The Attack Spaniel Turns One

When we picked this guy (i.e. when he scrambled into my lap and started licking me with irresistible puppy breath), the SPCA told us he was a "lab/cocker spaniel mix." Sixty pounds later, there is nary a cocker trait in sight, unless you count the occasional lack of bladder control when he is spooked by the Husband or other Large Brown Men. Happy birthday to my officemate, hiking buddy and lap warmer. Thank you for guarding the house and tolerating the Wee One. May you always have a cat to chase, a hand to lick and just a little piece of cheese.



His Highness as a young pup



Milo's S*&%-eating grin (this is a literal definition)



Optimal Dinnertime Positioning (I'm pretty sure that puppy has since been eaten, thus confirming reports of viscious Labrador cannibalistic tendencies)



Note the absolute lack of any Cocker Spanielish tendencies. (This look means, "Squirrel?" or "Cheese?")





Running With His Pack

Heck of a Commute This Morning.

Yep. Stubbed my toe on the door jamb between the bedroom and the office.

Piggy Bank

The VCR stopped working a few months ago. I found a DVD inside (courtesy of the Wee One) and removed it, thinking I had solved the problem. No dice. Every time I put a tape in it whirred, whirred, whirred, slowly coming to a stop with fuzzy screen. After it devoured “Arthur’s Family Fun,” we stopped using it altogether.

Last night, the husband bought a new 19-inch TV to replace the sad 13-inch model. (I know, we are leaping into the twenty-first century!) It’s one of those combination deals, with a DVD player built right in. The whole shebang was too big to fit into the TV cabinet with the VCR (which, though long broken, was of course still sitting in there). When the husband pulled the VCR out of the cabinet, it…jingled.

Oh, and it's Amy and "anonymous" who have got it! (Charles, was that you?) "Umpooka" is umbrella, indeed!

Leah, yogurt is "yoga" which also means "Yoda"--that makes for some confusing conversations. As in, "Me be yoga, me use light saba, eat me yoga!" (this usually said while brandishing a yogurt-covered knife)

Thanks for playing, ya'll.

Special Bonus Wee One Word: umpooka

If you can guess the meaning of that one, I'll reward you by publishing your name here on Quistilton News. I get at least three hits a day--you'll be internationally known in short order. Leave your guesses in the comments section.

So I turned on word verification for the comments section. Sorry.

This means you'll have to read a funny-looking security word and enter it when you leave a comment. It keeps robots from leaving unwanted spam comments. And you know, I was starting to get tired of deleting entries such as this one: "Hey, just read your blog, and boy is it GREAT! My friend has a blog about Indian wedding dresses!! Why don't you check it out? You can see all the best deals on Indian wedding dresses HERE (insert appropriate annoying link)." They weren't even putting them just on the home page, where I could find them--they were being hidden in old, archived posts. Grrrrr. Hopefully this security feature will work.

Why We Live Here

Wee One Translation Handbook

egebaytah = elevator
pooyah = pillow
woo-woo (recently also “woobie-woobie”) = dog
Hiyaeen = Halloween
hing (As in, “No me not hing!” ensuing tantrum) = swing
mine = my (this just has the effect of making her sound German)
Wega = Wegmans (as in, “Me go a Wega me get f(r)ee cookie!”)
white = green, pink, brown, blue, red
geen = gold (as in the shiny gold ford focus)
hank = thanks
Mama = Apparently, any woman she loves

Favorite song: Happy Birthday, preferably sung to the dog
Favorite phrase: “Me do it me own!”
Favorite activity: Clutching the dog’s lips

Kindergarten is AWESOME!

We have settled into a lovely pattern here, with my working-morning weekdays and the Wee One napping and the Biggie’s trumpeted arrival home from school. I finally feel like things are resembling normalcy, in a way that they never have since the Biggie first burst upon the scene, all big-eyed seven pounds and two ounces of her. My mom was right, I crave routine. It’s strangely comforting not to have to decide anew what to do, every single day.

