perhaps he just pulled a muscle or something? It's hard to tell when they can't talk.

I'm kinda glad we went in though, if only so we could meet Dr. Mangine. She's young, sweet, smart and looks like she could be my sister. ;-) I feel like a huge weight has been taken off my shoulders.

Now I just have to get them to their well check ups.

In other news, the twins came home for the weekend, along with Becca/baby in the pod and Meagan.

We've missed all of them so much, there was much hurrah'ing done around here.

And the Felix Family was together for the first time in at least a year (but more like two, because Zach's wedding doesn't count).

Good times.

And Summer Is Over

2010-09-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

I'm laying on my stomach, on the living room floor as I write this, because my body was hijacked for use as an ambulance. Charlie is sitting on my back, giving life saving ministrations to an overly large, stuffed duck, while Jamie sits between my ankles and uses my injured big toe as a gear shift as he jams it into a lower gear to veer around a sharp corner. I try to point out that ambulances don't sound or drive like Ferrari's, but Jamie is unconvinced.

We started "school" last week, although technically we're waiting to start real Kindergarten next year. I thought it would be fun to do school for fun this year... you know... before he gets the memo that talking about your letters incessantly throughout dinner is decidedly not cool. School for us basically means a talking gummy worm shows up and hangs out with Jamie for awhile. They excitedly hold contests on who can draw the best "S", while the gummy worm impresses Jamie with his best jokes and witty banter. When the fun is all over, the the raspberry and grape flavored speciman disappears down into Jamie's tummy, only to magically reappear the next day. I think it's kinda creepy and weird, but the arrangement seems to be mutually agreeable between them.

Which leads to the next part of our school day. The digestive system. Jamie has some sort of obsessed facination with the digestive system. Thank goodness for youtube and google images (or maybe not), as Jamie now has a graphic appreciation for how exactly the stomach works. He especially likes to detail the finer points over breakfast in the morning.

"First it goes in my mouth and my teeth chews it up
Then it goes down my ehgulpagus
Then my tummy chomps it up
Then my pancake soaks into my bones and whatever my bones don't want comes out my butt. "

Sometimes we do the skeletal system which is almost as awesome as the digestive system, but not quite.

It's fun answering all the questions a five year old can come up with. Sort of like a game to see how fast you can type "can an anaconda eat a croccodile?" in your smart phone before the next question hits. The only time it was embarassing was last week when we were out eating sushi, and Jamie examined the lemon in his water, and let out a yelp "this lemon has a PENIS!!" as he pulled out a seed.
Not exactly son, but sort of.

Mostly though it feels like I read picture books...all. day. long.

The Post About Swimming Lessons With Jamie

2010-08-11T11:23:00.000-07:00

I thought swimming lessons were going to be fun. I have indulgently fond memories of swimming lessons as a child (plus not so fond memories of mean lifeguards), and so like any good parent... I wanted my kids to have the same opportunities I had. In this case it meant group lessons at the local city pool. At first I only signed Jamie up, but that was before I realized I would have to contain Charlie in a small little caged space next to the pool while we watched and waited for Jamie. Anyone with a two year old can attest, it would have been like trying to contain a popped balloon (or in Charlie's case... like putting his hands in mittens next to a bowl of m&m's). Painful for me and deafening to everyone else.

So I signed both of them up for swimming lessons, with the blissful ignorance that it would be Jamie scarring everyone for life and turning innocent, helpful people into child-hating cynics.

Yes, Jamie is rather reticent around adults... and yes, he can take a little while to warm up to most situations, but he'd never pulled a full on unicorns-are-dying, while someone-is-pouring-seething-green-poison-down-my-throat and poking-me-with-lava-dipped-needles before.... until now of course. Even that might be a bit understated. He managed to ward off four swim instructors with sheer, muscle and lung power that granted him super power to cling to the pool wall like his scrawny arms had become part of the cement. Meanwhile, I bobbed a happy Charlie up and down in the Mommy & Me class and pretended like Charlie was an only child.

It was going to be a very long two weeks. The weird thing was, Jamie was absolutely stoked about swimming lessons, he loves the water, and pretty much thinks he can live at the bottom of the pool like a hippopotamus. So we tried again. At home we practiced coping techniques, bought magical gummy bears for positive reinforcement and prayed for courage. Nothing doing. In his defense, he got an A- for effort. I'd drop him off with his eyes as wide as saucers... he'd start to hyperventilate and then catch himself...take a few deep breaths, square his shoulders and make his way to the pool with his peers. Then one of the instructors would pick him up to put him in the pool and it was like all the screws came loose. Calm breaths were replaced by wild eyes and terrifying screams of "DON'T TOUCH ME LIKE THAT" (which is of course what every adult wants to hear when they pick up a minor).

We didn't make it very many days before Jamie hurtled out of the pool at the end of his lesson and begged me to let him take lessons with Mrs. Smith. Since we were gaining quite the reputation and people were wincing when we showed up, I agreed with Jamie on this one and called Mrs. Smith to beg for mercy (she's a close family friend).

She deserves sainthood. She turned my stubborn, hysterical, puddle of a son into a swimmer in just two short weeks. There is more patience in her pinkie finger than I contain in my entire being on a good day.

Plus, she has a cool underwater camera.

I blinked.

2010-08-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

One day this...

The next day this...

Happy Birthday Jamie. Remember what your daddy and I said about growing? Take your shrinking pills babe.

The Post In Which Weddings Are Like Childbirth

2010-07-29T11:43:00.000-07:00

(photo credit KevinCharles)

It starts out innocent enough... you look at wedding magazines, ooh and ahhh over all the pretty pictures at greenweddingshoes. So many perfect details and sweet moments, you save your favorites and start a massive folder titled "inspiration".

Turning that into a wedding is tricky business and not for the faint of heart. When I planned my wedding, I was 19 and could have gotten married under a bridge with dragonflies for attendants and I would have been happy.

This time I tried much harder for my sister's wedding.

We worked and... sewed napkins and... cried and.... then rallied. Over and over again.

I swore I never wanted to help plan another shindig like this again.

And then the wedding came.

And it was pretty and fun.

So now I'm planning a Christmas Party.

Some people never learn.

Sprite Baby 2.0

2010-07-18T21:32:00.000-07:00

My baby turned two this weekend.

He's not quite sure what he thinks of being so old.

But that's only because he doesn't know he's one of the lucky ones with a Summer birthday and pool party

He thinks he's very grown up.

But not quite so grown up yet that he won't wear hats while half asleep.

Happy Birthday Charlie. Please sleep in tomorrow.

The Case of The Missing Pacifier

2010-06-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

When your scrunchy, little, tomato faced newborn is wailing like a broken smoke detector, you feel like the whole world would be a better placed if your darn offspring would just take a damn pacifier. When (and if) they do take a liking to the succulent little morsel you keep shoving in their mouth, suddenly life looks a whole lot more manageable. You get three whole hours of sleep at a time (perhaps) and you fantasize about duct taping the pacifier to your baby's mouth. Bliss.

Fast forward 2 years...

You're crawling around on the floor at 1 am in a deranged panic looking for a tiny bit of rubber and plastic that is sure to give your child braces, a speech impediment and cancer. What seemed like an innocent and adorable little soothing device is actually a deal with the devil because now your baby can't sleep without it. Awesome.

We stayed the weekend at Jeff and Gabrielle's, and somewhere between lunch and bedtime, we lost The-Item-Of-Utmost-Importance. The one that is attached to Charlie at all times via a chord and safety pin. I put him to bed with much fear and trepidation, but after an evening of running around Torrey Pines, and eating dinner on the boardwalk in Del Mar, he was so out of energy he didn't even notice his pacifier was missing when I laid his ~~downy~~ curly head, on his soft pillow in his ~~crib~~ pack'n'play. Staying asleep however, was not something his fairy godmother fated his poor, tuckered out mum, and without his ability to self soothe, it was shaping up to be a really. long. night. I tried ignoring him, I tried readjusting his blanket, I tried patting him on the head and assuring him that life would go on without his paci... but it was like trying to reassure teenager they could live without texting.

After waking up out of a dead sleep for the fifth time, there was not a shred of logic left in my brain. Despite the fact that I'm nearly blind without contacts or glasses, and despite it being pitch black in a large house that wasn't my own, I grabbed my cell phone and started crawling through the house on my hands and knees, vowing not to give up until I found The-Thing-Of-Utmost-Importance. How I thought I would be able to find it sightless and in the dark when I couldn't find it during daylight was not allowed to cross my mind. I got the brilliant idea that maybe it had gotten caught on a couch cushion or under a piece of furniture, so as I prowled around the living room in my striped pajama pants and purple cell phone, I came across a pair of shoes, a wallet...then a cell phone, but no pacifier. I ran my hands underneath the couch and could have sworn I heard someone breathing deeply, when I felt someone's breath, hot on my face as I went to scour the cushions, I almost chalked it up to hyperbolic imagination (such was the intensity of my one sighted focus on the quest) but then my hopelessly malfunctioning vision came to the alarming realization I was nose to nose with a strange man who was sleeping on aforementioned couch. While I was trying to decide whether to scream or die of embarrassment, my brain caught up with my mental freak out and I remembered that I had met this man before and been told he would be sleeping on the couch. Which was good. What would not have been good... him waking up to see a wild, blue haired woman staring at him from inches away. So I crawled my mortified, delirious self back to bed...

And found Charlie's pacifier along the way.
In a different couch.

Outgrown Cribs In The Land Filled WIth Snakes

2010-06-18T10:30:00.000-07:00

Turns out 4-almost-5-year-olds can move furniture. I wouldn't have discovered this hidden talent if I hadn't nearly slid a bunk bed onto Charlie. Sometimes I think I'm bigger and stronger than I really am, like today when I made a spur of the moment decision to get rid of Charlie's crib and put bunk beds in the kid's room. How I thought I could balance precariously on a tower of tires while I wiggled apart two bunk beds stacked on top of each other, is beyond me. My back is telling me it was a lesson of folly, but my head says well done. Charlie is still alive, and the dog only got squished once, so I maintain it was a success. Jamie navigated the corners and lifted his fair share of the burden, snatching his little brother from the jaws of death every time I started screeching "grab Charlie....grab Charlie quick.

Because you see, Charlie discovered his crib is really just a facade. Those bars that used to look formidable, suddenly transformed into a jungle gym begging to be climbed. Sometimes my kids move to new stages without me knowing it, I'll look at them and think... when did he learn to pedal a bike, or... has that child always been three shades browner than me? Other times like today, a new stage is ushered in with bells ringing and change staring me down with his ugly bushy eyebrows. I don't like facing change nor staring at his ugly face, so I threw myself recklessly into cleaning out the kids room, taking out Charlie's crib and moving in the aforementioned bunk bed. So yes I heard him, Change can go away now (unless he plans on taking away the diapers and leaving a potty trained boy, in which case he can stay).

Charlie was rather ambivalent about the whole process. He went to bed very relieved looking, like he didn't care where or what his bed was as long as someone was still kissing his head, handing him his bottle and praying for him (ha! bottle...he's still got a bit of baby in him left). Jamie on the other hand was ecstatic. He had a few worried moments when his mama wasn't sure the bunk bed was sturdy, but Uncle Vern came to the rescue and fixed the wobblies. Jamie spent the rest of the evening airbending off the bed until he turned the ceiling fan on and promptly whacked himself in the head. Some things you just have to learn by experience. No matter what your parents say, it doesn't make sense until you're rubbing a goose egg on your head.

The other thing Jamie's ecstatic about it snakes. He's obsessed with classifying all snakes as either good or bad. Rattlesnakes=bad, King snake= good. The snakes have decided our house is Disneyland or something, which is seriously about to give me a heart attack. The first time Jamie told me there was a snake on our front door mat, I thought he was pretending... monsters in the closet and all that, but no, there was truly a full grown rattlesnake coiled up against my front door like it was a park bench at the beach. No freaking thank you. I even like snakes. I'm just not sure my kids could survive a bite from a rattler long enough for me to get them off of our remote commune and to a hospital. These things worry me (and now I've convinced everyone to never visit, but honestly, they aren't normally this bad). Two days later I gave Jamie strict orders to stay on the patio and not venture into the tall weeds, he went out to play and came running back in telling me there was another rattlesnake on the patio. Sure enough, he was right again. Thankfully both times Barnabas was between the snake and my children, but still, I have them hog tied and apron stringed whenever we go out now.

