That Chick Who Likes to Procreate.

PEOPLE.

2012-01-04T11:49:00.000-08:00

People like nicknames, right?

I work with the public, serving them . . . items. Sometimes they make me laugh. For example:

CTG: repeatedly asks for the same item each time he comes in, assuming that I'll forget what he gets, mess it up, or that I am just an idiot in general that needs reminding. Occasionally when certain items are not to his temperature specifications he accuses us of trying to either poison him or scald him. Also very conscious of cleanliness of hands making his items and other people in the place of business who might be acting in a peculiar way. And by peculiar, (as a coworker aptly put it) I mean smiling, laughing, or making eye contact in conversation. Mission in life: to get more hot water. Hasn't been seen in a while.

Garnet: An offensive guerrilla artist/musician. Constantly shouts from the back of the line to register at a certain employee about art showings, expects "artist treatment" when his "pieces" are on display, also threatened another employee and customer before befouling sink in men's bathroom. Mission in life: to collaborate with Lady Gaga (who comments on his MySpace *often*)--this was straight from the dude's mouth. Also hasn't been seen in a while.

Bus Driver Bob: At each visit, complains loudly that internet is either malfunctioning or is not free, but then gets confused as to whether it's at our location or Galleria that this is a problem. A coworker once posited the idea that the trouble may lie in the fact that his laptop is a bit outdated. Mission in life: Free Wi-Fi for Etch-A-Sketches.

Comb-Around: Lovely gentleman, kind, and polite, but has unfortunate hairdo (not a comb-over, but a comb-around) that shows off no shortage of head scabs. Loves conspiracy theories, and presidential administrations before 1950. Mission in life: properly-arranged tables and chairs.

MegaBeast: A large, tall woman; not friendly. Mission in life: Using the restroom for free. Also missing in action.

The Man Who Enjoys Taffy: Only because "Meth-Mouth" had already been taken. Mission in life: unfortunately not able to be communicated. Nice guy, though.

SA Cup Guy: Gets sprung from rehab, comes in with SA to-go cup (pre-filled with vodka) and drinks it until pass-out in comfy chair by window. Occasionally asks to use phone; occasionally confrontational; occasionally forgets cup inside store after we close and beats on door until passing out (again). Mission in life: to avoid the MPD, which has not been successful thus far.

Dick Pupil: The crown jewel of customer service nightmares. Has been ejected from other locations in metro due to harassing employees, complaining about speed of service, or other staffing issues that occur when made to wait longer than 48 seconds for product. Was thought to have been on medication or enrolled in anger management classes between 2009-10 but is either off meds or has discontinued treatment. Sighs loudly, throws money and gift cards often, extremely impatient, exceedingly short-tempered, and explosively, unabashedly rude. Mission in life: product prepared for him instantly, on site, no waiting, preferably free.

Crazy Evangeline: Seen mostly on Mondays, disheveled, and extremely manic. Sits down next to other customers and starts up weird, inappropriate conversations with them, or laughs or makes comments while eavesdropping on others' conversations. This sometimes works for her, because though disheveled, she's a cute, bubbly girl. Usually present for 6-8 hour stretches. Talks on cell phone to people who may or may not be legitimately on the other line. Mission in life: Lithium?

Pat Bateman: Only seen once (so far) but had a complete conversation on cell phone that went on for nearly an hour about glycolic index, juicing, and carbs, very much in the style of his namesake---"Let me tell you, there are definite do's and don'ts, good buddy, of starting a protein-based diet." Mission in life: nutritional guru of Pierce and Pierce.

Not to be outdone: ICEPICK TAKES THE LEAD

2011-12-30T07:26:00.000-08:00

Here's an idea: Christmas vacation can be optionally only one week long. Let the teachers keep their breaks, because they deserve them, but for families who (ahem) need their kids to return to school a bit earlier, have an option where anyone up for student teaching for the semester gets pro-rated in by taking students for the second week.

At this point I'd be willing to pay for it, myself.

And this is not even remotely a joke.

Yesterday, B:

1. stole cookies, which is not a big deal normally, but in a house of 3 other kids who make it their business to know/rat on/complain about not getting any themselves, this was an issue.

2. smacked Vin, probably 35 times throughout the day.

3. whined, a lot.

4. elected not to take her nap, encouraging (by volume) her brother to do the same.

5. thought it would be a good idea to sponge paint WITH BUTTER.

6. decided to clean the tub WITH THREE DIFFERENT B&B CHRISTMAS-SCENTED HANDSOAPS. It's still a goddamned slippery mess in there, but smells lovely.

airutioruioyueaiorut94eutawiejrknwrfnkngjfcknkghrtjaioethioehtioa4thaioshiosaoihioshtiohtioht.

Adventures with Minigun: IKEA

2011-12-09T09:47:00.000-08:00

So when you have a child that's going through an unpleasant phase, the key is to never assume they're out of it or God forbid say it aloud to anyone (unless you actually enjoy it when the universe proves to you that you're clueless). We had a few really decent days, maybe even a couple weeks with Vin, then after I answer "I think so" to someone's asking if he's grown out of his asshole stage, (and as Emeril Lagasse is so very fond of saying) BAM.

It was at IKEA, and things began innocently enough. It was just him and me, cruising around in a cart, counting all the clocks, having a great time. All of a sudden, in the middle of the bedroom display section, he OUT OF NO WHERE smacks me right across my rack, open palm. I wasn't ignoring him, I wasn't annoying him, there were no other children there to take away my attention, he just did it, I assume to get a reaction. Which I provided.

ME: Um, NO. We don't hit. And you NEVER hit me.

VIN: (giggles)

ME: (scowl) You think hitting is funny?

VIN: Yeah.

ME: It's not funny. Hitting hurts people. Don't ever do that again.

I take two steps and BAM, smacks my business again. I stop the cart and hold his hand away from me, as I see he is fully winding up to do it a third time.

ME: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NO! NAUGHTY! NO HIT!

VIN: (giggles).

Again we start walking. Again he makes as if to slap me. I anticipate it and take a step back from the cart. He does not appreciate me one-upping his bastardly little two year old bullshit, and screams, loudly.

Now first off, none of my other kids ever tried to mess with me physically, not ever. And if they did, telling them once to knock it the fuck off would have been enough, but this is MINIGUN I'm dealing with here, so the only course of action I really had was to either completely distract him from the tit-slapping game he was so enjoying or to wheel him the hell out of that place; I initially chose the latter but since the remodel they did maybe a year or two ago, I had no idea where the Christ I was and was stuck going through the entire loop with no shortcuts because I didn't know where any were, all the while, stopping and backing up each subsequent time he tried to smack me (again) or catching his hand each time. He was being a complete little fuck and I was extremely mad and embarrassed. When we get about halfway through the loop and I finally begin to recognize surroundings, he gave up a little and started counting clocks again, on his own.

VIN: CLOCKS! CLOCKS, MAMA! NOTHER CLOCK!

ME: (under my breath) Fuck your clocks. You broke my heart, Fredo.

VIN: I'NA EAT! I'NA EAT!

Okay, so he was hungry. I whipped out the bag of trail mix I packed for him and let him have at it. We make it to the lower level and I find a couple of curtain panels that were on clearance. I stop for approximately eight seconds to check them out and he upends the baggie of trail mix onto the floor. Cashews and craisins are everywhere (as of course he's already eaten the mini-marshmallows first), so I quietly take the bag, hand him the curtains to look at, and scoop the rest off the floor. Luckily, this entertains him, and we see the big, big fans, get to the check out, buy the shit and leave without any further incidents.

And as I'm wheeling him through the parking lot, he suddenly gets this look on his face that is the very definition of the light-bulb-going-on-look and SMACKS ME IN THE CHEST, AGAIN. As we were outside, and I had pretty much had it (and there was no one really around to hear me) I finally said what I'd been meaning to say all along . . .

ME: OH MY GOD, WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT? WHAT THE HELL? STOP!

VIN: (responds with a combination of Mickey's smirk/shrug in Snatch when he knocks the first guy out in the ring and a few seconds later Darla's creepy psycho-laugh in Finding Nemo when the dentist tells her he's giving her a fish for a present). After I get him strapped into his car seat, I just stood there and stared him down, scowling. He looked back at me the whole time, like "what?"

He's woken up a few times in the middle of the night the last few (which I thought we were over), managed to destroy at least two florescent light bulbs in the last week, flushed a pull up down the toilet, and pulls B's hair on average thrice per hour. But he also sings, plays legos with his brother, draws (scribbles), hugs, screams in excitement anytime football is on, and loves to read. You know damned well that in a year's time I'll think everything he did was adorable.

In the meantime, I'm not saying dick about any more of his phases.

November.

2011-11-28T17:16:00.000-08:00

I made it through Thanksgiving (without killing anyone, poisoning or scalding anyone, or without going completely crazy) . . . I did eff up the stuffing, which ended up way too dry and, I don't know, kind of crumbly, but the turkey was decent, meatballs were remarkably close to my mother's, and would I be a total snot if I said MY COOKIES WERE THE FUCKING BOMB? They were. I had so many leftover that I got to become the coolest person at work by bringing in a tupperware full (which were gone the next day).

How's the saying go? To compliment a mother, notice her children; to compliment a Schwanke, eat her cookies all gone.

Here are the ones I made, if anyone's yearning for recipes:

Cowboy Cookies, Martha Stewart

Maple Leaf Cookies, Martha Stewart

Chocolate-Ginger Cookies, Martha Stewart (the dough on these was a *bitch* but they looked dynamite, and are pictured up there).

I also made my mother's cutout cookies; LL told me the recipe came originally from a woman named Lorraine Gaffney. Whoever she is, she has the proverbial golden ticket of cutout cookies (because not even Martha's are this good). If you want the recipe I can write you out a copy.

The kids went back to school today, things were great until they came home and all hell broke loose. They were tired and hungry, messing with each other and getting on my nerves the moment they walked in the door. I mean, it's one thing to make dinner with 4 kids hovering, asking me questions, wanting things, trying to dig in the refrigerator, and getting under foot, but add the elevated volume of Lego Star Wars blaster guns, unwavering for approximately 19 minutes straight and I kind of lose the ability to think rationally. Matt came home with a migraine and insisted every light in the house be turned off while he laid on the couch with a washcloth over his eyes----Bubby and Zizzy had just gotten into a physical fight (which rarely happens) so he was sent to his room, Zizzy was sulking on the couch, and B began whining about Zizzy not playing with her. "She won't play Bittys with me!" I won't reveal what my response was, although the neighbors probably heard me yell it, but it wasn't nice or proper. Language was clean, but ahem, a threat was made. And the playing that commenced actually lasted about twenty-seven seconds before the next issue, so I'm thinking they didn't hear a word I'd said anyway.

Other stuff is good, although I've been plagued with seriously disturbing dreams the last two weeks and I don't know why. A few nights ago I dreamed the chicks from Sucker Punch snatched my mother from my yard and hauled her away in an eighteen wheeler, and later that night I was hunting vampires with a co-worker (who kissed me). The week before that it was large scale disasters and snakes, one huge, thick, eel-like bastard that I flung into the bathtub but then it launched back out, directly into my chest. I thought I only had nightmares when I was overheated, but it's been happening too often for that. I mean, granted. I've been watching waaaay too much American Horror Story, and I forced Matt and Leah to watch Insidious the other night and ended up freaking myself out in the process, but I don't like this. Sometimes I think my inner anger gets out of control and seeps into my dreams, but really, the only thing I've been angry about lately is the whole Penn State situation; without actually spelling out a threat (myself) I would be *intensely* satisfied if Jerry Sandusky just happened to be stricken with an incurable case of something awful, or fell into the Grand Canyon . . . ugh. Anger over things like that is really hard to reconcile, no matter how zen I try to be.

Wow. So, to lighten it up before I sign off, I'll just maybe swing things back over to coffee, okay? This is generic, non-affiliated, ANY COFFEE SHOP IN THE USA, any branch, any store, not one in particular (wide, sweeping disclaimer).

Coffee Shop etiquette:

1. When asking for free items (water, cups, half-caf beans for the price of regular, etc.) the correct verbiage would be first "please," and afterwards, "thank you."

2. If you're going to stare at my rack, try to be subtle, okay?

3. Straw wrappers? I've discovered this new, exciting, *special* place for them----the freaking garbage can! (I'm talking to adults here, people. ADULTS.)

4. The highchairs have wheels on them. This does not make them battering rams.

5. Consequently, (see above) YOU BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT, MY FRIEND.

6. Your kids might be adorable (no, they're not) but this doesn't give them the right to run around barefoot in here (also see 4. re: GLASS SHARDS).

7. Coffee that's better than Folgers tends to cost a bit more (when Bonnie goes shopping, she buys shit).

8. You don't really care if it's a light or a dark roast if you're going to dump a bunch of shit into it, so DON'T FRONT ABOUT THE MEDIUM ROAST WE ALWAYS BREW.

9. Something to keep in mind: that decaf button on the espresso machine is mere centimeters away from the regular-caf. Certain acts/offenses could just skew physiology enough to earn a lifetime of decaf . . . (not that I've actually done this, of course).

Mama Lion

2011-11-08T16:04:00.000-08:00

Vin's sick with some respiratory junk in his chest; he'll be fine but I hauled him in nonetheless because he was really having a hard time breathing. Got a healthy dose of what I like to call THE MAMA LION during this ordeal . . . I was worried about him, I had never seen a child struggle to breathe like he was doing, and since someone stole our seven year old Eddie Bauer stroller from the alley last week, I trucked him (manually) from the parking lot to the ER with my bum back and thanks to the adrenaline, hardly felt a thing. Hadn't eaten a thing all day, really, but didn't feel that, either (which normally would be a majorly huge issue). I didn't think about anything but the air that clearly wasn't making it into his lungs. When they checked his pulse ox it was at 90, which they said they "didn't like."

They gave him stuff and fixed him up good, and throughout the whole experience I was fine because I trusted them and knew he'd be all right, but on the ride back home I got to thinking about mama lion and the times I've had it in the past.

It was born really with Bubby; from the moment they put him on my chest and he took his first breaths, cried, then looked at me with huge almost black round eyes (and stopped crying) I knew then and there, seconds after his birth that I would split an atom for this infant boy if it ever came to that. It was such a clear, defining moment in my life, becoming this kid's mother, that in seeing him, being not the least bit surprised at how he looked or acted or reacted, and that despite being a clueless, first timer----it all made perfect sense. "Of course you're Quentin, just look at you!"

It was different with Zizzy, as it probably is slightly with all second children . . . I felt joy and love and pride immediately (not to mention surprise at her having been a girl) but not until the next morning when they took her away for a weighing and then brought her back did it become fierce. "She spit up a little and it upset her," they said as she came back in the isolette crying; I snatched her back into my arms and didn't let her out of my sight the rest of the hospital stay. Later, when she was about sixteen months old and had never made a violent move toward any living creature, a nasty little toddler bitch at Edinborough Park came at her, unprovoked, with all ten of her bitchy little toddler talons, just completely came at her, scratching and throwing punches. I came running toward her as soon as I saw what was happening, and she broke away from the girl and came running to me with her arms outstretched with this *utter* look of confusion and hurt on her tiny face, pleading, "Mama?!!" She had a crescent shaped scrape just under her right eye where one fingernail had obviously gouged way in.

I know kids mess with each other, I knew it then and I know it now. But that event still to this day absolutely infuriates me, not just that it happened, but that I didn't stop it in time, and that Zizzy's confusion was so raw and heartbreaking, and still is each time I think of it. I picked her up and comforted her, of course, but you know damned well a part of me wanted to physically yank the little girl's wrist, hands, and claws away from my girl's person and march her back to her own mother, wherever the hell that woman was during all this (I never found out). DON'T. YOU. FUCKING. TOUCH. MY. KID. is what I kept thinking, over and over. I can try to empathize and be realistic and as pacifist as is proper, but the honest truth, my honest reaction was one of anger and violence (again, see above statement in all caps).

B was quite a different experience as she kind of came out as a Mama Lion herself. Her birth was fast, like all the others, but somewhat more difficult because the morphine intrathecal stick I got made me violently ill right about ten minutes postpartum. I was nursing her, knew I was going to be sick (fucking anesthesiologist wouldn't give me fentanyl like I asked), barfed probably thrice and then got so dizzy I couldn't even sit up. They moved me up to a nursery suite and the motion made me even more ill, I had to nurse her lying down and could barely even turn my head and they kept worrying about me having to pee . . . this went on until about five that morning and the night nurse asked if I wanted them to bring her to the nursery for a little while so I could try to sleep and I agreed, reluctantly, but only because I couldn't stop throwing up. The minute they took her out I wanted her back, but I couldn't even lift my head up, so I just laid there and tried to sleep (and couldn't). When they finally brought her back, I (again) didn't let her out of my sight for the rest of the stay. I wanted to be angry at the doc, angry at the stupid morphine, and angry at myself for letting them give it to me, but the second day when I could look at her and hold her properly, I forgot all about it.

I've probably had these moments more with Vin than with any of the others because he's unfortunately had the most number of illnesses at the youngest age (with all the rest of them bringing it home from school). He passed meconium in utero and was whisked away from me before I even knew he was a boy. He had the swine flu before he was five months old, quit nursing, refused bottles, quit verbalizing for about a week, and had red dust (urate crystals) in his diaper from dehydration. He teethed early, he walked early, he talked early, he did everything early and was a baby for the least amount of time. Today, while he was struggling to breathe he kept writhing and repeating, "Mama? Mommy?" and then later, "I need have something?" Yes, but what? I couldn't do anything. When we got home I told Matt that he looked different, like a different child; Matt said, "he looks like some college kid who's been up drinking for two weeks." These things happen, are bound to happen, and there's nothing I can do about them, and I get angry.

I once heard a story about a guy I used to work with whose infant daughter needed a spinal tap, and that after it was completed his reaction was 1. to go into the hospital bathroom and barf his guts out and 2. call his parents immediately to apologize for anything he'd ever done to make them worry, as now he had a firm grip on what it must have felt like. I thought that was a very sweet reaction. Mine would be to simply find meningitis and eliminate it, violently. And forever.

Some Events

2011-11-04T10:52:00.001-07:00

A lag (again).

Things are still happening, I'm just without a computer or time or both to record them most days. A few weeks ago the kids had their conferences, or I did, with their teachers (except Zizzy's, which I had to cancel because I was sick). But all is well, which is good. B is doing very well in her school, Bubby also, but his was the conference I was sort of nervous for, due to a little thievery that happened at the beginning of the month.

To make a long story short, he and two other kids stole prizes from the prize box and got busted by another kid who told the teacher. The Teach told me that Bubby was (admirably) the only kid to not only give his spoils back immediately but to cry and say he was sorry. (!) I stole stuff when I was that age, I even told Bubby stories of the times I did it, but he seemed to take it seriously when the teacher caught him and he took his punishment very seriously (ineligible for further prizes for rest of month). I can't remember how we punished him; I think maybe he was cut off from the television for a week and not allowed to play with his friend also . . . this whole thing was really unpleasant.

It hardly took a second's worth of time during the conference, however, she wanted to discuss his speech. His science, art, reading, and math scores were all above average, but his spelling and the way he sounds out words were very much below average. She said his r's, l's, and any combos using other letters with those were really difficult, and said he should probably be in speech. The trouble is, getting him evaluated and then placed in a class might be hard because it's not terribly noticeable, and because his vocabulary is pretty decent. She said while we wait we should work with him at home on letter combinations. In doing this I've found that his s's are almost the same as his th's, which I suppose would also explain his trouble in sounding out words with those sounds too. I wrote out a list of words and phrases for him to practice, and in just a week his l's are much better, but the other two are going to take some time. Anyone have experience with this that they'd like to share? What worked, what didn't? I'd love to hear from you.

In other news, and after a few seriously weird situations in front of our house, Matt finally told the creepy lurker ("this doggie's name is Sebastian") from down the street that he needed to stay away from our property. GET YOUR DOG AND GET OUT OF HERE. It was just getting too bizarre, more bizarre than he normally is, even . . . (sprinting down the street with the dog when he sees the kids playing outside, again and again introducing them to the dog but never talking to the adults or even making eye contact with us, standing stationary in front of our yard staring toward the back where the dog just miraculously happened to get loose, and then meandering back to get it after about ten minutes, taking pictures of "the trees" near our front yard on his dog walks, etc.)

If this doesn't "take" it may actually be a situation where I take out the real Officer Daniels' business card and make a call . . . since of course I still have it.

Matt is working, all the time. He works all day, comes home, does the nighttime with the kids while I go to work, and then works more, usually is still at it when I go to bed. It's good that he has jobs, some of them for pretty big name companies, and this time of year is always busy for him but it can get difficult. I'm just thankful all of his limbs are still functioning, intact. When I look back at last year . . . well, ugh. Count your blessings.

The kids are sick with some disgusting shit/barf business. I don't know where they picked it up, but this seems to happen every year. I am beginning to reevaluate the preschool field trip trick-or-treating at the nursing home that happens every year; it'd be funny if they weren't, you know, related. Plus I went along to it this year, and damn. I want it down on paper somewhere that if I turn Livia Soprano in my old age (with or without dementia) I *will not* be put in a home. Just take me to Split Rock and push me off; problem solved. One final note on this which I found interesting---Zizzy is the world's most courteous barfer. Got up in the middle of the night, told Matt she felt like she might barf, took the pepto, barfed directly into the bowl (quietly, on her own later in the night) and then took the bowl of barf and put it next to the sink in the kitchen. My experiences with B and her barf were far less smooth and much more dramatic (and filled with feces at the same time, just for good measure).

And Vin has stopped napping. Completely stopped, as in NONE naps. He gets up at about 8, does everything we normally do, then drinks his sippy of milk in his crib and is quiet for maaaaaybe six minutes during our previously slotted nap schedule, and then pitches the cup onto the floor (bringing my CRINGE with the telltale thud that confirms my afternoon is fucking *done*) and then hollers for me to get him out. I tried just leaving him in there, hoping he'd give up after a while, but no, he kept on for a full hour and twenty minutes the other day. Funny, Matt has told me how EASILY he's gone to bed these last few days . . . My response was something like, "Yeah, that doesn't help me when I've been chasing his ass around here for ten hours and then go to my physical on-my-feet job for four additional," (yes, I realize that I've just stated above how hard my husband works all day, but some days if it came down to a delirious two year old for ten straight hours or a WOW and linux-obsessed coworker in a cubicle, honestly, I'd take the latter). . . I need to find something, I don't know, hands-on and involved to maybe start teaching him during these 2.5 extra hours he's now awake, again I ask, IS THERE A LINEMAN'S CAMP FOR TWO-YEAR OLDS? Please contact me if you've heard of anything.

Also, I'm doing Thanksgiving this year, my first SOLO, ever. Well, Solo in that I'm doing most of it myself but will probably need to rely on the help of my culinary brother, also, just to make sure I don't totally eff it up. I'm so geeking out over it it's not even funny. The photo up there is of THE TURKEY CUTTER, of Lois's Turkey Cutouts fame; after I snapped the picture I ran it *immediately* back to its secret place in the cupboard which only I know about . . . there have been times throughout the year that yes, I have checked the spot compulsively to make sure it was still there. Jesus, just having it almost makes me want to scream out in proclamation GLORY AND HONOR TO THE HOUSE OF SCHWANKE, I HAVE THE TURKEY!!!!!!

(food is love).

On Writing

2011-10-17T17:45:00.000-07:00

I haven't been spouting my personal rants and topics lately, and if anyone's honestly lonely for them, I'm sorry. October is always sort of reserved for my media rants---this year since I'm writing for Examiner I've been able to reach a wider group of people than I would by just doing blogs, and it's been really awesome already. For those of you who enjoy horror films and want to check out what I've been doing, here are some links to the series, titled My Life In Horror . . . For those of you who have already read or enjoyed them, thank you ever so much . . . (you complete me).

The Shining

A Nightmare on Elm Street

The Exorcist

Christine

Creepshow

Anyway, in addition to watching different media events O' the season, I'm rereading many of King's short stories, and was struck by the opening chapter of what I think is a great collection, Skeleton Crew. He basically explains how a neighbor or friend (or whatever the guy was) sat and hemmed and hawed with him about the exact dollar amount he was paid for one of the short stories that was published in Playboy (in the mid-eighties). I had a few thoughts.

1. Anyone who spends that much time obsessing over SOMEONE ELSE'S MONEY seriously needs to get a life.

2. The whole conversation between the two guys gave very much the feeling of the friend/neighbor taking a paternalistic tone (with King). I'm reaching here, obviously, but I've known people throughout my life, non-creative people who see creative people as . . . I don't know, talented, lucky, yet untrained, undisciplined children who really just need to be taken to task. This whole situation felt that way to me, like this douche was just one-upping King over and over about how much money he was really making from his writing. Hey, the fact that he's making money from his writing should be enough, man, ask anyone who's tried to do just that and you'll see just how precious $2000/$1800/$1790/$785 for ONE SHORT STORY ends up being. Prick.

3. King responds by doing what a truly introverted writer would do----saying nothing, agreeing, even, and then blasting the cock-knocker back in the introduction of the book where the short story later appeared. And I have a very weak sort of idea of where I originally wanted to go with this rant, and here it is . . . a writer will remember *everything* that happens to them, sometimes issuing all the way back to early childhood. If you're a douche (like King's "Steve-O"-calling neighbor), don't think for a minute we won't remember your douchery. Moot point, really, (for me, at least) since I don't think any douches actually read this, but King perhaps suspected that the guy would read his intro, adding brilliantly that bit at the end about actually having more beer in the fridge that he refused to share with the dude and then drank later, himself . . . (!)

Most of the time we just smile and nod. And file shit away for months, years, decades down the road when we get a chance to sit down and sort through it all. You know damned well no one forgives and forgets, not really. It's all still there. And the thing that floors me the most about this whole situation is that even someone as solid, as talented, as recognizable as King (in the eighties, anyway) still had to what, prove himself? Take shit from someone? Part of life, I guess, but come on. I know how I feel about my own writing, and I'm just me. This dude, pissing on King's story like that (over logistics) seriously got under my skin . . . most of us see our completed projects as not only extensions of ourselves but nearly akin to living, breathing beings that we've spawned. It's not something to take lightly.

I got going on this initially, months ago during that Mad Men episode where Pete Campbell becomes insanely jealous of his coworker whose short story gets published---he assumes that any moron can obviously do it and sets out to get his own work published as well (which is successfully placed . . . in Boy's Life Magazine). That whole bit really got to me, because I know exactly what that feels like, having someone assume that they can easily do what I do, that it's easy because I'm not constantly screaming or pulling my hair out over it, whether it's a film degree, mothering four kids, or writing, people have these assumptions. It's like every move you make, every word you write, you're going to be asked to prove yourself over and over again, but most of the writers I know, myself included, aren't good salespeople and any ego we have goes into the writing, not the self-promotion.

When I first decided to go to school for film, there were a handful of supportive people, mostly my husband and his family, but damned if I don't remember two extremely rude and condescending comments about it, one made to a friend and another right to me, directly. I've given stuff I've written to other people to look at and have had them say point blank, "I don't like it." I've had the things I like criticized, my music, my films, my shows, repeatedly. I've had well-intentioned people (who know me as a person but have no idea what I'm about professionally, if you can call it that) compliment me after reading my stuff or watching film projects I've done by saying, "I had no idea you were so articulate/intelligent/artistic/creative." You don't just go out with a megaphone and scream to the world, "HEY, I'M GOOD!" but it feels like it's required, these days. Giving my absolute all as a parent isn't easy, and neither is writing, but it's what I do.

I honestly love everything I've ever written---most of the serious reviews I've submitted to Examiner I am so utterly proud of I have to read through them at least a few times a month JUST FOR MY OWN ENTERTAINMENT AND ENJOYMENT. Am I going to race up and down the street, begging for you to read them, too, or sit out on my front step discussing the finer points of film theory and artistry (also reiterating the fact that I didn't just sit on my ass and watch American Pie over and over for my film degree)? No. When someone dogs my playlist, do I feel the need to explain to them the comfort I get from the I-IV-V chord progressions in house music, that I had damned near absolute pitch during my years as a music major, and that I . . . oh, orchestrated (single-handed) The Devil Went Down To Georgia for myself, a vocalist, a violist, and three guitar players who could hardly read music? No, I don't (but I told you, so there).

Don't get into a land war in Asia.

A writer's head= Asia.

Adventures with Minigun

2011-09-22T16:49:00.000-07:00

This is what's known as some parenting honesty right here. (I'm not complaining, I'm just reporting the facts and my accompanying feelings. Children are a blessing, even mine. Especially mine. They're healthy and wonderful and I thank God for them every night.) But Vin is challenging. He's challenging to the point where I feel justified in calling him a psychological minigun. I hesitated doing so, publicly, for a while, but like I said, honesty. He is.

And is calling him that any worse than "Dennis the Menace?" Probably not, and Dennis WAS a menace, so it worked.

These are the things that make him challenging: screaming, defiance, indecision, short fuse. You know, your basic two-year-old annoyances. He's extremely verbal, has been speaking in sentences for months now, and rarely is quiet. If we don't address his needs immediately, he screams. If there are situations where we need to command something to him, he usually blasts back with, "NO!" (loudly). In situations where he wants extremely to do something himself, he will first refuse help then demand help only to refuse it all over again (this cycle repeats many times and ends only when he finally gives up on whatever he was trying to do or becomes distracted by something he wants to dominate, usually the single clean, orderly thing in the house, whatever it was that day). You know that Fensler Film where the kids are ice skating on the Brit's pond and he comes out and yells, calls them Wankers? At the end of the sequence he says, "Give him the stick," and just when the kid is reaching the stick out to the one stranded on the breaking ice, the guy suddenly shouts out, "DON'T GIVE HIM THE STICK!" This is Vin, daily life. Help me with this, DONTHELPMEIDOITMYSELF! (minigun). It intensifies right around the six o'clock hour when Matt arrives home and everyone's vying for his attention, even me. Vin will start in with some dramatic, ridiculous issue and we just grimace at each other (as I'm pouring a drink) and say, "It hurts."

Psychologically, that is.

Here are three outings this week I took with Vin, alone, just him and me.

The Library for Story Hour

The plan: get this kid used to sitting still and listening to literature read aloud in a group setting.