The Biggie adores kindergarten, the music, art, Pledge of Allegiance (“for Richard Stands”) and gym class, everything except the bathroom. The teacher and I recently realized that she is not going at school, she’s waiting until she gets home. Although that is no great length of time compared with her pee-holding record (16 hours), it is simply not sustainable over the long haul. Argh, the heart-shriveling specter of potty training haunts us once more.

But the rest of kindergarten rocks, and I am wondering why we were paying $300 a month to send her for two days a week to a little monochromatic preschool where they only served vegan snacks and the art corner was a pile of paper scraps. (“Why won’t she eat hummus?” they asked, as if it were some serious spiritual shortcoming. I hemmed and hawed over that one, having the grace not to reply that it tastes like feet dipped in lemon juice.)

I am sad because the Wee One’s babysitter is having a new baby of her own, and won’t be able to watch Wee anymore. (Of course I’m happy about the baby itself!) Sad especially because the Wee One loves the stuffing out of her, and calls her “Mama Manda”--I am referred to as the “Biggie’s Mama.” It will be nice, however, to save another $300 a month, though this will require me starting work at 6 each morning, so the Husband can watch the small ones while I surf and type away. Automatic coffee machine = New Best Friend.

Fall has come to central New York, and with it the rain and the smell of wood smoke in the air. We are preparing for winter’s hunkering down, buying long johns and sweaters, pulling out the down comforters and the flannel sheets. This is my favorite season; everything is dying in an orderly, preprogrammed way that makes you see the beauty in this aspect of life.

Hot cider, anyone?

The Stats

We went to the doc today, twice. Due to their mess-up (I scheduled these appointments at 3 and 3:15 in MARCH), the Wee One went at 2:00, then I had to go get the Biggie at school and bring her back at 3:15.

The Wee One enjoyed her appointment immensely. She stripped off all her clothes and was allowed to remain that way, IN PUBLIC, for 45 minutes! Heaven, as far as she was concerned. Plus she got to show off her jumping and mega-climbing skills. We finished on time, I zoomed down the hill and got to the Biggie’s school at 3:00—excellent!

Except that the Husband had her booster seat in his car. Thought for half a risky second about driving without it, then called the husband and got him to drive the booster downtown. Will buy new booster for other car this weekend.

We were only ten minutes late. The Biggie was fine until they went to take her temperature. “DO NOT PUT THAT IN MY EAR! IT WILL HURT!” she screamed at the bewildered, kindly nurse. There was a similar reaction when they wanted to test her hearing. “Don’t worry, the doctor will talk to her,” the nurse assured me as she left us in the airless, rapidly shrinking room. I was sweating bullets—I know my daughter better than she does. The funny, grandfatherly doctor whom we all love entered the room. The Biggie showed him how she could jump and stick out her tongue and list words that begin with the letter “A.” Then he took out the ear-looker. “NO!” her face contorted into a demonic scowl and she covered her ears. He tried telling her there were butterflies in her ears (a bit amateurish, I thought). He let her put it in her ear herself. He let her put it in HIS ear, and look for the butterflies (“They have blue and yellow spots!” he exclaimed. “I do see them,” she replied.) Then he tried to look in her ears again. “NO! NO! NO!” I melted into my seat. “Is this…an extreme reaction?” I asked. “Well, yes, I would definitely say that,” he replied as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “You need to make sure she doesn’t think she can take control of everything in this way.” I sank further into the chair. He left the room for a moment. I used the opportunity to attempt a bribe: performance of hearing check in exchange for apple pie at the Rarely-Visited Golden-Arches-Type Heathen Fast Food Restaurant. An extremely rare tactic, the Outright Bribe; even more rare, the heinous and despicable Junk Food Bribe. I don’t believe I have ever used that one in such a bald manner, to tell the truth.

So of course when he came back, the first thing she did was tell him about it. If I could get lower in the chair, I would actually be under it, licking used gum off the seat.