A few days and a few good snakes later (this is the story that never ends), Barnabas went out to pee and nearly sat on a rattlesnake. It was a big snake and had a tail that sounded like a Pepsi can full of pebbles, so the dog quickly got wise and skedaddled, and Jamie named it Tricksy (with the help of his Uncle Lulu who is actually his aunt).

I finally had time to take a picture of this one, as it seemed content to hiss and rattle at us instead of dive for the bushes like the other ones did.

So this is what we get for having perfect weather all the time. As long as we stay stuck in 70's and sunny, we're stuck with rattlesnakes as backyard (or front yard) pets.

How To Talk To The Kamikaze Bugs In Your Head

2010-05-27T22:07:00.000-07:00

Jamie: Mom, my ear is buzzing.
*pulls ear...yelps...then tries to give his ear the evil eye*
Jamie: Hello? Hello bugs! Please go away, you're annoying me.
*no response from offending party*
Jamie: Get out of my ear right now.
*bangs head against wall*
Jamie: Mom, there are bugs in my ear and they are punching me.

Me: I know babe, but they can't hear you.

You'd think I would have figured it out earlier. The cold that set up camp in his sinuses, the return of a slight fever, the huddled moaning in the corner, but instead I always feel like I'm late to the mommy instincts game, coming to the brilliant deduction my son had an ear infection only after he was sobbing uncontrollably and talking to himself like some sort of deranged narcissist who was directing a symphony of bees.

Even though I seem to be the type of person who needs to see something like jagged bones poking out of arms to be convinced of a fracture... once I get worried, I really get worried. How do you console a distraught four year old? Particularly a four year old that doesn't get distraught very often. The last time Jamie sobbed uncontrollably for any length of time was when he was a colicky infant. So I did what I used to do when he was a baby--I rocked and sang to him and just hoped it would go away soon-- completely bewildered as to what else to do. We are not a family prone to ear infections and my mom's old remedy of garlic oil in the ear was not an option. (mostly because I don't have any, since I was desperate enough to try it, despite its propensity for turning one's house into a rancid Italian restaurant.)

In a brief stroke of brilliance I called on my friends. I remembered Kat had more than her fair share of ear infections as a child. She came to my rescue with the heated rice sock idea, back rubs and anything else that would help him calm down and thus relieve some of the throbbing. Bethany said she always watched Dr. Doolittle and Willy Wonka when she had ear infections, so we turned on the TV, asked daddy to pick up the antibiotics, and settled in for an afternoon/evening of movies, books and cuddles.

May that amoxicillin do its job quickly.

The Lampshade Wearing Princess.

2010-05-26T15:08:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and promptly tripped on a mangled dog bone that took half the skin off the bottom of my foot. Jamie stuck a lampshade on my head and called me a princess, and while the hobbling lamp princess was trying to fashion a bandage for her injured appendage, Charlie tried to cut off his nose with the gauze cutting scissors.

This sort of thing shouldn't be allowed to happen before breakfast.

My kids are going to grow up thinking jam filled crepes are what everyone eats for breakfast because here we eat them almost every day. They're cheap, comprised mostly of eggs, and I can now make them in my sleep. I did a double batch this morning so Jim could have some too, but his offspring one-upped him and ate them all before he got his truck loaded. That's right, my 2o lb baby ate five plate sized crepes, and Jamie ate six. How am I going to feed them when they're teenagers. I see cooking lessons in their future.

Because this sort of appetite shouldn't appear until they are at least 13.

Since the day was already off to a doomed start, I decided laundry might as well join in the fun and take a few punches at me. We pretended to be air bison, as we pushed and flew armful after armful of dirty clothes to the laundry room. The laundry baskets were being used to hold up a fort, so fifty small trips later, we got all the clothes this household owns to the front of the washer...piled into a awe-inspiring, ceiling reaching summit. Three loads later and Jamie decided to mix up the clean clothes with the dirty clothes (because the mountain was beginning to shrink in stature just a little). I confess I actually picked through the laundry piece by piece, smelling each sock and underwear to see if it was clean or not.

Because this much laundry shouldn't have to be done twice.

The Drunken Frog Doctor

2010-05-17T16:01:00.000-07:00

There was a ruckus on the side of the house the other day, and since we're at the peak of rattlesnake season, I sort of flew in a supernatural panic when I heard Barnabas barking and Jamie yelling at something to hold still. Turns out it was just a really large frog (toad?) who looked like he was rather regretting his decision to take a pleasant walk (hop?). He didn't understand Jamie's repeated explanation that he was really being saved from a far worse fate at the paws of our playful 120lb dog. The frog seemed a little stunned, or maybe he was just old and fat, but whatever the case, Jamie set up a frog hospital and named himself chief surgeon. I came to the frog's rescue and told Jamie there was plenty of time to be a frog surgeon later...like in biology some day (in what grade do you dissect frogs? This frog, I'm sure was grateful it's not preschool).

Jamie got his own taste of doctoring today... this time from the tooth doctor. I somehow missed the memo you're supposed to floss your child's teeth from the time they get them. We're doing good just to get them brushed suitably well twice a day. Consequently, Jamie had four cavities (two on each side) that had to be taken care of. I absolutely adore his pediatric dentist, and the whole office is fantastic. There are TV's on the ceilings that play Pixar films to watch while you're leaning back in the chair. The staff is sweet as can be and there are books and puzzles in literally every nook and cranny, in every single room. Plus, they all have more kindness and patience in their pinkie fingers than I contain on a good day, and that alone is reason enough to celebrate. Despite all that however, Jamie's dismay at having breakfast withheld this morning caused shrieks of despair that could be heard in a five mile radius. Such cold hearted parents we are, but a couple doses of oral sedatives, laughing gas and novocaine later...he doesn't even hardly remember he missed breakfast. In fact he's not even really sure what happened except that there was definitely Finding Nemo involved. I'd really like to know what that was like.

He's been in sort of a drunken daze ever since. On the way home I caught him in the rear-view mirror punching himself in the face. I asked him what in the world he was doing and he mumbled something incoherent about how he was spanking his lip for disobeying and that his tongue wasn't listening to him. It's gotta suck when you can't feel anything in your mouth and you think it's because your lips and tongue are staging a political coup.
I bought the starving child a hamburger and milkshake because that's what he wanted. He took a bite of hamburger and unsurprisingly it all fell right back out. He picked it up, stared at it cross eyed for a few seconds and tried again. Same result. Frustrated, he threw it across the room, swearing in a language that could only be Orcish. He had better luck with the milkshake, but he was still so hungry he ripped the hamburger up into tiny pieces and stubbornly forced it down despite his uncooperative hippopotamus lips.

I have to admit, there is a silver lining...a couple actually. For one, I don't think I've ever been so secretly amused. Two, it sure is nice to have a cuddly child in my arms who tells me twice a minute I smell like mommy and that he loves me. On the other hand, it's a little horrifying how truly stoned my child is. I think it would break my heart to give a kid of mine behavior modifying drugs for ADHD or anything. It would be like I was covering up their personality or something, dampening it. Jamie has been keeping me on my toes and knees since the moment he was born and while it's a pleasant break to have him sitting on the couch reading all day (or napping)...I think I'll be happy when the real Jamie re-emerges.

Looking for my sanity.

2010-04-29T16:36:00.000-07:00

Mom-training should include the many wiles and woes of shopping carts. Before I had kids I knew that sleeplessness was a part of the deal. I knew my walls would get marred with crayons. I knew green babyfood would be spewed across my kitchen. I did not however imagine I would find myself putting kid #1 in his carseat, while my errant grocery cart rolled off with kid #2.

This causes a myriad of instant dilemmas. While you're chasing the runaway cart containing precious cargo #2, kid #1 has climbed out of the car and is running the opposite direction. Never a good situation to find yourself in. Today it was an elderly gentleman who grabbed the collar of my young whippersnapper while I apprehended the cart. If you're wondering the correct way to bypass the whole embarrassing situation, you have to master the art of hooking your foot around the shopping cart while you wrestle kid #1 into his safety harness, making sure not to pull the cart too close that you bump your own car, but not too far away that it scrapes the car next to you. Extra points if you can do this while there are cars backing in and out of the parking stalls around you.

Maybe other moms don't have these problems. Maybe I'm the only one who opens the front door to sign for a package and within a microsecond I have a dog chasing escaped chickens, one kid headed for the mud and the other kid headed to join the chicken chase. The UPS guy is familiar with our brand of craziness, so he just shakes his head and heads back to his truck.

I seriously need to get my act together.

You can check out my blue hair now, here.

I had a super fun photoshoot on Monday.

Bethany's gyoza/potstickers recipe got a shout out on this blog! whoo hoo.

Growls, Snarls and Roars, Oh My

2010-04-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

One might suppose a child's first animal sounds would be reminiscent of all the children barnyard picture books out there (and there are more of them than there are BMW's in San Diego). True also, that this is what teachers and therapists expect as well. Kids are supposed to "moo" like a cow and go "woof" like a dog. Charlie sadly, skipped all that and instead learned how to growl at an early age. Six months ago we all thought it was cute, like a tiny lion cub trying to act all tough (and it definitely is all an act). He would peek his head around the kitchen cabinets, roar and then grin with his one little dimple that pops out only when he's being mischievous.

Now that he's older, he's grown his arsenal of animal sound effects to include bears, lions, sharks, tigers and monsters (to name a few). Show him a book with a cow mildly chomping on grass and Charlie is silent as stone. A picture of an adorable kitten gets not even the tiniest "meow" out of him. But show him a picture of a hippopotums with his mouth open and Charlie lets out a guttural growl that my untrained vocal chords are not capable of reproducing. When we walk past the Polar bears at the the zoo, he roars a mighty baby roar. The bears don't pay attention, but the people around me give him strange looks...or laugh.

Until today, the roaring and growling wasn't a problem. Yes, we are all trying desperately to get him to cluck like a chicken and oink like a pig (by "we all", I mean me), but so far it's proved absolutely pointless. Charlie did pick up a new animal sound, but it was for a dinosaur, and yup, it was some variation of a roar. There's a little boy Charlie's age in his speech group, his name is Lennox and he's a pretty cool little dude, he and Charlie normally get a long great. But today, Lennox handed Charlie a plastic tiger and Charlie thanked him by giving his best roar (afterall, that's what Charlie thinks you're supposed to do when you see a tiger). Lennox stepped backwards slowly, his bottom lip quivering, until he got a safe distance away at which point he turned and ran sobbing to his mothers arms. For the rest of the morning, every time Charlie got near him, Lennox would drop his toy and back away, hands raised...as if to say, here take whatever you want, just don't growl at me.

At least Charlie has some friends who don't mind his growling and roaring.

Just What The Dr. Ordered

2010-04-15T22:15:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, we packed up the kids and headed out on our somewhat spontaneously planned road trip. Destination: San Jose. The 8 hr drive that turned into 9 hrs because of traffic was... relaxing. Like a spa for my mom brain, or a relaxing soak in the hot tub. What could be better than 9 hrs of my husband all to myself while my kids were strapped and contained in plastic devices? And it's not even considered child abuse! Amazing. They can't climb on me , or tear the kitchen apart. There was no mud tramped through my house and thank heavens they couldn't make any more coyote soup. The Jamie unit is currently convinced the coyotes are starving to death around here (I think our rabbit and rodent communities would have a differing opinion). Consequently he's made a giant mud cauldron in our yard and filled it with twigs, stumps, boulders, and a delicate blend of weeds. All for the malnourished coyotes.

The coyotes had to do without us for a few days however, because the Ramsey family was in desperate need of a break. Good friends, food, movies, and blue hair, relaxing was definitely achieved in spades. I highly reccomend it. Call your friends, beg for mercy, and then show up on their doorstep for the weekend with enough stuff in tow to move in permanently.

Reviews, opinions, food, and blue hair will all be up on the Fairytales and French Fries blog soon... I say that so I won't forget to actually do it. Ahem.