The flaw in this plan: sitting still for reading with me at home does not translate to doing the same at the library. Also, library is equipped with several pieces of Vin-stimulant; well, garbage cans and clocks, mostly. He held it together for one story and one song (5 little monkeys) and then needed to check out the two aforementioned items together with attempting to use a chair as his own personal battering ram. No one was hurt, we left after fifteen minutes.

Caribou Coffee, Edina

Yeah, I know I work for the other guy. It was on our way back from Target.

The plan: get caffeine, obviously. I didn't want to bring him inside with me, but as it's only one kid I'm lugging around with me these days, I figured I could handle it.

The flaw in this plan: small, enclosed area with many breakables; Vin is not yet skilled at controlling the volume of his voice. We came in, ordered, and sat down. Since he loves oatmeal at home, I thought he might like to have some out on the town. No, he did not, and how dare I even suggest it, actually. What he wanted was chips (which there were none of, no matter how many times I told him it was a bag of coffee he wasn't having it) and began requesting chips loudly and often. There were many people working; he was making quite a noisy fuss. He forgot about the chips only when I attempted to stir the oatmeal for him, not take a bite of it myself, mind you, but STIR IT. He didn't want to eat it but didn't want me touching it, either (give him the stick, don't give him the stick). It wasn't a fit, really, just a loud disagreement, but nevertheless, I didn't want it escalating, so I hiked his ass out to the car, where I ate the oatmeal and drank my coffee while he played with a water bottle and a granola bar.

Lake Harriet, a walk around

It's 2.75 miles around, we've done it several times before; I just put a bunch of shit in his stroller tray for him to eat (healthy, no sugar, obviously) and normally he's good.

The plan: walk, exercise, listen to Baba O'Reilly on repeat at least half of the way, Gaga or Britney for the other half. Point out fun nature things to Vin as he screams in excitement.

The flaw in the plan: ugh. I decided to pack his snacks in a fucking lunch box instead of just spreading them out on the tray, loose. Matt's old school Return of the Jedi lunchbox (nothing happened to it, just know that it's boxy, hard, and metal). The first ten minutes of the walk were spent explaining that if he was going to let the lunch box lid flap open and closed while he flung it around, the snacks inside it would fall out. We lost half a muffin this way already. Soon he began pecking little muffin crumbs from the box, and that lasted a few minutes, but then he shut the cover and couldn't get it open again. Stop, open lid, start walking. Apple falls out. Stop, retrieve apple, start walking. He thrusts the lunch box at me. "Oh, you want me to hold it?SUPER! GIVE ME THAT FUCKING METAL BITCH AND LET THIS END!" I take it and put it under the stroller in the basket; screams. No, he wanted me to open it again for him. Jesus H. Christ. Open it, place it on the tray, start walking. He spent the next twenty minutes or so distracted, thank God, because there were several dogs, other strollers, and ducks on the path. Then he actually started eating his apple and small bag of Kix, so things were going well. Once we rounded the area just past the rose garden he started in with the shoes-off, shoes-on bullshit, which normally I rein in by telling him the cops (Warren Daniels) will see him with his shoes off and come over and give me a ticket. He wasn't having it today, pitched the shoes, and then started trying to turn around in the stroller and stand up. Yes, in the brilliant move to end all brilliant moves, I had forgotten to latch both sides of the belt, so one of his legs/hips was free and unrestrained. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

I knew we only had a block or so left to go at this point, and I wasn't sprinting, but you know, almost. I distracted him for the last bit of it by giving him my water bottle. Which he promptly dumped all over himself and the stroller.

(It hurts.)

Mad Men, The Boys Club. Dicks.

2011-09-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

I've been watching Mad Men lately; people seem to have a lot of opinions about it so here are my main ones. It served as mostly uncomfortable eye candy for me, the first six or eight episodes of the first season, (Don Draper is delicious but the women he chooses to consort with *severely* annoy me) UNTIL, Peggy the secretary starts writing copy for the ads after the lipstick situation.

After that I became very interested in the show, also in that she was obviously pregnant after those few little rolls in the hay with DORK BOY Pete Campbell (a dick). She can think critically, she is smart and articulate, and has interesting ideas. I know it's still an ideological mess, and that they still mistreat Peggy, patronizingly, after promoting her to a copywriter (I'm only one season in) but it got me thinking.

I have a lot of male friends. A lot of filmy, nerdy, arty, (pervey) male friends. And while I've never felt like I needed to prove myself, intellectually or creatively, to any of them since they're nice people, I know what it feels like to be in that situation. At St. Scholastica, the male to female ratio was about 1:4; in my department, the music department, there were two men in the program (out of nine total). They were nice guys.

At the U, things were . . . different. In some of the more intimate classes, say, 20 people or less, there were some dicks among mostly nice guys. One would insist on calling people out to answer questions whenever he had to lead discussion in a French and Italian film class, and be dickish about their answers. Another, who I've mentioned before in this blog, behaved as if he were the professor and we the lowly idiots who were fortunate enough to bask in his greatness as he pontificated constantly on topics on which I could not disagree more but was too afraid to debate with him (The Sopranos' mediocrity, the low rank of Temple of Doom within the Indiana Jones Box Set, how a ridiculous Zydeco accompaniment added depth and character to his lackluster shots of downtown St. Paul in November for a production project, and so on).

Then there were two others who were not just dickish but downright hostile. Not to me, luckily, but to other chicks. The first guy was from a former Soviet country, goth, and became upset about some damned thing, I can't remember what (it was a Devil in Film and Lit class) but he ridiculed a girl for misidentifying something, out loud in front of everyone else (and not in a teasing way) and continued to insult her under his breath for the rest of the class to his goth friend who sat right next to me so I heard every word. It was very uncomfortable. The other guy was more of a ringleader among several others in a (grad level) screenwriting class who ripped a girl's screenplay to shreds, unabashedly, and caused her to drop the class halfway through the semester. It was very mean, and the professor tried to soften it a little once they really got going, but by that time the damage had been done. I get annoyed just thinking about it, that I should have said something in her defense instead of writhing in discomfort while the dicks relished in their dickish assholery.

Matt has told me stories about critique-dicks from MCAD, how there are some people who are just out for blood just because it's open season. And I know that it's not necessarily a gender thing, since sometimes, dicks are just dicks. But it disturbed me then and it disturbs me now, and the reason I'm relating it to Peggy and Mad Men is that yeah, sometimes a woman still runs into this today. The jerks that were rude to the girl about her screenplay were *never* as rude to anyone else in the class, and believe me, there were several screenplays that were just as marginal that they chose not to roast. Some of them, THEIR OWN. Now, I don't often get self-righteous on here, or try not to anyway, but I was an extremely good film student. It was during my time at the U that I learned to have confidence in myself because I knew that I knew what I was doing. After they tore that girl's screenplay apart I suppose I could have become nervous about what they'd say about mine a few weeks later, but I didn't, because I knew mine was good. I didn't have to prove anything to them, either, but I probably ended up doing so anyway: this is one chick who you're not gonna bully.

I like it when people (who aren't dicks) have success stories. Especially when they come at the expense of dicks.

TEAM PEGGY.

Osama Bin Laden and me (repost).

2011-09-11T08:23:00.001-07:00

Any of you NWA alums remember September 11, 2001? Yeah, me too.

It was a Tuesday, it was sunny. I was working a morning shift (for Lori Link, if I remember correctly) from 730 to 1130. I was probably stumbling around, avoiding the phone, cursing the cafeteria for not being open, or cursing myself for not bringing more red bulls with me that morning. Then maybe I sat down at my pod and pretended to work while I read my Tarantino book. I wasn't the world's most dedicated reservation agent, if you hadn't guessed already.

After a few calls, the red memo flag went up above the supervisor's platform. They did this when there was important industry-related news (like a plane crash or severe weather) or to announce something equally horrible, mandatory overtime. Since beginning that job in 1999, I had had constant plane crash dreams, probably once or twice a month (and I was always on the ground, seeing them happen as opposed to being onboard the plane) and I had just gotten accustomed to *not* reading about crashes when they happened and *not* watching footage of them on television. So I did *not* read the memo that morning but instead kept working.

After a while, the calls started to slow down and then stopped altogether. Normally, this sort of thing was desirable, space in between calls, but before I could get my book out again, a manager started going around each of the pods telling us to read our memos. "A plane has crashed into one of the buildings of The World Trade Center in New York. No further details have been released yet." I read it and thought, what kind of fool is flying a plane low enough to crash into a building for God's sake? That was really my thought! Because the idea that someone would purposely do this was so outlandish and far-fetched that it didn't even occur to me at all. I probably went back to reading my book.

A few moments later, another agent came in from having been in the break room. She seemed a little . . . agitated. As I peeped my head over the divider to eavesdrop on her conversation I caught the words, "Bin Laden." Who I had heard of. I don't know how I inserted myself into the conversation, I only remember her response to it, which was: A plane hit the second tower. It's not an accident. Then I went into the bathroom to throw up. While I was in there, someone was crying inside one of the stalls; another person was literally on her knees next to the little cot in the quiet room; I couldn't throw up with an audience, so I left. When I got back onto the floor, the same person said that she heard another plane was heading for the White House. A few moments later I heard the FLIFO supervisor yell into her phone, "THEY HAVE ORDERED THAT WE BRING EVERY PLANE *DOWN.*" That's about as far as my flashbulb memory of the event goes, but believe me when I say I will never forget that series of events. The next three months were pretty much the most awful ones I'd ever live, despite the fact that I lost no one in the attacks, did not have a rescue or healthcare related job that involved helping and treating victims, or have anything else that physically or viscerally linked me to all the death and destruction as many, many others did. We got the job of rebooking stranded passengers, trying (unsuccessfully) to ease loved ones' concerns, yanking people off flights that were overbooked after all US carriers had to basically axe their empty loads---we relived Osama's little stunt multiple times each day. It was an uncertain, stressful time. Every night for three months I fell asleep to the recycled symphony in my head of everyone who had screamed at me that day, then I got up the next day and did it all over again. We all did.

Now it may have been a bit naive of me to make assumptions about the job I had taken, but I took the job at NWA basically to get flight benefits, pay off my debt, and color flags and maps while I half-assed my way through selling people flights. Never in my life did I expect to be in a situation like this, and clearly I wasn't the only one. Everyone was unsettled. And I'm not trying to be dramatic in focusing only on how the terrorist attacks affected my personal emotional health; I know there was far worse pain than mine, but I'm saying that this event messed with everyone, and that it was meant to.

What kind of person could mastermind something like this? He wanted us to be afraid. He wanted us to burn and fall and panic. He wanted this country in ruins, and convinced *many* others to want the same thing. Someone asked me the following summer (2002) if Matt and I were going to have kids, ever, and I said that we wanted to, but we didn't have any money and the world was too awful to bring children into then. She said, "Maybe, but you should do what you want to do, otherwise you're just letting him win."

That floored me! And it was true. I was afraid to fly after the attacks, and for a while I said I couldn't ever do it again, but it passed. We flew to Newark to visit friends that spring and if I thought the flags in everyone's yards and windows were striking in Minneapolis, they were downright amazing everywhere we went in New Jersey and New York. I couldn't really appreciate this ability we have, as a nation, to unite and support each other because of the unpleasantness of the job I was doing, but once I saw it, it gave me comfort, just like it gives me comfort when I see it today. It's something, that American flag, and people everywhere know it. I don't like everything that happens here, I have a really hard time with how bad things are in the news, and God knows, there are problems in this country, horrible ones. But I still believe in us, that maybe someday we can just be, you know? There is good out there, we all know there is.

So when it comes down to whether or not I'm rejoicing the death of a terrorist, I'm not celebrating; I don't want to see dead pictures of him just like I never wanted to tour the location of his handiwork. He's gone. Now instead, why don't we all just go out there and focus on proving the son of a bitch wrong?

The Cleaning Gene

2011-09-10T17:09:00.000-07:00

During the summer of 1997, just after my dad died, I was living alone in Duluth and going to summer school. Matt and I were just dating then, but in a month's time we'd be engaged. One afternoon, I went out to my vehicle, which was a 1991 green Explorer that my mother had given me and it wouldn't start. I called the only people I knew in Duluth, my aunt and uncle, to ask them what they thought I should do. My uncle actually was very helpful. He said: You know, the last time your mom had that truck up here, I noticed that there was a lot of corrosion covering that battery, I'll come over and take a look at it, you might not need to buy a new one just yet.

He came over, Matt was there, too. He opened up the hood (which he had apparently done before out of his own interest, maybe) and saw that yes, there was corrosion everywhere and that it was probably the reason the truck wasn't starting. He had brought with him a collection of items just right for the job, an old toothbrush and something else, baking soda, maybe? After he went to work the battery shined right up again. While he was putting away his McGuyver kit, he opened up his hood to show Matt, "See how clean my battery is?"

So obviously my uncle has the clean gene. My other uncle (on my mother's side) has it, too. I think all the Schwanke chicks got it just as a given from being made to clean out chicken coops, shovel hay, and just basically having to endure their own father . . . every Schwanke chick but me, I guess. I don't have it. AT ALL.

I mean, I clean up messes constantly, and my kids' teeth, hair, and bathroom areas are all clean and healthy, and the kids have been made to clean up after dinner each night since each one was old enough to walk, but yes, sometimes things are untidy. And I don't really care and will not ever stress about it. This obviously clashes with other peoples' philosophies, namely my mother's, BUT. I think I must be getting a little better at cleanup/organization as the last time she came to visit, the only thing she found that needed immediate attention (besides the front step still in a rubble, obviously) was THE AIR CONDITIONER. The outer, exterior air conditioner, the central air that's outside the house. A few weeks ago, her friend had noticed a sort of sluggishness in her own central air, her service guy told her to go out and clean off the exterior vents, and apparently she noticed a big difference. Low and behold, our unit seemed to have a shit load of lint, cobwebs, and all kinds of other debris on all of its sides, so she suggested that I take her friend's advice. Why not? She was watching the kids, so I plugged in the vacuum and went to work. I don't know how long she watched me stooped over with my ass in the air, cleaning (probably super haphazardly and not at all the way she would have done it) before she couldn't stand it any longer, but not very, as I remember. Soon enough she was holding the vacuum, had the black moldings stripped off the sides, with a damp cloth besides.

Do I even have to explain how that fucker sparkled by the time she finished?

(LL gets medieval on the YORK down there; she's 64 and has a better body than me. Always has).

On Life.

2011-09-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

I think the computer biting it was an act straight from God and The Universe. I still don't have my own, but can use Matt's (work) computer as long as he's not at work with it. The two older kids started school last week, which leaves me with the two younger, needier ones for most of the day. They're 3 and 2, respectively. I'll just say it's anything but a smooth operation. I love my kids. But damn.

1. B's psychological icepick continues. She gets along with Zizzy (all of them do). And that's it.

2. Vin also has some similar tendencies, now, but more of a psychological mini-gun calibre. I'm not kidding. When he wakes up in the morning, occasionally he'll just not want to get up. He'll cry and scream in his crib, but when I come in there to pluck him out he'll turn over and say, "I'na sleep." Then I leave and he starts up again. If anyone else goes in there, looks at him, or tries to talk to him when he's in one of these crazy-ass morning crabby moods, believe me, they don't make that mistake twice.

As soon as I get him out, after coaxing and bribing with breakfast, the issues continue. He asks for cereal first, usually Crispix or Kix. None of them get sugared cereal anymore, ever. Once I give him this, he wants juice or milk, or usually both. I retrieve sippy cups and just put juice in one, milk in the other, and plop them both onto his tray. I learned the hard way 1. this must be done in sippy cups, no matter how strenuously he yells for regular cups, and 2. he cannot have one or the other, but both. On some mornings, he'll dwell on not getting a regular cup like the big kids, and when I ask him, "milk or juice?" holding up the sippies, he'll snarl back, "NUFFIN!" (nothing.)

Once the older kids get up and start eating, he'll ask for whatever they are having, which is peanut butter toast or oatmeal. Now, the two beverages thing bothers me enough, but three different breakfasts, NONE of which he'll actually eat, is pushing the limit and when this starts happening I'll start the mantra, "Eat what I gave you."

B usually comes stumbling down at this point in the morning, and to Vin's loud protests are added whining over the barstool (if it's a millimeter off its normal perch or position), the fact that she has no breakfast, the green M&M bowl has icky lips on it (accurate), Bubby didn't say good morning to her, and on and on and on.

At this point, Matt is not able to hide from the developing shit show/brawl he hears above, so he comes stumbling up from his room, sometimes with a residual migraine, sometimes having been up until 3 doing freelance changes from clients who change their minds moment to moment, for far less money than he's worth. (The popular catch phrase from Jesse James' tattoo, PAY UP, SUCKA! is a constant utterance during these times also) If Vin is still being a dick, he'll not allow Matt to speak to or look at him. He starts helping me distribute various breakfast items, which is a two-person job, since they're all starving (except Vin, who rarely eats anything at appropriate times) and we're starving, too, so it basically becomes the scene from A Christmas Story, where just as the mother is about to sit down and eat her own food, EVERYONE is asking for more. This makes patience difficult.

Vin still throws food, but since we're on it much more than we were in the past (since he's old enough to know he's being naughty) he's added this: covering his ears with his hands after he pitches his bowl of whatever onto the floor, since he's come to anticipate a verbal reaction from Matt or me. He'll also do this when he's doing other various naughty things around the house, pulling out every wipe in a pack, screwing around with my makeup, standing on top of the counter digging in the vitamins (all child-proofed, thank God) and so on.

Needless to say, I *live* for nap time. And as a closing, I'll just also say that if I tell anyone about all this (which I don't very often since I'd rather forget about it, to be honest), THEY DON'T BELIEVE ME, because actually, he's quite a decent kid in public (minus a few screams) and still exceedingly charming. But I'm not exaggerating. And in the past, if I ever looked sideways at anyone with a naughty, spazzy little boy, hey. I feel your pain, y'all. INTENSELY.

In other news:

I'm digging out the green apron again, starting next week. Our financial guy yelled at Matt last week for not paying more on our mortgage and debt, and since most of the debt is mine, I decided I should probably work again. Also, free coffee is a huge draw in this house. You should come and see me.

I finished the second draft of my (!!) novel. Well, short novel, but it's a substantial heap of pages, so what the hell, BOOK. I'm typing it now since, yes, I did it all longhand. I started something completely different last fall, and then kind of had to abandon it when Matt tore up his leg, so I ended up doing a short story and then this. It's been more exciting than I ever thought it would be, and as with film school, my mother is very lukewarm about all this, leading me to believe that it's absolutely the right path for me.

We'll see . . . in the meantime, there is more exciting television going on right now than pretty much ever, before. I'll try to have something good over on Television Lady soon.

Corn Capital Days, the minutes.

2011-08-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

I have only missed one Corn Capital Days that I can remember, in 1999. The others were largely spent drinking, playing drinking games, eating, and being dramatic. There are many, many memories:

--My friend Jen and I were both without ID in 1998, and this was a serious problem. She dropped hers into a Vosika toliet; I left mine in the cities. Charlie saved the day by hurling me over the beer garden fence.

--2000 was probably the first year of what we liked to call "the stupes," (someone bringing someone to Lois's who is unknown, annoying, and thus unwelcome)---and the kid was definitely that. There was a volleyball net, HUGE relationship drama out on the driveway, a mass-commando endeavor to the street dance, Demon tournaments, and a fight over a beta cleaning tape and Halloween 4 between Leah and Charlie. Minimal vomit, but pretty successful, nonetheless.

--2001 was the last year at Fairview, and everyone was balls-to-the-wall. Leah got a minor at the street dance at Max's (which was my fault since I lifted her over the fence); that same evening I was coined "idiot of the night." I can't remember why, only that I was super drunk, super annoying (!) and insisted on wearing a ridiculous ski hat with ties for most of the night. We had a video camera but I can't watch the footage, even to this day because we are all so incredibly stupid and Hildahl got hold of the camera and played "airplane" all through the house, swinging and spinning it everywhere. I think this may have been the year we had to yank Erica's head out of the hot tub, and there was a lot of gaming: more Demon, President/Asshole marathon (my contribution as President was to force everyone to raise the roof to the music, probably En-tranz, until I said stop) and trivial pursuit, which Erica no doubt won even in her sloppy condition.

--2002 was at Haliday's house with the green shag carpet. Not much happened this year, Charlie's girlfriend Heather and I were the only two people not smoking among a group of about 20, some of them stupes. And I puked four times and had horrible bed spins.

--2003 was drama. I won't go into specifics, since most of the drama was me being a moody bitch about a lot of ridiculous crap, but to be fair, I was also in the process of conceiving Bubby at the time, maybe my hormones were just out of whack. Stupes were heavy this year, we were not nice to them. When my friend Jen and I were cataloging the goings-on, year by year much later, she coined this the year of Anna vs. Charlie. Accurate. "Do you guys want to go to brunch out at The Sheep Shedde?" "No, I think I'd rather light eight dollars on fire and throw it out the window. . . "

There wasn't much drama or vomiting after the kids came along, although there was a brief bit of business over an armband in 06, and a high school nemesis almost getting my beer in her face in 09, but things are pretty tame now. I mean, we still snap pictures of Danny Clouse when we see him, someone almost always has to walk home or pee in someone's yard, and there's always pressure to secure our annual parade-watching spot in front of Stahl's where we've parked for 25 years . . . it's fun. Despite me being old.

Thank You, JK Rowling.

2011-07-27T13:31:00.000-07:00

Before anyone scrambles to point out to me that the Potter series is fantasy/fiction, I'll save you the time---I know. I've probably read them, all of them, more times than you. There are no dementors, no werewolves, no Death Eaters, and certainly no Voldemorts at large in American society currently (although certain politicians kind of strike me as sort of like Dolores Umbridge, if you get me).

Anyway. I'm thanking Jo for the series for two reasons, as a parent. 1. One of the greatest themes or lessons I learned (and my kids are learning now) from these books is to always do your best, be strong, and be brave. It's hard to find examples of children doing this in popular culture sometimes, isn't it? Faith. Confidence. Problem-solving. Seeing that things aren't easy (being orphaned, being bullied, being teased, being special) but that you can still get through it with the support of people who care. You're able! Go out and DO STUFF!

2. Rowling is a mother's writer. Who made the greatest sacrifices in all of the stories? The mothers. Who dove in front of a stream of green light in order to save her baby from death? Lily Potter. Who *lied* to The Dark Lord about Harry being dead in order to have a chance at saving her own son? Narcissa Malfoy. Who dueled with Bellatrix LeStrange in order to protect her daughter (not to mention the rest of her family)? Molly Weasley. When it came right down to it, it was the mothers who saved people. THE MOTHERS.

We may never earn a cent for the sacrifices we make for our children, and hopefully we are never forced to face real danger in order to protect the beings that once grew inside our wombs and slept in our arms, but don't think for a moment that we don't have it in us. It's lovely (in however abstract a way) to be acknowledged, isn't it?

(A mother's love is more powerful than anything.)

Food Wins.

2011-07-22T09:53:00.000-07:00

Everyone in my family associates food with love. Not unhealthily, I don't think, but it's a major thing. During the last few days that were horribly hot, I let the kids stay inside and watch television for a while in the afternoons, but on the condition that they watch watch what I chose . . . . yeah, I know you're all thinking I put on Inglourious Basterds or something, right? WRONG! Food Network!

Paula Deen is on at 430, and one of the days we watched she had her son, Jamie, in with her, making all his favorite stuff. It made me think of all the best things we had growing up (stroganoff with rice, cutout cookies, Lorene's green chile burritos, Joyce's cherry bars and meatballs, Jan's wild rice soup and pork loin, turtle cookies, caramel rice krispie treats, Dewey's French toast, cheeseburgers with the cheese perfectly melted across the top that he set the timer on the tv to monitor while they sat on the grill . . . etc., etc.)

(love!)

And of course, I got to thinking about what my kids are going to remember when they grow up, now that they're basically out of their picky stages and attack dinner like a pack of wolves (finally). These are some of the things they love, and links to recipes if you're interested:

Mango Chicken Salad, Everyday Food

Summer Fruit Salad, Everyday Food

4th of July Trifle, Sandra Lee

Orange and Cumin Pork Loin, Emeril Lagasse

Individual Meat Loaves, Ina Garten (Bubby calls these "meat brains")

Pasta Primavera, Giada DeLaurentis

Fruit Salad with Cannoli Cream, Giada DeLaurentis

Ricotta Pancakes with Apples, etc., Tyler Florence This one is more for special occasions, but it's killer if you can find the time in the morning.

There is one other, simple thing that is probably my favorite thing to eat, ever in the world: Fruit dip. Cream cheese + marshmallow cream + lemon juice on either strawberries or cantaloupe. Or anything, really, since it's better than a can of frosting (I would like to talk about Madeline Ashton). I made some a few days ago and hid it. (rabbit mother).

Gift Horse/Mouth.

2011-07-19T10:40:00.000-07:00

During summer days like these (over 100 degrees with humidity, Vin being a nightmare and screaming about everything, patience running short, money running short, etc.) I sort of wish I was still working at NWA. Had I stayed, I would have achieved veteren status by now (12 years) and despite the fact that I really did not ever enjoy the job, (which was the equivalent of telling people "no" in varying degrees: NO you can't use your miles. NOT NOW, NOT EVER. NO you can't go to Athens in August for less than $1600. NO you may not book your open ticket back to Manila, NOT NOW, NOT EVER. NO, you may not have exit row seating with your pregnant self, disabled partner, and six kids. NO, NO, NO. Wow. Maybe that's why I feel so comfortable saying NO to my kids? I said NO for 8 years. Literally.)

. . . but aside from the job, the benefits were excellent. For my first two years there, I had full (union) coverage health insurance. No deductible. For me AND Matt. Appendix surgery for Matt, $90 ER copay, and that was all. Huffing out Bubby with a tiny shot of Fentynal/Morphine combo, $90 copay, $20 office visit to verify the pregnancy. Circumcision, pediatric visits, shots, hearing test, everything else? COVERED. Pay per hour wasn't bad, either. Raises twice a year, paid vacation and holidays. But I'm getting ahead of myself, because what I'm really pining for here are the flight bennies, right?

On the day we covered employee travel benefits, our instructor told us all to go to Washington DC first, because it was the easiest, funnest, cheapest trip you could take on literally about $30. To fly, coach, in 1999, was $20 one way, and it was deducted from your paycheck. Whether you chose DCA or IAD in Washington, both had trains into the city, and once you arrived into the city, FREE HISTORY, EVERYWHERE! When I went (with my friend Erica) we got coffees, got postcards, and virtually walked up and down the city at least thrice, not ever planning anything but just gawking around and going into buildings and taking pictures, and flew home once we felt we'd seen everything we needed to see. The next day was a bit painful as I had stupidly worn the worst pair of cheap Target shoes I had in my closet, but it was seriously one of my favorite, most spontanous trips. And God dammit, I kind of wish I could still do that, today.

Oh, what? You need something to do? Oh, all right, let's just fly off to THE NATION'S CAPITAL, KIDS! Or LGA. Or ORD. Hike your little butts up that Sears Tower, God Dammit! Go, Go, GO! Yes. Now we're going to see where Elvis lived, kids! MEM, MSY, RAP, SNA, MCO! WHEEEEEEEEE! Had I stayed, the flights would be free by now. FREE, both ways, for me, Matt, and the kids. Too bad I was seriously a foul, angry mess every day I was on the job there, ey?

(every time I get over halfway done with a writing project I start the interior panic/second guessing and get knocked up, apply to grad school, or start searching frantically for jobs.) Wouldn't it be funny if it took me 35 years to grow a spine?

Summer of 89. Realizations.

2011-07-12T10:23:00.000-07:00

When it's hot and I'm chasing after kids all day, sometimes I think about how summers used to be when I was little. When we still lived at the farm, Charlie and I would spend entire days outside, unsupervised, picking dandelions, riding our bikes down our enormous driveway, stacking two wagons to make a parade float, and turning my mother's old green Vega into a water slide. Once we moved to town we mostly alternated between going to open swim at the pool and watching Christine and The Blues Brothers on a loop.

A few weeks ago, Bubby got ridiculously excited over a Batman toy in a Happy Meal and together with the extremely hot temperature, it reminded me of my own Batman obsession in the summer of 89. Do you remember it? Burton's Batman (Nicholson, Keaton) had just been released in theaters and all the Bat-merchandise was huge. Trading cards. Posters. T-shirts. Fricking EARRINGS! I saw Stacy Hightshoe at the Dairy Queen one night (with Polly Smith, I think) and both of them were wearing Bat-earrings; I never got any but my friend Erica may have loaned me hers once or twice . . . anyway, Bat stuff was a big deal. So was the movie, of course, and Prince's soundtrack. I remember babysitting some Haney kids, walking all the way across town in the heat, and watching Batdance on MTV, probably once an hour. I wanted Vicky Vale's hair; I started wearing my hair with a tiny braid down one side that year (like she did).

We walked everywhere, or rode our bikes. Erica used to play Conan on a little Apple 2 or 3 in their kitchen; I was no good at it. Our parents golfed almost every day. We stole change from my dad's change jar and spent it all at Food and Fuel getting wonderfully sour slushies or buying Bat-cards. I was over the moon for a guy I was afraid to speak a single word to; he had a red mustang. I read Stephen King books and loved scary movies. I played Orange Blossom Special on the violin. I had braces. My hair was horrendous.

Things were good. One of my very favorite memories from that time was on one of the last days of school before that summer, just outside the choir room. I was standing outside because I had to leave from school immediately that day to go to Nancy Jhanke's sister's cabin with Chad Fischer and Liza Saunders to play violin in another sister's wedding. My mother had just brought me a dress and my violin, as it was too big to keep in a locker. The people inside the choir room were being kind of loud and disrespectful, as I recall, and Mrs. Duncan was sitting at the piano, going over the last details of the choir/band Valleyfair trip that was happening the next week; I think she'd told everyone to be quiet several times. All of a sudden she did her token PIANO-BANG that she did when she wanted everyone's attention and roared, loudly, "QUIET DOWN RIGHT NOW OR NO ONE'S GOING!"

And my mother laughed so hard she had to leave the hall. Carolyn was her RA in college at Mankato, btw; maybe it brought back memories or something. And now I say things like this to my own kids, usually in the car (no piano).