He tried again to look in her ears, and was visibly frustrated with her anxiety. Man, if a professional is having a hard time, shouldn’t I feel good about how I deal on a daily basis? Or maybe this guy is just easily flustered. I mean, she wasn’t even pulling out all the stops.

I could have forced her to do it, of course—held her down and threatened punishment if she didn’t stop whining, but the doctors have always seemed so unwilling to cause any trauma. I was following their lead. I am never sure what to do in these cases—I mean, do they really NEED to see the blue and yellow butterflies?

When he finally left the room, sweating bullets, I helped her get her sneakers on. I offered her one more try—ears for pies. She said resignedly, “Oh, ok,” and immediately tried to bargain for a new My Little Pony as well. (Request denied.) And then she did it for the nurse with only one or two squeaks. ARGH!

Wee One: At two years, 23.6 pounds and 32 inches. Biggie: At five years, 38 pounds and 42 ¾ inches.

Why Do I Try To Take Them Shopping?

Highlight of trip to Kmart: Wee One pulling down her pants in the cart and yelling “Me Poo Poo!” at the top of her lungs, with bare tushy in the middle of the party supply section. Run to bathroom; false alarm.

Highlight of trip to Wegmans, directly following: Same procedure, this time in canned goods. During whirlwind zoom through the store I keep saying, “Just hold it in, we’re almost there, wait until we get to the bathroom,” to which the Wee One keeps replying with her favorite new word, “Why? Why? Why?”

Upon return to the Quistilton Ranch, Wee One insists upon walking around the house with her pants around her ankles, eating a banana.

Why?

All Hail the Wee One!

I have mother-guilt because I don’t publish the sorts of obsessively detailed, isn’t-my-child-amazing posts about the Wee One as I did about the Biggie. But then I realize that it is her own fault, since her relentless quest for self-destruction is what keeps me from my keyboard. She is amazing in her own way, and for the sake of efficiency, let’s adopt a list format. Keep in mind that she will be two on Sunday, and is the size of many twelve-month-olds:

She can climb up (and down) the ladder of the bunk bed. (“Me kime buck bed!”)
Since she was 20 months old she has been, for all intents and purposes, potty trained.
She has a sixth sense regarding the location of any knives, scissors, open containers of liquid, and anything which could cause a stain. This is uncanny and applies to households other than our own.
She hangs and swings from perilous heights off the side of play structures, dropping herself to the ground below. The first time I saw this trick, I thought she was falling.

And so on.

I remember when we moved to Ithaca and first hit the local playground scene. I met a boy who was the same exact age as the Biggie (then dba Toddlerita). The Toddlerita and I watched him, she clutching my hand, as he clambered over the monkey bars, swooped down the slide, and generally kept himself elevated six feet in the air, in constant motion. I threw dirty looks in the direction of his neglectful mother, who was chatting calmly as her child hurtled about. Why wasn’t she spotting him? He could fall and break his neck! I gently supported the Toddlerita’s rear as she clutched the railing and took the steps one at a time up to the slide, which she would not go down. Ahh, remember those days?

Now I know why that woman was so unconcerned. I know that she was so far beyond being able to control his movement that she had come to terms with the sheer impossibility of the task, and had let go, attaining a zen-like state of mothering. She was not standing under him, holding her breath, because she knew that he probably wouldn’t fall—he was that good, that astoundingly coordinated. And I have a feeling that he was also a grocery cart stander, and a couch-to-coffee-table leaper. And that she, like me, probably smiled graciously at gaping passersby as her child squealed and flailed like an angry, acrobatic demon-pig whenever she DID try to restrain him.

Happy almost-birthday, my dear Wee One. I am posting this now because you are asleep, and lord knows when you will allow me to write again.

So it has happened: The Biggie has started kindergarten. I have such seesawing, ambivalent feelings on this subject. On the one hand, YEEHA! Less work! Less guilt about not responding to her every intellectual query! Etc, etc. On the other hand, YIKES! My baby is with relative strangers for thirty hours a week! My baby is riding, UNSEATBELTED, in a bus with twenty other screaming (and bigger) kids! What about her fear of imaginary violent play? What if she can’t get her overalls unstrapped when she has to go to the bathroom?