Music + Me = Storytime Part II

2010-04-13T20:15:00.000-07:00

Annnd.... here are the last half of the songs on my cd. I split it up because my eyes were glazing over, and my fingers were quaking on the keyboard at the thought of posting 19 songs at one time. (I feel bad for Lora, who had to be on the receiving end of my cd in said swap).

I realize looking over this, that Derek Webb is featured prominently. What can I say? His songs happen to be wandering around the room during all my life changing moments.

A New Law-Derek Webb
"Don't teach me about moderation and liberty... Just give me a new law"
Scene: In the car driving, listening to my new Derek Webb cd for the umpteenth time. The lyrics are just now becoming solidified in my head and making any sense. Finally the truth of what they say hits me and years of ATI related baggage falls off.

The Church- Derek Webb
"You cannot care for her, with no regard for Him"
Scene: Small camping trailer. Our home. Jim and I are stretched out on our bed that is also a couch, in our living room that is also our bedroom and dining room. We are back in CA and new to San Diego. I don't want to find a church, while I haven't given up on God, I am kind of sick of His church. Jim tells me this song doesn't allow us to give up.

We Come To You- Derek Webb
"as you came to us, so we come to you, fragile as a baby hopeful and new..."
Scene: Hospital recovery room, August 2005. I'm all alone, it's late and the room is dimly lit. The stitches on my belly are the only evidence there used to be a baby flopping comfortably around in there. Half of my drugged brain keeps panicking because I can't feel anything...I can't feel my baby anymore because he's not there. They've taken my teeny child out, and I cry quietly wishing I had Jim. Wishing I knew if my baby was still alive. Wishing I knew what was going on in the NICU. Unexpectedly, a nurse appears at my bedside holding my cd player. She tells me my husband was quite insistent she give it to me. He's not allowed in himself, but he managed to smuggle my music to me. I hit replay over and over again on this song until the fear starts to subside.

Dare You To Move- Switchfoot
"Welcome to the planet. Welcome to existence. Everyone's here...Everybody's watching you now"
Scene: NICU, I'm in a wheelchair marveling at my little son covered in wires and tubes. This song, which previously held no meaning for me whatsoever, pops randomly in my head. I sing it to him when no one is around. And I mean every word... I dare my child to move, to breathe, to cry. He more than takes me up on challenge...but it takes awhile.

Defying Gravity- Wicked/Broadway/Glee
"Together we're unlimited. Together we'll be the greatest team "
City sidewalk. Live music, it's late at night and I'm practically prancing in my high heels. It's our anniversary, Jim has booked us a weekend downtown and tickets to see Wicked. This song which was already beloved, becomes even more cherished. When I see it performed on Glee, I get happy tingles.

My Eyes- Dr Horrible's Sing Along Blog
"Look around, we're living with the lost and found"
Scene: I'm in our friends living room, wondering what rock I've been living under that I missed Joss Whedon's brilliant distraction from the Writer's Strike. Jim and I don't sing, but we will try anyway for this song. We go home, print the lyrics and hold the paper between us, singing with great gusto to an empty room (thank goodness). We think this is awesomely fun which means we've reached new levels of nerdiness.

How Can I Glorify God- Songs for Saplings
"...by loving Him, and doing what he commands."
Scene: I'm up to my elbows in dirty dishes. My tupperware drawer has been emptied and rearranged into towers in the living room. I think about the days when I didn't listen to kids music and I decide I'm lucky to have kids so I can have an excuse to sing (and love) the children's catechism.

Smile- Charlie Chaplin/Glee
"Smile though your heart is aching, Smile even though it's breaking. When there are clouds in the sky you'll get by."
Scene: This is me now... in between the happy and content times. Struggling, feeling like I have a hundred things that have to get done each day and I only ever accomplish a few. Feeling like a failure. This song has a sort of melancholy flavor that isn't angry or depressing, but a very "weep with those who weep" vibe, which is comforting when I feel like I can't pick myself up off the floor.

And that's it for my life. Maybe I shouldn't have ended on such a mellow note, but that kind of brings us up to date on my life. I'd love to see what your soundtrack would be.
If you care to share, send me a link.

-------------

Bonus Song.
... from the cd I received in the swap.

Small Piece of You - Sara Groves
"Go on son and see the world; I hope you see it all, But please please please don't forget to call"
Every kid knows their mom bemoans their growing up. Every teenager nods their head sagely as if they understand. Every adult has heard it before. But somehow, despite the fact it's a well known fact, it hits me like a sledgehammer when I hold my own children. Sara Groves is brilliant in that she can capture and describe emotions that are so real to me yet are beyond my ability to explain without slipping into cliche. This song is perfect.

The lonely egg of wisdom

2010-04-07T08:37:00.000-07:00

Easter...

"If it really happened, then the power of tyrants is shattered. The worst the tyrant can do is kill. The power of tyranny is the power of death. But if death is reversible, if dead people do come back to life after life after death, then the tyrant’s sword is finally useless and certainly not fearsome."

Oddly comforting words when your neck will only turn one way comfortably and the kids have emptied the kitchen cupboards into an elaborate labyrinth of tupperware and pots in the living room. The list of projects I have unfinished outnumbers the list of projects I do have finished, and my ears are sagging dejectedly (metaphorically of course) from all the depressing news I hear constantly about my kids.

"Jamie should really know how to count to 25 by now " (he can only count to ten).

"Charlie may have to be referred to a specialist for his speech delay. (really? Here we go again)

"Your son (Jamie) has a problem. He refuses to color." (Yes. Tell me something I don't know)

All minor problems, something easily squelched by the magnitude of oh... Death crushed forever. Perspective Esther, get a grip.

Charlie started speech therapy yesterday. It's one of those mommy-and-me type classes and Charlie has struck up a friendship with a little German kid his own age who has a pregnant mom. She chilled comfortably on the floor with her multi colored leg warmers, and knit wool hat like some sort of adorable gnome. I wish I'd had the nerve to dress like that when pregnant... or look as serene while sitting on the floor covered in toddlers.

I get the impression Charlie sort of stresses out the speech pathologist. She followed Charlie around the entire 45 min with a box of tissue. Catching the drool that dripped from his chin and whisking away every toy that got slobberfied each time Charlie snuck one past her and slimed a ball or block. There was an entire box full of toys awaiting for Lysol by the end of the class...all of them there because of Charlie. Maybe I should be concerned. He does drool and slobber an inordinate amount and has done so since the beginning, teething or no teething.

I woke up in the middle of the night to Jamie's little voice cracking as he bravely tried to fight back tears. "Mommy, I'm scared." I told him there was nothing to be scared of and to go back to bed. That's when I felt his arms wrap around my neck. "help me mommy. I love you." Pause. "a lot. " Oh well, shoot. If you put it like that....come on in. Charlie was already in there. It was a rough night in the Ramsey household. Hence the kinked neck this morning. A queen sized bed wasn't made for the UFC fighter that is Charlie when sleeping. Jamie was on the floor next to the bed.

I'm blaming the Easter candy.

The kids and I had fun yesterday taking pictures of our Asian market. You can check them out here, where I wax eloquent with Bethany.

Music + Me = Storytime Part I

2010-04-06T14:02:00.000-07:00

I participated recently in a music swap revolving around the story of your life. A soundtrack so-to-speak.

For me it would probably have to start out with something like Colby The Music Machine, move on to The Donut Man, and then Patch the Pirate. But that would be too many songs (most of which I don't currently posses). So I'm doing the last decade. I was 18, just graduated from highschool, and headed to Verity, a satellite schooling program ATI developed. For the uninitiated, think tiny, ultra conservative, slightly cult-like, christian college.

Some of these songs I'm embarassed by, some I still love, but every one of them takes me back instantly to a specific time and place. Listen to one, or listen to none, I realize there's a lot of them.

Perfect Day- Superchick/Hoku
"It's a perfect day, nothing's standing in my way..."
Scene: Starting college. Ignorant, naive, excited...not homesick in the least. Driving down a bumpy, neglected road in downtown Flint, MI, with the windows rolled down. My new (and soon to be best friend) Julie is next to me, and both of us are singing this song at the top of our lungs as if we're in a convertible driving down the beach instead of in my tiny fart of a car in a city where the sun never shines.

The Middle- Jimmy Eat World
"It just takes some time little girl, you're in the middle of the ride and everything is going to be all right..."
Scene: School is a lot harder than I thought. I can't put two sentences together properly, and my room is piled high with books I read dutifully, but that don't help me pass CLEP tests. I feel a bit overwhelmed. Highlight of this period? I have really great friends, one of whom will someday be my husband.

The Riddle- The Scarlet Pimpernel/Broadway
"We shamble on through this hell, Taking on more secrets to sell, Till there comes a day when we sell our souls away."
Scene: Sitting in my bathroom with my roommate, crying while burning our copy of the new rules. New rules come every week or so. Everyone here lies, everyone has secrets, everything is controlled...even our consciences. It's exhausting to the point dangerous. Every institution under the sun has drama and politics. It's scarier though when they are wrapped and intertwined with your Faith. Highlight? My roommate has introduced me to Broadway and I've become an instant fan.

Head Over Feet- Alanis Morissette
"You've already won me over in spite of me, And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet.
Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are..."
Scene: There's a boy. We're sitting on a park bench together after signing out at different times, taking different routes, and checking over our shoulder numerous times to make sure no one catches us. I wasn't planning on getting married. Ever. I was entirely cynical about the whole thing, but Jim changed my mind embarrassingly fast. Eight years later, I'm still here next to him, but this time it's on our own couch, and my feet are tucked under him.

My Immortal- Evanescence
"There's just too much that time cannot erase. When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears. When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears."
Scene: Saying goodbye. Fighting for my friendships. Trying to hang on to everything I hold dear. Basketball in the ballroom, hockey in the parking garage, curled up on the floor of the communications dept trying to sleep, yet listening to all the voluminous theological arguments going on around me.

Numb- Linkin Park followed by Free- Ginny Owens
"I've become so numb, I can't feel you there" Linkin Park
"...But You say You've always had a plan, And that's all I need to know. " Ginny Owens
Scene: Disillusioned, fed up with Christianity, half convinced the whole thing is an illogical, hypocritical lie I've been fed my whole life. This would have been the end of God in my life, except he had a plan, and that plan didn't include me giving up. Looking back, I was never in any real danger. Jesus loves me. End of story.

Hanging By A Moment- Lifehouse
"I'm standing here until you make me move, I'm hanging by a moment here with you..."
Scene: Pressing play on the answering machine to hear Jim's voice singing this song to me. Miraculous since I don't think he's ever sung out loud by himself, before or after that. New scene a year later. Same song. This time, there's a ring on my finger that wasn't there a few minutes ago. We're in Huntington Beach in January and it's 85 degrees and sunny. Perfect? Yes.

Angel- Shaggy and Yellow- Coldplay
"Girl you're my angel, you're my darling angel..."
In bed at my grandparents house. Just had my tonsils taken out and am in the most pain I've ever been in (two kids later and I still think the missing tonsils were the worst). I'm listening over and over to a mixed cd Jim made me with these on it.

Gira Con Me- Josh Groban
"Little steps I take with you, I follow your heart and I follow the moon."
It's August 16th 2003. I'm wearing a white dress. I got married barefoot, but now I sport skater shoes as I am dancing in my groom's arms. Life is good.

Butterfly Hopscotch and How Not to Lose Your Kids

2010-04-01T15:32:00.000-07:00

When I walked past the living room and smelled peanut butter I should have stopped right then and checked. But I was trying desperately to get out of the house on time, and with 5 chickens, 2 kids and 1 oversized dog all clamoring for my attention, the smell of peanut butter went through one nostril and out the other. That is, until we were walking out the door and I noticed Charlie no longer resembled himself but rather a lumpy little gnome, with clumps of peanut butter covering his cheeks and jelly dangling off his curls. Wonderful. Further inspection revealed my carpet fared no better. That will teach me not to pack lunch and leave it by the door. Whoops.