Realizations: There is an article I read last week that's stirring up controversy. It's called, PERMISSIVE PARENTS, CURB YOUR BRATS.

I have a few opinions on the matter, and I'll share them with you. I am not a permissive parent, I like to call the work I do, day in and day out TRYING-MY-DAMNDEST-TO-KEEP-MY-KIDS-FROM-BECOMING-ASSHOLES-Parenting, and it's *not* easy. I've said it before, and I'm not ashamed to say it again, I've spanked my kids. Probably six times in eight years for four children, so not a lot, but I've done it.

I've disciplined my kids in public, just did it two days ago, in fact. I've carried a child out of the grocery store and sat in the car while my husband finished shopping, twice. I've turned around and walked back to the car when a child was acting out on the way into the store, once. I've cut trips short and gone home when my kids were starting to unravel. I've declined holidays, play dates, events, field trips, etc., when I think it might be more than the kids can handle. Numerous times. I have withheld television and wii as punishment. Numerous times. We have a naughty step; we use it.

Do I think any of this is damaging my kids' self esteem or self worth? Absolutely not. Kids need to hear the word "NO," and unfortunately, my generation ain't great at saying this. NO. NO. NO, YOU MAY NOT. NO, NOT TODAY. NO, I DON'T HAVE THE MONEY FOR IT NOW. NO, THAT IS NOT CONVENIENT RIGHT NOW. NO, THAT'S A RIDICULOUS REQUEST. THE ANSWER IS NO. Talk to some teachers, if you don't believe me. Kids aren't hearing NO anymore. "What do you mean, I can't plagiarize?" (my personal favorite) "What do you mean, my kid plagiarized? He said he didn't plagiarize!"

Does it mean I don't love my kids if I tell them NO? I don't think so. I just think it's part of life. I also like to say, "This is not a negotiation," or "This is not a democracy." Am I too strict? Maybe, maybe not, but I grew up with an old man that had "the look," and everyone who's close to me is a teacher, and these things matter.

Now, the realization I had after reading this article wasn't anything discipline-related, because honestly, nothing in the article surprised me, nor did any of the pro/con comments it generated. My realization was that stress, in parenting and in life, exhausts me, and my parenting philosophy has been almost wholly shaped by avoiding stress and that horrible, achy-tired feeling I get from too much cortisol pumping through my body. For instance,

My kids are absolutely psychotic when they've had too much sugar. I limit it, because otherwise, I'd be stressed, dealing with them and their sugar-insanity.

My kids are absolutely ridiculous when they haven't slept. I have hung blankets over the windows, blare spa-sounds clock (ocean setting), the bathroom fan, and the microwave fan for naps, and I don't answer the phone or the door. If they don't sleep, my job is much more difficult, so I stack the cards as much in my own favor as possible in order to manipulate them into more sleep.

My kids (all together, as a group) would never, in a million years, be able to handle flying in an airplane, not at the ages they are now. There is no sum of money anyone could pay me to fly with my children, no matter what.

My kids (all together, as a group) cannot handle sitting in church. I don't plan on bringing them until they're much, much older.

My kids (all together, as a group) cannot handle sitting in a restaurant. Plus we don't have any money, so we don't go out to eat.

Do you see what I mean? I don't keep my kids from these things because I'm worried about what the public thinks (They might be immature, and on some days a bit spazzy, but I know my kids are good; My four future citizens are going to be paying your social security and running the goddamned country someday, so bite it) but because I'm aiming for happiness and less stress in my own life. Going somewhere in public, chasing my kids around, shushing them, telling them to sit still, and running myself ragged is not my idea of a good time, so I DON'T DO IT. I used to pride myself in being able to take all four of the kids to Target, successfully, without issue. But getting through the trip was havoc on me---not on them because they all had a great time---but on me. Constantly monitoring the older two to make sure they don't walk in front of my cart or anyone else's or fight with each other over who gets to put what into the cart or begging for toys or junk food together with the little two over kicking feet, squashing bread, opening cereal boxes, screaming, grabbing random shit, peeing, pooping, barfing, or whining? It was a hell of a lot of work keeping all that shit at bay, and at the end of the day, who the hell cared? It's not like I got an award for doing it, if anything it just upped my own bedtime by about an hour and earned me another drink after dinner.

or six.

And hey, (back to the article) I know that kids freak out about stuff, have off days, and things of this nature, I know all about that, I HAVE FOUR! But if you're telling me the timeliness of a commercial airline flight is subject to the whim of a three-year-old, you're fucking nuts. SIT DOWN (waldo!)

A summer morning.

2011-06-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

This summer is a lot different than last year. For one thing, Vin is walking (fucking shit up) and talking (using entire sentences to scream) and generally a lot harder to contain, but he's also able to play, properly, now, too. Bubby would play Mario Kart or Mario World all day if I let him, and I'm finding out just how much work it is to keep a 7-year old engaged with activities that don't involve screens. Which annoys me, but thank God he loves to read and draw. The girls are good; Zizzy plays for hours with her Bitty Baby, flowers, and caterpillars; B colors and arranges animals, toy food, or cars onto the counter every morning daily, calling them "her setup." Things are busy.

I have started to claim more time for myself in the mornings, maybe it's just getting old that has made me a little more selfish when it comes to things like flossing my teeth or putting on sunscreen . . . Anyway. Most mornings it takes me literally nine minutes after my shower to get myself ready. However, this depends on something I'll never get---NINE MINUTES, INTERRUPTION-FREE. For instance, the other morning:

Matt leaves for work; I take my shower; the kids are watching the last half-hour of Tangled we didn't finish the night before. Just as I emerge from the bathroom in a towel (the size of a postage stamp; laundry sometimes gets away from me) I see the door wide open (again with the solicitors!) a gentleman just leaving, and Bubby holding a tree-service pamphlet. As I am getting my clothes on, the kids start simultaneously screaming "IT'S BROKEN!" Which means the dratted Playstation is skipping the disk again. Matt got it back in 2008 and I swear to Christ, it's *never* not done this. On its bad days, like this one, it skips about every eleven minutes, blurs the picture, and then fades to black, entirely.

I come back down, correct the disk, and show Bubby how to do it for the next time it happens. It happens three more times. On my way to the Playstation I encountered an empty box of Kix, empty as in no bag and no cereal in it, which I'm positive I'll stumble onto soon. After the film is finally over, I summon the kids, one at a time, into the bathroom as I'm putting on my makeup to brush their teeth and hair. Vin is screaming for Kix in the kitchen, so I have to trust the older two children's tooth-brushing (never a safe idea) and get him some Kix, which were located in the chair in the back room. After I pour him a tiny cup of dry Kix, I go back into the bathroom to handle B's teeth and hair. She's screaming, loudly, because the pink toothbrush is gone. Having seen it not five minutes earlier on the dresser upstairs, I tell her to go and get it, explaining *precisely* where it's located. Vin wants more Kix, and his cup is actually empty, so I go back into the kitchen to fetch him some. I pour the same amount into the cup, hand it to him, and turn around to finish putting on my makeup. I hear a thump, the slam of the garbage drawer, and he's immediately at my side again, "MORE KIX."

I look at him sideways and say, "What in the heck did you do with the Kix I just gave you?" "GARBAGE CAN!" he says happily, and runs over to show me the two cups' worth of Kix he's dumped inside it. Into coffee grounds and on top of a bio-hazard-grade diaper, so there was no pulling them out, either.

B is screaming upstairs, "MOM, CAN YOU COME AND WIPE ME?" "Yes, just a second," I yell up to her. Acting as if I've said nothing, she continues to scream this while Vin screams that he won't be getting any more Kix. I wipe B, get her pink toothbrush and come back down. She screams more when I comb her hair as she is a back sleeper and her hair is *ridiculous* in the morning. I am starting to get annoyed, as I just need a few minutes to finish fixing my face (in order not to look dead), and I tell them this. "Give me five minutes and then we'll go out, maybe even take a walk, okay? Five Minutes."

While I am in the bathroom, finishing, they decide to slide the laundry baskets back and forth down the wood floors, screaming and laughing and crashing into each other. "WE'RE PLAYING 'BASTARD IN A BASKET,' MOM!" I take no credit for the word bastard, their father likes to quote Daniel Day Lewis frequently, so take it up with him . . . Anyway, there were several underhanded stealing maneuvers going on during this little game, and the laundry that had previously filled those baskets was dumped out all over the back room, but by then, the goal was just to make it outside before noon, so I had to let it slide.

Other than that, Bastard in a Basket was actually going well, and Zizzy completely bugged out to go and dress her baby, leaving an equal number of baskets for the participating children, so I decided to go all out and floss my teeth. Soon enough, they've abandoned the baskets and gotten out the art supplies, but not before I made them put the laundry all back inside the baskets again (unsorted and sloppy but at least off the floor). I'm cleaning up my mess in the bathroom and putting clothes down the chute when I hear what's become the usual banter between 7, 5, and 3 year-olds, forced to play together.

"Zizzy said Bitty doesn't like me!" (Zizzy, don't say that) "B is using my markers and not hers!" (You have a million markers, SHARE). "She said that the caterpillar is red, and it ISN'T, that's dark orange," (BE NICE!) "I didn't say that, the big boys said it!" (BE NICE!) "Bitty doesn't like me! WAAAHAHAAHAH!" (BE NICE!)

Realizing suddenly that there has been surprisingly little audible action from Vin during all of this, I come out to check on him. He's in the living room, Kix smashed everywhere; he must have found the box way at the back of the cupboard, and balanced on his tippy toes on the chair next to the fireplace, grabbing every DVD he can get his hands on from the mantle and pitching them onto the floor. The Indiana Jones box set has been dismantled, and every disk out of its case is haphazardly lying on the couch and floor, waiting to be smashed or stepped on. "NO DISK!" I say to him, rescuing the Indys. I pick up the Kix, get the broom and sweep up the remnants. Vin watches me carefully and then insists, "peanut-BUTTER!" I negotiate (successfully after only about twenty-eight repetitions) that he may have a tiny piece of the toast his father left on the counter and not the entire thing. He takes one bite and rushes off to find the candles he had been hauling around and huffing like Ruth Stupes the night before.

More arguing is happening in the other room, I think over Mario characters. Maybe it was Clone Wars. I glance at the clock on the cable box. I got out of the shower at 9:12. It was 10:28.

Routines. Taco Johns Can Bite Me. Wildlife.

2011-06-13T12:30:00.000-07:00

1. Here is why I feel like I'm entitled to the Czarist regime I impose around here with the kids: we went to the park today after lunch, an impromptu, fun activity because we were invited. Vin *just now* quit screaming about having to take a nap and (hopefully) submitted. Nothing else was wrong in the world other than he normally naps at 1pm and today he didn't hit the crib until 214.

I try not to complain too much, I tell these stories, and they're often sarcastic and silly, but I'm not unhappy about things most days. However. For the record, and I'm just going to go ahead and speak for my husband here too, I HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS TIRED IN MY LIFE. I don't say this every day, although maybe I should. Every day you see me and talk to me, I am tired. I hide it well and like I said, I'm happy and optimistic, but I am still tired. Fucking tired. If you know a mother out there, whether she has four kids or ten, guess what? She's tired. Or she needs a drink.

In other news, the St. Germain cocktails at Salut are A-fricking-mazing . . . the French really know how to get their booze on.

2. On Saturday, I thought it would be fun to take a tour of the south metro in a holy-grail-like search for the Burnsville Taco Johns. I love Taco Johns, I obsess about it at least a few times a week. When I was at the U, there was a Taco Johns in the DinkyDome and I ate there whenever I had money (which was rarely), but it was probably the best thing in my life back then that I had regular access. The last time I actually ate anything from Taco Johns had to be my last time in Willmar, which was March of 06.

Matt gave me "directions," I wrote them down, and set out at about 9pm. No one actually had the foresight to check the places hours of operations, so you know where this is going. After missing the exit (at no point was 35E mentioned on the directions), turning around, and pretty much hauling our candied asses halfway across the state and back IN THE WRONG DIRECTION, Elyssa and I finally made it to Burnsville, proper, and found the stupid place. I almost peed my pants in excitement after just seeing the menu. There was one other patron in front of us, who seemed to be taking an extremely long time to order. When we pulled up to the menu, nothing happened. The other dude was up at the window, talking to someone, so I figured maybe they were just taking care of him, first.

Stupid Minnesota Nice, what I should have done was shout, "HELLO, WE JUST DROVE FROM MINNEAPOLIS, WE'D LIKE FIVE SIX-PACKS-AND-A-POUNDS AND TEN CHURROS PLEASE!"

I waited. It was 953 when we pulled up. The other car hovered near the window until 957 and I finally said, HELLO? Which went unanswered. When I scooted up behind the other car, he turned around and looked behind him. And then left with no food. Once I got to the window, the three people inside looked at me blankly for a few seconds before mouthing, "WE'RE CLOSED."

I managed to contain my frustration, luckily, and had I been pregnant and in one of my food-fit-moods, things would have gone a lot differently, but I had no choice but to pull away and leave. On the lengthy drive back to Minneapolis, the oil light in my Golf started flashing and buzzing, so mostly I forgot about the tacos and just focused on getting us back into Hennepin County and not raped in the ditch somewhere, but dammit, it was still a giant pisser. I had to eat Taco Bell instead---not as good but whose hours are much more reasonable.

I guess the quest continues . . .

3. We have a crazy amount of creature activity around here in the summers. There is at least one opossum that lives under someone's deck; sometimes he comes up on the deck when we leave our cooler out. There was a fox last summer, and a million squirrels and rabbits. We ran into a lizard on a walk earlier this week, Bubby cornered it in about three seconds. The cats were fighting over a bird last weekend and just decided to BRING IT INTO THE HOUSE. There were feathers everywhere, and neither of the cats were willing to let it go, so Matt had to catch it in a Starbucks venti and release it safely into the wild.

The latest installment happened this morning, when Batty (the less annoying of the two cats) brought a *chipmunk* into the house. Bubby was going nuts, trying to get her to let it go, I was trying to shoo her out the deck doors again because, you know, I didn't want the thing loose and excreting shit inside, I think I said Fucking-A a bunch of times (sorry), probably screamed it, but it was a lot of pandemonium. Inevitably, the stupid thing got away from her, ran into the living room, and escaped behind one of the stereo speakers among the wiring where the cat could not follow. I kept shoving her back toward it, I even enlisted the help of the other cat, Vito, but after a while both cats just kind of looked at me like, "what?" and basically shrugged and left, probably to go puke and shit somewhere in a huge pile that I'll discover later when I step in it with bare feet.

Anyway, I had just yelled at Bubby to get the phone so I could call Matt to come home for lunch, because clearly I could not be expected to snare a wild chipmunk on my own, right? Bubby was begging me to let him catch it, and before I could even give him permission, he ran into the closet, got a washcloth, and had the thing wrapped in it and out the door, 1-2-3. He laid it in the grass where it wasn't looking so good, so I told him to bring it over to the neighbor's trees where it might be able to calm itself down, but after checking on it later, it wasn't doing so good there, either. RIP, little buddy.

Steve Irwin probably made a lot of bank in his day, didn't he? I wonder if he got his start with lizards and chipmunks?

Silver Lining?

2011-06-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

Something is off. Either my kids are all *crazy* from the heat, or Vin is getting more (second) molars, B has taken a turn for the psychotic, and Bubby is just uncooperative. We've started to describe B's behavior as the "psychological icepick" when it happens, MOMENT TO MOMENT; it's literally the most ridiculous, disgusting situation I've ever been party to. Sorry again to all the neighbors---I'm trying to figure out some way to stop the screaming. Well, put it this way: I try until about 549pm every night, and then I just give up and get out the bottle of Jameson and let her father handle her and the rest of these lunatics.

Today was no exception; the morning was extremely tantrum-y. The hose is too hot, the hose is too cold! I want Golden Grahams. I want Apple Jacks! I want juice! I want water! THAT'S MY CHAIR! I want that water bottle! He squirted me with the hose! This sand is too wet! I want another berry! After a while I decided to cut our losses and just come in. Moments after, there was a knock at the door, and B was kind of still screaming about something, so I was caught off guard. I nearly had the door opened when I realized I should probably put some pants on (I was wearing my swimsuit under a T-shirt), so I ran to the back to grab some. Little did I know that B had already opened the door, widely, and the dude on the step saw me putting on shorts, clear as day, in the dining room.

As it turned out, the dude was there to ask me for something, what, I never found out, and WHY, is even more of a mystery since we have had the same NO SOLICITATION sign up for at least 2 years, and it was indeed, intact as I stood there (as indicated above, left). The funny thing is, each time he would try to explain to me what he was doing and what it was that he wanted, one of the kids would start having a scream-fit about something (B fell off piano bench, Vin wanted onto the bench, B wanted to come outside, I said NO, Vin followed her, I yanked him back in, etc.) They were both screaming so loud and so ridiculously that *the guy* decided to take his business elsewhere.

To reiterate, MY KIDS WERE SO ANNOYING, A SOLICITOR EXCUSED HIMSELF FROM MY DOORSTEP.

Formatting Issues; Hey, Jealousy.

2011-06-02T19:01:00.001-07:00

Formatting:

Clearly I'm no neat freak around here, but I have some real issues with formatting, neatness, and (ha) technology when it comes to the stuff I write. I just got my laptop back after not having it for close to four months, and I used Appleworks for a post over on Television Lady the other day. Long story short, the spacing got botched in the copy/paste and while an extremely small thing (in the universe), it bothered me because it looked unprofessional and not like any of the other posts. Also, I have been trying for months now to properly format hyperlinks for my film reviews on Examiner, but as my old college nemesis, Peter Gregg would say, NOTHING DOING. I did a film list for Clint Eastwood's birthday and just posted Wikipedia links, fully, and the spacing and flow of the whole thing was annoying and unprofessional. I hate scribble-outs; I hate speed bumps.

I ended up deleting the Wikipedia links, just axing them entirely, and making Matt fix the spacing thing on the blog. I feel much better. Granted, there are minimum, 4 loads of laundry to be done around here at any given moment, sticks in the yard, a ream of paper scattered over the kids' room, and spots on the mirrors and windows and THIS is what I've dedicated my time to obsess over. My mother would be grateful that there's something, anything on earth, that I will worry about, so I suppose this is a positive. Plus, she worries enough about the yard, the laundry, and the windows for both of us, so, you know, it works out.

(FYI, That Chick Who Likes To Procreate has a facebook page now, you can "like" it if you are so inclined; also TCWLTProcreate is on Twitter . Yey hyperlinks!)

Jealousy:

I've been stewing over this for a while, debating whether or not to "go public" about it, if you will . . .

Does anyone out there ever have silly jealousy issues with spouses/partners? As in, some old ex comes nosing around (on Facebook, where else?) and starts being all friendly and flirty and OVERLY COMMENT-Y about things?

You know that scene in The Matrix, Reloaded when the Merovingian's wife wants to "sample" Neo and Trinity sticks a Beretta into her face and says, "WHY DON'T YOU SAMPLE THIS, INSTEAD?" My reactions did not involve a handgun, but a verbal request, not nice and not ladylike, but very much in the spirit of Trinity, if you get me.

I just had to get that out in the open; I feel much better.

Blading Harriet doesn't go well; Farmers.

2011-05-28T13:39:00.000-07:00

Sarah Goldfarb (me, with my 80 year old hips and back) decided to take a chance and go rollerblading this morning. The sun was shining, the grass was green, I had no pain and tons of energy, what could go wrong?

I fell getting from the street to the sidewalk.

I almost fell crossing the street (with many spectators).

I almost fell wobbling up the tiny incline from the street to the path (with many spectators).

I almost fell anytime I tried to lift my right leg off the ground.

I had to *not* do that for the entire time (lift my right leg, my good leg because my left hip and leg were not strong enough to stand on yet).

I had to go about .1 mph, wobbly. I got passed by, well, everyone. Kids, old people, dogs, all.

I had anxiety for about a mile about how I was going to a. make it up the large hill, b. get myself across the enormous concrete divots I knew were waiting by the lot, and c. make it around the entire lake on basically one leg. What I ended up doing was more like limp-blading, not roller blading. I can only imagine what this all looked like to the 30123 people that were down there with me.

I got YELLED AT. By some fuck on a bike and again by another roller blader. I was *not* overstepping my boundaries on my side of the path, but I'm sure I looked completely clueless and as if I would probably do this soon, given my wobbliness and flailing limbs . . . I was trying very hard to stay upright and not let my left leg buckle when a biker screamed out ON YOUR LEFT!, rudely. And then passes me going about seventy-five. Then the blader did the same thing a few minutes later, also rudely. Ooooh! I wanted to scream right after them, "Hey, jerkoffs, I HAVE A HIP INJURY, OKAY? I'M NOT JUST *BAD* AT THIS, I HAVE TO GO SLOW BECAUSE I HAVE A BAD BACK! I LIFTED A 35 POUND KID FOR TWO YEARS BEFORE IT HAPPENED, TOO, SO I'M NOT SOME SLUMP, YOU HEAR ME?" Had I been given a walker last week (like I requested) I could have shaken it at them while yelling this.

This was obviously retribution from all the times I scowled or sneered at people (although I never said, "on your left") back when I was injury-free and had the top 1/3 of a six-pack, 22 year-old skin, and tits like rocks, keeping up with Matt going about seventy-five around Lake Calhoun, doing jumps and kicks and swerving around people without breaking a sweat.

Have I mentioned that I. *HATE.* GETTING. OLD? I want Twilight-Werewolf mending capabilities. NOW.

On Farmers:

I'm reading A Thousand Acres right now; it's very good but very disturbing. The incest is an entirely different topic altogether (it's an entirely different topic) but all that other stuff? The Alzheimers, the angry outbursts, the Father NOT TALKING to his daughters when he's mad at them, the constant, freakish obsession over the condition of the farm and the buildings and the houses? Yee. Let's just say I have experience with more than I'd care to with all of that . . . apparently Jane Smiley does, too.

Which got me thinking about what my (farmer-raised) Mother would say about the condition of my house right now, mostly just the still-collapsed front step, which has been a rubble since late February (although there are other things that would make her hit-list, window trim, sidewalk edging, condition of grass in back, condition of garage, etc., etc.,). I think I've told her about 14,000 times that we are waiting for a freelance check to come in before we hire someone to fix it, but I suspect that she thinks that I've just forgotten about it and the step will indeed stay that way forever. In her mind (and from what Smiley writes in the book re: The Cooks) this is completely wrong and an insult to your family, because what any good farm daughter would do would be (duh) to cut out all expenses and not spend another cent until the full amount for the repairs had been saved, because fixing something, especially something THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD CAN SEE! takes priority over anything else.

See, I can understand this kind of logic, because I grew up with it, but I don't agree with it, and this is how I drive my mother crazy. And I thought about it, for a while, just being responsible and saving the money out of our budget just so we could get it done sooner, but after a few days it occurred to me that if I continued this plan I would have to forgo a much anticipated trip to South Lyndale Liquors, probably more than once.

And clearly, I'm not going to go overboard with this thing, am I? They're just steps! (!!!)

Step off the mothers?

2011-05-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

Something got me going the other day and I'm having trouble putting it to rest, and it was started (innocently) by a STUPID FACEBOOK COMMENT!

It was about birth, of all things. Let's just say I was following someone's (published) experience, little by little. Long story short, it was one of those . . . not smooth, not pleasant birth experiences, fully documented, that ended with a healthy baby, thank goodness, but was extremely stressful just to read about, let alone to experience first hand. I'm not here to criticize anyone or to invalidate the mother's experience, but what irritated me was this overwhelming vibe of something I haven't thought about for a long time, what the childbirth educators call, "THE MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT HAVING TO SAVE THE BABY FROM ITS OWN INCOMPETENT MOTHER." Jesus, why don't we just put this pregnant woman into an isolation chamber until we're ready to seize the baby from her dangerous, trecherous womb because for God's sake, she's liable to combust that foetus if we don't intervene . . . and furthermore, aren't we all so very fortunate that medicine has finally recognized a mother's inherent hostility and cluelessness when it comes to growing and birthing children? Were it not for our brilliant expertise and innovation, millions of foetuses everywhere just might start combusting, world-wide!

"if she doesn't make progress . . . " (her cervix is defective and won't open)
"if she isn't able to move the baby down . . . " (she's being lazy; her body is defective)
"if the cervix doesn't cooperate with the induction . . . " (she has an insubordinate cervix; she herself is insubordinate)
"if the epidural isn't well-tolerated . . . " (her system is too sensitive; she's resisting)
"if the canal isn't large enough to accommodate the baby . . . " (it's amazing the baby lived even this long since clearly her body was never meant to bear children; she's already an unfit mother; trecherous womb should be put on a most-wanted list)
and so on.

If there are two things that will fuck with a mother every time, they are
1. you are not able to do this. (outright) (without this chemical) (without this device) (without our say-so)
2. you did it wrong.

I realize that this is kind of a strange kind of argument, kind of like "don't badger me and don't undermine me, but then also don't abandon me or invalidate me, either, as I'm trying the best I can to get this baby out!" Often times unnecessary interventions lead to more and more interventions. There are life-saving cesarean sections *and* unecessary ones. It's extremely difficult, especially for first-time mothers, to know what to want, what to expect, and to be in control of things, but everyone should be able to go in there and do their thing, whatever their thing might be, with some support and positive feedback! I don't believe that it's possible to simply *will* a cervix to open, but honestly, this seems like what they're expecting when a woman's labor slows down or doesn't respond to gels, IVs, or being poked and prodded. It's upsetting, this culture-wide fear and anxiety that gets heaped onto mothers about birth, most commonly WHILE IT'S HAPPENING! The scarier you make it sound, the more you insinuate she won't be able to do it, the more cervix checks, the more watching the clock, the more chart-flipping, the more, the more!

How about you just back off and trust her, or ask her what she wants?

Bridesmaids, Truth, Comedy, Feminism.

2011-05-20T11:45:00.000-07:00

Yes, they are all related.

I saw Bridesmaids last week; I thought it was really, really well done. I read Ebert's review of it and was kind of annoyed how simply he dismissed it, kind of like "Yeah, girls can be vulgar and raunchy, too. Good job." And I'm sure the hardcores out there probably saw it that way too, as in a female version of The Hangover, chicks trying to outdo dudes in terms of inapropriate misbehavior.

I didn't see it that way at all, but this is probably because I very much identify with inapropriate behavior, and always have. I swear. A lot. I got this from my father, watching too many films at too early an age, and working in a restaurant. I drink. Not too much, but enough that it's starting to concern me a little, but that's another post. People make me laugh, especially uptight ones. You get the picture. And the reason I loved Bridesmaids so much is because it showcased the things that I find really funny: flailing limbs, blunt, inapropriate-for-a-girl language, and sarcastic, sardonic responses. It was almost like I knew the characters or saw myself in them because so much that happened was familiar and true to things from my own life and experiences:

Becca: Annoying newlywed. Loves Disney. Very . . . McGoo. I probably identified with her least, but I had several years where I was clueless, patronizing, and annoying. Green, I suppose you'd say.

Rita: Mother of three sons. Talks about semen a lot. Bitter. Desperate. Rita I got a kick out of; I haven't (yet) been told "Hey Mom, why don't you go fuck yourself," but I think all mothers out there can agree that kids can be pretty ungrateful every now and then, it's only natural. Rita's frankness about her life as a mother and wife ("What do you do when you have sex?" "Pray for it to end!") was half Peggy Bundy and half Stanley Roper. Nice combo.

Megan: My favorite. The bluntness: "Oh, so you didn't come here with him? Good, because later on I am going to climb that like a tree." I had a conversation with a friend of mine at Sbux a few years back about how the somewhat inapropriate (and disrespectful) "I would destroy that," was still a fun twist on saying "I'd hit that," and even more ridiculous when said by a woman. I try to use it as much as possible. Not around relatives of course, but you know what I mean.

I'm wondering what the feminists thought of old Megan. I remember when I was doing my senior paper in school on Tarantino and Kill Bill, this (childless) Australian critic was having a fit because she saw Beatrix Kiddo as a woman whose only solution in life was to act like a man, having to abandon all femininity and pride in womanhood (as did the female constants on Fear Factor, her other beef) in order to compete in the male world. I didn't understand this at all! Beatrix Kiddo may have been responding in an unrefined, primitive manner, executing the people responsible for what she believed to be the death of her child, but I still don't see how that gets translated into acting mannish. Maybe she needed better shoes and a purse the size of a 737 along with that Hanzo sword?

Is Megan's character (and all of womankind) marginalized because she has a deep voice, a thicker build, and uses blunt language? Is she acting like a man to get laughs? Are the laughs at her expense? Is she being mocked? I didn't think so. I don't think one person who saw that film wouldn't want to hang out with Megan; she was the life of the fricking party! That was the message I took from the film, these chicks were interesting, unique, and fun! What a concept!

Anyone else? What do you think?

Treading Lightly.

2011-05-13T09:50:00.000-07:00

I'm finally at a place where I can sort of talk about my back business (I was avoiding even mentioning it because at heart I am extremely superstitious and didn't want to jinx anything), plus I'm at the end of my steroid pack now, so if something worse is going to happen, it's going to happen and there's not much I can do about it.

Anyway, last Friday morning something bad happened to my back. Actually the bad thing may have happened the day before since I recall sleeping flat on my stomach most of the night before as it was the only position that didn't give me extreme pain. I got adjusted that morning, came home, and laid on my stomach again. Then I got up to go pee, and whatever motion I did was literally the straw that broke my back, because suddenly I couldn't even *see* it hurt so bad. My leg was alternating between going numb and shooting with pain (childbirth calibre but worse because there was no baby or point to it, as far as I could see); my hip was throbbing and grinding, too. I hobbled around, thinking walking would loosen it up but it only felt worse. I tried stomach-laying again but that also felt worse. B noticed that I was on the floor, crying (silently) and became concerned. "Mama, are you sad?" ----straining in pain I said, "Yes." She didn't even ask me why but asked, "Can I lay by you?" and burst into tears herself. It was really, desperately unpleasant.