For the first two days, I put her on the bus, rode to the school to meet the bus and bring her to her classroom, and did the reverse at the end of the day. On the first day, the bus actually beat me home. Can you imagine that—me huffing and puffing with the Wee One behind me in the little bike seat, dying of humiliation when I was NOT THERE TO MEET MY CHILD OFF THE BUS ON HER VERY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. Many caring friends and relatives having convinced me that this is a sappy, ridiculous gesture, I put her on the bus this morning, stayed home, and am now waiting for her to arrive. She is ok with this, I think. I’m not sure if I am.

She has some concerns. She is worried that they are not learning anything—I think she thought she would already know how to read books by now. On Friday, when we were walking home (because she decided NOT to ride the bus that day), she started sniffling. Ah, here it is, I thought—the expected mental breakdown, the stress and trauma of it being just too much time away. “I missed you all day,” she said through tears. “I know, honey, is that why you’re crying?” I patted her on the back. “No—I’m crying because I can’t go back to school for two whole days!” She likes being so big, and buying chocolate milk at lunch (though I don’t think she drinks it). And she likes sitting at the peanut-free table with her allergic friend.

On the whole, I think it is a good thing, though we are all going through adjustments. The Wee One is having the worst time of all of us, I think—she’s just not used to being alone with boring old me. All day long, it’s “Me go, see Biggie at Biggie’s park!” (That’s what she calls the playground at school.) She calls for her as she falls asleep for her nap, and the first thing she says when she wakes up is “Biggie COME HOME!”

****************************************************************

So she comes home, and what’s the first thing she says? “Kindergarten is AWESOME! I want to ride the bus EVERY DAY!”

An era is over.

Kindergartner Question of the Day: "Which is more brave, bees or rain?"

There has been an appalling lack of quality updates lately, and I apologize. Much energy is going elsewhere—work, housework, travel, etc. But enough excuses!

The Biggie is preparing for kindergarten (she refers to herself as a “Kindergartner-in-Waiting”). We recently found out who her new teacher will be, and I am secretly thrilled that she happens to be the wife of a local unicycling juggler. How cool is that? The Big and I bought ALL the hippest size-5 stuff at one of our local consignment shops yesterday. I am pretty sure she will be the only kindergartner with a purple faux-snakeskin jacket.

The Wee One is mellowing with age, meaning she now frequently responds in words rather than screams and displays marginally acceptable behavior in public. She sat in the grocery cart all the way until checkout today (at which point she started using my body as a jungle gym—better me than the candy rack), and I only had to bribe her with a cookie and a bagel. Yeeha! We attended an absolutely lovely wedding this weekend and both of the kids had this strange, sweet glow about them. When they got tired they smiled and drooped on our shoulders, rather than whining and transforming into rabid, anti-social lemurs. The other kids there behaved amazingly as well. (Hmm, five kids, no tantrums despite it being naptime—was there something in the cake?) There were many adoring, childless young newlywed-types there, and I won’t be at all surprised if there is a fresh crop of babies in nine months or so.

Well, there is much more to report, but sadly, no time. I would at least like to send great big internet shout-outs to Jenn, Nicole and Amy—rock on, mama soul (and literal, at least for Jenn) sisters!

(Shhhh, do not tell anyone that I let the dog up on the couch with me. Or that I gave him a cold-pack cheese food-coated cracker.)

Not That I’m Complaining, But…

Why, exactly, do they give me the senior citizens’ discount at the Salvation Army?

OK, this definitely falls into the category of, Only the Parent of This Child Would Read This Entire Entry, but this is the closest thing I have to a baby book for her, and I’m saving this, damnit. Or dammit. Whichever you prefer. As far as I know, she has never actually seen the movie of The Little Mermaid, but she has read those wretched Disney storybooks and their “sequels”—hence the appearance of “Malady.” I have no idea from whence came the land snake/sea snake plot twist.