We were supposed to be at the Wild Animal Park by 9 am, but thanks to Charlie, we were slightly delayed. Consequently the famous butterfly exhibit already had a line. No problem, my friend Stacy and I had plenty to catch up on. When they told us we couldn't take our strollers, that was fine. No problem. I'm quite capable of carrying my camera bag and letting Jamie and Charlie walk. My capabilities seemed much less apparent, thirty minutes later when my camera bag suddenly and magically grew to weigh 50 lbs and Charlie decided to play a game of hide and seek. He won, but only because he can squeeze through crowds and peoples legs so much faster than his cumbersome mother. Charlie's prize for winning was being held in my loving arms. He showed his gratefulness by squirming, kicking, biting and generally twisting around like a possessed blender. By the time we got to the front of the line and into the butterfly exhibit, I no longer cared about taking whimsical pictures of my sweet children covered in butterflies. I just wanted to survive (preferably with my camera and child still intact). The butterflies were beautiful though and worth every second of the wait. There are hundreds in every color, and they flit everywhere and land on everything (including but not limited to your hair, clothing, and the ground). Charlie took in the magical moment quietly for a moment before he figured out what was going on. He knew exactly what you were supposed to do. Hop and stomp from butterfly to butterfly (and Stacy thought it was going to be her child doing that). It was shaping up to be a mass genocide before I whisked him back into my arms where the screaming and twisting commenced again. One lady asked me to leave, but I couldn't drag Jamie away after he waited so long to get in. I think I've become one of those moms. The best I could do for angry lady was hover near the exit and try to muffle the shrieks.

After we had our fill of butterflies, lions and uber tiny baby elephants (none of which I got pictures of). We retired to the kids play area to eat lunch and let our children run wild. They were big fans of the playground. Me? Not so much. There were too many nooks and crannies, and I kept panicking when I lost them for more than a minute. I was busy dreaming up creative ways to dangle the playground's architects by their fingernails, when I realized the playground was created with only one entrance/exit. As long as you stood guard at the front, you didn't have to worry about the twists, turns and tunnels. Genius...presuming there are no pedophiles lurking behind the fence with giant, kid-napping-sized fishing poles.

We had a blast despite Jamie's daydreaming habits and penchant for turning around and going the opposite direction when you least suspect it. Even if we hadn't had fun, I learned a few invaluable tips (which is why you should always have preschool teachers for good friends).

Tip #1: The Hand. If your child is running away and won't come when called. Hold out your hand and say "Hand", if child doesn't come, carry displeased child like a sack of potatoes until they decide holding your hand is a much better option. Eventually they will get the idea, Holding mom's hand is way better than being tucked under her arm. It worked so well for Stacy I've been practicing all day with Charlie and it gives me hope. Maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Tip #2: The Spin Cycle. Have a kid who won't color? Doesn't like to sit still long enough to write, trace or draw? (Jamie...*cough* Jamie). Wear them out first, when they are so tired they have no more energy left to climb trees and chase dragons, then bring out the crayons, markers, paper and scissors. It's shocking how much longer their attention span is.

Maybe that seems obvious, but sometimes I need to be told before the light bulb comes on.

On an ending note, here's the one picture I got of the morning. Charlie is wearing no pants and Alexander is missing his sweater because they both had an altercation with a water fountain.

The-post-in-which-I-take-back-everthing-I-ever-said...

2010-03-22T17:38:00.000-07:00

...about Charlie.
Even tempered? Mild mannered? Sensitive not stubborn?

Not anymore. For the last three days in a row he has sat in his booster seat for over an hour...over an hour... before he would finally acquiesce to say "all done" (in sign language nonetheless, I didnt even ask him to do it in English...which he should be able to do).
I didn't think almost two year olds had that kind of attention span. Toddlers have the experts fooled. They can dole out patience like a trained sniper as long as it's in direct conflict with their parents.

He's also hidden one of his shoes somewhere.

This wouldn't be such a big problem if he owned more than one pair of shoes. Because the other thing that comes with the toddler territory (I had forgotten) is Charlie grows out of his shoes and clothes at lightening speed. That is of course if he doesn't rip/stain/maim/mutilate his wardrobe beyond recognition before he has a chance to outgrow them. A rare talent considering it takes mere months outgrow stuff.

His other new talent is the bitch slap. I wish I was kidding. He has mastered it with all the flair and drama of a 50's movie star. Pick him up when he doesn't want to be picked up? *Slap* Tell him it's time to go inside? *slap* Drag him out of the toilet? *slap*
Imagine my cheek with a tiny chubby handprint on it.

That habit is getting nipped in the bud. But much like his older brother was, he seems to content to keep testing boundaries instead of learning his lesson. At least this time I know I can win. I know it will pass. I know it just takes consistency and grace. With Jamie I wasn't so sure I'd survive.

We all went up to the desert on Saturday to look at the spring flowers. (all of us except Jim who had to go to some sort of training thing).

I'm happy to report we're back in cloth diapers here. I call this the Charlie Brown look.

We hiked up to some ruins (from the ancient days of 1930) and had lunch.

The most green I've ever seen in the desert. Hello Spring.

The lovebirds.

The rest of the pictures are on my photography blog.

Will work for Jamie beer

2010-03-11T13:39:00.000-08:00

The best way to get a kid to eat something is to give them the impression they can't have it. Case in point: Jamie and Charlie both scarf down miso soup like it's some sort of treat. That's right, a guilty snack of fermented bean paste, diced tofu and seaweed strips. Yum.

But it's not because they actually like miso soup, or cheesy broccoli soup, or creamy kale-potato-leek soup (are you noticing a soup theme here?). It's only because I have a minor soup addiction (I swear I could stop if I wanted to), and my kids are convinced that anything I'm eating must be elixir of the gods or something. Seriously, I feel like I will be sharing my meals for the rest of my life. I remember doing this to my mom (she always handled it with grace and patience). Her sandwich always looked better... tastier or something. This is probably why most of her children love weird things like sardines, okra and artichokes (because those were her guilty pleasures).

As much as I love being followed around everywhere by a couple of two legged creatures and one four legged one, it does have its problems when they want to have something of mine they can't have... like chocolate for the furry-four pawed one and something of the more alcoholic variety for the wispy blond haired ones. I'm pretty at peace with Christian liberty and moderation, but get bogged down as to how it relates to parenting and childraising. One day the news will share research that shows children raised in homes with moderate consumption have the lowest rate of alcoholism. (This pretty much falls in line with my own anecdotal observations). Then the next day I will read something that claims a mere taste will doom your children to addiction forever.
So which is it? Besides apparently not letting them have beer in their sippy cups (drat).
Also, rubbing whiskey on their teething gums is a big fat OUT, along with booster seats (how dare you put your child in anything less than a five point harness...read the research people!) and jarred babyfood (you don't even want to know what sort of nutrition-less scam that turned out to be).

And that leaves me juggling all kinds of worse case scenarios. Will they get malaria if they play in the mud? Or instead commit suicide because I never let the play outside? (vitamin D you know)

Am I killing them more with the poisoned gerber food that will give them cancer by 16 or the homemade spinach babyfood that might be laced with e.coli ?

Will I guarantee they become closet alcoholics if I throw all the wine down the drain and become a strict baptist? Or is going the other way worse?

We thought we brilliantly resolved the issue by letting Jamie have his own type of beer: Rootbeer or Sprite. It's perfect because it even allows him to learn self control and moderation at an early age.

Sometimes it backfires though when we're in the grocery store and he's hollering "Beer mom! I need Jamie-beer!"

In other news, tried my hand at the self timer again the other night. Really not a fan of the timer, but it does allow for some fun (read: interesting) family times.

So yeah, I let my kids read books AND play in the mud.
I'm sure the bookreading is more dangerous. (just ask my parents).

The Daily Grind

2010-03-09T21:43:00.000-08:00

Whoever wrote this either never had kids, or has a sick and twisted sense of humor. Probably both.
And what's up with the exclamation point?

And really? I must be happy? Or what... they're going to escort my bedraggled and depressed behind to the exit?

I'm happy way down deep, but all the surface levels of happiness are momentarily out on break.

Picking Up Chicks With Wobble Goggles

2010-03-04T20:53:00.000-08:00

Jamie is on the search for a girlfriend. An unexpected turn of events, triggered by what seemed like a harmless conversation at the time (there is no rhyme or reason to what conversations he repeats to others and which ones he chooses to keep to himself). It started when he wanted to know why he had to shower alone. Sad, little grumpy boy. I'm not sure he'd want to share a showerhead... even if he did have the opportunity. Thus, it was with very little sympathy that Jim informed him he'd have to grow up and wait before he could shower with a girl.

We should have never told him that.

Ever since, he has been on the lookout, going up to random girls at the playground or speech therapy with a simple "Hi, I'm Jamie, will you be my girlfriend?". Shockingly, it works. He has a medical file that says he's "shy and reticent", but apparently that shyness does not extend to peers of the opposite sex (although in truth, he's not really shy with anybody but adults...like doctors). I'm working on instilling some manners in the child, but it doesn't help that little girls are apparently quite flattered to have curly headed little boys woo them. Even if it is with french fries and a rip-roaring game of who-can-climb-to-the-top-of-the-slide-fastest.

Jim came home after running errands with Jamie, to tell me a truck pulled up beside them at a stoplight with a little blond haired girl strapped in a carseat just like Jamie. She and Jamie were waving and grinning at each other, so her dad rolled down the window and before the light turned green Jamie had already claimed her as a girlfriend too. I hope he doesn't make it a habit to pick up chicks in trucks at stoplights.

It was all kinda cute, and while we try to navigate the waters of what's too much and too little information, it all backfired on us last night. We were invited to dinner at Curtis's parents house (Curtis being el fiance to Liz), and while I was naively enjoying a delicious plateful of lasagna, Jamie decides to tell Mr. and Mrs. C that he "needs a girlfriend so he can shower with her... like mom and dad do."

*crickets chirping*

I blame Jim. He was the one who brought up the whole thing.

Today he was out in the backyard with his wobble goggles, searching high and low... for a girlfriend.

I took a picture. It cracks me up. Apparently there's a good bit of Nerd mixed in with the Casanova.

Although sometimes he tries to be all badass like his dad.

Nebulizers and Pediatrician offices that are open on Sunday morning.

2010-02-28T22:26:00.000-08:00

Today I found out that Charlie has a $10 copay on his insurance. This was a surprise because his well visits never came with a copay and Charlie's never been to the dr for a sick visit.

That's not to say he's rarely sick. The whole reason we ended up in the Pediatrician's office this fine Sunday morning is because he's been sick once a month since Thanksgiving and I guess his little immune system finally had enough. I'm not prone to taking my kids to the doctor, and they manage to get over almost everything with fluids, rest and vitamins (with lots of cuddling and TV watching thrown in for good measure). Besides, I called the dr. last week because I thought Charlie might have an ear infection or bronchitis or some other bacterial malady (he had been running a low grade fever for days after a cold), and they told me to call him if his fever got higher or if he still had it in three days. Bah. Be that way.

Still, after growing up in a family that literally never went to the doctor. I sometimes forget they (pediatricians) even exist. And quite frankly, that can be a problem. After being (in my imagination) snubbed by the receptionist with whom I have a long standing feud, it didn't occur to me to call them when Charlie suddenly developed a new cough. Nor did it occur to me that it was a problem when he got a fever yesterday. When he woke up at in the middle of the night and it was over 104 degrees, I was worried... really worried. He was so miserable his tiny heart was pounding like he was running a marathon, and he was panting like a sick puppy. All of that, and I didn't connect the dots until this morning after Jim and Jamie had left to church, and I was trying to occupy my little feverbox child with a variation of peek a boo. I even managed to get a few grins out of him when I finally noticed how hard he was struggling to breathe. Quick, pathetic little wheezing breaths as he smiled at me and asked me to play some more.

I did what I always do in that situation, which was call Aunt Patti (what would I do without a dr for an aunt). She guessed pneumonia and suggested I make my way to the ER since it was the weekend and my pediatricians office was obviously closed. I called them anyway just to leave a message with the answering service (maybe subconsciously I wanted to be vindicated for being told to bugger off earlier), but shockingly, they were open... until 12 pm. And it was 11:15 and we live over a half hour away. They said bring him in, and I assured them I was on my way.

I'm just grateful we didn't have to spend half the day in the ER. Apparently the local children's hospital has been so swamped lately, they've asked some of the pcp's to open up their offices on the weekends to help stave off the influx of sick kids waiting in the ER.

And that's how we ended up paying the sick copay, on a weekend, in an empty medical building, with a kid who has himself a whopping case of good ol' traditional pneumonia.