Long story short, after the shortest visit on record in and out of the Southdale ER, I got steroids, vicodin, and was treated for the rest of the day to a reclined position in bed. Honestly, I don't think I've gotten to lay down (during the day) for longer than an hour since before the kids were born. That would be seven years. I'm always getting up, bending, lifting shit, squatting, grabbing things, twisting, reaching, and so on. I never realized how much until I didn't have to do it! I didn't take much vicodin, only a half a pill, three times, but the steroids? Those were lovely. Here I thought it was just my own inner optimism that was pushing me to do an hour and a half of yoga, half hour of treadmill, and half hour of free weights each day, this after being in probably the worst pain *of my life!* What a boost! Regardless, I feel better. But I'm still tiptoe-ing around here like a little old grandma, taking deep breaths before I raise any of my limbs. Matt and I watched The Bourne Identity the other night and though I like the film, a lot, I had a real attitude about how all the stunt guys in the film were probably older and ricketier than me but could still kick and smash shit and fight each other all to hell without their sciatic nerves getting crunched, WHAT GIVES? (bitter pill).

In other news, I was going to include a real massive expose on what we had to go through to get out the door this morning, with shoes, socks, toothbrushes, hoodies, and what not, but it all seems a little silly now that I think about it, because the only person who would find this remotely interesting would be Matt, and only because he would think it's fun to 1. guess which child had the biggest fit (B, always B); 2. try to guess my reactions/profanity quotient during all this and 3. predict how long this debacle actually went on for. It really was no different than any other day, if you want to know the truth, although the Maximus from Pizza Luce that Vin and B decided to haul around the basement made a reappearance up on the main floor in the form of partially digested CAT chaw; that was a really nice way to be greeted back home.

(The trip we took, incidentally, was to the doctor's office over in Uptown to get Zizzy's immunization records for her Kindergarten registration. Yes, I am aware that I could have either gone upstairs to get the baby book and copied them down from there, or just written random dates down in some semblance of a valid immunization schedule, dishonestly, but getting a printed out sheet that someone else had to go to the trouble to process just seemed like the better of all these options. Plus we went to Whole (Paycheck) Foods afterwards and got about thirty different beverages, so I still consider the trip a victory, despite the pro- and epilogues.)

Happy Weekend!

Osama Bin Laden and me.

2011-05-05T13:22:00.000-07:00

Any of you NWA alums remember September 11, 2001? Yeah, me too.

Weekend Update.

2011-05-01T17:44:00.000-07:00

1. There are these things, in dealing with the kids, that Matt and I have sort of coined into identifying phrases. One of the most common is VICE GRIPS, born from B being so completely distractible in her desiring of random things that all either of us would have to do to get her going would be to say something casually about vice grips and she'd immediately start begging for us to get some for her.

Or SBM (sit by mommy); how it's been decided that if I am in a room, my sole purpose in being there is to fulfill random requests from the kids. This applies also (or especially) if I am up to my elbows cooking something, changing a diaper full of partially digested grapes and kiwi seeds, folding laundry, talking on the phone, etc., etc., etc., and REGARDLESS of the children's father being also present in the room, often times as he sits and does absolutely nothing. Today Zizzy woke me up from the 11 minute nap I was taking to ask me if the Harry Potter we were watching was the one where Malfoy makes the apple disappear. Matt was 3 inches away from her on the same couch, at his computer.

The newest in all of this is called AS IF I'VE SAID NOTHING. B will wait until I am doing something I absolutely cannot walk away from and ask me for something, let's say, juice. "Yes, give me five minutes and I'll get you some juice." She waits three seconds and asks again. "B, just wait a second, okay, this _____ will burn if I don't watch it, I have to get this finished and I'll get you juice." She will then ask for virtually every single thing in the refrigerator, one after another, as if I've actually not even responded to anything she said. This also goes with disciplinary items:

Me: Hey, you need to take that handful of toy food and march it right back up to your toy kitchen upstairs, you're not dumping it all over the counter top because we're eating in five minutes.

B: Well, I want my food down here because I'm having a picnic.

Me: That's a nice idea, and you can actually have a great picnic upstairs on my bed. Take it upstairs.

B: Well, I don't want to bring it upstairs.

Me: Actually, you need to bring it upstairs because if I see any of it on the counter top I'm pitching it directly into the garbage.

She disappears for one minute and then returns. Holding all the same shit as before.

B: Hi, Mom!

Me: Take that stuff upstairs and put it away.

B: But. Well, I'm having a picnic with this stuff.

AS IF I'VE SAID NOTHING.

2. I tried some yoga this weekend, totally low-key and beginner level. It damned near shredded me. Downward-Facing Dog? NO. Warrior? NO. FOLDING? HELL NO. I am not a very limber person, as it turns out, which makes me think I really need to be doing this. It actually made my back and hips and legs feel much better, so I suppose I can dig it. There is no way I'm ever doing it in public, however.

3. Something interesting happened a few hours ago: a glass baking dish exploded in the oven. And there was a prime rib inside of it. How was your Sunday?

I feel bad about my rack.

2011-04-28T10:58:00.000-07:00

I'm coming in heavy today, fair warning. And those aren't mine, over there, just FYI.

I'm finding it's hard to do what my chiropractor told me to do (stand up straight) and I'm thinking it might have something to do with the DDs on my chest. I was a very safe B-cup before I had and nursed four children; my rack will never be the same. Many women desire large chests but I find them (mine) extremely difficult to maneuver. If I lived in Kona and could wear a swimsuit at all times AND if I didn't have such bad posture, I think I'd be fine with it, but as things are, they're a goddamned nuisance. I get about three months worth of usage from my bras, no matter where I buy them, the stabbing pain from an underwire that's been sprung is right up there with a dentist's drill, if you know what I mean, and it happens frequently. Certain shirts just don't look right, or may cause me to look like I'm trying to bunch up my cleavage and parade it around----believe me, this is not the case. You wouldn't believe how often the sons of bitches just pop out, mostly on their own. It's frustrating.

The only reason I bring it up today is because I was thinking of my daughters, and how someday they will develop breasts. Perfectly natural, right? Those of you who know me (well) obviously know where this is going, and yeah, it's a tired topic, I know, but one that, when it surfaces, really chaps my ass.

The irony here is that I was flat-chested until about tenth grade. On the thin side, boxy, and not very coordinated. In the typical spirit of teenage angst drama, I hated gym class because this lacking of mine was not only noticed and ridiculed (by one particular girl in the class) but then reported to the back of Chet Boen's 7th grade civics class. I wasn't the only one this individual said this about, because believe me, she was a mean and horrible person to *many* other people during our run through school---but somehow, my flatness was the most celebrated and had the greatest staying power. In an unfortunate coincidence, Mr. Merk just happened to be covering the differences between two dimensional objects and three dimensional objects that same week in geometry. "Anything flat is two-dimensional," he said to us, and low and behold, it was decided: ANNA IS TWO-DIMENSIONAL! This of course in addition to the less creative "flat-as-a-board" or "no-tits" they also liked to chant at me. I was twelve years old when this started, and it continued until I was sixteen, where, in the fields one afternoon someone took it upon himself to notice that I was no longer flat as a board. He did not announce it to the field crew, only to me. I'm wondering now if he expected a thank you or something?

People read this rambling thing of mine and have told me that they admire my honesty, which I appreciate. But if you want some real honesty, here it is: I'm immature enough inside to still be pissed about what happened. I know we all do a lot of things in school that we regret, in fact, I can remember several other situations involving the aforementioned instigator riling up people over others' misfortunes, and that I stood there, stupidly, doing nothing to stop it since I was so thankful that it wasn't me in her cross hair that day! And I feel horrible about it, not only that it happened but that I never, ever stood up to her or helped anyone else who got it, either. Well, there you go. I'll take one for the team, I'll admit my immaturity in not letting it go, and I'll write it all down in hopes that no one else has to have their twelve-year-old body taunted and scrutinized. Because if some little bitch pulls this with my girls, it's going to take an act of God to keep me from going Hand-That-Rocks-The-Cradle on her ass, I'm not kidding.

Does anyone else feel this way about past wrongs? What did it take for you to forgive and forget? Or maybe better, what would you say to your high school bully?

My neck, my back. My neck and my back.

2011-04-21T18:01:00.001-07:00

Yes, well I got to *see* the x-rays today.

I became a little concerned when the doc asked me if I had been in any serious car accidents or had scoliosis diagnosed at any time in my life . . . .

The only reason I went in the first place was because of hip and lower back pain, so I assumed that the x-rays (like the one I saw) were going to reflect something related to this, and that the rest of my spinal column would be tip-top, like the rest of me. And actually, yes. My lower back is completely and totally jacked. I joked about this, I know, but seeing that it was literally true was quite . . . humbling. My pelvis is slanted from left to right; one hip is 8mm higher than the other. The curve of my lower spine (lumbar) is too severe. Then moving up to the middle spine (thoracic), it's almost as if someone tried to draw a straight line from my pelvis up to my skull but did it while drunk, maybe, and just sort of veered outside the line and to the left before correcting again to connect with my head. Oh, and also, the vertebrae in my neck (cervical) do not curve at all the way they are supposed to and are pretty much at a straight angle and could fuse this way if I continue on the way I have been. I was thinking of, I don't know, drawing a picture of it just for illustration, but it would be so ridiculous that you might just suspect I was exaggerating. I'm not.

That all was the bad news. The good news is that he cracked me again, big time, and I feel loads better already. When he did my hip it was possibly the loudest, biggest crack I've ever heard, and he said proudly, "That there was a HOME RUN!" I refrained from telling him that I loved him, though it did cross my mind. Now I have to learn how to sit, stand, and walk properly.

This should be interesting.

Accurate.

2011-04-21T07:17:00.000-07:00

Please forgive the language. (I never swear).

Youth.

2011-04-20T16:37:00.000-07:00

1. It finally happened; Vin wrecked my back. I caved after about three days of constant pain in my lower left area that's been bad for months and went to the chiro up the street. I learned a lot while I was there. First, I snuck into the room with the x-rays when the doc left and peeked at my films---my lower spine was *ridiculous.* Even I, a civilian, could see how twisted it was. I wanted to rifle through all of them, of course, but didn't have the guts to just start mousing and flipping through the images, this being my first visit and all. When the second, more experienced doc came in, he glanced at my x-ray for maybe a nanosecond and said, "WHOA. Yeah. We're gonna have to do something with this."

The weight distribution between my feet was different by almost fifteen pounds, also. Apparently that's messed up, too. They don't normally adjust anyone on a first visit, but the older doc must have felt pretty bad because he did it, and not just my hip, either. God, it was heavenly.

But I don't like this. I think because I act young and I talk young and I feel relatively young, that I *am* young. I really would rather not torture myself trying to stand up straight---and let me tell you, each minute I do this is torturous---but I have to do it now! I've had horrible posture my entire life, so maybe I can share the blame with Vin for my spine and pelvis being basically turned outward, halfway around, but ugh, FRICKING

BACK PAIN! What am I, eighty? I feel for anyone else who's gone through this.

In terms of all the other stuff, (wrinkles, less-firm areas, gray hair, etc., etc.,) let's just say that I am starting to know how Madeline Ashton felt . . . ("It *is* the natural law," "OH SCREW THE NATURAL LAW!")

Question. Rant. Happiness.

2011-04-17T12:43:00.000-07:00

My pal (and fellow procreator) VD posted a review on a book today that I found really interesting Go Ahead, Have Another .

I was wondering what everyone thought of it. Also, what is a "tiger mother?" Is this just the link to Chinese Mothers in general, or is there some sort of Westernized version that involves the natural birth/breastfeeding/co-sleeping/MOBY-wearing/etc., etc., etc., movements too? I hadn't ever heard it before.

Additionally, I always get a kick out of "HAPPINESS STUDIES." All the research that comes out and informs us how non-parents are generally happier than parents, but parents who take the happiness study play down their unhappiness and are in essence lying about it and misrepresenting their martyrdom (tiredness, financially poor positions, sacrifices, etc.) as fulfillment. Ha. I *never* do that.

(um.)

Yeah, okay, so I *do* do that, but I wouldn't dare try to masquerade my happiness as equal to anyone else's, parent or non. What do I know about someone else's happiness, and what do they know about mine? Whose idea is it to try to put us all on the same level playing field, anyway? Do I want to sleep more? Absolutely. Do I want all childhood illnesses banished from my existence? You bet your ass I do. Would I like to have a fat (phat) 401k, money in a savings account, zero credit card debt, and to *not* have to write checks out every month for ER visits that happened a year ago DESPITE the fact that we have insurance coverage? CHRIST. ON. HIS. THRONE. YES! Do I think the universe should send some fucking literary agents to my blogs to start dumping loads of cash into my writing career (as has happened with stupider, less talented hacks out there?) Um, FULLY.

But you know what? This is LIFE. I don't get a free ride, neither do you, and neither does anyone else. Happiness is not an absolute; I honestly think you have to want it in order to get it. People die too early. Roofers make decisions that destroy houses. Sometimes there's never enough money, sleep, energy, or time. And there are still ways to be happy, certain phases of them involving more Jameson than others, but you know what I mean.

Saran Wrap. Swearing.

2011-03-29T10:58:00.000-07:00

Seems to be the topic of discussion today. It got started because about three years ago, Matt commented that someone we had just randomly met (friend of friends) seemed a little bit. . . uptight. As in, "that chick clearly hasn't taken a dump in about six months and probably only lets her husband screw her through saran wrap." HIS WORDS. But kind of valid, actually. And we hadn't even met the husband, so this wasn't at all any kind of judgement on their relationship or dynamic as a couple, just that this was the general package of Matt's first impression.

This has gone no where, and I have really nothing else on it, but I felt it was worth sharing.

In other news:

1. B started peddling on the big wheel. This is huge. Now Vin thinks he needs to do this also.

2. Vin is teething two year old molars. I'm going to be completely honest and say that this really complicates things around here and has taken him from being a loud, demanding, dramatic child to a louder, more demanding, more dramatic, scream-y, sleep-fighty, ridiculous mess.

3. Does anyone else have a car seat buckle that purposely messes with them? B's is ridiculous, every time and I have to, you know, not swear in front of the kids while this is happening constantly and it's really difficult. So what I normally end up doing is some stupid FAUX-CALM soothing pleading (to the belt): "(*yank*) Ugh. You know, I would really appreciate it if you would just (*yank*) please cooperate here, (*yank too hard, comes loose*) because I really don't have time for this business, do I? (reassemble) It's not hard to just WORK, is it? (*yank*) Because what's your one job, SEAT BELT?" The latch is usually wedged way in the bottom or halfway up B's back by now, so once the straps are sort of fixed, the stupid latch thing is another issue . . . to this I've probably given up the trying not to swear most times, ending most regularly with OH FUCKING CHRIST, WOULD YOU *JUST!* (large yank). The kids all stare at me then, Mama, are you mad?

Faux-Calm-Cheerfully: No, not mad. Just really losing my patience with the car seat! Boy that was really annoying, wasn't it! Okay, it's over now, READY TO GO TO TARGET, KIDS?

Matt once lost his patience with the car seat when Bubby was maybe eighteen months; we were switching it from my Golf to Lois's Expedition (which we now have) and it really wasn't working. I'm sure Lois was making it worse by asking 30 questions about it or giving him advice, I was sitting by the tree holding Bubby, giggling the whole time because I knew this wasn't going to end well just judging Matt's sighing and groaning . . . So in true beware-the-fury-of-a-patient-man spirit, he finally just rips the stupid thing out from the seat and whips it into the tree (Bubby and I had moved to the sidewalk by then) and lets out this enormous MAN-SCREAM. Bubby, showing solidarity, goes, "OH JESUS." Lois looked over and cracked up, I said something like, "Oh, Bub, we shouldn't say 'oh Jesus,' it's just not good to use his name like that, we'll just say something else. What's something else we could say instead?" He then dropped his voice and said, "oh fuck."

And I don't know where he would have ever heard that . . .

Not Amused.

2011-03-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

Life and Times

2011-03-18T10:54:00.000-07:00

I had some issues this week, one with Suze Orman, one with a kid in the ER . . . was there something else . . . what was it? Not sleeping for two days (Matt for longer) while dealing with kid in the ER's condition (Vin, croup). I say this a lot, forgive me, but there is nothing like an illness or some random hiccup to make you appreciate just how good you have things, and I swear, I get doses of these kinds of realizations daily.

When I sat in the eye doc's waiting room dealing with B whining about going home, I thought very distinctly, I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS, I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. Immediately after, a woman brought in her two year old who had hearing aids in both ears, who was apparently being seen for eye issues as well. I didn't pity her, or the child, because he was adorable, very smart, and seemed to be having a great time cruising around, but I kind of revised my earlier complaint, as I was pretty sure she really didn't want to be there, either, and that she probably had to do a lot of other things she would rather not do . . .

Or how anytime I start to get uppity about everything that needs work on the house, it takes less than a second for me to recall all of a sudden NOT HAVING ONE when Duke of Ass opened up the roof slabs to let a downpour in. The drain gets clogged in the basement, the steps out front collapse, half the window trim is brown, half is white (Lois's personal favorite)--- these things are irritating, but the house is still standing and I'm grateful.

Orman pissed me off because she insinuated our generation has children they can't afford. And this is true, I'm sure, I'm probably her Public Enemy Number One, and this is totally reactionary of me, but Suze, if I based my decisions on what I could afford, I'd still be living with my mother, probably working four jobs.

When Matt and I got married, he was working at The Art Cellar, I was working AT DUNNS. I think my biggest check there, ever, was $240---and I worked my ass off for every goddamned dollar of it. Our rent in the downstairs apartment on Emerson was $375/month. When I got hired at Northwest, I paid off all of my credit cards, saved maybe 2k for tuition and decided to go back to school for film, something *important* to me. During spring semester of my last year, Matt got laid off from his job while I was 20 credits in at the U, only working part time, and virtually living on my student loans. On March 11, 2003, he got our taxes done (on his birthday). Since we had literally zero dollars, made hardly anything, and had donated a car the year before, I assumed we'd at least be getting cash back from the gov. No, as it turned out, we owed something like $600 for a freelance project. Again, we had zero dollars, NONE. In order to eat and pay rent, we used the rest of my student loan cash, and on my spring break from school, I basically whored myself for hours at Northwest, picking up someone's ten hour shift (8am to 630) before my own that was 7 to 11 at night. I did this for two straight weeks. At a job I fucking detested. This was spring of 2003, the war had just started, and many, many things sucked.

Luckily, Matt got a job early that summer, and sur-prise, the second that happened together with the confirmation I'd be graduating in December, I was knocked up and over the moon. If there would have been any way to swing having kids any earlier, I'm sure we would have done it, but it would not have been a smart thing, and we waited. We didn't have 401ks, we were fucking thankful to have *A JOB* at all! We didn't have a savings account; we were both still paying off our student loans! We did not have ten percent saved for a down payment on a house; we planned on living as artist hippies in Uptown indefinitely. We aren't young (anymore), debt-free, or fabulous, and we probably won't be, ever. But we're not stupid, either. I know that I'll be working until I'm ninety, I'll never have a retirement home somewhere warm, and my kids will probably have to put themselves through school. I want to write, watch my babies grow up, and have one or two experiences that make me laugh when I get older. I want to be happy; I've done this the best I can, my entire life, being broke. I don't visualize my life based on *things,* then, now, or ever. And about my kids? The world needs them. So suck it, Suze. I was meant to do this, all of it.

And additionally, as John Locke so eloquently put it, "DON'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN'T DO!"

Making Mistakes.

2011-03-09T10:07:00.001-08:00

Matt brought a book home last week, called the M-Factor: How The Millennial Generation is Rocking The Workplace. They're actually NOT rocking the workplace, as it turns out, they're really just complaining a lot, having their parents do everything for them (even as adults), and basically expecting a living from the world with little to no work on their parts. Needless to say, I scowled a lot while I read it (probably just like "Boomers" did when they read stuff about Gen Xers the last time this generational shit came up). I get it. I'm getting older and in many ways less tolerant and resistant to change. Some things I'll accept, others I just won't. Moderation. I keep trying for it.

The section on parenting interested me because it discussed LETTING KIDS FAIL. And how for a lot of parents out there, this isn't an option. That image up there is the first paper I wrote for a grad-level film class, one that I thought was tip-top. That's how it came back to me, and let me assure you, the entire thing was marked up like that, all thirteen pages of it (how very humbling). I read it now and think, "Jeez, what the hell was I thinking with all that shit? What a tool!"

I failed a lot, and probably still do. Daily! In ninth grade, I accompanied the choir for Mrs. Duncan, usually without issue. One day in November, she asked me if I was ready on a song (Still, Still, Still), I said I wasn't, really, but she insisted that I get up there and do it anyway. The Goddamned song was in E major, filled with horrible sharps, which I hate to this day, and literally, I hadn't even practiced it at all. But I had to listen to her so I went up and muddled through it, fucking it up so severely that she had to stop me and tell me to go sit down because it was distracting the people from singing and Billy Helder was nearly in tears from laughing so hard. Laughing at how *horribly* I had played. Hard. It wasn't being bullied, exactly, but you better believe that seeing Helder in the halls was extremely unpleasant for what ended up being months afterwards. And there was nothing I could do or say about it, I had to swallow it. Of course this did not stop me from hooking up with him the following year, despite the fact that I did (and do) hold a grudge; yes, I had shitty self esteem and was probably so desperate for approval that it seemed like an okay option. Fucking hell.

Another time was in Donahue's art class, painting on giant canvases, anything we wanted. It was not going well; this was one assignment that just didn't flow for me, and I remember asking her to help me with something, some ridiculous teapot or something, and she refused. I sat there and kept whining about it---yes, I was probably being annoying--- how much I really needed her help (this is after she basically painted half of literally everyone else's shit in the entire class) and she just snapped at me and yelled very loudly, ANNA, JUST GO DO IT YOURSELF! It was really embarrassing. So what could I do? I did it myself and it was the world's biggest piece of shit that barely ended up earning a C. And like the stupid sharps I missed in the song, this still annoys me. Not severely, these are obviously trite issues, but lingering ones.

And I don't know if this has wandered from my original point (like everything else on here) but it made me think about how even though these things were unpleasant, I think they were necessary. Experiences that taught me things. As much as I bitch about taking violin for so many years (wishing many, many times that they'd let me quit), I see now that it taught me quite a lot---getting coached by any of my bosses never seemed daunting compared to biting it on the E string, tinny and loud in front of a full house at The Mitchell at St. Skanks. I'd also like to add that my failures haven't just been snobby, artistic ones, either. I did other things, bad things that were emotional, human failures, too. I brought booze to school and drank it out of a Mountain Dew Can. I was catty to a lot of my friends. I went out with jerks and betrayed my parents' trust by sneaking around with them. I've done drugs. I've been selfish; I've been rude. I've done many things that I wish that I hadn't, things that might have bigger definitions than just "mistakes." Humans do this, right? Each day I live, I'm more and more okay with the fact that none of us get it right all the time. I'm grateful that I was allowed to fail, not because I needed to become desensitized to doing it, but because failing is part of life.

Anyway. The book was good in that it caused me to cement a few ideas on parenting, mostly that I am your parent, not your friend, not your negotiator. And if you, Bubby, Zizzy, B, or Vin, ever expect me to call a teacher to argue about a grade or call your boss to discuss a negative evaluation, you've got another thing coming. Everyone needs to fuck up in E major sometime, now go out there and be somebody!

Uncomfortable Silences.

2011-02-24T09:24:00.000-08:00

There are things in life that I am well versed in and there are things that leave me a bit clueless. For instance, I know that when someone dies, the best thing to do is say that you're sorry, not be afraid to talk about treasured memories of the person, and to leave God and Jesus out of it, at least at first. And probably most of all, just to be there, be present for the family who's grieving in any way you can. What I remember most from my dad's death was just how lonely it felt once everyone went home, the eerie smell of all the flower arrangements that literally crowded the front three rooms of the house, and how nice it was that people brought us food and cooked for us (I think we actually fought each other for Sheryl Anthony's seafood chowder).

But sometimes death isn't the worst, most uncomfortable thing one can deal with; there are tougher issues sometimes. I only know about parental death because it's something that I've experienced. I don't know what it's like to have a miscarriage, and I don't know how to be a mother of four healthy children trying to console someone who has had one. I know there are things that I could do, things I could say, all of that, but when I put myself into that place, this isn't nice, at all, but I feel like the last person I would want to try to validate my feelings would be someone like me. I have a friend who had a miscarriage a few months ago, and I didn't find out about it until weeks after it had happened. I wanted to call her, to email her, or to see her, even, but I didn't say or do anything because I felt like it would be too painful. Not just for me, but for her. This isn't me over-inflating my ego, thinking I'm some larger-than-life matriarch, but I feel like sometimes just the air I breath radiates my chaotic, procreation-oozing presence; it's who I am and let's face it, it's a large part of everything I do and say. I am *fine* with the number of children we have, and I don't feel imposing about the way we are or the choices we've made, but it's not quite so simple for the rest of society sometimes. It almost makes me wish I could just be me when I deal with other people, not just my associations. I met someone about a month back, someone from the neighborhood, and she said, "Oh yeah! You're the one with like, ten kids?"

I'm not just my kids, or some detached womb on legs, okay? And despite my preference for barefooted-ness, I don't have a procreation agenda, I won't vilify you for having a cesarean, weaning early, working for a living, or choosing not to breed.
I don't want any philosophy heaped on me, I'm not a spokesperson. I want to talk to you, to be your friend. I want you to like me, I want to have a drink or walk around the lake or do a book club with you. And as much as I try to express my own thoughts and feelings about something like this (that I debated even posting), it doesn't amount to a hill of beans compared to what my friend must be feeling. I need to find a way to communicate just how sorry I am.

I am me. And I care.

Life in the Crazy Lane.

2011-02-22T10:36:00.000-08:00

1. Evacuation story: There was an issue today in the car with a bottle of Naked Strawberry Smoothie that Matt must have left in there when he took my truck to work yesterday. Zizzy gave it to Vin, probably just to let him play with it and I didn't find out about this until he had the cap off (Rabbit Mother). I had no idea if there was any liquid left in the bottle, nor did I know if it had gone bad during its night in the car (Matt was not around for me to ask, "is it good? is it bad?"). I asked Zizzy if it was empty and she said it was, so I forgot about it until we reached the mound of snow in the back alley and parked. Just then I hear horrible heaving/gagging noises. I turned around and saw that Vin had taken the cap and shoved the entire thing into his mouth, must have tried to swallow it, was not successful in doing so, and was gagging it back out. Just as I reached back to fish it out of his mouth he suddenly barfed about a cup full of strawberry smoothie out with the cap. And all I could think was that I was grateful that it no longer mattered about the smoothie being potentially rotten as it was now all over his coat and neck. As we're unloading from the car the girls are making sick noises at having witnessed his vomiting--I am looking for something to wipe away the barf with and find nothing; I wave to the neighbor plowing his driveway (who always seems to get a strange look on his face when he sees us, as if he's in physical pain just watching us).

Also, note to self: Yes, grapes, strawberries, and blueberries are suddenly affordable again. Invest in bulk baby wipes. And strongly scented hand soap.

2. Zizzy is five today. I know I've told her birth story, probably multiple times, but it's one worth retelling, I think (I'll give you the condensed version today). It was close to 50 outside and sunny; I had had contractions since seven that morning but they were so light it hardly even occurred to me that it could be actual labor. My doc had gone to Florida for a conference and I had not kept up on my weekly prenatal visits, so when I called the clinic that day, even with mild contractions, they told me to go to the hospital just to get evaluated. I didn't want to be sent home and I sure as hell didn't want to be induced, but after I hung up the phone I had a contraction that was a little bit heavier than the others had been. Matt was at work; Lois was here with Bubby, we had actually planned on taking a walk after lunch since it was so nice out, but I decided to just go the hospital, as instructed, and said that I'd call them if I needed them. (!)

Long story short, I got there at 130pm, she was born at 315pm. Matt came in literally minutes before I started pushing. Like Vin's birth, they totally let me do my thing and seemed to just trust me to tell them if I needed anything. I did accept a little jolt of Fentanyl in the back once transition started, and BAM, *it's a girl!* It was amazing, really, really amazing. And from that moment on, little Zizzy (Meemers!) was completely, COMPLETELY fine with pretty much anything at all. So laid back, so incredibly sweet, beautiful, and smart. I don't know whose temperament she got, but as I've said many, many times before, if all kids were like her, people would have 12. She's so darling.

3. I haven't had a good rant in a while, I feel like I'm letting everyone down! Here's a mini-one.

MULTI-TASKING. I really get annoyed with how this term gets thrown around, mostly if someone uses it in connection with a mechanical device. As in, "ISN'T IT WONDERFUL HOW WE'RE ALL ABLE TO MULTI-TASK SO MUCH BETTER WITH CELL PHONES?" or "THIS GENERATION IS JUST SO MUCH MORE ADEPT AT MULTI-TASKING THAN ANY OTHER!"

For the record: people do multi-task. But not with a phone or a computer. Air Traffic Controllers. Health care professionals. Engineers--they use technology, sure. But it's more than just button-pushing. "But I'm paying my bills, talking to my mother, making a grocery list, and playing Tetris ALL AT THE SAME TIME!" Okay, but you're doing all of those things *shittily* and not really giving any of them your full attention. "Yes I am! I'm good at multi-tasking!"

Multi-tasking is what a cop or a firefighter does when they kick down the door to a burning building and have to decide how to get the people out, how to fight the flames, keep bystanders out of the way, and not get killed themselves.

Multi-tasking is what a teacher does when he or she corrals two boys hurling Tonka trucks at each others' heads while running over to the little girl who fell off the slide while telling the little boy on the time-out spot to pull up his pants while wiping sand out of another child's eyes, maybe in the presence of multiple parents (on their phones?).

I would say that I know the meaning of multi-tasking---putting one child on the toilet while keeping the baby out of the bathroom garbage while other child needs a band-aid and oldest one is howling because he has an earache and SHIT the toddler fell *into* the toilet and the baby shat himself and of course it's running out of his diaper because his dad didn't put any pants on him that morning and now the diaper is off and smushed into the carpet and okay, the toddler is out of the toilet and is screaming that she has pee on her and needs a bath and holy fuck the baby reeks from the blueberry dump and the girl was just trying to pet the cat and he whapped her and now she really does need a band-aid and the earache is legitimate and where's the goddamned children's motrin and WHO THE FUCK IS CALLING ME NOW, and great, the Schwann's man is right outside the door and heard me say the F word in front of my young children and fucking fuck I didn't clean up the cereal bowls quick enough and now the cat who drank the milk is barfing and what bills are due today and now the baby plowed head first into the tub and holy shit my mother's coming today, did I clean the Christing high chair cuz she'll lose her shit if it's not clean . . .