As quoted to the Husband of the Blog, verbatim:

“Ariel Gets Married to Prince Eric and They Decide That Mermaids and Humans Could Go On the Land”

Once upon a time there was a family of snakes and the mom and the baby were regular snakes but it was different because the dad and the sister and the brother were all water snakes and they loved the water. So the mom and the sister were blue and the brother was green and the baby was green and the dad was black, but they loved the sea but there was one problem with the sea, I mean the ocean. Well in the ocean there was lots of sharks, but it was very good actually because they actually liked sharks and their, one of their mermaid friends' (and they liked mermaids too) name was Ariel and but Ariel had a pet fish named Googa wooga toogle wooga was a yellow fish with black stripes and Googa wooga was very funny because he always went, "Googa tooga wwooga lita tita googa woooga tiga, googa wooga is my name." He always said that to Ariel and Ariel said, "What, what, what are you saying I can't understand you, why do you talk in such a silly voice." And the family of snakes, the momma didn't like this because the momma was a land snake and all of the others were water snakes, the only one that was a land snake was the momma.

And the momma was very very silly and because she was silly, because her parents were silly because they were silly, because their parents were silly because they were silly, because their parents were silly because they were silly, which was very very very very silly. And the mom lived in a cage of rocks, because she loved rocks and the sister lived in a cage filled with water, so did the brother and so did the dad, the dad had water that had rocks on the very very bottom and that was not very comfortable so he got a tiny bit of leaves so he put a tiny bit of water into it and he made it into a little cup and he got a piece of grass one day when he was walking on the land and he tied it around the leaves to make it shut so it would - pretend we were making the movie - so he decided to put a whole bunch of water and the kinds of food he liked to eat into there so it could be a bag of food and every single day he went out to make another one so he could survive and he did survive, but he always got tummy aches because he ate four every single day because they were so so so so good.

He really really needed to see Ariel, because it was very very very close to the day Ariel was going on a very long vacation because so he decided to take the kids on a special adventure to her house out in a big big pool of water to see her fish pet Inkle winkle dinkle tink tink wink dink tola and then she had a magical X-wing fighter that could float deep within the big ocean which was totally blue so the bad witch who had octopus legs could not see it and would think it was part of the sea and would swim right in front of it and get crashed by its big cannons and she would think the sea was shooting her, not a big ship. And she loved the way it had so many water cannons and torpedoes on it and it looked like a gigantic shark and she did not like sharks, but she liked sharks and the sea witch did not like sharks because they would eat her kids and she had a kid every single day that would always appear magically and the sharks would eat it because they were Ariel's friends and Arieal was trying to protect herself because she was a very very brave mermaid because she was very good at saving herself.

And the snakes loved this because it was so fun riding in an underwater X-wing fighter, but she didn't tell them that she was actually going on a boat and getting married to her boyfriend Prince Eric. She absolutely didn't tell them because it was very sad to them because they wouldn't see. They decided to be land snakes so they would see Ariel more. And so they on the day of Ariel's vacation she found a big blue boat where her boyfriend was and they decided to hide in it and they were turned into a person now because the bad sea witch gave her a potion to turn into a human because she thought that humans were bad, and she thought that humans would not kill her children and would take away sharks, but they wouldn't because they were afraid of sharks.

It's kinda hard to tell you this, but she was hoping to turn into a human, so she could marry Prince Eric so she got married and then months months later she had a baby and she just remembered that she was trying to name her Malady and Malady once went into the sea, but she too turned into a mermaid. So Ariel turned back into a mermaid and Malady turned back into a human so Ariel turned back into a human so they decided that some humans could go in the water and some humans could go on land and some mermaids and mermen could go in the water and some mermaids and mermens could go on the land.

The end.