I promise, there's nothing wrong with his eyes. I'm not sure why they're closed in both pictures, but I am trying to take more snapshots of the boys throughout their every day lives, and I guess this is how Charlie decided to immortalize his babyhood pictures of being sick.

Rediscovering McDonalds

2010-02-25T22:55:00.000-08:00

I never thought I'd see the day when I'd sing the glories of McDonalds.

I had some time to kill between work and speech therapy, so I stopped at the first fast food place with a kids playplace, and McDonald's won the draw. I can't remember the last time I was inside a McDonald's (I think it was in Alabama or Arkansas? with Julie and Jess). I pick my fast food restaurants based on the yumminess of their french fries and McDonald's wilty, tasteless things do nothing for me. Right now though, I really don't care. They could serve actual poo on a stick and I'd probably buy it. Why? Because they have free wi-fi and big comfy leather chairs, combined with a place for my children to play. Heck, I'll buy the food and just let it sit there, purely so I can get a few minutes of uninterrupted writing or reading time.

Such were my feelings of goodwill, I benevolently agreed to go down the slide with my begging boys. I failed to take into account my high heeled leather boots, and purse that more resembles a book bag. That, and those playsets were not made for adults. I never considered myself a very large person until I found myself crawling up, under and over equipment that was surely made to train contortionists. On my hands and knees I could feel my hands stick and unstick from the plastic and I prayed that it was just spilled soda and not anything else. Then, we finally got to the top, got my legs all tucked into the slide with both boys in my lap, when they totally and completely freaked out. "It's too red!" Jamie pleaded (of course it's red...it's a red tunnel slide). Charlie just tried to claw over me like the terminator was after him. The red hole of death. I briefly considered hauling myself out of the precarious position I was in, but there was no way I could survive the trip back down through the sticky-ville maze, and so I let go and down we went.

Happily they survived.
And then wanted to do it again.
Figures.

Next time I'll bring a bottle of disinfectant with me. Is that allowed?

Escape From Under The Bridge- Masquerading As Paparazzi

2010-02-21T22:43:00.001-08:00

When Curtis told me he was proposing to my sister, I was ecstatic. When he mentioned me taking pictures, I was thrilled I'd get to be in on the action, but that was before I found myself huffing like a maniac across a wobbling suspension bridge in the middle of Hillcrest yesterday.

I enlisted Gabrielle's help, and we had a plan.
But the combination of nerves, excitement and adrenalin meant that we sped into town, parallel parked like we were being chased by the Libyans, and ran three blocks to the historic suspension bridge where Curtis was supposed to propose to Liz...in minutes. After we charged across the bridge to our designated hiding spot, with Gabrielle shouting "I see a white civic!" (yes I know everyone drives a white civic), we skidded to a halt on the opposite side and realized we were on the wrong side. Awkward camera bag flopping behind me like a deranged crow, we turned around and ran back to the other side where we just came from. Duh-oh

We made it though, and we held our breath as Curtis and Liz made their way down the other side of the bridge. I don't know why we were worried they might hear us, the bridge was so long and they were so far away, we couldn't really hear much of anything except for Liz's shriek that echoed through the canyon when Curtis asked her to marry him.
She said yes.

And that is why you should always have a really long lens. We were so far away, we managed to even sneak away without them seeing us.

Here we are under the bridge.

Plot Points and The reason we can't keep candy in the house

2010-02-15T19:31:00.000-08:00

Do you remember the first time you could draw a star as a kid? Or a heart? Or write your name? Once you figured it out you did it over and over and over-- with chalk, with markers, on walls, scratched into doors... it didn't matter. Anything was fair game because what could be cooler than drawing a five point star?

Today I was outside playing with the kids and I found myself drawing novel plot diagrams in the dirt with a stick. Over.and.over. ...Set up, plot point one, plot point two, resolution: Across, up, UP, down... Jamie came over and asked me what I was doing, I thought about it for a second and then showed him how to draw a star. That was still too difficult so we practiced drawing letters instead and it reminded me of why I love writing so much. It feels doable. Even the Great Gatsby is just made up of words, words made up with letters from the alphabet, the same "J's" and "C's" that say "Capitol J for Jamie" and "Capitol C for Charlie". It can all be broken down to something simple. I'm sure the same thing can be said for the Olympic figure skating I watched last night, but it certainly doesn't look that way to me. I haven't been doing splits since I was 2, or wearing skates since I was three, but I have been learning my ABC's since then just like everyone else and writing is a beautiful thing (even if I haven't mastered the art of novel writing yet).

What is not a beautiful thing is Jamie on a candy high. It does not matter where I hide it or how high I stash it, Jamie will find a way to get to it. Which is why he's running naked around a pile of toys right now like some sort of hyper, Native American dance. But at least he's a freshly bathed, hyper Indian who's going to bed in about five minutes. (Hallelujah)

The candy though, has got to go. I can't eat it fast enough, the dog can't eat it without dying, and I'm not sure what the chickens reaction to it would be, so for now, it gets thrown out. Here's to restored peace.

Why we hate naps and the revenge of the Laundry Monster

2010-02-11T16:22:00.000-08:00

When I was little, I hated waking up so much that my parents paid me a nickel to wake up happy. It didn't work. I still wake up in an awful mood.
If I get up too early I feel I got gypped out of my hard earned sleep. If I sleep in too late, I feel like I missed something, but none of that even compares to the horribleness that is the dreaded nap. From facebook and twitter I gather that moms in general love naps. I still don't. It's right up there with canned tuna on my list of childhood dislikes I never outgrew. Jim has to convince me I need a nap, and even when he does succeed, I wake up a total crank. I feel like I missed something, got left behind, or got lost for awhile and life has completely gone onto the next stop without me. And I really really hate that running down the tracks towards the disappearing caboose feeling.

Jamie I think, feels the same way. He never wakes up unhappy in the morning, but that's probably because he's up before all of us anyway. He however, despises naps with all the venomous hatred that only four year olds everywhere in the world can sympathize with. Lately he's been getting up so early (read: 4am) that he can't help but take a nap in the afternoon. I put him to bed and he wisely nods his head at me, like he'll play along with my little game of "nap time" but unsurprisingly he has no intention of actually falling asleep. But of course he does, and thus, I know when he's awake by the loud shriek coming from down the hall. (random, abrupt shrieks are swear words for preschoolers). Another shriek as I hear his feet hit the floor and he comes running in. "Mommy, OH NO! I fell asleep."

Oh the horrors.

He doesn't believe me when I tell him I sympathize entirely.

He's also hit that stage where he dresses himself.
I feel the need to constantly explain that to people in the supermarket.

This picture made me laugh because it describes so perfectly the way they look at everything: Opposite.

And of course their trusty babysitter...

...Who sometimes accidentally knocks them down and makes them furious.

You'll notice the presence of mud, a commodity somewhat unknown in our part of the world. I did five loads of laundry on Monday. On Tuesday I was halfway through folding said laundry when the troops and the babysitter came tromping mud and wrecking general havoc over my laundry and through my nice stacks. So back to the laundry which by Wednesday had grown into seven loads (which is everything we own). Washed it all yesterday, only to have the dog get into the diaper trash and scatter the contents all over my hopelessly cursed laundry.

I wonder if the poor clothes feel upset they're now being washed for a third time without ever being worn. Thwarted out of their life's destiny or something.

I don't know whether to be mad or be grateful I at least like doing laundry better than cleaning the bathroom.

What happens when you give your baby espresso

2010-02-04T21:19:00.000-08:00

...on accident. I swear.

I love coffee even though I can't really drink it. In college I could down gallons of the stuff and still fall asleep during class, but these days I don't know what my problem is, half a cup in the afternoon and I'm so chipper, I can't decide whether to paint my toenails, fry tofu, or vacuum the baseboards, so I try to do all three at the same time.

Liz was a doll of a sister yesterday and brought me a super yummy espresso drink of some kind. I sipped at it as much as I dared before I set it on the table and forgot about it. Folly. Total and completely folly.

Charlie was up the entire night and I didn't figure out it had been Mr. Charlie, In the Kitchen, with the murder weapon...my Coffee, until 2 am this morning. I was delusionally trying to cuddle him back to sleep and thinking about how yummy his pajamas smelled. It took me a little while to realize that pajamas and babies were not supposed to smell like vanilla beans and coffee. Once the full reality of an 18 month old on coffee dawned on me. I gave up even trying to get him to settle down. So he spent most of the night dancing in the moonlight on our bed. (I'm not even sure if there was moonlight, but other than that, it's an accurate picture). He laughed. He sang. He babbled my ear off and spent ages tracing weird shapes on my face. In my incoherency I told Jim that Charlie must be drawing equations on my face. That's right, my child is a math genius in some sort of alien world I'm sure.

I didn't get the memo

2010-02-03T21:46:00.000-08:00

As a homeschooler with large, gaping, outer spaced sized black holes in my education, I have a somewhat dubious opinion of schooling my own children. But somewhere along the way I missed the memo about public school. Has it always been so structured? and even silly? And private school. Has it always been so expensive?

Jamie is currently in a Pre-K class for developmentally delayed kids. He did the same 10 week program last year with great success. I'm not sure if he can't or won't learn his abc's and count to 10, but he certainly doesn't do it at home with me. We work and we try, and he struggles, but never make any progress. Now we go to a group class for a few hours in the morning and BAM! suddenly he can do stuff in one week that I have been trying to get him to do for six months.

And I'm glad for him, I really am. Maybe I'm a little bit jealous that none of my patience and perseverance with academics has made the tiniest difference, but mostly I'm relieved that a group setting seems to be the magic key that unlocks his desire to learn things. But am I a horribly ungrateful person for wishing he were learning something slightly less institutionalized?

Jamie turns his chair upside down, climbs on it and jumps off. An adult reprimands him "Jamie! That is very dangerous, don't do that anymore." . During imaginative play time, he wants to pretend a book is a pizza, but he's not allowed to do that either, because its "not book time". I do understand that learning to work together, follow instructions, and being polite is all important developmental stuff for a preschooler to learn, but it almost feels like it's put up on some sort of pedestal of this is the way it is done. At home I work hard to foster the opposite attitude, and try to fan every little flame of creativity into life. Not that it's necessarily working, but the world we live in needs innovators. Even in my circles, the best floral designers, photographers, and writers are all people who think outside the box. Why would I want that trained out of my kids?

They also refuse to call him Jamie. They tell me he has to learn his real name, so they call him James and then wonder why he doesn't respond. Is this normal? I hold preschool and kindergarten teachers in awe, so I'm totally willing to be taught here. Is this just something Jamie needs to learn? Does traditional school get better or is it always so rigid? Am I doing something wrong?

Which leads me to my main point. I have no-freaking-clue what the heck I'm doing.

The Propane Fairy and Purple Van

2010-01-29T19:37:00.000-08:00

After bragging about how awesome it is to be on propane instead of city gas...we ran out of propane in the middle of making dinner for company on Monday. Snap. If I had known I was not going to be able to do the dishes, laundry, cook or take showers for the rest of the week, I probably would have flipped out a lot more.

If Jamie would have taken me seriously when I said playing in the mud would earn him a cold shower, then it would have spared him 5 min of shrieking.

Consequently, when the Pro Flame truck pulled into our driveway at 7 am this morning, the man had two pajama clad kids and an exuberant woman waving and greeting him. I have to say, he looked a little awkward at our happy dance, but I could have kissed his feet when he lit the pilot light on the water heater. And laundry! Heavenly.

When the man left he pulled me aside and said "I've never had a kid thank me so many times for fixing his bathtub. I think he's a little obsessed with baths." I said he'd probably be obsessed with baths too if someone forced him to take a shower with winter well water.

On a closing note, my family left today for Guatemala in a purple van with gold rims and a travel pod on top. I don't know what sort of message that will send as they drive through Mexico, but I hope it's a safe one. If you think about it, pray they make it safely. As crazy as they are, I really do love my family and I'd like to keep them around.

Real Men Sing Lullabys In The Middle Of The Night

2010-01-25T22:24:00.000-08:00

I expect children to wake up sometimes in the middle of the night. They live in a world of dogs the size of cars, and people the size of Goliath. Who wouldn't have nightmares? Remember when broccoli resembled a mid sized tree?