---but really, knowing the meaning and actually *doing it* are two very, very different things. It has nothing to do with technology. NOTHING.

Mana

2011-02-03T16:58:00.000-08:00

Vin calls coffee and coffee-related products "mana." We don't know why, he's done it for a few months now. Cups, beans, Starbucks logo, and so on. One day I heard him chanting it in a throaty roar, "Maan-naaaah! Maan-naaah!" while sitting on the floor after demolishing my purse and wallet, holding my Starbucks visa card. I'd say he's borderline obsessed.

So one morning last weekend, Matt goes, "I wonder if 'Mana' actually means anything! Wouldn't it be crazy if it was some ancient tribal word for coffee?" So we consult wiki:

"Mana is an indigenous Pacific islander concept of an impersonal force or quality that resides in people, animals, and (debatably) inanimate objects. The word is a cognate in many Oceanic languages, including Melanesian, Polynesian, and Micronesian.

In anthropological discourse, mana as a generalized concept is often understood as a precursor to formal religion. It has commonly been interpreted as "the stuff of which magic is formed," as well as the substance of which souls are made.

Modern fantasy fiction, computer and role-playing games have adopted mana as a term for magic points, an expendable (and most often rechargeable) resource out of which magic users form their magical spells."

Funny. If you know just how valuable coffee is around here, it's even funnier. Mana = magic. Mana = soul. Without coffee I can safely say I'd be lacking in both qualities. This got me thinking about intrinsic values, life forces, magical connections I feel to certain things, and all my crazy obsessions. For instance, sometimes, the feeling I get when I make the treadmill my bitch (Will Smith-style) with Enrique turned up to 30 can literally be the world's most powerful, palpable rush. Something so good I wish I could bottle it, like being in Hawaii, or each of my kids' births, or the LOST finale. Moments. I find myself in these situations, remembering them, and the experience becomes almost like a force of its own; something that almost lives and breathes. Dewey's death is another one; the colors, the ride home from Duluth, the food everyone brought, the months of awkward public discomfort, or the funeral-y smell of the flowers, for some reason so unlike any other flower arrangement, ever. I haven't made any effort to catalogue these things, they just have unbelievably descriptive staying power.

Mana?

I want to think I evolved into something magical over the years; four kids, almost thirteen years of marriage, and many, many other life experiences later, I know that I've changed. I know myself now, I don't feel like I have anything to prove, and in a lot of ways, I've chilled out. Now that I know what it is, I believe in mana, that we all have it and spread it around. And this has been born out of a crazed desire that I have almost constantly to tell everyone in my life that I'm grateful for them, that I appreciate them, and they're so part of my happiness---I'm the most eccentric and foul-mouthed introvert that you'll ever meet, you'd think I'd be able to just say what I mean, right? I won't. But just know that as far out as it seems, you are part of an individual life force within a life within a life. If you're reading this or even if you never will, trust me, you've had an impact on me. It's a magical thing.

Lightening Crashes.

2011-01-26T10:47:00.001-08:00

I used to switch the station on the radio if this song ever came on during all of my pregnancies. I thought the mothers and babies were dying, and the lyrics are a little ambiguous if you listen, but as it turns out, the song is about life and death in general. I heard it yesterday and it reminded me of when I used to do that.

There was only one real moment where I was terrified with any of the foetuses; it was with Bubby a week before his due date, and he stopped moving for a few hours. They say that during any sort of elevated adrenaline state, the mind has the ability to recall freakish details in ridiculous clarity from the event, even years later. Flash-bulb memory. I can tell you what I was wearing when I made the discovery that it was seven a.m. and I hadn't felt the baby move since midnight--pink and white pajama pants and a yellow t-shirt. I can tell you what I scarfed into my gullet for breakfast in a frantic attempt to wake the baby up--peanut butter toast, strawberries, and about half a gallon of orange juice. The on-call doctor? Still remember his name, every question he asked me, and pretty much spazzing COMPLETELY when he said I should come immediately to the birth center. It was April 8, 2004, it was sunny and warm, and we sped to the hospital and I screamed at people to get out of the way, pushing on my stomach the whole time. Wake UP! Please!

*The second* they put the monitor around my stomach, he began to kick the holy hell out of me; the nurse looked at me suspiciously and said something like, "pretty active in there now, huh?" I don't think there has ever been a more powerful exhale in the universe; or maybe I had stopped breathing the entire time, that I can't remember. They kept me there for an hour, kept tabs on his heart rate and told us we had the best sounding baby on the floor! After they let us go we went to The Uptown Cafe and had enormous caramel rolls and coffee. He kicked for the rest of the day, as he normally had done.

Do you have any flash-bulb moments? Is it only fear that freezes the events, or any heightened emotion?

The Dreams

2011-01-25T11:18:00.000-08:00

Last night it was Tarantino and car chases, of course.

He was a guest in my home; I was making him a Douglas Sirk Steak, extra bloody, of course. When it was done it looked just horrible and I said, "It's still a bit raw, isn't it?" And he assured me that no, it was perfect. And before I could bask in his greatness or ask him anything about his films or his screenplays or anything fun at all, it turned out that this was happening in the basement of the old apartment building we used to live at, and the new landlords were terrible people who wanted to enslave me there. One came at me and I threw a dinner glass at him which shattered onto a concrete pillar. Maybe Tarantino was a ploy to trap me, I don't know; I had to scurry around in the basement to find a tiny, rectangular window up near the ceiling. Naturally, I could only get the stupid thing open about 80% of the way and had to break the glass, with what, I don't remember. I got out and onto the grounds where everyone who lived there was having some sort of outdoor party. Just as I was running away down the sidewalk the other landlord saw me and gave chase. Here's the kicker: My Mother rescued me, in a fricking Dodge Magnum with tinted windows, about a block over.

Sadly, no Tarantino after that.

two things.

2011-01-18T16:55:00.000-08:00

I don't really post to this blog that much anymore and yesterday and today I realized why. I have pretty much experienced my fill of the parenting community. I've said this before and I'll probably say it many more times, but parenting blogs/experts/websites/magazines/etc. are completely out of control. I no longer dig it. DO WHATEVER IT TAKES. That's my philosophy. Or WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T LOOK AT THE LIGHT, MARION. Or as Abraham Saprastein so eloquently put it, WOULD YOU GO HOME AND THROW IT AWAY, PLEASE?

Yesterday a mom-blogger I follow on FB posted a question, not an assertion, not a philosophy, not a mission statement, but a QUESTION, innocently asking birth professionals if they had any advice on how to jump start a soon-to-be post-term pregnancy into labor. You wouldn't believe the weird, anxious, preachy, sanctimonious, mean-spirited shit people threw back at her just for asking the question. Unbelievable. I can't believe people do this; I can't believe that they have nothing better to do. Then today, Mayim (Blossom) Bialik came out with a blog praising the effects of attachment parenting and there are currently hundreds of comments to the blog of people fighting over *nothing.*

I like to think that while these self-appointed experts are hashing it out with each other over semantics, co-sleeping, formula being poison, and hospital births, their dear little children are probably down in the basement, whipping lit matches at the family furnace . . .

GROSS.

and secondly:

Winter continues to annoy me. Vin weighs 34 pounds; we set his fat ass on the scale at the Science Museum over the weekend. I can say he has a fat ass because I BIRTHED it, and he's the most adorably stout little Gladiator-Machine I've ever seen, and someday I'll have to deal with hundreds of girls trying to get up on that, so I'm sure he'll have no qualms about having been a bit chubby in his younger years, right? Hence, my back, specifically the lower left behind my hip where I carry him, is hashed. Icy hot patches are constant. I get up from couches like a crotchety old grannie and have to do all sorts of weird wiggly adjustment actions to keep my joints from getting too tight. This wouldn't be such an issue if the kid didn't want me to pick him up and haul him around so much, but he is in the middle of *the worst* case of separation anxiety I've ever seen in a child. Actually, forget that, because I suspect that Bubby behaved exactly the same but since there were no other children while that was happening and we had no other commitments, I'm pretty sure I just quit doing all the things that he made it his job to monopolize (bathing, exercising, putting on makeup, preparing meals, etc.) I should have seen this coming.

Anyway, I picked up another book, free this time, at Starbucks last week, it was a Joyce Carol Oates collection of short stories titled, Dear Husband. I read the first two in the bath and was immediately impressed. They're heavy, I"ll tell you that much, but relevant. Especially for mothers. So I ended up reading the title story, "Dear Husband," the other night, and it was written as from the viewpoint of Andrea Yates. It really messed with me. And sometimes, something like that (just the mention of her) can snap me out of whatever self-pitying form of moodiness I might be experiencing because I realize that no matter how hard things are around here, I love my little kids, love the hell right out of them and I'm so lucky to have them. I was a lot more tolerant and patient after reading that story.

Winter is Hateful.

2011-01-14T10:48:00.000-08:00

Had it. Right up to here with winter, snow, wind, cold, hauling a 30 pound, 18 month old GLADIATOR around in the slush and ruining my back trying not to slip. . . I say this every year but how about 40 degrees. Please? I'm not asking for a miracle or anything, but just 40 degrees (above). Thanks.

A few other things:

I know now why people go places for the winter. People need sanity breaks. Something. Anything. This snow and gray just isn't natural. Sorry I've come to this a bit late in the game. Now who's the first one to dump into my Kona-Sponsoring Pay Pal Account?

Each day I live I learn more that being responsible for children is all about moderation. Yes, this is coming from the person who cut off all screens in the house for an entire week (I caved yesterday; the kids watched The Princess Bride) but really, I think this is the most important lesson for anyone, anywhere. Moderate. Is it any wonder that the seven deadly sins are all examples of excessive love or deficient love?

God and the Universe like moderates. Now I'm going back upstairs to gorge myself with sugar, salt, fat, and caffeine. I'll have the moderate good sense to wait on the booze until my husband gets home. Good Day!

The Day so far.

2011-01-11T12:08:00.000-08:00

We left the house this morning! (huge).

During my $15 gas fill up I saw a guy in the parking lot that was probably down on his luck, walking toward the halfway house a few blocks away. The LAYS chip truck was just backing out. The guy saw the truck driver getting inside and asked something about free samples. The guy said that he left three bags of new flavor samples with the store clerk inside. As I was leaving I saw the guy come out of the store holding all three bags; the clerk must have given him all of them. And the guy's face as he was holding all the chips? Grin a mile wide. I think free chips are nice.

On our way to the MOA, B saw the sun and said, ARE YOU COMING WITH US TO THE MALL, SUN? YOU CAN COME ALONG!

I bought my first ever belt. I've owned a belt before, I think during the year 1998, but this was only because I was working in a school at the time and my mother *insisted* that I take some of her teacher-clothes since obviously I could not be trusted to dress myself at 22. I only got this one today because I had a gift card to a place that has nice leather things, a belt made sense.

A maroon dodge diplomat skidded about a half a block in front of us near turtle bread; thankfully it was an old lady who braked about a half block before the stop sign, so there was no risk of her hitting us. I couldn't stop laughing at the image of the front tire, it was just one of those silly random things. I know what a dodge diplomat looks like because a high school friend of mine had the major hots for a guy whose mother drove a gray one.

In order to keep Vin from falling asleep on the journey from MOA to Edinborough Preschool, I employed many of your suggestions. Unfortunately, my driving suffered as a result and I'm pretty sure about 98% of the motorists on 494 with me were flicking me off and/or screaming at me. At one point (while I was flipping his feet up, reaching around and flailing them up and down, "look Vin, your feet are dancing! LOOK! WHEEEEEEEE!") I think I merged onto the shoulder thinking it was the exit lane to France only to have to meander over again way below the speed limit in front of people who were probably already ready to ram me off the road. I did use my turn signals. Once Zizzy was with us it was a little easier, she went with my SIL's sing-song "YOU ARE SO CUUUUTE! DON'T FALL ASLEEP!!!!" while I think I alternated between just screaming out "WAKE UP," grabbing his pant leg some more, and hollering out words to songs on the ipod, changing the lyrics to the kids' names ("I've got it bad, got it bad, got it bad; I'm hot for -----.") The smart car we normally look for on the way home was not parked in its place, which was too bad because that usually gets us about four blocks of Vin screaming "smart car." On the last block home the leg and foot flipping was not even enough to keep his eyes open so I told Zizzy she needed to tickle his hair, something he hates. After damned near 18 months of this kid screaming in the car, today I can honestly say it was music to my ears. And now he sleeps.

Yes, and one more thing:
Last night I dreamed I was "the babysitter" in the Gosslein household except the kids were in high school and they lived in Hogberg's house in Olivia. Big shocker, but the dream ended with Jon (Gosslein) asking me if I was ready to make out with him. I said, WHAT IF KATE COMES BACK? And of course he was wearing tell-tale Ed Hardy skulls on his shirt.

Of all the people to dream about? Seriously.

Screen Time part deux.

2011-01-09T11:36:00.001-08:00

Yes, it's still happening. But with a few minor clarifications that I thought I should probably add lest someone out there reads this and thinks I enjoy depriving my kids of fun. . .

When they're home with me, it's no screen time. When I started reading the book (Simplicity Parenting) I considered whether or not they were getting too much, I decided that yes, maybe they were, and then on the heels of the bad play date day, decided we could definitely do with some screen reduction. So we do other things during the day and eliminate the screens, and I already see positive changes in all of them. After we eat at night Matt has them do cleaning chores that are completely age appropriate (pick up the clothes on your floor, put the legos back into the bin, dump out the paint water you left precariously perched on the table, etc.) and then they "earn" wii or Angry Birds. They still watch Gabba before bedtime, which is something we've always done.

I hate to sound like I'm trying to sell something here, but it really has made a difference, just in four days. They've made up silly games: Pillow Party (throw all pillows into the middle of the floor and jump into them saying some different, random expression as they jump) Vin loved this. They are doing puzzles together and mostly helping each other. They're enjoying their new Christmas things and drawing a lot. It's kind of like they're inventing things to do, which I think is great. And necessary.

I suppose this post is meant to communicate my admission that I probably let things lapse around here, especially when Matt had his leg in a cast for those two months, and I realize now I had the tv on way too much and wish that I hadn't. Honesty, right? I felt responsible because I know I was not doing my best as a mother, I know that. I'm not beating myself up for it because I don't expect perfection, not from my kids and not from myself but I can sense when something is off-kilter, and the kids, while stir-crazy from being inside for so long which is completely understandable, were starting to seem off to me, so I decided that maybe I needed to step up my game for them.

Anyway, the book is still wonderful. It's basically the same philosophy you get from Supernanny (Jo Frost) when she comes into a chaotic house and fixes it----eliminate unnecessary clutter (toys), scale everything down (there's too much), do imaginative things and cut down screen time, implement a routine. I dig it.

experiment.

2011-01-06T17:24:00.000-08:00

I got a new book at Barnes and Noble last night. This trip was facilitated by my having one of *the worst* days on record with all the kids, ever. I'll spare you the gory details but I'll just say there was a playdate with two other boys and all mine, selves were *NOT* behaved. I had to give the dad a lengthy apology when he came to get his (nice, good, polite) kids adding that I would completely understand if they never wanted to come back. It was bad. And the worst thing about it was that it was surprising; I don't think my kids have ever been as spazzy, rude, moody, etc. ever in their lives and I was really caught off guard by it. So the second Matt drove up I basically passed him on his way inside and took off so I could cool down a little.

Interestingly enough, the book wasn't the only thing I got, I actually went somewhere and ate food, sitting down, at its proper temperature, *IN SILENCE.* It was amazing.

(I'm swearing down here, fair warning.)

Anyway, the book is called Simplicity Parenting and so far it's really, really killer. Honestly, I haven't read a parenting book in a while, not because I don't want to, or because I think I have everything figured out, but because I've kind of lost my patience with "experts." Half the time I see blogs out there **(none of YOU guys, obviously)** but other randoms, who have about 400203 sponsors and really catchy graphics and witty, parenthetical cleverness about whatever-the-fuck and they're transparent and vapid and a lot of times, just another example of someone playing a role. I'm not interested in that. Max Cherry says in Jackie Brown, A GOOD COP WILL NEVER LET YOU KNOW THAT HE KNOWS YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT. I'm finding out that I'm suspicious of about 90% of the mothering blogs out there, and I don't know if it's me being too critical or too analytical (in this wondrous AGE OF CONNECTEDNESS!) but I can't handle contrived, dishonest, inflated anything.

The book jumped out at me, the first chapter is about eliminating clutter, I cannot wait to read more. The aforementioned experiment going on here, well, today anyway, was NO SCREEN TIME. Matt didn't know about it this morning so he turned on Wonder Pets for B and Vin, but we had no television, movies, wii, or computer for the rest of the day. We got a lot of other stuff done; it was cool. I don't know how long this will go on for, but I'm just interested in seeing what kind of effect it has on the kids. Plus, after the shit storm yesterday, I feel entitled in taking it away even as punishment. I'll let you know how it goes. . .

Holiday Vacation update.

2010-12-30T11:02:00.000-08:00

1. Thanks go out to Sally Smart for taking Bubby to a fun event today; I can't recall the last time the kids and I left the house. It was probably the day the second storm came when we were slaloming.

2. Vin? Two chipped teeth, one thumbnail, now a pointer fingernail, blisters on two fingers (from grabbing a trouble light downstairs, just sizzling his little sausage fingers right onto it), one thumb swollen from Bubby slamming it into the door. Oh, and purple bruise on forehead pretty much ongoing from all the climbing and dive-bombing. I think it's safe to say that I have finally given birth to A TROCHIL. Jeffrey would be so proud. The minute the weather gets nice this child is going to baby athlete training camp, as I think it would help with his sleeping, too. I shudder to think about what this kid is going to cost, grocery-wise. But as I've said before, best unintentional birth control money can buy. Not great for staying off the drink, though.

3. Zizzy says things that make me giggle. Last night we had edemame, which they all actually love. B can't get hers out of the pods on her own, so she needed the older two to help her. Zizzy worked and worked on this troublesome pod of three, and after a while she decided to give up and said to B, "is it all right if you just enjoy two out of this one instead of three?" ENJOY.

4. Bubby is still on old school Mario. I can't say this bothers me, a kid needs to know the classics. I had forgotten just how annoying those hammer-throwing Bowsers at the castles can be. One of my favorite things from the first Super Mario Brothers is the fire flower. It's all vibrate-y and fun. They should have kept that design.

5. B is B. She got really excited that Andy Samberg was on Gabba today. So did I. And little story: earlier last week, Matt and I were trying to have a conversation and B was thrashing around on the carpet beneath the couch having a fit about something. Bub and Zizzy were in his room, fighting audibly about something. Matt yelled in at them to stop fighting and tried to finish telling me what he was telling me before. On and on, threats, "If you two don't knock it off, I'm comin' in there!" (which is major, considering he just started walking again a couple of weeks ago--for him to get off the couch the issue has to be pretty important). B still screaming. A few more minutes go by, we realize as we always do that trying to talk to each other before dinner is FUTILE because the children's plot among themselves to keep us from interacting with each other is so completely unbreakable that we're usually silenced by the sheer genius of its effectiveness-------and Matt just winds up, bolts off the couch and goes stomp-limping into Bubby's room, apparently to crack some skulls. (No one gets beaten here, the kids are safe. Spanks happen, but the last one was probably a year ago, so chill).

B stops her own tantrum immediately, and starts screaming even louder than before, "don't spank them, DON'T SPANK THEM! THEY'RE MY FRIENDS! DON'T SPANK THEM, THEY'RE MY FRIENDS!!!!" I was still sitting on the couch and I tried to explain to her no one was getting spanked. Bubby heard what she was doing and came out and told her that no one got spanked. She considered this for maybe a nanosecond and then commenced the previous fit as if she was never interrupted.

And the dreams.

2010-12-27T18:21:00.000-08:00

1. albino cobra. in my couch. I had to try to fling my hand at it (where then it bit me) in order to distract it away from my kids.

2. baby girl. brown eyes. she rolled off the hospital bed twice but didn't cry. (?)

3. I am at the MOA walking around, looking at dresses. Something lures me into a restroom, something inside my head, maybe? It's some gross old man with a black cloth bag over his head (ala Scarecrow in Batman Begins) but the holes in the black bag are also black, black eyes with no color but black together with the bag-face. Muffled voice in creepy, taunting tones asking the same thing over and over. Something about seeing under his clothes. Or his insides. In the dream I actually replied, NO, NO, I DON'T, NO. THIS IS NOT REAL. GET OUT OF MY FACE THIS IS NOT REAL. FUCKING A I WENT TO SLEEP WITH TOO MANY CLOTHES ON AND NOW YOU'RE HERE WITH YOUR SCARECROW MASK AND DAMMIT *WAKE UP!!*

It was 634am and I gathered my pillows and went down to Matt.

SERIOUSLY!

Christmas Stuff

2010-12-20T16:50:00.000-08:00

I don't really have a lot of possessions that I value, but I am really quite proud of the Christmas stuff I've inherited/collected/acquired over the years. Oh, and Charlie, I feel as though at least half of this stuff is yours, too, so you can stake a claim on anything you want and I'll divvy it over.

This tree on the left has been around forever; Helen M. made it and when it belonged to her, it hung on her back door that faced 8th Street. As you can see, there are stains on it but it's still probably my favorite thing, ever.

This little egg over here? Lois got it in Germany, probably in the seventies. It had a twin, a purple one that unfortunately ended up squashed into a couch cushion somewhere around 1982. I of course have no idea how this happened. . . . I just remember we always had to be extremely careful when getting this one out of its napkin, but it was always the most fun to find.

My nutcrackers. One of them was a purchase at Crazy Days in Olivia for maybe a dollar, the short, squat little guy. The other two just came around because I thought the first one needed some friends. Your cards are on the bulletin board, too (over the top of my severely bitchy MORNING ROUTINE board that got scribbled in a fury one morning when absolutely nothing was done and I had a little tantrum). The Christmas tree candle was a gift from my very favorite girl in the Kindergarten class from The International School when I worked there for a year, I have never lit it because I wanted it to always be among our other decorations. If you look under the Mary/Jesus card you'll see a tiny wooden music box. This too was purchased by my mother in Germany in the seventies. As with the purple egg, the music box has a violent history; I pitched it down a full flight of stairs when I was two, I don't know why, exactly, because I always remember liking it. For some reason, I ended up with it! The tiny tree got bent backwards inside the Christmas box during hibernation and it alarmed me enough to rush out for super glue. Like I said, I don't value material possessions all that much, but by God, the Schwanke Christmas gear will get passed down to my kids: I swear it will be done. This is very much a part of us, my mom's family, together with being able to crank out cookies like Lindsay Lohan snorts cocaine.

This has all gotten me sentimental enough to actually be all right with spending Christmas with my mother's dog. That and the fact that we have an entire room downstairs to contain the thing in. . . .

Vin in December.

2010-12-13T11:09:00.000-08:00

Just a warning: if the house is no longer standing at the end of the winter, I don't want anyone to be surprised. This kid of mine is turning out to be DENNIS THE MENACE. We clean the house daily now, as in every single day, often twice, once in a.m., once at night. Usually after we finish in a room, Vin blows through and empties everything out again and scatters shit everywhere, constantly. Favorite activities still include the garbage drawer, which slides open and is attached to the upper silverware drawer so is kind of impossible to baby-proof shut, but we've now reached the phase where he likes to "relocate" some of his favorite items into this garbage or recycling drawer silently on his own, so we've found ourselves without 1. a pizza cutter, 2. one of the hand mixer's beaters, 3. many measuring cups, and so on. The Christmas tree has been stripped of all of its bottom ornaments, usually they just live on the tree skirt now, waiting for Zizzy to notice they're off, she'll usually re-hang them all so Vin can do this sort of thing daily.

He also has taken to the GH guitars lately, and likes to haul them around the house. Usually the stopping point to "iz-ZAR" (guitar) is the threshold of the kitchen, so both of them usually dwell there now. After a few days of this I made the decision to bring out Matt's old Ibenez from the basement, so as to show him what an actual guitar looks like. This one is a better choice also because he cannot lift it or carry it. I'm considering just putting on some Stevie Ray and telling him, OKAY, HEAR THAT? NOW YOU DO THAT. A n y t h i n g to keep him busy.

He has words now, funny little things that he made up. Iz-ZAR = guitar, of course. Gaah = his blanket. Manna = Coffee, why we can't figure out. He is able to use it universally, for Starbucks/Caribou cups, porcelains, and bags of beans, he just started saying it one day when Matt put beans in the grinder and now we all do, too. It's funny.

Photos:

Thinking vs. Feeling.

2010-12-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

1. I'm hiding in the basement. Vin is in the middle of this unfortunate phase where all he wants to do is follow me around with his arms up like he wants me to hold him. Then when I pick up him, he wiggles and kicks and wants to get down. Also, if any of the other kids touch me or sit by me or have any contact with me at all, he screams and pounces on me as if to violently claim me. So Matt told me to go away.

2. I had crazy dreams again last night, one part was that I got into some sort of rumble with a few people, friends of friends (who have always annoyed me but nothing that would make me want to fight them), so that was weird. Then it ended with me going to some sporting event downtown with some of Matt's friends from MCAD, I don't know them that well, and for some reason, I insisted on bringing this ridiculous foot stool on wheels along with us, just kicking it along in front of me down the sidewalk. Somehow I got separated from the group and wound up at this apartment complex, undoubtedly low income, where I left the foot stool and just invited myself into this woman's apartment. It was a Hmong family; there were maybe 10 girls all living there. Then a little boy, probably homeless, shows up and needs a place to sleep, so they put down a sleeping bag for him on the floor, one of the women used to be his teacher, I think. Then it becomes clear to me that this child is either having some sort of attack, seizing, or is strung out on something, and I had to sit there and rub his back and tell him to breathe. (?)

3. I started thinking the other day about how I ended up doing what I do, all this sentimental blathering and wannabe writing, how there was this constant battle inside me of what I should do (vocationally) vs. what I wanted to do. Becky Amsden used to give me all kinds of literature on writing contests, writing camps, writing this and writing that. I wish I would have listened to her, I didn't have very much fun being a music major. This inevitably led me back to my first run at college, how I just quit one day, just decided that I wasn't doing it anymore because I honestly couldn't stand it. . . And it made me wonder what was so terrible about what I was doing there. By the end of my first two years at St. Scholastica I had dropped violin and performance as a major and decided to focus on piano and music ed. It still sucked, it was still tons more work than virtually any other major POSSIBLE and I gave up. Just gave the hell up and quit. Most people I knew were off getting loaded and laid their freshman year; I was in a shitting practice room at least 6 days out of 7. I loved playing piano when I walked into that place, really, truly loved it, and by the time I left, I didn't care if I ever saw another piano as long as I lived. Which is sad, because I'm just now starting to get into it again, playing some of my old recital pieces, Christmas songs for the kids out of the Methodist Hymnal, screwing around with Matt's guitar, teaching Zizzy little bits out of old Bastien books, etc.

What killed it for me was my own fault, I had no idea what is really at the heart being a musician, a serious one. Music is artful and moving and creative and personal but once you decide to study it at a college level, all that goes away and it becomes just another branch of science. My violin and piano professors, who were brilliant Ph.Ds, both of them, didn't care about feelings (mine) in a song, whether or not it made me cry, or what memories came with it, only that I always missed the second-to-the-bottom note in a chord of seven possible, and that my rests weren't long enough, and that my left hand always overshadowed my right (I'm left-handed). The mechanics of art were what seemed more important, not the art itself. If it wasn't perfect, repeated 100% accurately, then it was a waste and a failure. I remember coming back from my very first recital performance as a freshman, scared shitless but mostly proud that I'd made it through, and my professor (who had become my Duluth-based disapproving mother) said only, "YOU WALKED UP DURING JACQUI'S APPLAUSE! DON'T EVER DO THAT!"

I don't blame them, they were teaching me and they were good at their jobs, but I felt like everything I thought I knew was actually nothing, and every sentimental thing about music I used to like was converted into a formula and a rule book, that I was learning the inner workings of a giant robot. This may have gotten better had I eventually taken more composition or improvisation classes, but it still seemed very formulaic and flowchart-y for me. It's hateful to me now that I took it for as long as I did, but self esteem has never been my strong point, who was I do just decide to do something else, something fun? I guess the bigger lesson here was
1. I like to make things
2. I like to remember things

This rationalization also comes on the heels of playing Silent Night, rolling chords, uneven tempo and all (imagining any legitimate musician's horrified look) on the piano the other day. I thought about Helen M. (she died in December, near Christmas), Jesus, my babies, and how beautiful the music actually was. And this was enough.

Cookies

2010-12-02T16:58:00.000-08:00

Jello.

2010-11-27T16:36:00.000-08:00

There were some vomit issues earlier today. I will be thankful if they're over. I will be extremely put out if I fall victim to this bit of unpleasantness.

I made Helen M's orange jello salad on Wednesday. While I was making it I got to thinking about her. She normally made the jello salad and usually a few pies for Thanksgiving, that is until she went a little off and then had to leave her house and live in a nursing home. She unfortunately had early-onset Alzheimer's disease, a serious thyroid problem, and possibly even schizophrenia. I didn't know any of this until I was probably a senior in high school; all I knew was that she loved having us come over to her house and that she made *the best* treats for us. And she used to sew me outfits.

When Alzheimer's happens to someone, even someone you've known all your life, and depending on how severe it is, you sometimes can get caught up in the upsetting, negative situations that come along with the disease. Helen used to sit and hum in a corner, doing "spins" as we used to call them, just rubbing her hand in a circle on her arm or shoulder. She usually recognized my brother and me, and always knew who Lois was, but literally forgot everything else. She was on several medications toward the end of her life, haldol most regularly, and sometimes if we picked her up and took her somewhere, we'd forget to get her back to the Manor on time and the effects of not getting her meds at their normally scheduled times were terrible. This happened to me once when Matt was with me and she bawled the whole way from Olivia to Bird Island and then screamed at me outside on the sidewalk when I tried to help her back inside. This is a woman who I had never heard utter a harsh word to anyone; I think she may have tried to spank Charlie once for spilling red Kool Aid onto her 70s carpet, but she probably felt horrible about it. So it was more than a little strange to have her turn into this completely different person, in addition to having lost most of her memories.