Trying to follow instructions from the obliging Goddess of Clarity (thank you, madam!), I rooted around in my code for a while, but decided that what Quistilton really needed was a facelift. And republishing the blog with a new template just happened to fix the spacingness problem. So, voila! “What Free Time” and Shane will return soon; I need to find their links again.

I just finished the John Irving novel, all 820 pages of it. I didn’t start liking it until I was halfway through. Then I loved it, and could not stop reading—I was up until 5 this morning. (The kids got up at 5:30.)

Do you think I’m going to start the new Harry at this time of night? You betcha!

Things I Never Thought I Would Have To Say, Part One

“Get your foot out of your yogurt.”

“Stop licking your sister.”

“DO NOT EAT THE POOP!” (This to the dog, mercifully.)

It has finally happened. They are both sitting on the couch, reading the “American Girls” catalog that I didn’t manage to toss in the recycle before the Biggie snatched it. The Biggie is saying, “Do you like this one? Or this one? Or this one? Or this one?” and the Wee One is saying sullenly, “Mo. Mo. Mo. Mo.” But they are sitting calmly, together, while I hide over here and play on my little computer. If only I had that latte…(see the entry from July 10, 2003).


Murphy’s Law rules again…Immediately after I wrote that, the Wee One, naked except for striped socks, climbed into my lap and thrust her sticky fingers in my hair. Ahhh, popsicle season!

HELP! Does anyone know why my posts are coming up in this funny format, with the big spacing-ness?

Great Expectations

I am genetically incapable of waiting patiently. The night before I started kindergarten, I went to bed, only to rise and don my red corduroy knickers and Winnie-the-Pooh shoes, go downstairs and find that my parents had not yet gone to bed. It was 10:30 pm.

When I went to Disney World at the age of 6, I woke up in the hotel at 4:30, ate my little cardboard box of Sugar Smacks, and proceeded to perch on the end of my parents’ bed and wiggle until they had to get up and take me to the Magic Kingdom.

Needless to say, most of the Christmas presents in our house growing up had finger-pokes in the paper or mysteriously loose tape before December 25th.

And now, there’s a whole week of breathless anticipation ahead of me. I don’t enjoy breathless anticipation—I have asthma. John Irving’s new novel comes out today, but I have no way of getting to the store anytime soon. Harry Potter will be released on the 16th. Lisa, A and O of "What Free Time?" fame are arriving in only a few days. And Fishsuit’s baby is refusing to exit the womb.

Argh!

A Little Burst of Sunshine in the Nine-to-Five

I just love my job. I am paid not-insignificant wages to sit in my house, at my computer, searching the internet for interesting (at least to me) information. I can do it whenever I want, there are no real deadlines, and there is no commute. My dog is at my feet. My children are playing happily next door with their way-cool babysitter, and if one of them gets sick I can be there in thirty seconds. And the wardrobe? Jeans and flax, baby, jeans and flax.

What is weird about this? Many things. I took five years off, and assumed I would have to start from scratch, career- and reimbursement-wise. Instead, this company basically found ME, and gobbled up my hodge-podge resume with relish, saying I was perfectly suited for them. Each person I spoke with told me how excited they were to have me on board, and they offered me more than I made at my last job.

I am still in shock, waiting for the other shoe to drop and the bubble to burst. (“Oh, did we mention that you have to do all of this UNDERWATER, writing with your own BLOOD in SWAHILI?”) I was used to explaining and deemphasizing my flaky past--”Oh, well I didn’t really end up using that Classical Civilization major...” “The poetry award? Yeah, well, that was a different time.” And I didn’t even have to mention the utter dominance of my children over my career, free time, and workday. Almost all of my coworkers are women, moms, and most of us work in home offices while running households. I tell you, how much cooler has the world gotten?

At my most recent in a series of seemingly dead-end jobs, I worked evaluating the financial losses of folks who have been injured (hi, Bob and Heather!). While performing this work I came across a disturbing little nugget of information: a college-educated woman who takes time off to raise her family loses approximately one million dollars of earnings in her lifetime. That comes from taking time off for childbirth and childrearing, fewer and smaller raises because of the loss of professional experience, taking the lower-key positions which are more compatible with the demands of family, etc, etc. One million dollars!