I don't however, have the foggiest clue what Charlie's problem is right now. He's always been a hard one to figure out, because unlike Jamie, Charlie is pretty laid back and chill about everything. So when he wakes up in the middle of the night, night-after-night, screaming bloody murder, it's well-- odd. It's even odder when he refuses all attempts of help. He throws his pacifier, arches his back, picks a fight with his blanket (and loses. Those things are flexible buggars), and pushes away any loving hand that ventures near to pat and soothe. So we eventually leave him to work it out on his own. Which can take hours, and hours, and a few more hours. I realize that as a mom, I can't really expect to get a full nights sleep in oh...ten years or so? Hopefully? But in the meantime, I'm really not fond of the extra missing chunk. I get so frustrated in fact, that I stomp around the house at 3 a.m. slamming cupboards as I search for baby tylenol, turning on every light and daring anyone else to wake up.

Jim somehow, can sleep through his child wailing like a howler monkey on helium. But it's unfair, because when he does eventually wake up (which may or may not be caused by objects thrown at him), he has the patience of a saint.

It takes a special kind of person to pace the floors with a hysterical baby, in the middle of the night, for hours, and make up fake lulubyes, even when you hate singing. Clearly, Jim is better at this job than I am.

Oh, and any suggestions for the Charles unit would be much appreciated.

Timothy, the Anatomically Correct Doll

2010-01-24T20:43:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure which is more embarassing.

The fact that I try to coerce Jamie into playing dolls with me, or that the doll is wearing an organic, hemp diaper.

Resident Toy Stasher

2010-01-21T14:55:00.000-08:00

One of my fears as a mother of only boys is that they will move away from home at 18 and call me only once a year on Mothers Day.

But I'm thinking maybe my concern resides in the wrong direction. We had to cut the nipples off of Jamie's bottles and hold a funeral around the trash can in order to wean him off the bottle. We had to shoot his diapers with a 12 gauge shotgun in order to potty train him at the tender age of 3 1/2.

And today, he pleaded with heart wrenching eloquence over every broken and worn out toy I threw away, as I tried to clean out and reorganize his room. Clearly the child is not fond of change. Maybe I should stop worrying about things I have no clue about.

Helicopters For Breakfast, and Your Elbow: The New Finger

2010-01-14T15:17:00.000-08:00

I knew I was in for trouble today when Jamie tried to insist he sit in his carseat backwards today. Somehow I missed the memo that today was opposite day... at least for Jamie. "Look Mom" he said, pointing to the blue sky, "The sky is RED!". I peered up at the sky looking for a red plane, or maybe even a pinkish cloud as Jamie laughed riotously in the back seat, completely tickled at his own joke. It might have been funny if we weren't en route to his scheduled speech assessment. The one year follow up from last year (can't believe it's been a whole year). He can talk a thousand times better (which isn't difficult since before speech therapy, he didn't talk at all), and although I realize he has some issues with clarity and enunciation, I was looking forward to impressing the friendly staff with how much he'd improved. That was before I knew today was opposite day. If I'd known, I would have stayed home and saved the gas.

She asked him to point to the sleeping puppy, he pointed to the playful kitten.
She asked him to point to the orange circle, he pointed to the purple square.
She asked him what his name was, he said "Santa Claus"

Poor lady... I wanted so badly to help her, but she insisted she was fine. How was I supposed to explain that I knew where this was headed, the impish grin on his face was a dead give away. She tried to get nicer and sweeter, but it just made Jamie think it was funnier and funnier to thwart her every question.

She asked him where he went to bed, he said "in the kitchen".
She asked him what his favorite food was, he said "helicopters".
She asked him to point to three animals, he pointed to the chair, apple and scissors.

By this time Jamie was hanging upside down on his chair, using his toes to point to the pictures she was showing him. "No Jamie" she said sweetly, "don't use your feet, use your finger". He promptly used his tongue. "No Jamie" she tried again "Not your tongue, give me your finger."
She guided his index finger towards the picture. He quickly switched to using his elbow. "Jamie!" She said in super nice, pretend horror, "Is that your finger?"

"Yes" Jamie said, "This is me giving you the finger."

I don't even want to know what that speech assessment is going to conclude.

Oh, and sadly, opposite day met its untimely death this afternoon, because sometimes four-year-olds just don't understand when enough is enough of a good thing.

Mistborns and The Rebellion

2010-01-10T21:38:00.001-08:00

I completely lost Jim to the distant and faraway city known as Luthadel, right around the same time Jamie and Charlie decided to morph into The-Children-I-Do-Not-Know.

I didn't think there could be any downside to a husband that has no problem letting me read whenever and as much as I want. After growing up with books hidden under the bed, books read with the hasty guilt of being caught, and books stashed in the bathroom (or hanging out the bathroom window on a rope after my siblings started doing regular sweeps of the bathroom), I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when I married a man who understood and sympathized with my addiction. The only problem is, he gets equally as lost in a good book as I do...except he takes three times longer to finish it. And don't take that as a sign I read fast, he just reads that slow.

I admire slow readers a lot more than I admire fast ones, but when Charlie has mastered the art of climbing onto the kitchen counters, and is simultaneously sharpening his temper tantrum skills, Jim's desperate hand gestures of "you won't believe what's happening now", are hardly consoling to me. Jamie, on the other hand, woke up two days ago and suddenly realized that he has been blindly accepting his chores and duties as if they were reasonable, acceptable requests. He plotted his revenge and started his ill-fated rebellion by wrapping his legs around the table, making clear eye contact and saying firmly and authoritatively "No. You're not the boss of me.", when I asked him if he'd fed the dog. This continued (and continues) over every little thing, from finding his shoes, to excusing himself from the table. He was a relatively well behaved four year old not 48 hrs ago, and I'd like to know what happened. For some reason, Jamie can't get it through his head that his parents are also equally stubborn firstborns, who can and will exercise an infinite amount of discipline and perseverance. Something Jamie always has to learn the hard way. In a way though, I can handle Jamie's outright mischievousness better than I can handle Charlie's quiet subterfuge.

Either way, I need to go find myself a good book. This week is going to need it.

(I know this one is out of focus, but it's the only one I have. :-( )

Who said Alcohol was worse than Caffeine

2010-01-06T20:43:00.001-08:00

After mountains of peanut brittle drowned in oceans of eggnog, I switched from jeans to spandex. Really, the season's best look for me is dresses over those soft, stretchy leggings. It's better than wearing pajamas. Despite however, the happiness of my elastic ensconced waist, the rest of me was feeling a little bit like I had electrified cotton candy running through my veins. It may or may not have been helped by the complete lack of sleep combined with my new-found love of coffee+steamed eggnog+pumpkin spice syrup. I don't think that's technically an eggnog latte unless it has espresso? No? I should know this, but I don't.

So when Gabrielle gave me this for Christmas...

...It pretty much looked like a diamond necklace to me. I ran full throttle into it's loving, but lecturing arms as I confessed my affair with all things potato related (is there even a way to prepare nasty potatoes?), my flirtation with bread and pasta, and the ten different kinds of cheeses that currently abide in my refrigerator. I have to admit, we get rather territorial with cheese in this family. There's no time like the present to take a break from bad habits, and it can't be coincidental that Christmas just happens to fall days before the page turns over on Time.

Three days into my sabbatical from gluten, sugar, alcohol and caffeine, and I'm still loving the piles of sauteed squash, the giant, dark green salads, and the mugs of peppermint tea. I have always loved all of those things, and it's no punishment to be eating them. I thought I'd miss my glass of wine, or brew, but no, it's the cheese and coffee I miss. The steady pounding in my head sounds like a whiny brat, begging for even the tiniest smidgen of green tea. When I close my eyes the whole world feels like it's spinning... spinning with wheels of Bri, wedges of Romano, and rounds of Gouda. I feel so sluggish, I think I need several shots of pure sugar shot straight into my bloodstream. It doesn't help that no matter where I hide the Christmas candy, Jamie has an uncanny knack of finding it. He doesn't even bother eating in secret, he munches on it happily while I try to move my heavy bones in his direction. I made him sit in his room with the door closed while I stowed it deep in the recesses of the cleaning closet on a high shelf, but he still found it. I wonder if he can smell it like a vampire smells blood? He tells me it's ok because he's sharing with Charlie. Lovely.

In happier news, these adorable munchkins had a reunion with my kids on Monday morning. Joel and Jamie have been two peas in a pod since they were itty bitty. They haven't changed much, they still get into everything and never stop moving. They've only added chattering, and lanky height to their sizable list of skills. They've also gotten a few siblings. ;-)

Grace and Panache

2010-01-03T13:36:00.000-08:00

When you're a kid, it never occurs to you that you are currently creating your past. Heck, I can barely remember this as an adult.
Grownups tried to warn me with their whole "When I was a kid..." but when you are eight, even Christmas to Christmas and birthday to birthday seems like an unfathomable distance, let alone the realization that you won't always live in the same house, have the same friends, or play in the same backyard.

Somehow that inescapable truth hit me like a ton of bricks... 2009's last punch on the way out. Jim and I were up in Pasadena to welcome in the new year, and somehow our spontaneous date turned into an even more spontaneous jaunt to my childhood home. Unsurprisingly, everything looked smaller, and yet still exactly the same. There was the rolling picket fence across the driveway that my dad installed to keep us kids from accidentally chasing a ball into the busy street, the river rock wall with geraniums that my dad and Grandpa built and the bike path that went behind our house. Jim and I parked the car and walked along the trail. We used to have a garden behind our back fence, but it now more closely resembles a jungle. I tromped through it and stood on the spot where my four year old self asked Jesus into her heart... back then it was just a tomato garden, now it's just a spot where my 26 year old self tries to catch a glimpse of me when I was Jamie's age. So bizarre.

We stood on our tiptoes and peered over the back fence into the back yard. Jim acted like he was committing some sort of crime, whereas I felt just as "at home" as I always felt there. I'm sure the neighbors or police would have understood. I could have pitched a tent right there on the spot and never moved. I miss the fact that all my people are growing old, and changing. I'm changing. I know this year will bring good changes along with the bad changes.

I pray I have the grace to survive it.

Petrified Spider Legs (as in turned-to-stone)

2009-12-29T16:32:00.000-08:00

You can always tell how unproductive I've been, or how depressed I am, by the state of my home...

...And it is currently spotless, which translates to me being a complete, and mental basketcase.

I've always bemoaned the sad state of my cupboards to Jim, and he always points out the hours I've spent writing, taking pictures, and playing with the kids. Well right now half my kitchen has been overhauled, Jim's dresser has been emptied, sorted and reorganized, and I have bags of stuff ready for the Salvation Army. Conversely, my camera and I aren't on speaking terms, the dog is hiding under the table, and the kids are watching Wonder Pets.

I was supposed to feel a wonderful sense of accomplishment at the sanitized state of my home, but instead I feel...well...still ho hum. Not only is my ability to create, and accomplish anything at an all time low, but I'm also not likely to succeed at proper housekeeping any time soon either. Because lets fact it, I really like to look at my toilets as fungal gardens, and my floors as 24hr soup kitchen for colonies of antenaed insects. It's also not going to win me any points with the more orderly people in my life when I prove yet again that my skills lay more in the picking up and putting away of toys, than they do in cleaning and reorganizing.

I'm not sure if I'm in the minority on this, or if other people only deep clean their house when they are depressed too. On a side note, if anyone has any tips on keeping ones house clean, I'm all ears (because maybe I'm not truly a hopeless case). The petrified state of certain spiders found in the dark recesses of my shelves was alarming.

2009-11-23T09:16:00.000-08:00

When I was a child running around tying together adult's shoelaces, scaling trees that said "no climbing" and walking through doors that said "employees only", I did it mostly out of ignorance (except maybe the shoe tying). I don't know if I just wasn't observant, or that restaurants held a confusing number of doors in the hallway for a little girl on a mad dash mission to the bathroom, but whatever the case, I would invariably get stopped mid antic by some stern, scary looking man who quite literally scared the crap out of me. They'd throw a few gruff words in my direction, and I would hightail it out of there in mortification. This weekend I realized I'm now married to one of those scary-ass men.