I don't spend a lot of time worrying about things, but a tiny part of me worries about getting Alzheimer's. I remember everything; it's as much a part of me as anything else, this freakish memory of mine. I'm in my head a lot. If I've had a disagreement with someone, if I've felt uncomfortable or embarrassed in someone's presence, I'll remember it. If you've lied to me, I'll remember it, and I'll remember if I've lied to you, too. The kids started asking questions about their births tonight, and I have such clear, succinct memories of each of them coming into the world that retelling the stories to them was almost like reliving it, or seeing it happen again, as a bystander or something. I don't ever want to lose that, ever.

This wasn't supposed to be about me, but Helen M. She might not have been a perfect mother (none of us are,) but she was very nearly a perfect grandma. And I suppose this post was originally born from me making the jello, thinking of her making the jello, and then arriving at the conclusion that despite having my husband and kids around and making new traditions with them and enjoying that, I am still, years later, getting used to my grandma, my aunt, and Dewey being gone, especially during holidays. They never got to know my kids, although Helen did get to meet Bubby and hold him a few times. My dad wasn't exactly emotional about children, but dammit, he would have laid down in front of a bus for mine, I know it. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and I have loads to be thankful for, but part of me gets both sad and angry because this holiday causes me to re-realize the pain of not having people, people that others take for granted. If I stew about it long enough I almost become furious; I get bitter enough to feel like I was cheated. Cheated out of having my dad around, cheated out of my kids getting an Opa, cheated out of them knowing Helen and her cinnamon rolls, doing puzzles on her card table, or going to the DQ for a sundae. Or cheated out of Joyce's house, the massive dinners, the enormous Easter baskets, her sarascm, her red hair, how much she loved babies, and so on. It's unfair and it's upsetting, and there's nothing I can do about it.

In the end, I know I still have a million things to be thankful for, and that I can get over being bitter about probably anything else simply because I know how fortunate and blessed I still am. I know this.

But I still miss them.

Meth Dream

2010-11-09T11:18:00.000-08:00

I should start categorizing my dreams because they seem to fall into distinct patterns.

The Good: Clooney, Viggo, and company. If I try very hard I can will myself to dream about someone or something, very rarely have I been able to INCEPTION someone in when the dream was already in process, but it's happened once or twice. It's kind of fun.

The Bad: Mostly these are always some scenario of me failing to graduate from college, usually due to me skipping things or neglecting assignments and once it's too late, I realize that I will never, ever finish a degree (and my mother will never forgive me for it). I did graduate, years ago. It's amazing how often my mother's disapproval manages to invade my dreams. I hope I'm not dreaming this when I'm fifty, or maybe by then it will all have shifted to the once-unsanitary condition of the babies' high chairs, which is probably her next biggest gripe.

The Ugly: Thankfully these don't happen very often. I can remember a few, one when Bubby was maybe a year old, where the Mafia was after us and planned to cut all our throats and well, things got worse from there and I'll spare you. The next one was horrible too, but thankfully not kid-related, but I can't remember exactly what happened, only that I had to go and sleep with Matt (snoring, kicking, fussing) for a while because I was scared to go back to sleep.

Last night was an ugly one. Zizzy has been carrying around these fake jewel crystal beads for the last few days in a little heart-shaped box. Somehow I dreamed that I took this box away from her and wouldn't let anyone give it back. The reason for this was that I had filled it with green METH CRYSTALS. At first I hadn't even planned on doing anything with them, I guess I just carried them around with me, but then I started to get snappy at everyone for asking me about it and Zizzy for wanting her box back, etc. This is already bad enough. . . So then I start getting obsessed with this stupid box and the meth inside it, checking it all the time, hiding it, going places so I could be alone with it, and so on. Finally during all this a friend from high school (who is a counsellor now, so it's fitting) confronted me and made me open the box up, and everyone in my life was there and saw that I had this box full of meth, there was still some in there. They all thought they got to me in time, before I'd done any of it and that their intervention worked but once it happened I knew (because of the way the crystals were arranged) that some were missing and apparently I had gone somewhere and done it, how I couldn't remember. The worst part of this was the knowing, knowing that I was already obsessed with it all even before I touched the stuff and then knowing that everyone else thought I was clean but I wasn't.

Just to be clear, I've never done this before, the only thing I know about it is from what I've seen on Breaking Bad or what other people have told me; I don't think I'd even be able to identify it if I saw it, and I really hate anything that makes me dizzy or feel out of control, so I'd probably be the last person on earth to choose this particular drug.

It was a really horrible, gross feeling, this dream. Was it temptation or failure?

Sometimes things are exceedingly difficult.

2010-10-23T15:40:00.000-07:00

For the record, I don't like torn Achilles-es, Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease, and tropical diaper rashes accompanied by explosive diarrhea. I especially don't like these things all smashed into ten days' worth of unpleasantness. I want these things to go away and never come back.

On a more positive note, I really have to express my (our) gratitude to anyone that's done anything nice, generous, and helpful during the last couple weeks. Despite being a verbal sort of person, I will never ask anyone for help with anything unless I absolutely have to---the things people have done out of the kindness of their hearts have been wonderful. So, thanks everyone, you know who you are. Bud Light Limes, Desperation, Cookies, Chipotle, and having the laundry 100% done (for the first time ever) have definitely made happy faces around here.

I know this will all eventually get easier and Matt won't be hobbling around in the cast forever, but in the meantime I find myself becoming a deranged version of Cosby's wife, no yardstick above my head like a samurai (yet), but definitely sitting down at the table and talking to no one ("don't you roll your eyes at me, I'll roll your head right off your body,") Bubby is argumentative a lot, I know it's his age, but I've had to basically tell him to do something or not do something, wait for the protest and then throw in a constant tag of, "THE END. GO." Zizzy stumbles around, tired from never having napped, sucking her thumb and draping her blanket over her head but yet refusing to just go into bed and sleep. B is, well, B always, but somehow she's seemed to feel my pain through all this and wants to lean her head on me a lot and tell me she loves me.

Vin is a legitimate pain in the ass. Sorry, but he's in an extremely annoying phase of development and there's no getting around it. I love him, he's beautiful and smart and starting to talk and be charming, and I'm forever grateful for him, last child of mine, but MAMA MIA, he's hard. He digs in everything, most consistently the garbage. This feces problem has not made him any happier, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this has come from not having eaten for the last three months from getting all his teeth at once and then all of a sudden in the last week, eating all the stuff he'd apparently been missing. Like eating the hell out of it. So throw a bag of grapes into a digestive tract that's been accustomed to only bananas, cheese, and Goldfish crackers for three months and, well, I'm sure you can imagine the rest.

in the meantime I'll dream of retreating to the basement with a bottle, knocking back shots like Marion in Raiders, it's just you and me, Jameson. . .

Who Let the Smoke Monster Out?

2010-10-16T11:05:00.000-07:00

I hope everyone else is doing well, because literally, all hell is breaking loose over here.

In addition to everyone's weird health stuff that we're finally beginning to adjust to, last night:

Matt and I watched Jaws. I went upstairs to bed and an hour later woke up and screamed three times. Matt hobbled over to the stairs to see if I was all right and all I could remember was that I was dreaming about a bookshelf and someone looking at me, maybe it was that fisherman that lost his eye in the film, but then today I seem to remember that I was trying to fight off a rogue bumblebee the size of a golf ball. . .

I don't think I've ever woken up screaming before.

And after that, come three a.m., Matt came back to the stairs and yelled for me to come down again as someone had apparently RUNG THE DOORBELL twice and then split. I thought maybe Matt had hallucinated it, but Vin was awake (again) and Matt said the doorbell woke him up. So we look out all the windows, turn on all the lights that weren't already on, and search the streets for randoms. . .

It's hard to say what percentage of my blood was catecholamines at that point, probably all of it, purely, but trying to sleep after all this was difficult. I laid down on the couch this time because I wanted to get a look at the night stroller if they came ringing again, and I wanted to be on the same floor as the kids in case, you know, something else happened. As soon as I saw the tiniest bit of light at about five I headed back upstairs again, and B was awake, yelling for her nuk. Ugh.

Maybe I need to install a Pylon perimeter around our house. LA FLEUR, SECURITY.

Sometimes things are just difficult.

2010-09-28T11:16:00.000-07:00

The last week was rough. Maybe it was the moon. We are on our third round of colds now, this time with a hacking cough. I feel like Hunter Thompson with a head full of acid, shrinking away from anyone who comes near me: DON'T BREATHE ON ME! WHO'S AT THE DOOR?

There is an article in today's Star Tribune about parenting, or rather the choice to not have children. And it is a choice, don't get me wrong. I don't think everyone should have children. Hell, half the people out there who currently have children should not have children. (I am electing NOT to include myself in this populace, YET, anyway.) It's not something anyone should be forced into, nor should you go into it lightly--that's just my opinion, okay? There are plenty of truly amazing men and women out there who just don't/can't/choose not to breed or adopt, and that's fine and I don't question it, it's not my business! I'm sure everyone's very stoked that they have my approval, but maybe I should add that being a sort of non-traditional Chick That Likes To Procreate, most of my closest friends are people who don't have kids or are just now starting to think about it.

That said, I shuddered HARD when the woman they interviewed had to bring up her own selfishness in not wanting to have children, citing SHOES as one of the reasons ("I have over 80 pairs; I'd have to downsize!") I don't think it was a joke, either.

SHOES.

Probably better that you don't, then, honey. That baby will NEVER give you the satisfaction your JIMMY CHOOS do; out of curiosity, do you have relations with them?

Anyway. If someone (hopefully very much unlike the chick in the article) asked me what the draw of parenthood is, I'd begin by telling them that what everyone says is true; it's the hardest job that you'll ever love. BUT. You have to love hard jobs. In fact, if you want to know what parenthood is really like, pull up a chair.

1. Pregnancy: Everyone you meet and talk to will have negative things to say about this. Ignore them; it can be positive.

2. Childbirth: Everyone you meet and talk to will have negative things to say about this. Ignore them; it can be positive.

3. Breast feeding: Everyone you meet and talk to will have negative things to say about this. Ignore them; it can be positive.

Got that? Surround yourself with positive people from the moment you see a double line on that stick. It's important.

4. Child Development: Everyone you meet and talk to will have ideas about what you should be doing for your baby or child. No one can do this for you and this is probably the hardest thing about parenting. YOU have to decide what you want to do. It's like one, huge, MASSIVE blank slate, but one that can scream, soil on you, tell you it hates you, etc. Some nights you won't sleep at all. Some days you'll probably forget to eat and then feel like you're going to pass out. Appearance? Forget about it. Most nights you will choose sleep over anything else you used to enjoy. Some days your kids will fight, dump out entire boxes of cereal, get under your feet for every step you take, refuse to pee in the potty, whine, cry, not sleep, not eat, throw up, injure themselves, and mess up every room in the house four seconds after you walk away from having cleaned it. And your job will be not to let it get to you.

Some days you'll wonder if you'll ever get a moment's peace. Other days you'll wonder if anything you are doing is making a difference, or if the second your child gets to school, they throw away every lesson or tender thing you've ever taught them. You may never know the answer to this, but your job will be to keep trying. Then you'll wonder if what you're doing even matters, if there is any sign, anywhere that you have *not* royally screwed up your kids. And there won't be, and you'll never get paid for any of this, rarely will anyone compliment you on your efforts, and just when you think you have a handle on things, things change.

There are many, many things in this game that are out of your hands. You'll have to make all kinds of decisions about money, and a career, and schools, and holidays, and religion, and. and. and.

But if you're able to spot it, things start to come back to you. Little things, things that your average MANOLO BLAHNIK sales girl might miss if she's off fellating her closet.

Like when your baby reaches for you for the first time, YOU! This feeling of pride and accomplishment I daresay goes double for Dads. They smile at you. They laugh at you. (They love you!) Or when you make up some sort of ridiculous routine for bed time, reading time, bath time, whatever, and, thinking they haven't been paying attention, you forget some minute detail and THEY call you on it; they remember! They want you to do something that you've always done because they like it or it makes them feel safe or regular. (You matter!) They give you hugs or kisses or curl up next to you or do some silly, random act of physical communication like putting their tiny hands inside your sleeve. (They want to be with you!)

They sing stupid songs that YOU made up.

You go somewhere, return, and see the looks on their faces when you step inside the door which tells you that they obviously missed you.

Someone tells you something positive about your child.

They become interested in things you have no knowledge of, like specific animals or cartoons, or games, and you get to experience these items through someone else's excitement and curiosity. They think up questions to ask about EVERYTHING and you wonder how they learned to speak in sentences let alone ask you such things. They become little citizens of the world and even if they're your own polar opposite, you still had a hand in creating them. This can be quite a rush.

You see them sleep and imagine what they will do and who they will be and they make you wonder the same things about yourself. You'll thank God and The Universe for everything you are and everything you have.

You will never believe that it's possible to love another human being this much.

and mostly, the difficult things just fade away. You are always aware that you are giving your all and you eventually get used to being tired each day, but occasionally, things flow, and when you get a moment, you look around and enjoy things and say, "I'm happy we did this."

Strangeness

2010-09-18T10:45:00.000-07:00

1. The bully has apparently switched sides. Or chilled out. Thanks for all your comments and advice through all of that. I did speak to the principal, the driver seems better. (!!)

2. Matt made me watch I LOVE YOU, MAN last night. Earlier, I had been doing web searches for the stained glass window image from the LOST finale so I could draw it and cross stitch it. In among the stained glass images was a ridiculous image in stained glass of MR. T. I hardly even registered seeing it, but then. . .

I have this dream where I am being stalked by hillbillies back at the old farm in Olivia. I had one of my kids with me, I think it was Zizzy. Turns out, the hillbillies had taken over the farm and they were waiting there to ambush me. I managed to get Zizzy safe, somehow, I think I sent her off with my mother or Matt, and then I had to wait there for some reason, maybe to fight the lead guy. Who, low and behold, was Mr. T, of course. I had to hide in a closet and be very quiet while he came into the room and ransacked it while he looked for me. Then I had to drop out of the closet's false floor. Then I had to run out to one of the sheds and wait until my ride came to get me, which was SIDNEY FIFE from the stupid movie, of course. Interesting twist, he picked me up in a new Dodge Challenger, which was awesome, and squealed the tires (on the gravel) and we got away.

Does this ever happen to you? You see something completely normal or random and it pops back up in your dreams? Last week after watching that disturbing Kate Winslet film I dreamed that I was a vampire back in high school at BOLD completely stalking someone (who is a FB friend). The last thing I remember was being VERY excited as my vampire-self when I asked him if I could bite him and he said YES. Now I see status updates or comments from this guy and get embarrassed and feel funny.

3. Each time an illness finds its way into this family I take it as a personal failure. Not just because I hate being sick, who doesn't, right? But because I have very misguided ideas about how strong my immune system is, and the slightest little virus or sniffle is a huge blow to my ego. I know I've ranted about this before. I'm just trying to find ways to beat it, as in DOESN'T THIS DAMNED SORE THROAT KNOW WHO I AM? I DON'T *DO* SICKNESS. Then I do silly things like try to beat the sickness or outrun it or just ignore it because if I had to admit I was getting sick, I'd have to admit I wasn't bullet-proof. In any event, my throat hurts. It kills, actually, and I am ignoring it because I have too much to do.

4. Food Network Magazine is seriously the greatest thing, ever. This was amazing, but I think it needed a longer cooking time because the potatoes were still a little firm for my taste. If you have onion-haters in your family I'd say you could reduce the amount by quite a lot, a whole onion was probably too much. But other than that? Aces.

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/food-network-kitchens/cheese-potato-slab-pie-recipe/index.html

Bullet-proof?

2010-09-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

I suppose it was only a matter of time, but apparently, we are experiencing our first bully.

Last Friday, Bubby got off the bus crying because another child had punched him in the face. The bus driver kept the bus stopped on the corner while Bub recanted what had happened to me; his friend and friend's dad and brother hung around, too, interested in what had happened. When I finally was able to understand him, I told him to wait there for a moment so I could speak to the driver.

This turned out to be pointless, as the driver spoke very little English, and said to me (when I asked if he did anything) "kids always too loud." A bit of background: last year the boys, Bub and his friend, had an excellent, EXCELLENT driver. A female, very spunky, and one that was not afraid to stop the bus to yell at kids who were misbehaving. She did an amazing job of looking out for the little kids; I trusted her because Bub trusted her, and had absolutely no problem with his bus rides, the entire year. Oh, if we could only have her back! This kind of thing would NEVER have flown on her watch.

Long story short (too late): I had to go and speak to the kid myself. I jumped onto the damned bus and went to the back, where things had become shockingly silent. I said first, WHO DID IT?

The group of kids ratted the guilty kid out, of course. He was shrinking down in his seat and trying to hide. I went up to him and said YOU HIT MY KID? He said NO and then every other child on the bus again spoke up and affirmed he was lying and that yes, he definitely did. Next, I said WHY WOULD YOU PUNCH SOMEONE IN THE FACE? He scowled at me and said HE WAS TRYING TO FIGHT ME! I can only imagine what my abhorred snarl looked like then, probably the meanest, grossest thing in the world. . . So I said I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT. Truthfully, I had no idea where I was going next with this little chat, I mean, I would never have touched the kid and I wasn't going to yell or shout or anything, but I was about an inch away from threatening him. I'm not kidding. Funny enough, the driver decided to come back to me then, waving an incident form in my face, so I backed off and left.

Later I learned that it wasn't just a simple punch in the face, but a series of smaller physical attacks that provoked Bub to defend himself which then brought on two punches by the kid, one in the eye and one on the mouth. I was a little relieved to hear that Bub actually defended himself, but disturbed even more that during all of this, (including a few additional altercations when Bub's friend and another random 4th grade child who gets off at our stop decided to come in on Bub's side) the driver still was where, exactly?

Turns out, the kid is actually IN Bub's class. No issues yesterday, because I had to go and get Bubby myself because he barfed in gym class. However, I ran into his friend's family on a walk this morning, and was informed that the same child pulled some psychological bullying on the way home yesterday, something or other about clothing.

WHAT TO DO?

1. The extreme pacifist in me wants to just take it all out of the equation, to just axe the bus ride home and pick him up myself each day. This would be inconvenient, but I'd do it if I had to. His teacher in school hopefully can get a handle on anything that might be happening behind those doors, but that driver is worthless, as far as I'm concerned. Unless he can be bribed?

2. Bribe the bus driver, bringing a translator if necessary.

3. Bribe the bully. This is ridiculous, I know, but my mind is a crazy place sometimes. Hey, you little brat, I'll give you this Playstation--all you gotta do is forget you ever saw my son and his friend. (the playstation is old and doesn't work, btw).

4. Network. I have come across some seriously eccentric individuals in the last two years at Starbucks. Hey, ONYX! If I give you $50, could you take some time out of your sink-befouling schedule and growl at a little bully on the bus for me?

Hey Minneapolis PD? Any chance you could swing by our block (in uniform, of course) for a little "scared straight" type scenario? I'd be willing to go on that ride-along that you offered a few months back. (this is a joke, Matt).

Alberto? Leah? Anyone with piercings and tattoos want to get down on this? I suppose this sort of thing only works on the Edina crowd. . . scratch that. Matt, time for some metal yells? Air horns? Hanzo swords? Do you think the kid would believe me if I told him I was a Jedi? That I know the Ghost of Biggie Smalls?

5. Wait it out. A friend I used to work with told me something I've never forgotten. We were talking about patience, and how it's a real pain in the ass sometimes. She said, "Anna, if you wait by the river long enough, you'll see your enemies come floating by."

This is difficult and annoying, but maybe if we wait long enough, hopefully the bully will either straighten up or screw up and get himself kicked off the bus. And of course, the main part of me wants to finish this, RESOLVE it immediately so I can stop thinking about it, but another part of me suspects that this sort of thing will happen everywhere, and that if it's not this kid, it'll be another one. Is it my job to let my son learn how to deal with it early so he'll develop that skill?

If that's the deal, it hurts.

If you've ever read Hilary Rodham Clinton's It Takes A Village, you know that her mother basically had to push her out the front door, directly into the group of jerks who were bullying her at the bus stop, and that Hilary didn't know it, but Mrs. Rodham watched her from behind the curtain, crying. I don't remember how she triumphed over the bullies, only that she did triumph, but it's still heartbreaking.

Why can't we just be bullet-proof?

A morning in the life.

2010-09-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

This is going to be long; fair warning.

For some reason, I decided we would take morning walk today. Everyone is dressed, brushed, mostly fed, and ready, so we set out. Zizzy wants to ride her bike. "Fine, get your helmet and wait for me in the back yard while I get these two ready," I say.

She gets her bike and comes back in to inform me that the robbers have stolen her helmet. We had a talk about robbers yesterday after our truck was rifled through and Bubby's best friend's dad said his has been, too, and that his sunglasses had been taken. I said that I was pretty sure that the helmet was either in the closet or on the front lawn. She insists that it's neither of these things. I tell her to wait outside and that I'll deal with the helmet.

B wants a snack. Vin is clinging to me per the usual, and not until much, much later do I realize that he has managed to unbutton two of my shirt buttons and I am literally hanging out of my shirt. (The guys at Chipotle were really nice to me). I looked at the wind outside, figured they'd be needing heavier clothes and then attempt to stuff Vin's arms into a vest. Not a jacket, not a hoodie, but a vest, mind you, and he screams as if I'm putting him into a straight jacket. Bubby did this too, and still does, (acting as if I'm inflicting pure pain and torture by forcing him to dress in things that are weather-appropriate).

I look in the garage for the helmet. No. I search the back yard. No. I go to the front and see it lying clear as can be, directly next to the stroller. I bring it in since she's already decided she was not going to wait for me outside like I asked. The little two are screaming about something, I don't rightly remember what. I tell Zizzy to put the helmet on and wait for me outside on her bike. Somehow this gets translated to "wait in the front yard, don't answer me when I call, then push the stroller around to the back while I come out looking for it to see if it's still wet from the storm two nights ago," which it most certainly is. I make the mistakes of locking the back deck door way too early, taking Vin out without a bottle or snack, and then not bringing any blankets to line the stroller seats. I go back and get the food and come back out the LONG way around, since the door was locked. Zizzy has taken off somewhere with her bike. I yell for her (again) and she does not respond. B is freaking out because she wants her baggie of Kix. Vin is pissed about something, probably that he ate basically two bites of Kix, two bites of banana, and maybe three pieces of peanut butter toast. He sees the baggies of Kix and starts wailing, "BITE! BITE!"

I get the stroller ready, strap those two in, and yell for Zizzy, who is clumsily walking her bike on the grass coming around the house, to ride her bike back around the ally and that we'll meet her there. Once we get going, things are better, although the wind is so strong that all of Vin's Kix get blown away; he complains loudly at this by screaming. He forgets about the snack, but about four minutes go by and then he turns around and sees B's intact baggie of Kix, he remembers that he wants some, and starts screaming again. This goes on all the way up to Annunciation, past Starbucks, and during my transaction at the cash machine. I distinctly remember thinking that I should have just given him a damned watermelon instead.

It's actually chilly during all of this, which I am thrilled about, the kids, not so much. We needed milk, which was the reason for this ridiculous quest in the first place, so into Kowalski's Market we go. We are exactly three inches past the flowers at the very front of the store when Vin starts shrieking about the vest, apparently just having rediscovered that he was wearing it. I think taking him out of it will at least shut him up a little, but no, he just keeps right on. Spin the stroller around on its back wheels and back out the automatic doors. If you were in there at the time, or anywhere between 50th and the crosstown, please accept my apologies, as I'm sure you're probably still hearing the screams echo.

We are nearly home when B starts digging in her snack bag again, Vin sees it again, screams BITE again, and it begins all over. The only difference is that this time B pipes up and says, "WINS-THON, YOU CAN'T EVEN HANDLE IT!" which for some reason makes me giggle, a lot. There were some more screams, some items repeatedly dropped out of the stroller about 52 times, and I think an episode of hair-pulling, but we made it back in one piece. During the 24th or so dropping of Zizzy's bike streamers out of the stroller, I had a memory of Leah Johnson throwing her books down and stomping out of a class at Ridgewater when something or someone annoyed her, just walking out and leaving all her stuff there because it was that ridiculous. . . not that I would ever just walk away from my kids on the sidewalk, of course. But if I had been carrying anything, you can be sure that by this point in the morning, it would have been slammed down and left there.

And then realizing I had eaten 3/4 of a piece of peanut butter toast and maybe 1/3 of a cup of coffee that morning AND having forgotten my iron and B12, I slammed an entire can of coca cola and DROVE to get a burrito from Chipotle and the dratted milk from Walgreens. This saga just now ended with the doorknob upstairs falling off, the wipes being hidden in the deepest, darkest corner of the room, and the nipple of Vin's bottle gushing milk all over him, me, and the bedding.

If you need me, I'll be here, doing lines of Via.

For the Record:

2010-08-30T09:41:00.000-07:00

Hedonism: a school which argues that pleasure is the only intrinsic good.[1] This is often used as a justification for evaluating actions in terms of how much pleasure and how little pain (i.e. suffering) they produce. In very simple terms, a hedonist strives to maximize this net pleasure (pleasure minus pain).

Sometimes I think this is me.

On the surface, I think that I am probably not a very good friend or daughter or sister or citizen. I try to justify it through the contorted and tiring number of hours I spend trying to be a good wife and a good mother, although I suppose in terms of how often I lay my husband I'm probably failing in the first department, too.

When it comes to social guidelines, rules, niceties, etc., I am worthless. I mean, I can obviously have a conversation with someone and hopefully not annoy them too much, I have plenty of social sensitivity. However, I will forget your birthday. My thank you cards are consistently late (when they are not forgotten entirely). I never volunteer at either of the two schools our kids are at. People have asked me to watch their kids and not once have I done it. There have been many events that we have missed simply because we were too tired to attend them. We border on isolationism when it comes to holidays. There are two weddings coming up this fall that I'm not going to make it to, although I probably should. I feel like I need to do more, or be more, or be better, but I can't. I would love to, but I just can't.

I have come to terms with a lot of this over the last year, and this weekend I finally was able to speak them out loud (to Matt). This version will be a lot cleaner and more polite, for everyone's sake. Not that what I said or thought was unpleasant, I just can get a little vulgar and explicit from time to time.

My dad died unexpectedly when I was 20, my brother was 16, and my mother was 49. And I'm not leaning on that for every selfish or clueless thing I've ever done, but it matters. If anything, his death got me to grow up and learn how to do things for myself, which is a positive thing. Like a lot of people of his generation, my dad had a difficult time with worry, money, expressing his emotions, and happiness. He worried about money, a lot.

I made a decision never to worry about money, partly because of how much it ate away at Dewey and partly because if I worried about my financial situation, I'd have time and space in my thoughts for exactly NOTHING else. So money gets to piss off, and so does anything that is going to cause me worry or stress or discomfort. My dad spent his life mostly unhappy, so I figure I can gain a little wisdom and hopefully do things differently; I GET TO DO THIS. So does Charlie. So does my mother.

I have a lot of needs and desires that will probably go unmet, but I don't think this is necessarily bad. When I think back to the little things that I've wanted in my lifetime, they seem to pale in comparison to the best things, the big things that money can't buy, the things that make my life fun.

Like Matt. When I was young I used to envision my own perfect mate, how he looked, how he talked, things he liked, how he would treat me. Little did I know, this guy existed; I caught him and married him.

Like the kids. They are literally the most wonderful, beautiful, amazing four people; I sometimes cannot believe that they are real. And no matter how many hours sleep I lose, no matter how many meals are screamed through, gallons of sticky fruit and juice are smeared on each and every surface in the house, no matter how many times I've sighed and yelled, everything else, EVERYTHING else that happens is fun, hilarious, and heart-warming. I signed on for all of it and am so happy I did. I love my family, but more importantly, I LIKE them. I like being with them just like I LIKE cross stitching, watching LOST, and writing. I find things that I LIKE and then I surround myself with them, sometimes at the expense of things, scenarios, or situations that I DON'T LIKE. Does this make me a hedonist? If so, then I'll take it.

That said, I am still burning the candle at both ends, if you get me. Things are crazy around here; I think if most people knew what kind of circus this house really is, they'd pretty much back away slowly and run for the antibacterial lotion as they called child protection. (that was meant to be funny, the kids are safe). I have family obligations. I'm trying to be a writer. I'm trying to be a good friend, a good daughter, a good sister, a good citizen.

I'm trying.

Bad Decisions. . .

2010-08-26T10:27:00.001-07:00

I'm having a hard time with something. It's not money, it's not my spouse, it's not my children, it's not meth, it's not ANYTHING, really, but I am very annoyed.

With Uma Thurman.

Somehow I put the film Motherhood on my netflix, and it came the other day. Matt has been doing freelance until 230am almost every night since last week and has not been able to hang out with me after the kids are down, so I decided to give it a go. (I knew going into it that this would probably be sappy and bad).

The scowl on my face was probably the grossest thing in the universe, the entire time. I couldn't make it through. And I realize that most of the things that annoyed me about this film and Uma's character were most likely fixed by the conclusion, but guess what? NO.

Seeing the woman who brought Beatrix Kiddo to life do something like this was just so dreadful, so unpleasant, I felt cheated and personally wronged by it. And it's kind of unfair of me to take all of my frustration out only on Uma, because believe me, the writer of this is right up there with John Wilkes Booth when it comes to mood-killers in the arts, but seriously. Matt likes to laugh at me when something is so uncomfortable it gives me goosebumps, I think if I had kept on with this it would have given me actual HIVES.

Boo.

August.

2010-08-19T10:00:00.001-07:00

My brother hates tomatoes. This is kind of interesting, because he's a chef, and of all the things out there to hate, he's got this thing with tomatoes. Olives too. One time we were eating something and he said, "this is good, but those tomatoes/olives need to piss off and get outta my life."

Not to be overly blunt or anything, but that's where I'm at with August. Can it be over, please?

For one thing, the kids are soon approaching the red zone where I am ready to either drop them off at some established care center or place them all in their own separate, sound-proof isolation bubbles so they'll leave each other the heck alone. I know they've had it with each other, they need their school.