But what is lovely, and circular, and contributes to my belief in a guiding higher power, is that the experience I gained at that job (which seemed so meaningless and frustrating at the time), is what landed me this lovely, rewarding, fantastic position which will certainly help make up for my million-smacker loss. So Bob, remember when you gave me that new, “senior” job title instead of the raise I expected, and I looked at you in disbelief and more than a smidge of anger?

Thanks.

Pediatric Conflict Resolution

Biggie: “Sit down for a minute, I want to talk to you.” (Wee One sits on the nearest available chair, which happens to be the potty. She pees.) “The dalmation puppy you’re holding is very special to me. Do you remember that I got it at the Salvation Army?” Wee One: “Mm-hmm!” Biggie: “And you know how special it is to me?” Wee One: “Mm-HMM!” Biggie: “So can I have it back now, please?” Wee One, standing and wielding the puppy in question: “MOPE!” (=”Nope!”)

And You Thought You Knew Me...

I am probably the only person in the universe who has both Dooce.com and Flylady.net on her bookmarks bar.

What A Long, Strange Trip It’s Been

Hi all, sorry so long without an update. Much has been happening in the land of Quistilton. The first no-blogging excuse was that I got a job. Yes! After five years of near-unemployment, I reentered the workforce with a vengeance, in high-powered suits and heels, running knock-down drag-out business meetings, putting in 12-hour days, the whole shebang.

OK, so I’m lying. I’m doing internet research and writing up reports in our dining room. The company has about fifty employees, primarily other ladies in home offices like myself. They don’t care how little I work each week, they’re funny and smart, they’re understanding of the demands of family, and needless to say it’s quite a raise in pay. I immediately went out and bought myself a work wardrobe made entirely of FLAX--now that excursion is a whole other blog unto itself.

Then I got some sort of unidentified dread disease which we’re calling the Dengue Fever. It started out with a dizzy, fevered weekend I spent in bed. Then weird spots started appearing on my body, and growing in a disturbing, flesh-eating-virus sort of way. One hideously swollen limb later, it morphed into migratory arthritis affecting almost all of my major joints. After a couple of office visits and ER stays, I came away with four conflicting diagnoses, prescriptions for two different antibiotics, steroids, and pain medication, and a strict, heartbreaking order--stop nursing the Wee One immediately.

If any of you has ever stopped nursing cold turkey after five and a half years of being pregnant, nursing, or both, then you’ll know what my beat-up bod has gone through for the past two weeks. Puberty was nothing compared to these hormonal windstorms. At one point I found myself breaking down on the phone with the garbage man because he fined us twenty dollars for putting out the recycle on the wrong day. I actually stooped to this: “Well (sniff) it’s entirely possible that I put it out on the wrong day (snuffle), as I have been in and out of the HOSPITAL lately.”

And the boobs. Don’t even mention the boobs. Let’s just say thank God for the Vicodin.

Of course, the Wee One was absolutely fine. I nursed her one more time before I went on the medication, and explained the situation to her. She was a little sad, and asked for it a few times, but generally went along her merry way. She does occasionally make me pretend to nurse her dolls. Oh, and last Friday she decided to potty train herself. She sat on the toilet in the morning, and asked to go every time she felt the urge. There was not a single wet or dirty diaper all day. All I can say is, I SO DESERVE THIS after my last indescribably hellish experience with the transition from diapers to toilet. The difference is so extreme. Last time, the then-Toddlerita would expound endlessly upon the reasons that she could neither wear diapers nor pee on the potty, using multiple descriptors and colorful language. The Wee One is so wee, and so relatively inarticulate, that she simply grabs her crotch a la Madonna and says “pu-pu” regardless of which body function she wants to perform. I have no idea where I am going to find such tiny underpants. No, I shouldn’t say that; Murphy’s Law with its accompanying Toileting Corollary will smite me. I have heard too many stories of early toileteers regressing on a whim and ending up back in diapers until they’re five. All I can say is, THANK YOU. This may be what finally cements my belief in a benevolent higher being, or at least karma.