We were camping at the Agua Caliente hotsprings this weekend with a host of family/friends, which was mucho fun and enjoyable... except for the (boy scout?) troop of boys two campsites over. Every time one of them made the mistake of walking through our campsite, Jim would go over and tell them to get out. After watching two or three kids go positively wide eyed in terror, their heads bobbing up and down as they agreed to never ever touch a toe in our campsite as long as they lived, it suddenly occurred to me that my husband perhaps looks a little intimidating with his mohawk, unshaven appearance and glowering, sleep deprived expression. In Jim's defense, the boys were climbing in the canyon above our heads at midnight. At 1 a.m. we were all laying in our sleeping bags listening to the agonizingly awkward conversation between an adolescent boy and his would-be girlfriend sitting on a rock next to our tent (apparently they missed the memo about tents lacking a sound barrier and all that). At 2 a.m. they were swearing at each other over their lack of tent setting skills, and by 5:30 a.m. they already bright eyed and bushy tailed, standing in the middle of our sleeping campsite, yelling across the campground at their friends. Count it, that's three and a half hours of sleep for all of us. Even though I was as annoyed and sleep deprived as everyone else, I have to admit I had a fair bit of sympathy for the unfortunate miscreants who wandered across Jim's radar. I'm pretty sure I committed the same irritating sins at their age... With the exact same result.

Life on the hill

2009-10-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

Jamie uses a tea infuser to catch tiny pretend butterflies. Cute except for the part where he keeps opening the door to release the butterflies and the dog runs out to chase the rabbits on the lawn. Apparently we have a lot of invisible butterflies in this house. That and the constant Monster infestation we always have, while little tea balls may be good for catching butterflies it takes a big yoga ball to take out a monster. The 32 inch sphere is supposed to be my computer chair to help me build core muscles, but instead it flies around the house taking out gremlins and other suspicious creatures hiding behind the couch.

Charlie (although not on crack, or alcohol or any other known substance other than copious amounts of yogurt) is...well odd. He spins round and round before collapsing on the floor in laughter before he gets up and does it again. He also boogies everywhere, all the time, and eats like he's a starting linebacker for a Texas highschool. His pediatrician however is worried because he's so scrawny he doesn't even register on the growth chart. Considering I was the smallest person in every sunday school class until I was 16 makes me think it's more genetic than malnourishment, but I'm still spiking all his food with whole fat yogurt or olive oil. Jamie and I (as firstborns) want to know though, is it normal for second-borns to be an emotional comedian from sunup to sundown? We're quite dubious. We just want to know that wearing underwear on your head while climbing a dresser, falling down in giggles and climbing back up it, is expected behavior.

I'm so far in over this whole book writing thing, it's not even funny. I'm totally and completely stuck and I'd throw the whole thing in the trash if Jim wouldn't growl at me. I've read so much good stuff lately and so much bad stuff that uncomfortably resembles my own writing that it's left me more blocked than processed-carb-fed-human (dont think about that one too long). I cant give up though, and as much as I'd like to throw in the towel, it's just a matter of "when" rather than "if". I'd appreciate any techniques or help if anyone has them. Right now my characters are boring me to tears. Someone please rescue them.

Rubber Rooms and Hill Fairies

2009-10-16T19:02:00.000-07:00

There are few things I dislike more than pizza which puts me somewhere in between a person with no soul and a person with no taste. Or maybe both. I'm eating it now and it actually tastes good, which proves what kind of day I've had; It may or may not be the first thing I've eaten all day. (and should also reassure anyone that I can and will eat pizza happily if you serve it to me at your house).

Sometimes I'm convinced I was born with the missing genetics to be a mom. You know how they tell you your own baby's wails in the middle of the night will wake you up? Wrong. As evidenced by my parents once coming into Jamie's room in the wee hours of the morning to find his newborn self screaming bloody murder while Jim and I were passed out on the floor. Sleep deprivation does have its limits.
The pediatrician happens to agree I'm a horrible mother. They called today at 4pm "Mrs Ramsey, were you going to bring Charles in for his TB check?" Crap. They are seriously the only practitioner/therapist/doctor we have or ever have had that didn't give reminder calls (our dentist will even text you a reminder). I survive on reminder calls. I know I shouldn't, but the truth of the matter is I can hardly remember to take eat breakfast most days let alone remember that Charlie's vaccines on Tues included a TB shot that needed to be checked in 2-3 days. The stone-cold lady at the front desk had no mercy on me, and I am dutifully repentant.

I was already having a bad day, but by the time I spent over an hour in rush hour traffic for a ten second confirmation my son doesn't have tuberculosis, I literally got home and wanted to scream into a pillow...until I heard Jamie screaming outside. I rushed to see what the problem was, only to find it was a happy conversation between him and "my friend in the hill", because yes Jamie discovered his echo today.

We laid down on a rock and yelled at the echoes till Jim got home with beer and pizza. Good man.

Don't Ask

2009-10-12T21:32:00.000-07:00

Jim shaved his head four years ago. It looked awful, but I love him and I love who he is, and if he wants to rock the shaved head look, then far be it from me to disagree.

...Until he shaved it the second time. I really thought the first time was also the last (got it out of his system), but for someone who has a disgustingly thick head of hair, he sure isn't suitably fond of it. The second time he shaved it, we were supposed to go out on a double date, with friends who were in from out of town. I came home from work, having dropped off the kids on the way home, and when I walked through the door there was some axe murderer in my bathroom. I shrieked a little. It was Jim of course, totally springing the badass look on me unexpectedly. Several years went by before I recovered sufficiently to not start sputtering every time he mentioned doing it again.
And it's not that I don't like the shaved look, but rather just Jim with a shaved head. He looks kind of scary. The kids however disagree with me, or at least Jamie does. He's been begging me all day if he can have hair like daddy, because yes, Jim shaved his head again. Although this time he's sporting a mohawk for a few days before it all disappears.

Somehow (don't ask me how) a few months ago, we both decided it would be cool to shave our heads together. For him it would just be more of the kind of change he loves to embrace, for me it would have shaken my world, rocked my vanity and pretty much left me wondering who I was. I wanted to do it, I really did. And maybe someday I'll work up the nerve to find out who the curly-less side of me is, but this time I chickened out. :-( As a compromise I got it cut short and dyed dark red. Jim loves it. I'm still trying to figure out if I like it or not.

The Lonesome Leper

2009-10-07T17:18:00.000-07:00

Jamie got bit by some sort of bug on Friday, we put the heal all miracle salve on it, kissed it with magical kissing powers and told him not to itch it. By Sunday it became apparent bugs had nothing to do with it; his arm had erupted into a full scale attack of poison oak. Where he got himself an armful of poison oak was the mystery of the century, but we do have a dog that likes to chase rabbits so we used our super powerful deduction skills and blamed it on the dog (besides, the dog can't talk to defend himself). Even a Dr agreed it was poison oak or contact dermatitis of some kind. Fast forward through a few play dates, a half a dozen errands, and a large swath of people through San Diego who have been the recipient of Jamie's hugs (or whacks) and when Tuesday evening found him incapacitated from the pain on his arm, I knew we were in trouble.

This morning I called the Pediatrician and they said to bring him in asap, but to sit in the hall till we were called. You know it can't be a good sign when you aren't even allowed in the sick room. 30 min in the hallway, 10 min getting vitals, 20 seconds for the doctor to pronounce judgment: Shingles. How my four year old baby got an old persons disease like shingles is beyond all comprehension. I didn't even know kids could get it. But apparently it's fairly common these days because of the chicken pox vaccination. Something about kids carrying just enough antibodies to never get the chicken pox, but not enough antibodies to resist shingles. You don't even have to have a compromised immune system or a high stress job. Who-da-thunk?

To add insult upon injury, I specifically told them not to give my kids the chicken pox vaccination. Somewhere, somehow, the MA didn't get the memo and she accidentally gave it to him anyway. Short of demanding she suck the poison from my son's veins, there was nothing I could do but throw a fit. Now, three years later my son is writhing around in misery because of it and I'd rather he just had the damn chicken pox. Instead he got a dubious vaccination for a non threatening virus that didn't even successfully prevent it. Brilliant.
Of course this is all my fault according to the doctor. If I had been a good mother, I'd have forgiven the medical community its faux pas and brought him in for extra shots to booster up his system's antibodies. Which, forgive my cynicism and ignorance, I didn't. I'm also guilty of numerous crimes for successfully skipping it with Charlie. They're insisting I bring him in tomorrow for the chickenpox vax. It must be their attempt at clever humor-- surely I must be missing something. I'm already in this mess because of that stupid vaccination. Must I clarify again? I'd rather Charlie just have the chickenpox.

So if you or your child has come in contact with mine in the last few days be warned: They might get the chicken pox. Or if they've been vaccinated: They might get shingles.

Nobody wants to be around him anymore and he's got his Dad and Aunt Liz running scared every time he gets close. So I asked Jamie to give me his best zombie face. This is what I got. Very scary don't you think?

Charlie on the other hand could care less.

I'm too sexy for my salad

2009-10-06T09:55:00.000-07:00

You know your homemade beauty attempt was not a wholly successful endeavor when your husband sniffs your hair and declares you smell like salad. However, in exchange for hours of endless puns regarding the chunks of avocado and olive oil in my hair, I now have smooth, shiny, soft locks. Try it and tell me if you think sexy hair is worth smelling like guacamole for awhile.

1 avocado mashed
1 egg
1 t. olive oil

Mix, massage in hair. Wait thirty minutes, rinse and shampoo.

Patience is a tired mare but she jogs on.

2009-09-30T19:31:00.000-07:00

Is writing a learned art or a God given ability? My 18 year old self hopes it's the former. I can count on one hand the number of papers I actually finished while being homeschooled--they typically turned into stubborn showdowns with my parents. Consequently the first week of college I found myself clutching a one paged, in class essay on Great Danes vs Chihuahuas, it was covered with corrections and I was in a mandatory meeting with the instructor bawling my eyes out. Those were the days where every cool homeschool chick worth her salt carried a 4 inch folding knife in her pocket. After looking between me, the knife in my hands, and my tear splotched paper, you can't blame the worried instructor for threatening to take my easiest means of suicide away... or maybe he was concerned for his own safety. I'm not sure.

Hopefully I've come a long way since then. Although anything involving the alphabet and a thirty min timer is still doomed for disaster, because I am anything but a fast writer and the best I can do is aim for persistance. I'm not a wordy writer either. People who can whip out four pages without even pausing are geniuses in my eyes. Nanowrimo last year was possibly one of the most painful things I've ever done. To this day I have to resist the urge to check my word count on blog entries and mentally congratulate myself when I hit 800 words.

I've managed to squeeze out 12,000 words in my novel so far. That's 12,000 words I currently despise, but that Jim has forbidden me to erase. 12,000 words that roll over and over in the back of my head and haunt my dreams with what the next 12,000 words will contain. Everything I read says to write the first draft then edit, edit, edit. I think that must apply to people who like to write 150,000 word epic beasts. In my case it will have to be "revise", "rewrite", "revise". Because really, I'll be doing good if I can hit 60,000. The first Harry Potter book was 80,000 words.

Oh and I'm begging... somebody go sign up for Nanowrimo this year, because I can't, what with the rule about not starting till Nov 1st coupled with my inability to do two things at once has sadly disqualified me from participating this year. But I want to live vicariously through someone and cheer them on!

There was this one time...

2009-09-29T18:25:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who has the worst girlfriend I have ever met. Seriously. She's one of those people who you want to like. you try really hard to like...mostly because you you really want to be a part of your friends life and you know your friendship with him won't be the same if you hate his wife. But It's horribly horribly depressing. And I've tried, I really have. But what are you supposed to do when you find out she's cheating on him? Do you tell him? I did. He doesn't care. He loves her anyway. And so for his sake I try again. We went out for a girls night one time, shared martinis, gossiped about our favorite books and generally had fun. I was shocked. I couldn't even believe this was the same woman who days earlier had borrowed my car without asking and gave it a dent she insisted was there before. The same woman who flirted with my husband and the had the audacity to tell her boyfriend it was Jim not her. The same women who thinks it's hysterical to send me obnoxious texts around the clock. And yet, despite our becoming "friends" the other night, I find out she told everyone I whine too much and that she really has to bite her tongue to keep from callig CPS because my kids are "emotionally abused and physically neglected." Seriously.
I give up. She's a crazy person and it's a hopeless case.