**I** NEED THEIR SCHOOL.

B is again, challenging, and I've basically had to tell everyone else to just leave her alone for most of the hours in each day: don't talk to her, don't physically mess with her, just DON'T INTERACT WITH HER. If you see her coming, just clear out and leave her alone. I can't handle the whining/crying/screaming that happens at each roadblock she encounters. She's just now getting over a cold; it's been a LONG month.

Vin's eye teeth are poking through. And while it's been pretty much the greatest thing in my LIFE being able to lay him down, awake in his crib with his bottle for naps and bedtime, he's still very wakeful. And now it's almost charming, because he can actually talk a little when he's pulling his 4 wakes per evening, saying, "DA-DA! DA-DA! BAAAAA BA!" Or just chanting to himself, things like "TI-GAH! TI-GAH!" or "BAAddy!" when the silly cat manages to get herself barricaded in his room at bedtime.
He is just now able to sit down and read books. I was getting a little concerned that he wasn't ever going to enjoy reading time because he'd never just sit down and hold still, but he'll bring his favorite ones to me now and turn to his favorite pages in them, which is hilarious. Usually if B is around when we do this we have to station her far, far away with her books since hers seem wonderfully more interesting to him than his own.

Also this month, it seems like the two companies Matt did contract jobs for IN EARLY JUNE have decided to take their time with paying and not give him any sort of response as to if or when they will float us over the checks. Normally, I'd be kind of excited that it's taken this long because fall always seems to be the time of year when money is tight (property taxes, upcoming holidays, etc.) and stretching it out over the summer would allow us NOT to have spent it already. Too bad most of it is already spoken for, for work on the house that happened LAST YEAR. Is there a patron saint of PAYING ON TIME? If so, I'd like to really have a few words with him or her about putting a fire under it.

You know in STAND BY ME how Ace (Keifer Sutherland) gets annoyed when his card game keeps getting interrupted and says, "I'd like to finish this before I start collecting my Goddamned social security. . "

My new favorite line. And one that's aptly fitting for working contract.

Why I am Suspicious of Technology.

2010-08-11T11:25:00.000-07:00

1. What if I load all my photos, all my thoughts, all my sacred items onto some hard drive somewhere AND IT DIES? I know that's a very "sky is falling" way to make decisions, but it's happened to enough people I know to keep me from going completely digital with things like photographs and my writing. Digital scrapbooks might take up less room and create less clutter, but in doing this I would lose the ability to take out my Sheep Shedde coaster and actually TOUCH it. This is not something I do every day of course, but it's something I want the option of doing.

2. I like books. I love books, extremely. Having them makes me feel good. I love the way they feel, I love the way they look. I love the way they smell. I sometimes go upstairs to fetch a new one and feel like just standing there in front of my shelves like Henry Bemis shouting, "BOOKS!. . . BOOKS!!!!" You will never convince me to get a ridiculous Kindle or Ipad for the sole purpose of reading. This is about as unholy to a book lover as sex with animals is to a fundamentalist. I don't care if they're bulky. I don't care if they're heavy. I don't care if a forest gave its life for it (Stephen King's IT); it's a book and I love it. If I were a tree I would want to be made into a book.

3. I think kids have too much technology as it is, they don't need anymore. What they need is face-to-face time with their caregivers and their friends that does not involve a screen. Don't get me wrong, my kids watch television. They play video games and they've seen films. And if it came down to doing this or drawing, reading, playing legos, or just randomly hanging onto me, pulling my shirt down, in Vin's case, I would bet my life savings (which is zero dollars) that every last child of mine would choose the one-on-one activity over the TV or video game. I know this will not always be the case. God assist me through the experience of dealing with my children someday wanting cell phones and (sneer). . . texting. But while they are small and innocent and still want to actually be with me, I will give them my time, I will give them myself. I'm not an egomaniac, but I do happen to think that I'm a hellava lot more fun and educational than a screen, and I hope all parents out there realize that they are, too. It's like the whole Baby Einstein study that came out years ago: if you really want your kid to speak a foreign language (or do anything special like that), don't plop him in front of the television, HAVE A HUMAN BEING DO THIS WITH THE CHILD, IN PERSON. No matter what gets invented in the tech world and no matter what propaganda it spews onto the public, nothing mechanical will ever be able to do what a loving, caring human being can do for a child.

4. I think adults have too much technology, too. Yesterday the power went out (again). This was at 230pm, right in the middle of naps. Usually, Vin and B will sleep until at least 3 if I'm lucky, and Bubby and Zizzy will come outside to play for while I read on the patio. When we all get too hot, we come in and watch Clone Wars or maybe a movie until the little kids get up. Because the power was out yesterday, we didn't do that, we stayed outside in the muggy heat and made an epic sand castle in the turtle sand box. Different size spires, sticks on the rooftops, rock borders, a moat, etc. We've made sand castles before, of course, but because I knew we'd probably be without power for a while, I needed to make it a little more special. After the little kids woke up we went to the pool and stayed until B peed on the sidewalk as she always does when we go to the pool. Hey, at least she got out of the water, right?

Anyway. Once we got going with the things we were doing, I didn't once long to come inside, check facebook, call anyone, or watch anything on television. It felt amazing to not need it; we all had a great time. I'm not judging anyone for taking a sanity break with Baby Einstein (I've been there), nor am I telling anyone what or what not to do with their time, it's just that sometimes it's striking to me just how much there is out in the world, to do and to see, and I really do believe that we're missing much of it because of computers, phones, and other silly devices that are substitutes for an actual existence. Like right now, I could be in the 90 degree sun, reading about Geoffrey Canada's struggle in Harlem but instead I'm in here, tap-tap-tapping on the keyboard.

One final thought: My friend Jen teaches high school English, she has for probably ten years. She is the smartest, most entertaining and genuinely interesting person I think I know. Gary and Wyatt from Weird Science thought Lisa could have a good time at an insurance seminar? So could Jen. So, the last time I saw her, she told Matt and I how ridiculous her students were. She's become very frustrated with each class during the last few years, you can tell. This goes above and beyond parents and coaches haggling over grades with her, parents lying for their children over plagiarism ("they didn't use google to find that, they used infoseek, they didn't plagiarize!") or anything like that. She told us that in her eighth grade English class, she gave an assignment. The assignment was TO WRITE A STORY. Any story, no guidelines, no topic taboo, just write a story about anything you want. And they couldn't do it, none of them! They weren't dumb kids, they weren't trying to be insubordinate, they just couldn't do it.

This is very disturbing to me. And I'm not saying technology is to blame for this or any other set of social or developmental shortcomings, but. . .I don't think it's helping, like, AT ALL.

Time, the old, bald cheater.

2010-08-05T10:06:00.000-07:00

(that's a Stephen King, btw).

August just started and already I have a million things on the list to get done. Zizzy's ballet. Bubby's soccer. Doctor for all four. Dentist for Bubby and Zizzy. I considered bringing B this year but then considered having my head examined for bringing her anywhere that is not vitally necessary. . . ESPECIALLY the dentist. Matt and I both need to go also, probably to the doctor as well. He ran out of refills on his imitrex last weekend and had to practically beg an urgent care MD to authorize filling it again, super.

I need my eyes checked. I have floaties a lot lately, mostly when I go from bright light to dark light or vice-versa. I suppose all the cross stitch I've done on 22 count fabric hasn't helped matters.

Things have been crazy since coming back from Corn Capital Days. It was crazy during Corn Capital Days, actually, but it was such a blurry, chaotic haze that I am just now able to think about it and write about it. We were there from Tuesday to Saturday; it was probably the most work I've ever done as a mother, to date. The first three days I was doing everything by myself in a house with no air conditioning, a overindulged DOG, and a non-napping, non-sleeping baby. The first day we were there I think the temperature was over 90. It was. . . difficult. My mother helped when she could, of course, but (and I'm not exaggerating) the dog took up much more of her time than any of the four children. I don't like that dog. We had two baby gates, which is lucky, because the first thing Vin did when he got there was pummel over to the stairs, (all three sets, a split level) and give them his all. After the first day or so, he started doing this thing where he'd climb up halfway and then turn around to see if you were watching or near enough to pounce on and then flail off, even if you were a few steps away. He's heavy, so this was a bit hard on the old back muscles. On the days he didn't sleep, which were all of them, I had no other recourse than to strap him into the stroller and do a tour of Olivia in hopes that he'd at least nod off for a few minutes. MINUTES. I was going for MINUTES, not hours, that's how desperate I was. I must have sweated out ten pounds of water weight during all of that.

I was never happier to see my husband than that Thursday evening.

Anyway. Some positive changes that came from the trip--Vin is now able to sleep without a swaddle and hold his own bottle, which is huge. B made some good progress on the potty while we were there, mostly because her sister told her she needed to potty-train, so apparently she just decided to listen to her. She's been having her breakfast out of the high chair and on the barstool, which is. . . risky, but it's probably time. I told someone that next year she'll start preschool and it kind of made me stop for a minute. Is she really that old? She IS!

She and Vin both have colds right now, I am not looking forward to all that again this year. . . I really loathe mucous (just slightly less than how much I loathe vomit). I'm just not a good mother when it comes to this. One kid gets sick, the rest inevitably catch whatever the first one had, and I just stand around here wiping noses and whining to no one that I really don't have time for this. . . I see a kid in public with a snotty nose, or one at Zizzy's preschool and I react in a very less-than-tolerant way (get that sick kid out of here, don't they know that I HAVE FOUR KIDS AND I JUST DON'T HAVE TIME FOR AN ILLNESS RIGHT NOW?) Yes, I should probably just live in a bubble.

(!)

Vin is eating a Swan Sleeve. Peace out.

My goodies, My goodies. . .

2010-07-26T07:19:00.001-07:00

a bone: Hey Comcast, how about actually WORKING? I get maaaayyybe 11 minutes in the morning where I attempt to swig down an eight once cup of scalding hot coffee so I'll have some semblance of energy for the rest of the day, and this mostly happens because some serenading animated character from Nick Jr. is managing to capture Vin's attention for those minutes. When Nick Jr. isn't available or the on-demand shows don't work, (to quote some East Indian guy on the phone when I worked for Northwest Airlines), YOU ARE INHIBITING MY FREEDOM!

anyway.

Guys, I know a few men read this blog occasionally, you may want to go ahead and skip this one. It'll be about my goodies, for sure, but not the goodies that males would be remotely interested in. . .

I feel myself turning into a hormonal freak.

This comes from being pregnant or nursing for basically six straight years, I think. Usually around this time in my reproductive history, the rotation is always the same. I start having energy again, I start exercising and losing most of my pregnancy/nursing weight again, sex drive starts to creep back (although it's been on the back burner this time for way longer, see any previous posts about Vin's sleep habits), and at that point, all it takes is some three buck chuck, a George Clooney film and, well, you get the picture.

Since this is not happening this time around, I am having to adjust to what my normal flux of hormones must be. I am antsy a lot of the time. My mother would probably think it was a good thing, since I find myself doing a lot of projects, making a lot of lists, actually caring about the house? This feels a bit foreign, to be honest. I am writing, and I feel quite inspired and creative, which is good, but there are other underlying feelings that go along with it, like being worried about being too short-tempered or a little paranoid about things. I seem to remember this happening just after B weaned, many of you probably heard about my Jessica Alba fit? Matt innocently made some comment about her and I had an absolute LOUIE, like pulling out marriage/divorce statistics and completely bashing men for being nothing but dirty, disgusting cradle-robbers?--- it was the same sort of situation, hormonally. I can laugh about it now, but at the time? Wow.

A writer friend who has dealt with depression said this sort of thing was a double-edged sword, he did most of his best writing when he was a bit crazy, but sometimes it got in the way of things; being medicated made him feel dead inside and killed his creativity. I'm not saying I am clinically anything, but just that it has become very obvious to me just how powerful mothering hormones are, maybe I could say I'm in recovery?

Life.

2010-07-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

Chiang forgot our pineapple fried rice last night, just completely forgot to put it in the box. This was annoying because it's the one thing that all the kids will eat, but I held back having a little food fit and shook it off.

Today, when I went to Kowalski's to get a shallot for the soup tonight, I couldn't find it anywhere when I got back home. I looked at the receipt, saw that they charged me for it, and still it was no where. Just when I was about to really scream out a string of curses in frustration, I realized that B (who stacked up all the food from the bags l like she always does) PUT THE SHALLOT IN ITS PROPER PLACE. (They're not stolen, they're put away. . . )

Wow. It's weird that the ages of the kids are so much older and different in being older, especially as a group. Sometimes they'll be completely silent in Bub's room for close to an hour, and when I look in there, they've been coloring the entire time, together! The other side of this "maturity" is button-pushing, teasing, and fights. Those things I don't care for much.

Vin is full on walking. He does this thing when he gets very excited where he walks and then flings his hands up and down, much like a conductor directing an imaginary orchestra. Usually loud yelling comes along with this action. Also, he's not sleeping, like, at all, which is not really news, but it's a LARGE part of our lives around here, being horribly sleep deprived and a little snappy. Two pre-molars are in on his right side, so that brings the total number of teeth up to ten, the opposite side is obviously bothering him too. Eye teeth are probably next, as we can see those moving down as well. I checked Bub's baby book the other day and saw that he got the teeth Vin is getting now when he was 14, 15 and 16 months old. I seem to remember those months being short of sleep too, now that I think about it. I suppose the up side of all of this is the fact that there are only so many teeth that he can get before they're all in. . .

The differences in Bubby this summer have been crazy. My mother actually noticed it before I did, but he's much more coordinated and I don't know, physical. He loves riding his bike. We're on Goblet of Fire in the Harry Potter series, and both he and Zizzy are much more into the story now, this happened during the Werewolf business with Lupin in the last novel. He still loves Star Wars and draws it often. He had me and the girls really laughing today in the car when he decided to sing along to Ke$ha and change all the words (until the TIE-fighters shut us down, the party don't start until Voldemort walks in, etc.,)
I'm being shameless in how I'm basking in this stuff because he seems to have really become so much more grown up lately; this is the kid who didn't really talk a whole lot for his first three years and then didn't seem to have any interest in other people (until his sisters came around). I suppose I'm trying to keep him from getting lost in the shuffle of chaos that is normal for us here, he's the oldest, he's starting to need me less and less each day, but he's my first kid, you know?

that'll do for today.

All Vins are Toothy.

2010-07-18T14:26:00.000-07:00

Molars.
In the back.
One above, one below.
Finally poked through.

Eye teeth = hovering dangerously close to the surface.

Walking.

Talking.

Sleep? NOT HAPPENING.
Average number of wakes per evening? 4.

Vinsy-Dinsy.

2010-07-13T11:37:00.000-07:00

B calls him this, usually screams it at him when he's trying to grab her feet when she's in her high chair (NO VINSY! GET VINSY DINSY OUTTA HERE!)

Vin is one year old today! Fastest year of my life. And guess what? I have not even started a baby book yet! (rabbit mother). I got one as a gift, but I don't even know where it is, to tell the truth. Back when I first started breeding, it was of the utmost importance that a baby book not only be purchased and filled out, but done PROMPTLY, as each entry demanded. I stayed on top of this with the first two, with B I remember having to kind of fudge a few dates and put them in more as approximations. . . yeah, Vin has nothing. But I still may get another Pat the Bunny baby book and throw some stuff in, when I get a minute around here.

In the meantime, I'll give the little guy his due:

We found out you were coming and got giddy. I took my normal 45 pregnancy test just to be sure; it was almost like a little experiment I had going on at first. Five days before, there was the faintest, tiniest, little blue line, four days before, same thing. Three days before the line got darker, and on good old day 29 of the cycle (D-day, as it were) the line was a blazing, brilliant, burning blue. I of course did my little celebration dance and informed your dad about you after the very first one, but it's good to be sure of things, you know?

You were a wonderful little foetus; I can appreciate now just how much so! I could eat, I could sleep mostly the same. I gained very little weight, maybe twenty pounds? You kicked all the time. We waited and waited and waited for you to come last summer, we would go on walks every night, I ate as much spicy food as I could possibly hold. . . but you just kicked back in there and hung out. I would have false labor contractions every night for the better part of three weeks. I would eat dinner, start contracting, take a walk, start contracting more, and then get home and either cross stitch or get into the bath and then. . . silence in the womb. The morning you were born, I had contractions that had started that evening when I went to bed, kept on irregularly through the night, and then came with a deeper crampy feeling that started around 4am. When I got up at about five to tell your father about this, it kind of seemed serious, so we left the house and you were born less than two hours later. You were a marvelous birth, Vin, so lovely and, I don't know, right. I was worried about your little meconium aspiration, but you gagged it right out and did just great. You were nine pounds, six ounces, twenty-one and a half inches long, and just one big sweetheart of a baby; I felt like the aftermath of your birth was something out of a fairy tale. You nursed immediately, for about a half hour, I felt amazing, so happy and so euphoric (and HUNGRY, even!) We went up to the postpartum ward and chilled for bit while your Dad had to run a laptop over to Dus and start spreading the news.

Your first three months were your easiest, smooth and uneventful. We could take you anywhere in the car, and did, to your first Corn Capital Days at 1.5 weeks and later to the Renville County Fair at about a month old. You used to fall asleep in your bouncy chair wherever we put you, and you were a champion nurser. Some nights you would hang out in B's old swing and listen to Dad play guitar hero; I remember rocking you a lot in the back room while the Twins were on, too. You slept next to me, all swaddled and snuggled. . . I will always treasure that beautiful feeling.

In October we had a few difficult illnesses come through the house, and though thankfully you didn't catch the mean old swine flu (that time), you did start teething. It was hard on you and us. You got a horrible virus in December, along with your dad, that may or may not have been H1N1, but all I know is having to watch you with a fever and truck loads of mucous for two days was really, really hard. You made it through, of course, but those TEETH! You got two at six months and then four more two weeks later. That couldn't have been easy, I know.

You started enjoying car rides once I put Lady Gaga and Miley Cyrus on the ipod. Later, you responded favorably to Rage Against the Machine, Prince, Motley Crue, and Muse. Needless to say, we did not venture out with the car unless we also had your playlist along with us.

You are a busy guy but lovey too. You especially love your Bubby. You are very much like your brother, in temperament and behavior, you give kisses just like he used to, you throw food just like B, and you seem to love the outdoors just like Zizzy does. You took four steps yesterday and about five more today on your own; I'm sure you'll be running any day now. You say, "HHHAAAAAAA! (hi), Mama, Dada, Bub-bub, eets (veets), AAT (Bat), mm-Mah (oma), gaa-gaa (Gabba), This, Dog, and Ball."
You have brown eyes. You look like a linebacker. You crawl with your butt up in the air. And I love you all the way to the moon and back again. I hope you like your first merry-go-round ride tonight!

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.

Put yer money where yer mouth is. . .

2010-07-04T20:20:00.000-07:00

1. I am hanging my cross stitches at Starbucks in 2 weeks.

2. I am going to write.

3. I put my notice in at work tonight.

(get busy livin' or get busy dyin')

Awkward.

2010-07-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

I just came home from Rainbow foods where I ran into someone I used to know. We were never close, or friends even, this person and me, but I suppose I could say we had a sort of intimate relationship as I used to watch her kids, about four years back. I quit watching her kids because she got herself into a situation with her boyfriend (baby daddy) that I just could not be a part of; things ended a little abruptly and awkwardly, to say the least. I hadn't seen or spoken to her since this went down, winter of 2007.

I saw her today leaving the checkout at Rainbow. And she saw me. I noticed her, saw it was her, smiled vacantly, and turned back to my stuff and Vin in the cart. Then I sat and wondered if I had been rude and should have at least said HELLO or something.

And I realized that even something minor like saying HELLO just wouldn't be honest, because I really did not want to enter any sort of exchange with her, nor do I ever, because of what I know about her and what has gone on in the lives of her children. And believe me, in the run of things, these sorts of things are not the worst things ever, but are just not acceptable in my mind, at all. I make every effort to "live and let live," but don't expect me to be part of it, you know? And I cannot abide Rabbit Mothers, I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. Film director James Cameron apparently told Linda Hamilton when they were married that he needed to give his career more attention than his family (and I'm paraphrasing) because only nine or ten people in the world could do what he does and that anyone could be a father. I'm not trying to get on my high horse with this bit of blathering, but I come from the school that teaches you that PARENTING is the most important thing in the world (And having been a really huge fan of Cameron, my heart broke a lot when I read this about him).

So this got me thinking about honesty, and where you draw the line. Obviously I have told lies. Obviously I have done things that are dishonest. I have done things that have hurt people; I was self-centered and not a good wife during the first year of my marriage. I have been falsely happy and friendly to people I despise and I have feigned interest in things that I really did not care about. Some of this is part of adult life, right? But the older I get, the less I am able to put on airs with people, I just don't have time for it, you know? I hold grudges, I do. And while the very few situations where this has come up thus far (friend requests on facebook from someone who went OUT OF HER WAY to snub and belittle me and many others in every way possible in high school; sink-befouling Scat Man coming back into Starbucks as if nothing had happened, etc.) have been small and mostly unimportant to me, for some reason, THIS whole thing, seeing this person and having to remember and relive how disturbed and scared I was for those kids--I DON'T FORGIVE HER, and I WILL NOT PRETEND THAT IT'S OKAY BY MAKING SMALL TALK. She was and is old enough to know better, and her life is her life, obviously, but again, don't think I will willingly be a part of it (Fredo, I don't wanna know you or what you do).

I don't like falsity.

It happens, but I don't want it. There are a few random people that I see irregularly that I know do not like me. It radiates from them so obviously that it's louder than a police siren, but still we put on airs. I wish there was some way I could tell them, honestly, like a mature adult, HEY, I GET IT, YOU DON'T HAVE TO MAKE YOURSELF UNCOMFORTABLE ANYMORE, LET'S JUST CALL A SPADE A SPADE, IT'S OKAY, I'M NOT HURT OR MAD.

And I'll most likely be having to eat my own words with all of this tomorrow night when "Garnet" comes to take down his art. Although I did make it an entire evening without talking to him when he came to hang it last week. . . would it be too much to hope that he's on his meds for two weeks in a row?

Also:

2010-06-27T06:45:00.000-07:00

Wanna wake up? Try this. IT WORKS!!! And for those of us who are busy, it's very quick.

Guess What I Love?

2010-06-21T18:49:00.000-07:00

BULK BATH SALTS BAR AT WHOLE FOODS!
choose from: geranium (which actually smells nice, not like the real flowers which always have smelled a little paper-ish and stale to me); lavender; rosemary; grapefruit; menthol; lemon grass; peppermint; and patchouli (no, thanks).

I used Burt's Bees bath salts forever, which I still love very much (especially together with the lemon bath oil) but this whole setup caught my eye the last time I swung by. DIFFERENT SMELLS! My favorite thing! Zizzy was with me; we smelled them all and had a great time.

Happy Father's Day!

2010-06-20T06:47:00.000-07:00

To the best dad, ever. There hasn't been a day yet that Matt has put any single item over the family (Michael Corleone would be pleased); we are lucky to have this guy.

My Son.

2010-06-17T19:37:00.001-07:00

I just went into Bub's room to tell him goodnight (again) and he was already asleep.
Today was such a great day, great for all the kids, not just him, but for some reason all the growing up he's been so busy with lately just hit me over the head and I'm feeling sentimental.

This is the boy who:

was our first, our wonder who completely awed us with his brilliance and beauty

wouldn't sleep a wink without me directly by his side until he was two years old. No nuk, no blankie, no nothing else but me, his mama, snuggled up next to him.

decided he wouldn't eat much of anything without some ridiculous dance or song being performed, or Leah having to eat it first.

did not have much to say until he was maybe three. And until then the only words he pieced together were things like "Gak-gak" or "Tennessee like-a Sharp Knife."

today, went to play with his friend down the street. WENT TO PLAY WITH A FRIEND! And told me all the way home what a great time he had.

later this evening, spent an hour drawing out a video game map of Star Wars logos, Wii, mazes, Jabba the Hutt, Droids, and arrows. When he brought it in to show us, he asked, "Do you think we could bring this to a video game place and ask them if they can. . . make it?"

I just want to go in there, wake him up, and carry him around with me for just two more minutes of how long this entire youth is going to span. . . (cry!)

The Car, The Target.

2010-06-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

I have been doing morning blades around Lake Harriet lately, it really is a beautiful sight early in the morning. Today I hadn't planned on doing it but Vito decided to escape from the basement, open the upstairs door and wake me up at 7:10 so I decided to do it since I was already up and all the kids were still sleeping (JOY, literal, wondrous JOY!)

The trail was a little soggy, but fortunately there were no bugs. I downloaded a few new tunes last night and had a lovely rock out going once around. Doing this seriously gives me wicked energy, both mental and physical, and it just, I don't know, clears my head and creates this surge of positive energy; it's cool. I highly recommend it.

Anyway. Since I was up and ready super early, I decided a mall trip could work, so we headed out. To make a long story short (too late), there is some mystery issue with the truck that caused the check engine light to go on, all of a sudden. I wouldn't even blink at something like this in either of the other cars (younger, smaller, less mileage, go figure?) because THEIR engine lights are permanently on, always. But if I baby ONE THING in my life, it's not myself, it's not my kids, but this truck I have named Nina Meyers. Yes, the villain on 24. She gets the best oil, usually before she's due, I let her run good and long on -25 below winter mornings, I stroke her and thank her every time she pulls through and gives a big, strong, idle, etc. I do not like the fact that her engine light is on, it bothers me. Now that I think back, I feel a little guilty about playing Ke$sha and Katy Perry back to back, I think the car might have turned on me in disgust. . .

We ended up speeding through the mall and then leaving promptly at the first mention that someone was hungry, I think it was Zizzy, who got my blood sugar issues, apparently, because we were only there for like 24 minutes, having left approximately 9 minutes after breakfast. . . so we picked up some greazie meal and barreled into Valvoline. I have to say, the neighborhood Vavoline is pretty much the best place, ever. They are quick, they are knowledgeable, (Manager Thomas = Roddy McDowell, Arnie from Christine, and Rick Julson, all rolled into one; I really dig him) and they don't pressure you for unnecessary items. Thankfully the kids had their yaps full of chicken and fries, so there were none of those sorts of issues while we waited.

Speaking of which. A few of you out there have asked me in the past how I manage Target with all of the kids. It's not that I have a fool proof plan, or even when I think I have a fool proof plan that it works every time, it's just that I go there because I have to, and because I have to do it, my kids have learned that their experiences with me are much, much pleasanter when they behave. There have been two instances where I have had to pull out the big guns ("we are turning around and going home," I don't know how or why it works but it does): one was Zizzy having a Louie in the parking lot over God-knows-what, and Bubby getting his finger run over by a cart wheel after I told him probably 30 times not to ride under the cart. I try to learn from past mistakes, and like I said, they aren't always perfect, but we have created a system that more or less works each time so that I honestly cannot name an occasion where I had any issues with the kids in Target. This of course will guarantee that all four of them will lose their shit the next time we set foot in the door, but I guess I'll have expected it.

1. The two year old is in the cart-seat, STRAPPED, each time. NO EXCEPTIONS. Matt forgot to strap her once a few weeks ago and within probably six minutes she already couldn't handle it. I figured this out last year on her birthday, B cannot handle walking, anywhere. So as long as she is the way she is, she's got her butt glued into that cart until she turns three or my back breaks in half from Bjorn-ing Vin, whichever comes first. No, even if my back breaks in half and I have to do Target after the kids go to bed, I'll take that over letting her loose.

2. If I don't have money for extra things, I tell them this in the car. Usually it's been brought up several times by Bubby anyway, since he wants pretty much every Lego set, Bionacles Guy, or Star Wars accessory in creation, but I am honest with them every time. "WE DO NOT HAVE ANY EXTRA MONEY FOR TOYS OR TREATS TODAY, MAYBE NEXT TIME, MAYBE ON MONDAY WHEN I GET MY TIPS, MAYBE ON FRIDAY WHEN I GET MY CHECK, MAYBE YOU CAN JUST GET IDEAS FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY, etc.," I know B obviously is too little to get this, but the older two do, and I think in some small way it might be teaching them a little bit about fiscal responsibility and impulse control.

3. If I do have money for extra things, we determine what the extra thing will be in the car. And ALWAYS it's on the condition that they are good the entire time. Sometimes it's clothes, sometimes it's a food treat, sometimes it's a toy, but seriously, most of the time they get to pick something out at the dollar hut at the very end of the trip, which is hit or miss most times, but hey, they can take it or leave it, as my old man used to say.

4. I always go at the same time, every time, between 9 and 11am, or after naps, between 3 and 5pm. Anything else is risky, very risky. I won't break the routine unless it's an emergency, but usually emergencies can get filtered to Walgreens or Kowalskis, which are much safer and much closer.

5. If they are having issues or being spazzes, I will threaten to withhold the promised treat (really only Bubby cares about this, and there is ATTITUDE, as a result, but tough) or threaten to take us all out and leave. And honestly, I will do it if it comes to that. For most of the trivial stuff that they pull, my response is I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, and it's the gospel truth, I don't. It would be very, very inconvenient to have to leave Target or anywhere if they pushed me that far, but I simply do not have the time, the patience, or the ability to stop what I'm doing to deal with icky, petty crap. THERE IS JUST TOO MUCH I NEED TO COVER. I never used to think of myself as a control freak, but I suppose I need to face facts, it's what I am. Don't throw off my schedule, don't throw off my routine, and don't slow me down and we'll be just fine.

6. If by chance I take only one child to Target (this has happened maybe thrice), I'm not gonna lie, I'll give 'em pretty much anything they want.

A change from Star Wars. . .

2010-06-13T15:58:00.000-07:00

I let Bubby watch The Matrix last week. For a while I felt a little guilty about it because we had to stop the film right after
they showed the tiny baby hooked up to the wires all helpless in the pod. . . I realize now that that was something completely inappropriate to show my child (bad Mommy, I know; something similar happened when we went to the Bodies exhibit and saw the malformed foetuses), but after a while he started asking me questions about it and got over it.

He wanted to know how the story ended, so I told him, and soon he wanted to try watching the rest of it, so we did. Today we watched the sequel, which he seemed to love even more. Granted, we had to skip over a whole lot of dialogue, but he was totally into the martial arts scenes and all the jumping and flying around.

