I know, I know. Not much bloggage lately. But there has been a bit going on. First, yes, I am still training for the triathlon. I just haven't been updating my workouts on the site. Second, the Biggie's preschool nearly imploded because of the evil actions of one vindictive parent, and I have been spending approximately 1,000 hours a day arranging schedules of afterschool care for the kids. Third, the Husband of the Blog’s grad program ended, and our friends are all leaving town. Saying goodbye is NOT GOOD (see “What Free Time?” for details). Fourth, I am in charge of the home renovation, and when I say renovation, I mean revolution, because the place is changing inside out, top to bottom, in a decidedly violent way. I was writing a note to my friend Eric, telling him what we're having done, and it goes as follows: new furnace, water heater, roof, paint job inside and out (we're doing the inside), new heat supplies and returns, new copper pipe, dishwasher installed, new kitchen cabinets, sink and countertop, new fridge, all existing windows replaced plus three new ones punched in the bedroom, parlor and office, insulation blown in the walls, heat-efficient hatch put in the attic, floor refinishing, new porch and steps...anything else? We're going to put new linoleum in the bathroom and retile the kitchen backsplash, too. What's funny is that many of these things simply happen without us really knowing what's going on. I let the floor refinishers in one day, did not give them a key, and left. They locked the doors, I found when I went over that evening, and left their equipment there. I called them to ask when I should let them back in, left messages for the head guy, his son and his other son, and never heard back. The head guy is pretty old, so to tell you the truth I checked the obituaries to make sure there wasn't something REALLY wrong. When I returned to the house a few days later, the floors were sanded and a coat of polyurethane was drying. The doors were still locked. When I returned the following evening (still with no return call), the floors were covered with red rosin paper, and all of the equipment was gone. There was an invoice in the mailbox. The contractors are all pretty goofy, to tell the truth. The painter calls me "Dear" and tells me when he thinks a color combination "looks stupid." The porch guy hardly speaks English but is an architect who wants to talk about mountain biking more than the porch. And on, and on.

The Biggie and Wee One are doing well. The Biggie is signed up for Pre-Ballet, the prospect of which strikes fear into my soccer-jock heart. Oh, the costumes, the posing, the inevitable twisted body image and eating disorders which follow! The Wee One is all over the place, and tried to climb the stairs today. She waves now, at people, cats, dogs, squirrels and most moving objects. She even waved at a miniature cast-iron horse head we saw yesterday.

Let Us Speak of the Wee One

If you ask, “Want to go for a walk?” she grins and grabs your hands, pulls herself up and then takes off. She has two teeth, soon to be joined (judging by the whinging, as my Scottish friend Liz calls it) by a third. She is eating beans, and graham crackers, and pizza crusts. She is a mighty fan of pears, and bangs her fat, sticky fists on the high chair tray when she sees me pull them out of the fridge.

Her favorite person is her Biggie, the only one who can stop the whinging simply by showing her face and occasionally singing “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” The Biggie is my hero for this reason. If only we could find a magic way to stop HER whinging. Then I could happily put my feet up and sip iced mochas while they amused one another all day long.

The wee one especially enjoys eating Things Off the Floor, a rare delicacy never enjoyed by the older one in her own infancy. I will pick her up and she will be chewing, chewing, chewing. I stick my finger in her cheek and pull out...a petrified rice puff, a candy wrapper, a purple foil star from the Biggie’s fairy crown. I would feel bad, if I did not know that this was the fate of the Second--to be less doted upon, perhaps, but also less restricted, allowed to explore without an anxious mama wringing her hands at her every move.

The obnoxious but clever cat has figured out how to get me to let her out at 4 am. She simply lies on top of the wee one, purring her 18-wheeler purr, and starts licking the sweaty, salty baby head. Kitty is out the door in sixty seconds. She redeems herself later by dangling her tail in the wee one’s face and letting her pull on her ears. They will be friends, I think.

And that is all, for now.

Why Preschool Rocks

So we’re at the festival yesterday, and the Big One spots the face painters. I had avoided the hour-long line the previous day by promising “Mama will paint your face with special magic paint (i.e. old lipsticks) at home!” But there weren’t many kids waiting, so I figured what the heck. Face painting is one of those things that is annoying to parents, who have to wash the grime off of pillowcases, but is truly marvelous to kids. Plus, it was free.

She tells the painter that she wants a butterfly. “You mean on your cheek, here?” the painter asked. “No, I want my whole face to be a butterfly.” The painter outlined the butterfly with black paint and then asked what color she wanted the body to be. Of course, PURPLE. “I don’t have purple, honey. Could we use pink instead?” “Well,” the small person replied, “you can MAKE purple, you know.” “Really, and how exactly would I do that?” the painter said, with a faintly incredulous smile. “You take the red and the blue and you mix them together. Then you will get PURPLE.”