And yet I can't. Because "She" is the church, and I am her too.

And really, although I know the above is a bit of an exaggeration for me, it isn't for some people; and it is quite the bugger. It would be much easier if I could be one of those people who believe it's only about "your relationship with Jesus" and church doesn't matter. Which yeah, is partly true: your relationship is with Christ, but the church is clearly the bride of Christ. Try being best friends with someone while refusing to acknowledge their spouse. Conversations are awkward and dinner parties are a bitch.

Not that I'm condoning abusive relationships on a person-to-person level. People have shitty things happen to them-- alcoholic husbands, creepy step-fathers, bi-polar mothers, teenagers who are hell-bent on destruction.
But in the case of the church you already know the ending. You already know that no matter how many times she flat-lines, the defibrillator is always going to work. Yes, she's been diagnosed with cancer, but we already know the chemo works.

Clearly we can't give up when we know the end of the story. It isn't a hopeless case. Even though I live in a place where every gosh darn church is either filled with pretty people congratulating themselves on how cool they are, or some watered down, old fashioned service filled with old old or creepy people. In my own beloved circle of reformed churches here in San Diego, it seems like everyone either hates everyone or has some ancient grudge that they refuse to let go. It gets quite depressing to be around people who refuse to let go over things that happened before I was even out of elementary school.

And yet I love my church, I really do. I just suck at trying to figure out how to help.

Maybe Next Saturday...

2009-09-24T15:29:00.000-07:00

Jamie and I read "The Little Engine That Could" a lot. My mom used to read it to me too. I hated it. Mostly because everytime I had a meltdown and insisted something was impossible (which was quite a lot), my mom wouldn't say anything but just start chanting "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can" until I went and tried again. It was very annoying. Sometimes she even added a peppy little "choo choo!" to cheer me on. I was only five and it was still mortifying. Even now, I'm tempted to edit and change the book as I'm reading it to Jamie.

"...the little engine tried and tried, but she was too little and not strong enough and children on the other side of the mountain did not get their toys and good things to eat. The End"

After months and months of houseguests/people living with us, I finally decided enough was enough and scoured the house top to bottom. Or tried. I swept the floor and was halfway through mopping it when Jamie and Charlie got hungry and spilled dried spaghetti all over the floor. I told myself to remain calm, and then congratulated myself when I spoke "calmly" but "firmly" to Jamie in my best James Bond voice. "You will pick up these noodles and you will put them in this bag and you will do it now." Jamie didn't sass back, he picked up a noodle, looked at me, snapped it in two and threw it on the floor. He's fond of drawing lines in the sand. I again resisted any screaming or yelling. Even though what was merely supposed to be the daunting task of sweeping and mopping the floor while dodging two small kids and a large dog, suddenly turned into the monumental battle of clashing wills with Jamie + all the mopping. And that was just the floor. While I was disciplining Jamie, Charlie was quietly disappearing to the laundry room where he somehow managed to scale the washer and dryer to empty a bucket of oxi clean on the floor. The dog hopeful it was food, was sadly disappointed and so came to tattle mournfully. I swept up the oxiclean, and was starting a new load of laundry when I was interuppted by shrieks from the kids bedroom. I ran down the hall to find both of them on top of the dresser in the closet where Jamie was hanging upside down off the clothing rod and Charlie was trying to join him. Jamie felt this was highly inappropriate behavior for a little brother (although perfectly reasonable for him to do), thus the shrieks. I rescued both of them and chided them not to do things that will get them hurt. Then I stomped through the house and turned on Angry Men from Les Miserables which I sung at the top of my lungs.

Later I was cleaning the bathroom (since I couldn't remember the last time I cleaned it). Scrubbed the bathtub, dragged Charlie away from the toilet, grabbed Jim's toothbrush from Jamie. Emptied the trash, cleaned the mirror, took both kids out of bathtub that was now covered in muddy foot prints. Re-cleaned bathtub, scrubbed the sink, took kids out of the bathtub again, kicked them out of the bathroom entirely, locked the door and re-cleaned the bathtub for the third time while they both pounded on the door sobbing about my cruelty. Mopped the floor and was hitting the finishing touches on the chrome in the sink when it got quiet...too quiet. I whipped open the door to reveal Jamie and Barnabas gone, with Charlie left munching happily on...toilet paper? no. Trash? maybe. The tied up bag of trash looked like it had been torn open. I pried the prize from his clenched fingers and mouth. Yup trash.
A used tampon to be exact.

They win.

I don't think I can do this.

The Prodigal Chicken

2009-09-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

Jamie is grooming Barnabas with a eyelash curler and what used to be my toothbrush... it's obviously Barnabas's toothbrush now. I'm not sure what an eyelash curler is useful for on a Dutch Shepherd, but Jamie seems to think it's necessary and Barnabas isn't minding it, so I'm letting slide. I am kind of curious though what it's like brushing a dog who's three times bigger than you with a tooth brush. Something like brushing a grizzly bear I'd imagine. I was terrified of dogs at Jamie's age because well...they looked enormous and scary to me. Of course I didn't have a dog like Barnabas to help change my mind. The important thing is that I like dogs now...more than chickens. Not that I dislike chickens, but ours are rather relationally distant, emotionally challenged, and dumb as a box of rocks. All of them except Mrs. Marley, she's actually dumber than the rest of them put together, but she's also so sweet and nice, she's won Jamie over for life, and she has Jim and I worried for her safety and well being. I'm not sure what her problem is, but I think maybe she can't see through the fluff in her eyes. Is that possible? I put food out for the chickens and they all come running, except sweet little Mrs. Marley who happily clucks around my ankles still asking me where breakfast is. Jamie has to physically put food in front of her nose in order for her to find it. She does the same for water. The other chickens don't pick on her, and they all seem to get along but I'm still worried. She's by far the smallest, and I'm concerned she doesn't have the necessary survival instincts to be a chicken. Or maybe she really can't see through all the feathers in her face, should I clip them?

Like I mentioned before, we have an even half dozen...or had. We have seven now. Apparently when my parents were bringing them down to us, one escaped and they assumed she became coyote snack. Fast forward two weeks, and my mom heard something clucking in the build up under the house. Yup, it was the chicken, no food or water for two weeks and she was still alive and healthy looking. She's currently a little obsessed with the water bowl, but other than that she's fine. Unbelievable.

She needs a name.

The reluctant

2009-09-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to come out of the closet about something for awhile, but I never seem to quite work up the nerve. Until tonight. For no other reason except that I very nearly lost my mind and ruined my entire life this evening and nobody would ever know why. That and the only reason really to resist confessing, and to not talk about it, stems from pure pride and chagrin on my part because well... I'm writing a book.

Best case scenario: writing it makes me happy, reading it might make other people happy.

Worst case scenario: I pour hundreds of hours into my book, a few small chunks of my soul, and a dash of my sanity only to have it be total and utter crap. Which lets face it, is highly likely.

For all the undiluted opinions I throw out about this book or that book; Twilight sucks, Harry Potter is entertaining but mediocre, Gregor The Overlander doesn't end well, I don't pretend for a moment those books were a cinch to write. It's a little obnoxious that it takes me mere hours to read and pass judgment on a book when in reality an author somewhere poured their sweat and blood into the monumental task of putting eighty-thousand words together in a coherent fashion.

So I would definitely choose in favor of not writing a novel if I could, it's embarassing and a recipe for remorse, but I can't stop. I'm a hopeless case. The story got stuck in my head one day and like pregnancy, it just kept getting bigger and bigger until it had to come out. Like it or not.
Not that I'm entirely pessimistic. I like my story and I like writing. I've got a unmarked white binder stuffed with fifty pages worth of outline and notes on characters, milieu...what they eat and how they spend money. I take the notebook everywhere with me and whenever something strikes my imagination I write it down. I've even pulled over on the freeway to write something before it disappeared into the mom brain malady I suffer from. It has sand hiding in the crevices from trips to the beach, and some of the pages stick together from spitup and pb&j. The outside (nor inside) has a title or label on it anywhere because I was too embarassed to admit its contents to people, contents I completely lost tonight. Took it on a date with Jim tonight, and came home without it. No clue where I left it. I've detailed my penchant for losing wallets and cellphones here before, but this was far far worse. When I told Jim, he looked at me like I'd just announced I dented the car. That's how many hours I've poured into that notebook. Thankfully, Jim could still think clearly and logically despite my hysterics, so a few well placed phone calls to the mall and my notebook was found: Sitting on the counter at Panda Express.
How did I do that?
And what have I done?
Bah.

Anybody else reading this ever started or considered writing a book?

Because it just doesn't feel right...

2009-09-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

...To blog pictures and not put them over here. Two blogs? Still getting used to it.

Ben and Danielle's wedding.

Bug sushi

2009-09-14T22:29:00.000-07:00

I do clean my house...really. Not that you would ever guess, considering what Charlie finds to put in his mouth. Jamie never put anything in his mouth except maybe the occasional crayon, or razor blade (kidding kidding). So I found it disturbingly shocking that Charlie can locate any coin in a fifty yard radius at any given time. I'm convinced he even has a homing beacon in his sleep, sweeping the perimeter with baby radar, always on the lookout for something dangerous. It's gotten to the point where I've prioritized and categorized. Poisonous spiders, marbles, coins, buttons and nails are things that warrant a red level freakout and trigger the oft-touted mom adrenalin super powers like sprouting wings, bellowing like a baritone bull, and perfecting the headlock-heimlich-poised-finger sweep. Lets just say my adrenalin is running pretty low and Charlie's mad skills even extend to somehow conjuring up rusty screws in a walmart grocery cart. I have given up trying to completely prevent him from eating harmless things like beetles, grass, seaweed, sand...and anything else not poisonous. Seaweed is a good source of iodine!

Amazingly enough, Charlie met his match when baby Jack showed up this weekend with Kevin and Bethany. He apparently not only eats grass too, but he eats lots of it (despite our best efforts to take it away from him). You never know whether to sigh and chide or smile and giggle at him. He is a pretty expressive specimen of baby, and his eyes in particular speak so clearly there really is no need for him to ever learn to talk.

"This rubber bug doesn't taste nearly as good as the real thing"

2009-09-11T12:46:00.001-07:00

Our satellite dish is broken and rats have chewed through the electrical wiring on the hot tub (which oddly enough resembles an old monitor plug...who knew?). The kids have declared that in case of such emergency (the lack of Little Einsteins in the morning), they will instead dig holes and play in the mud. I'm supposed to be impressed they get Barnabas to dig holes for them, but I'm not. And yes Jamie, I have noticed he can dig faster and deeper than either you or Charlie.
We have played in the mud every day since last Thurs, not counting the weekend, and each time it started without my knowledge. It's like they wait and watch, distract me with a plea for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and Bam! they're out the door and in the mud before you can say scudder's-all-natural-peanut-butter. I do what any self respecting person would do in the same situation. I join in on the mudflinging until all we can see is the whites of each others eyeballs and then I hose everyone off. The lawn gets watered, the kids get bathed, and everybody's happy. Until the next day when they do it all over again. Urgh.

I'm snowed under an immense pile of photo editing and even with the addition of Lightroom, thirty min of Dora the Explorer would help tremendously. I'm putting up a few of a family photoshoot this afternoon, and some of a wedding I shot last weekend. So if you want to check them out, go take a peek at my photography blog.

The New Pecking Order

2009-09-09T11:43:00.000-07:00

We got Chickens!

Six of them to be exact. And they're all different colors, shapes and sizes, although this one is the cutest in my opinion. She doesn't have a name yet, but check out those rockin blue legs. We ordered them in April, so we had pretty much given up ever seeing them and then Jamie arrived Sunday from his grandparents house belting "CHICKENS...we've got CHICKENS!!" which sent us scrambling trying to figure out what to do with them. They ended up in the garden, but they've since learned how to jump the fence so Jim is frantically building them a coop, and until then Barnabas alerts us to when they've escaped.
At least thats the idea.

And yes, this is my new blog. While you're here you can add it to your subscriptions. ;-)
The xanga one has lived a good life and is passing on to the next life.