When Matt and I were making dinner, he came flying into the kitchen with his blanket wrapped around him and my sunglasses on. After he did a few kicks and hand-flails, he announced to us, "I'm Neo." Then we had another laugh when he went screaming up the stairs with the girls yelling, "WHO WANTS TO BE MORPHEUS?"

No one volunteered, even after he assured them "but he's an awesome fighter!"

Since I am one of the three people on earth who professes love for all three Matrix films, I very much enjoy this sort of thing.

Best Spaghetti and Meatballs, ever.

2010-06-11T21:46:00.001-07:00

I had a craving last night for spaghetti and meatballs as I was finishing up at work. I decided today that I would
make myself (and the rest of the family) a delightful dinner. . .

I ran to the store to get materials. Meats, bread, tomatoes, herbs. I return home to discover my garlic-hating husband has thrown away the remaining 1/4 bulb that I was sure we still had behind the toaster. By this time Vin has woken from his nap so I had to haul him along with me back to the store to get a new garlic. Upon our return I have to get out a super exciting toy bin for him to rifle through, as the normal, boring, duplos that he normally plays with are just not going to cut it for as long as I will need him to occupy himself.

He looks at the stuff in the bin, tosses most of it aside within 24 seconds and promptly follows me into the kitchen. B is intent on "helping" me. I give her the herbs and tell her to smell them, which she does, actually, the entire time I am making the stuff. Vin ambles around, opening and closing cupboard doors, occasionally hanging onto my legs.

I chop garlic, I chop onions. B marvels at her own eyes watering as she is about 2mm away from the yellow onion on the cutting board. Vin howls. I need to reposition him somewhere, I try the duplos in the back room together with a bin full of barbies and baby dolls. He seems happy so I go back to the cutting board. Sauce is simmering nicely, B has plucked basil leaves.

There is an issue with the Return of the Jedi disk in the playstation; I fix it and return without the baby noticing I have made any sort of motion near or away from him. B mashes cracker crumbs in a baggie.

The sauce is complete and just needs to cook, I can tackle meatballs now. As I'm mixing it all together, I see Vin come charging by, hands crawling, butt in the air, grabbing my purse down to demolish (this happens hourly on days we are in the house). I don't mind though, because this will usually occupy him for at least ten minutes, or however long the intact gum wrappers around each stick of gum can elude him, whichever comes first. I make the mistake of singing one of Matt's favorite family songs to B (composed by Matt to the tune of Daytrippers) "GOT A BIG FAT ONE. OH MY GOD, IS IT FAT!"

Vin hears this familiar vocalization and immediately comes barrelling over to me, smiling and giddy, wanting more singing. Now I have to finish this all with a 30 pound baby on my left hip. Fortunately I know it can be done, I've made a pot of potato soup with this kid attached to me, done laundry, wiped up cat barf, wiped another child's behind, you get the picture. He just holds onto my shirt, and depending what shirt/bra combo I've decided on any particular day, this can be mildly cute or just plain embarrassing. Today he gave the crew at Starbucks a nice look at my straps, thankfully it was a cute bra and not anything ratty.

The tongs has gone missing. Bending over holding this kid is not fun. B wants to SEE the meatballs. I hear the celebration music on Jedi; things are wrapping up. Soon there will be two more kids in the middle of all this. I find the tongs, heat the oil, and pitch the meatballs into the pan as quickly as I can without flattening them and then stir the sauce. Vin is lurching out of my arms and into the sauce pot. B wants to get off the barstool. And she wants more basil in the sauce. And she has made ten little "beds" for Sleeping Beauty out of the club crackers I let her have for a snack.

Before I can hustle everyone outside for the duration of the cooking time, I have to get a pot of water on the stove, which I have NOT learned to do with a baby orangutan hanging on me (yet). I put him back into the duplos and run away. For some reason he decides to occupy himself while I finish and then continues to do so long enough for me to lay on the couch for 40 seconds! When I finally see what he's been doing (thanks to B screaming her face off about it) I find a TP-ed bathroom. I took pictures but I'm just too damned lazy to go and look for the camera cord. Look for an update tomorrow.

Eating (finally) was pretty much the best thing in my LIFE. B ate three meatballs.

The Life and Times of Me.

2010-06-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

School is almost done for the year.

I am actually looking forward to it being over, if you can believe it. While it might not be much of a stretch for normal folks, getting up (and getting kids ready) by 7:30am five days a week has been hard for us, we have never been early risers.

Having all the kids here all at once might be more chaotic and loud, but there are little routines that I have that will be so much easier to keep consistent when I am not having to interrupt things to pick Zizzy up, have Vin in bed by this time so he's good and asleep when I have to pick up Bubby, etc. I have been very unorganized in the kids' music stuff, hopefully this summer I can do more with it.

I am starting to resent constant interruptions. There's a little formula at this house that goes like this: if I want a child to talk to me, all I need to do is try to write something at the computer. Suddenly, ALL of them are here, flapping their gums instantly. If I want the kids to all assemble in a room and talk LOUDLY to me or each other, even if they are no where in sight, all I need to do to get this to happen is to try to have a conversation with my husband or talk to someone on the phone. BAM! Never fails.

I am finally going to the doctor next week to get my dizzy thing checked out and labs done. Apparently my maternal grandmother suffered from pernicious anemia (among other things) most of her life, and it's something that's common in Scandinavian women and commonly passed down within families. It's different than regular anemia in that it has more to do with Vitamin b12 than iron and that if left untreated, can cause neurological damage and mess with one's central nervous system.

B is very challenging lately. This is me saying it nicely in case she someday reads this. I wish there were a way to communicate to her (and Vin) that if 1. you refuse to sleep normally (constantly wake up in the middle of the night, get up way too early, not nap long enough, etc.) you are not going to be able to deal with life's little upsets, like, AT ALL, and 2. if you insist on throwing/playing with/demolishing your meals instead of eating them, then same statement as above.

We got the Atari out and working. Seeing Bubby dominate Asteroids, get one frog to the hole in Frogger, and start to hold his own on Pitfall has been lovely. There was an issue when we finally hung the cross stitches in the kids' rooms due to Zizzy's Miss Pac Man being in a larger frame than Bubby's Pitfall. So next I guess it'll be a second Pitfall with alligators.

Which I will love making more than life itself, of course.

thoughts.

2010-05-16T06:58:00.000-07:00

Hi. Haven't had any parenting rants for a while. With kids in the ER, LOST coming to a close, and all sorts of running around lately, I haven't had a whole lot of time. Sometimes I need to take breaks from the parenting community, know what I mean?

I had an entire piece all written out about how disturbed I was by this hugely obese woman getting her already-obese sons 16oz of sugar, fat, and vanilla beans (and sharing it with a damned BABY no less) but once I did this, I read through it and didn't like it. I try not to be judgmental, but what I wrote was, so I erased it and tried to rethink things and be more positive.

Plus, I was thinking that my mother would probably see this sort of thing as far less important than something say, like, keeping one's baby's high chair SPOTLESS. Well, life is two highways, life is two highways.

No ER visits this week (knock wood). The bills however, have started to roll in. Blue Cross seems to need verification that we have no other insurance before they'll consider paying anything. I'll get right on that, since I know you're just DYING to cut checks to Fairview.

B has a new routine. She pisses in her pull up, takes it off, and leaves it lying in a secret place each time. Only when we see her naked, roaming around the house or outdoors do we realize this has happened and have to go searching for the soiled one. Sometimes she gets herself another pull up without saying a word, and then the one she took off is left unnoticed somewhere and only becomes discovered by its smell. There's a twist to this whole situation at night, where she rips off her pajama pants and pull up, throws them overboard from the crib, and then goes back to sleep naked. When she pees on herself and her bedding, naked, she wakes up and yells, "MAMA YOU GET ME OUTTA HERE!" and I have to stumble into the room, pluck her out, strip the bedding, wipe things down, and put a new set on. Or if there's no spare set available, lay down receiving blankets for a makeshift set of bedding to get her through the rest of the night. Then, when she wakes up in the morning, she needs an entire bath and scrubdown.

It's really special.

Bubby has been demanding and moody lately. Because he heard the word "no" approximately 2 times in his first two years, he seems to think this sort of system should continue on. We are working on this. When I know I am going to have to give him an answer he is not going to like, I have to end it with "and there's no reason to get moody about this, and NO DOOR SLAMMING."

In other news, I am going to get my hair blonded next Saturday, a gift for Mother's Day from Matt. I am not getting anything cut, just lightened, so hopefully I won't be putting any Mario (toad) mushroom pictures up this time.

A few things that I've learned

2010-05-10T20:35:00.000-07:00

1. Misery LOVES company.

2. If you can't say anything nice, you should say nothing at all.

3. People have good experiences and are actually happy. Is that so incredible?

4. Negativity and pessimism shouldn't be the norm.

5. There is such a thing as overkill. With anything.

Uuuuuughghgh. Adults have issues. We get upset and stressed about things. But for the love of holy Christ, MOVE ON WITH LIFE. I realize that I am just another woman who has bred children, another chick with a blog, but come on.

Go out and LIVE.

Oh! I need a drink.

2010-05-06T15:39:00.000-07:00

We just got back from the ER. All of us. Bubby needed to get his stitches out and today was really the only day I was willing to do it. It was a special trip, let me tell you. The temperature in there was approximately 105 degrees. The saving grace was that the triage nurse was a mother of four herself and totally slid us in before it was our turn. Otherwise she would have had B to deal with, along with the rest of the hospital. It seems that getting stitches in her lip is a very low key event compared to going along to have an actual procedure done to her brother; she was a spaz and a half.

On the way home Bubby told me that he really wanted to go over to his friend Leo's house (in Hopkins) and then said, "LEO PROMISES NOT TO EAT HIS BOOGERS IF I COME OVER."

Er, apparently last week he asked me if he could do this and I said (probably tired and in the car somewhere, distracted) BUB, I DON'T KNOW, I MEAN THE KID EATS HIS BOOGERS AND STUFF< I DON'T KNOW IF I CAN REALLY ALLOW YOU TO GO TO SOMEONE'S HOUSE WHO DOES THAT. I don't know if it's funnier that I said this or that he remembered word for word that I said it. . .

there were other reasons I did not want him fraternizing with this kid, beyond boogers, and I don't think I conveyed these to Bub but to Matt, mostly how the mother seemed a bit unstable and the fact that there have been several occasions where this kid bolted from school (OUT THE DOORS AND DOWN THE STREET) and that he's had to meet with Gibbs (principal) several times. . .

ugh. Has anyone out there had this come up? Your kid really likes another kid but you DO NOT? Or the parents kind of weird you out? What do you do? I'd love to know what you think.

"That sucks" vs. "Quit Your Bitching."

2010-05-03T13:27:00.000-07:00

"There is always someone out there who has it worse than you."

My dad used to say this when I would complain.
I hear people itemizing their calamities all the time. Some of them are real; some of them are ridiculous. To the real, I would offer empathy and support (that sucks). To the ridiculous, well, quit being ridiculous (quit your bitching).

"I couldn't get in to get my massage and pedicure last night, it was really frustrating!" QUIT YOUR BITCHING.
"My infant is 5 weeks old and has H1N1." THAT SUCKS.
"Premium gas is so expensive, I just cringe every time I pull into the gas station!" QUIT YOUR BITCHING.
"My relatives' home was destroyed by a flood." THAT SUCKS.
"My partner and I only get one date night a month!" QUIT YOUR BITCHING.
"My native country is in the middle of a civil war." THAT SUCKS.
"My father has a brain tumor." THAT SUCKS.
"My husband is a police officer and got shot last night." THAT SUCKS. etc., etc., etc.

Real problems versus I don't know, people with too much time on their hands.
And don't get me wrong, I do my fair share of complaining, maybe even more than my fair share, but every now and then something comes around that makes you appreciate just how good you have it (illness, injury, job loss, etc.). Or literature.

The Jungle by Upton Sinclair.

It's an amazing story, told in an amazingly brilliant way, but the events are horrible. The characters are doomed. It does not paint a pretty picture of life. I remember people telling me about this book long before I ever picked it up, mostly they talked about the Slaughterhouses and how filthy and disgusting they were, how rats were pushed in with the beef, how the poison bread they left out for the rats was pushed in with the beef, how sometimes HUMAN BEINGS who happened to slip and fall into the vat were allowed to be pushed in with the beef, and so on. Honestly, none of that has phased me one bit. I mean, yes, it's unfortunate, but what happens, emotionally, to this family, and how hopeless and awful their lives are disturbs me way more than a little off-kilter beef. This is a book that will break your heart, many, many times.

on summertime at the Stockyards:

"Perhaps the summertime suggests to you thoughts of the country, visions of green fields and mountains and sparkling lakes. It had no such suggestion for the people in the yards. The great packing machine ground on remorselessly, without thinking of green fields, and the men and women and children who were part of it never saw any green thing, not even a flower! Four or five miles to the east of them lay the blue waters of Lake Michigan, but for all the good it did them it might have been as far away as the Pacific Ocean. They had only Sundays, and then they were too tired to walk. They were tied to the great packing machine, and tied to it for life."

after the main character's little son drowns:

"He was fighting for his life; he gnashed his teeth together in desperation. He had been a fool, a fool! He had wasted his life, he had wrecked himself, with his accursed weakness; and now he was done with it--he would tear it out of him, root and branch! There should be no more tears and no more tenderness; he had had enough of them--they had sold him into slavery! Now he was going to be free, to tear off his shackles, to rise up and fight. He was glad that the end had come--it had to come sometime, and it was just as well now. This was no world for women and children, and the sooner they got out of it, the better for them.

This book = THAT SUCKS. It has made me QUIT MY BITCHING.

Unpleasant.

2010-04-27T06:20:00.000-07:00

B got her lip split open last night; 5 stitches on it in the ER. I am fast getting on a first-name basis with the entire staff there, which is disturbing. . .

She did so well. I completely thought we'd need to sedate her in order for them to do what they needed to do, but she HELD STILL and was completely fine with all of it.

She has, of course, already gotten one stitch yanked out.

In my sorrow for her (and in just remembering the sad little image of her, bloodied up and in that tiny purple toddler hospital gown) I have plans to spoil the utter CRAP out of her today. Poor little one.

Adventures in Target-ing.

2010-04-26T10:33:00.001-07:00

This won't be a lecture about the negative things I've seen in days of being a Target patron (soda in sippy cups, etc.) but just funny, random things that I encountered in my neighborhood Super Targs during the last week.

1. Mother of one of the students at Zizzy's preschool works there. This is one individual that I see regularly. More than my friends, more than my family. HER! Thank goodness she's cool. But does this mean I am at Target more than I should be?

2. Dude that I met a few years back, working at 50th and France Starbucks. I was pregnant with B, his wife was pregnant with their second boy, he was working on his Ph.D dissertation and going back and forth between Edina and Lansing, MI for meetings, while being a stay at home dad during the day. He was **very** cool. And once their second child arrived, he often came in at night when he would get a break (this guy was like male version of me, schedule-wise) and be pulling his hair out because having two kids was so hard to manage. Sarah and I would talk him down and give him advice and tell him he was a wonderful Dad AND a great husband and person.

I hadn't seen him in years, but I saw him last week, at Target, during the morning, pushing his two boys AND A NEW BABY GIRL in an infant seat in a cart. For all the support and props I get for carting my kids around, all of us together, I'm sorry, it's just WAAAAAY more impressive to see a Dad doing it. Kudos, PG, kudos to you!

3. This morning I crossed paths with one of the doctors from our clinic. I was a second away from saying hello to her until I realized that I still owed her like $350 for doing Vin's circumcision (that she is getting from us in $20 installments, irregularly) and I thought it might be a little awkward, and also because her son was hovering on the edge of a screaming tantrum. I decided to just wait until next time with my salutation.

4. I am pretty sure I also walked past the ex-boyfriend of a friend (and father of her daughter); someone my brother used to work with, a horrible influence on him to boot, and an all-around unpleasant person. I did not feel the same need to say hello to this guy but marveled at what street drugs can do to the appearance of someone who was once attractive. . . it was a very Corey Haim sort of realization. Ugh.

It's funny that even in Minneapolis, the world is still small.

My Beef with Attachment Parenting.

2010-04-23T11:57:00.000-07:00

First off, I believe in the concept of "attachment parenting." That is, I believe that becoming attached to your child is not only valuable, but necessary, and that many of the concepts and ideas that attachment parenting gurus support are correct, useful, and important.

However, once your child has weaned, stopped sharing the bed with you, and begins the journey into post-toddlerhood, the number of useful resources for parents who "attachment-parented" their children dramatically decreases. The Sears's have written two really helpful books ("The Discipline Book" and "The Successful Child"), but I've found that these are much less available than the earlier, more successful and trendier? pregnancy and infant books. I have yet to find anything close to "Attachment Parenting The School Age Child." I started wondering about this.

Two books that have been valuable in this area are surprisingly, not attachment parenting books at all; "Supernanny: How to Get the Best From Your Children" by Jo Frost, and "Nurture Shock" by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman. I have always loved Supernanny, not only because she looks just like one of my best friends, but because she knows what she's doing. Matt gets way too disturbed watching the show because most of the time, the kids are so, SO, horribly behaved that he can't even deal, but I seriously love watching her go in there and completely kick ass (and usually it's the parents that need to be disciplined, more than the kids!)

"What's your routine?"
"We don't have one."
"Fine, here's a schedule written out on this massive piece of posterboard. Begin your day."

"Who is responsible for the two year old just ambling around the house?"
"No one."
"Here are some games you can play with her, and why don't we just put the cell phone in a jar here, I'll take it."

"What do you do for recreation as a family?"
"We watch television and the kids play x-box."
"Get your shit, we're going bowling."

etc., etc.

I'm not saying that attachment parenting has anything to do with any of these downfalls, but in some ways, I think structure and baby/toddler discipline gets completely shoved into a corner sometimes, which, let's face it, is more convenient for someone who has been up all night nursing a crabby baby, or someone who is exhausted from wearing their baby from morning until night. And by "discipline" I don't mean punishment, but DISCIPLINE. Like, you are the baby, I am the parent. I will feed you, change you, clothe you, bathe you, carry you, tend to you, teach you, guide you, love you, and make sure you know you are the most wonderful being ever created on this planet. But we also need to get something straight: I. AM. IN. CHARGE.

I think this is a hard thing for our generation. We want so much for our kids. We give so much of ourselves to our kids. But something I think the previous generation got right, dead-right, was setting limits. I have found myself so many times getting drawn into an argument or debate with my kids over who knows what, and eventually I come to realize that I don't owe them an explanation, sometimes the answer is just NO. The End. Our kids are so much smarter than we were and so wonderful; they've had hands-on parents from birth! So I know that the tendency is to sit back and marvel at just how smart and how wonderful they've become and to then ignore discipline or assume it won't apply for these smart, wonderful, beautiful children that have not wanted for a single thing, ever. What reason will they have to complain, these children, they've been parented and nurtured overtime! We've never been more involved with our kids!

Thing is, I think we're missing the boat. The full scale giving of yourself that you do every day of your baby's first two years does continue, but it's a completely different kind of giving. Nurturing a baby is almost like nurturing a doll; you really can't go wrong if you love it, hold it, and tend to its basic needs. Nurturing a child is something different; you're not only responsible for the love and basic needs, but for rules. For values. For civilizing your child. Some do this easily, but others take a lot more civilizing than others. Where's the book for that? What good are years of breastfeeding when your child is beating another child with an aluminum bat? Where's the use in wooden toys and organic food when your child plays with feces and screams through mealtimes?

"Nurture Shock" is an amazingly eye-opening read on this very topic. Love and nurture are important, but so are rules and so is discipline. I'm not saying we need to just up and become drill sergeants when our kids turn three, but sometimes, as parents, we do need to take the reins. Or seize the reins, if you will.

I'm not trying to lay blame on attachment parenting as a science, or its advocates, because like I said before, it's a valid system. But here's the thing: attachment parenting should not neglect discipline, because no matter how angelic the baby, no matter how perfect the parents, kids need discipline and they need to understand it down the road. Chet Boen once described football as a series of mistakes, and formulas on how to deal with those mistakes, because if the defense did its job right, no one would ever get any yards, and if the offense did its job right, every play would end in a touchdown. I think attachment parenting maybe gets touted as a foolproof plan, a guaranteed touchdown, but when these wonderfully attached (but normal) children start pushing boundaries and testing limits, parents are caught with their pants down, unable to understand why they even need discipline or punishment, after all, they nursed, co-slept, and carried their babies for two years!

I don't think this is helpful for parents. Neither is presenting yourself as a parenting YODA when you have one six month old infant, GET REAL. (I've been needing to get this out for months).

The Man in the Black Super Sport

2010-04-21T10:27:00.001-07:00

First off, all of this really happened. I am not exaggerating it. I am not making it up, though parts of it will seem like some sort of wishful fairy tale.

SO: B and Vin and I walked up to Kowalski's this morning. On the way there, I was thinking about the weird, normal, things I normally think about when I get going, life, babies, conflict, etc. I think the main thing on my mind was how much confidence plays a role in everything we do. Anytime I have a problem with something, mental or actual, I usually end up reconciling it by telling myself that 1. I am a good person, 2. I can only control my own thoughts and actions, and 3. Everything will be all right. I suppose it was just my normal state of blind optimism, but on the way past Annunciation, we gave God, Mary, and Jesus a wave (as we do every day) and thanked them for the beautiful day and everything else, because I do think that faith is important, whatever it's in.

What does this have to do with ANYTHING?

Well, after we'd gotten our Caribbean Dream fruit pack and sat outside on the bench eating it, something interesting happened. A black truck, a Chevrolet Super Sport, and by the looks of it, a newer one, came pulling into the lot. It pulled past us and then backed into the parking spot that was one over from where we were sitting, the one directly next to us was a handicapped spot. The first thought I had was, HEY, THERE'S A DEWEY TRUCK!

(My dad had a black 1989 454 SS truck. I have many fond memories of it: Werner Weinrich busting Charlie and me driving it when I was 15 and going to Hogberg's for piano, Jon Garberich smoking the tires, driving to Iowa with Charlie to pick up some damned trailer and almost hitting 2 fawns, whipping shitties during a blizzard in downtown Renville and listening to "November Rain" with Julie, etc.)

I see these trucks all over from time to time, and something in me always wanted to believe that they somehow held a little bit of my dad to them, allowing him to smoke tires, race around here on Earth, and just let us know that part of him is still around when the rest of him was off doing whatever happens in the afterlife. This has happened at a few significant times in my life. The first time was about a month after he died when I was on my way to get an AIDS test at Planned Parenthood; some guy who looked like Dewey waved to me, furiously when I passed him on 71 going to Willmar. The AIDS test turned out fine, btw. The next time was in Kona with Matt, when I saw a black truck turn a corner before us when we were up by the movie theater. I probably wouldn't have even noticed the truck had Dire Straits not been playing on the radio at the same time. ("Money for Nothing" was Dewey's favorite). Another time was in March of 2003 when Matt and I were **flat ass** broke, we owed some ridiculous amount of money for taxes, Matt had no job, and I was 20 credits in at the U-- this exact sort of black truck cruised by, I think in Uptown of all places! It may not have been a big deal in any of these cases, but if it wasn't, then why do I remember it? It's not just because these trucks are rare, which they are. It's not that I'm out on the road, eyes peeled for some sort of confirmation of what, anything, but it just kind of jarred me, each of the times that it happened.

I know that it's hard to try to explain something like, "things will be all right" to someone in their twenties, but I got the feeling that that's what I was supposed to get out of all these occurrences. Now that I'm older and have lived more of a life, I can appreciate the notion that my dad, who took on a lot of stress in his life, would maybe be dropping in from time to time when I needed to know this.

Back to the parking lot.

This truck stood there, tail end up against the curb, idling right next to us. I could see through the glass of the passenger side window, maybe half the driver's profile, and what do you know? Dude had a mustache, gray hair, and glasses. I giggled a little, and then looked again. The guy, who couldn't see me, powered down the passenger side window and just waited there. Didn't get out, no one came and got in, just sat!

I can't really explain the feeling I had then, it was kind of like giddiness, but with curiosity. Like, AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY SOMETHING? IS THIS REAL? THIS IS QUITE A NUMBER OF SIMILARITIES, THIS GUY, THIS TRUCK, AND MY DAD; AM I JUST READING INTO IT? WHAT A COINCIDENCE! (are there such things?)

and if it was anything close to my dad, that hopefully he got something back, too.

Things are all right.

Things I'd rather not deal with. . .

2010-04-20T11:29:00.001-07:00

NO. I REALLY DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS. And there is a distinction between these things and basic parenting annoyances that I realize I signed up for long ago (no sleep, little money, feces everywhere, etc.).

For example:

There is a customer at work who comes in often, is *extremely* anal about her drink, never tips, and likes to tell us horribly inappropriate and intimate information about herself and her daughters. Usually it's a race to see who can get to the back fastest (to escape this woman) between me and whoever I'm working with. It's not that she's unpleasant, really, she's just annoying. The last time I had to deal with her she, an at-least 45 year old woman, came in with the lowest cut shirt and most effective push-up bra I'd ever seen, (with her daughter and daughter's boyfriend, they all played footsie and acted like morons the entire time they were up there and also broke a plastic mug). Beforehand, when I asked Chris if he'd please, please take her he giggled, NO, CACKLED, and ran away to clean the bathrooms, obviously a much better alternative. I think I threatened to quit but then had to quickly put on a huge fake smile, "Hey Debbie, how are you?" (I seriously doubt that even after three years this woman has the first clue to what my name is).

or,

having to go up to a very large woman at Starbucks and tell her that Bubby had forgotten his beloved cherry tomatoes that he picked from his Oma's garden on the comfy chair she was sitting in. . .

or

head injuries, the kind that warrant an ER visit (which we had last night).

or

being the only adult home in the house when a wasp comes in and makes camp up in B's light fixture directly above her crib.

These things happen and the first reaction I have is often a whiny sigh and then, DO I HAVE TO DO THIS? Because I really don't want to. The wasp issue was also a real one from just this afternoon. The kids came down and told me about it and first off, I was praying they were wrong, that it was just a boxelder bug or maybe an extra big horse fly. NO. It was a wasp, and goddamned massive. I think it may have even been a queen. I stood there, in the doorway watching it for probably 6 or 7 minutes before Zizzy came back up and asked if I had gotten it. No, I had not, yet, I was just trying to figure out how to even start, but mostly I was just standing there in an interior state of whiny sigh going, DO I REALLY HAVE TO DO THIS?? Come on. What if I miss, what if it stings me? Wasps don't lose their stingers after one poke, either, you know, (if Bubby's 13030 insect books are to be believed), I could be trapped up there with the stupid thing while it decided to sting me TO DEATH.

Yes, drama. But I really, really did not want to tangle with it. It was crawling all over the square light fixture, around the edges, and being. . . unpredictable in its actions. Zizzy is still hopping around on the mattress outside B's room in my room, babbling, "MOM, WHO BUILT THIS HOUSE?"

Ugh. I decided I needed time to formulate a plan, so I shut the light off and shut the door, locking it in so I could go downstairs and think. Bubby was feeding Vin cheez-its, B was dumping yogurt all over herself and her high chair, so lunch was going well, if mostly normal. I couldn't even really eat because I knew I had to go and face that shitting death machine sometime if I wanted B to be able to take a nap safely. So I went back up, grabbed Matt's Jackson Pollack biography, paperback but thick, and went in. I didn't pray or anything, but I did sit there for a few more moments trying to rally my strength and precision. . .

It was still crawling all over the light, spazzy-like! I knew that if it was on the edge of the fixture it would probably not get the full blow of the Pollack book, so basically I was waiting for it to get on level ground. I thought I might very well be waiting all day for this, as I was not about to rouse it into moving. When it finally did make the right move, it went under the edge of where the fixture was hanging down just a tiny bit, less than an inch, where the fixture would meet the ceiling.

I SWUNG THE BOOK UP AND TRAPPED HER BY PUSHING THE FIXTURE EDGE RIGHT INTO HER. I ended that bitch (and became my son's wasp-killing HERO)!

(crunch!!)

Sleevies, The Stand, Various other happenings.

2010-04-19T14:33:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, in the middle of our exhausting (but fun) second birthday celebration for Bubby, he got tired out on the deck and nonchalantly stuck his hand into the sleeve of my shirt and then yanked it out again. He used to do this all the time when Zizzy was first born; we called it "sleevies." It was just one of those weird Bubby things, but something he did very frequently, and sometimes on other people if he was tired enough. I think it originated when I would nap the two of them together in his room, laying on my side and nursing Zizzy with Bubby behind me with my other arm (the sleevie-arm) around him. He would fall asleep with his hand on my shoulder, inside my sleeve like that and then I could gather Zizzy up and lay her down into her pack and play without a peep from her, easy baby that she was. This kind of went together with another little endearing item that Leah used to do to all the kids, which we called bringing "THE TICKLE FACE." When they got tired enough but were intent on fighting sleep, which 3 out of the 4 of them do, Leah used to just ever so slightly stroke the back of their necks repeatedly, and they would completely zone out and get this drooly, hypnotized face about them, and just get very calm. Matt got Vin to do the tickle face last night and it made me think of all the babyhood things that some day I will miss very much when they all get big.

I am reading The Stand right now, I never read it in my younger years. Everyone I know who reads King says this is by far the best of his novels, and so far, I agree. I am less than 100 pages from the end now, and I really, REALLY wanted to finish it today during quiet time, but the elements were against me. Elements in this case being 1. an at-home, recovering from too much birthday Bubby, 2. a teething, babbling, wanting-to-practice-standing NON-NAPPING little Vin, and 3. a naked little crib-pisser that we call B.

I am grateful for how the timing fell with this reading, with LOST and everything; the similarities are wonderful. Back in my apathetic, atheist years I would probably have pitched it after the first mention of Mother Abagail. I also think being a parent adds much to the experience, as in, causing me to consider (with substantial alarm and paranoia) what I would do if some sort of horrible plague like Captain Trips swept across the nation. . . probably hole up on the North Shore, or if I wrote a book about it, The Sheep Shedde of old (!!!)

I feel a little like I do with LOST; I'm excited to know how it ends, but sad that like all good things, it must. When it's over, I'll probably do a mass write-up on Televisionlady. Anyway, it's been fun.

I think I might have an iron deficiency.

Vin refuses to be put down.

Who wants to make dinner for me?