What else is going on? The Husband is doing well, and the Biggie is diligently working on reducing her whining. We went to kindergarten screening, and she was in her element, performing for the teachers. The dog is growing exponentially, and mellowing as he leaves young puppyhood behind. This morning I found the Wee One walking through the kitchen with him, leading him by his TONGUE. It helps that he spends every day wrestling with the 90-pound Lab “puppy” who lives in the adjoining yard.

That’s about it on Planet Quistilton. A great big internet shout-out to my parents, who sped out here last weekend and saved the day, to the tireless Husband, who is on eternal kid duty while I sit with my useless legs up, and to all my family, friends and neighbors who are offering emotional support, babysitting and making us lovely food. Thank you!

Parenting Olympic Level Challenge: Maintain your place at the front of the line at the DMV for two hours and five minutes while simultaneously entertaining a hyperactive 18-month-old with a propensity for personal harm. You are armed only with a cell phone and a tube of chapstick. Cell phone may not be used to call for reinforcements.

Yesterday the Biggie acted out an elaborate story called “Crocus: The First Sign of Spring” starring two stuffed Peeps. It included, among other things, a skating lake of rainbow ice and a magical crocus garden which caused the Peeps to shrink down in size and then grow into giants, a la Alice in Wonderland. The Peeps were sent to us, along with real marshmallow Peeps, chocolate eggs (which I sneakily stashed in the pantry and have eaten almost all of), jelly beans, etc, etc, by the saintly Grandma Dubbidu, who knows I am forever and always a sugar addict. Hm--maybe she meant for the KIDS to have all that stuff.

The arrival of the package was honestly the most exciting thing to happen to us all week. We’re in the long, slogging, almost-spring time now. It seems like each new day MUST be when it’s going to happen--winter will truly be over! But then it starts to snow, or sleet, or the sky simply turns that soul-defeating gray I became so familiar with while living in Seattle. We’re ever-optimistic here in the hinterlands, though. I was driving down the street the other day, windows open with a warm breeze blowing in, soaking up the sunshine and feeling like a million bucks, when I passed one of those electronic thermometer signs. It was 38 degrees.

The dog is getting bigger, and no longer eliminates randomly throughout the house. The Wee One is becoming ever more dangerous and unpredictable in her movements. Her charm factor is increasing, however, as she adds new songs to her repertoire. (She currently performs “Where is Thumbkin?” “The Goodnight Song” and the opening notes of Beethoven’s Ninth, as well as unidentified succession of notes which is accompanied by a bottom wiggle and means, “Hey, I want that!”)

The Biggie has turned over a new leaf with the whining, i.e. it’s diminishing at last. The school board finally redistricted the elementary schools and we can tell her which one she’ll be starting at in the fall. Fortunately it’s the one with the most amazing playground on earth, complete with a miniature Cornell bell tower, awesome swings and ride-on dolphin sculptures. Because, you know, that’s what’s really important in an elementary school. Anyway, I digress, but it’s all pretty much digression, isn’t it?

Are there any brownies left in the cookie jar? Off I shuffle. Hope you all are well.

CUTE.

The man who Milo and I met at the park today told me all about his “pedigree Datsun.”

(Milo is the new pooch, by the way. See homepage for pic.)

Overheard on the Telephone This Morning

The four-year-old talking to her friend* Riley:

“We were quite concerned that my Po doll was in the attic, actually.”

* A few months ago, the Biggie said to me in a matter-of-fact manner, “Well, Riley told me that she hated me, so I don’t know if she wants to play anymore.”

It’s a Far Cry From “Footloose”

Did you know that Kenny Loggins had a kids’ CD out? The “Neverland Medley” is our new “put it on repeat so that mama gets five minutes to herself” theme.

Thank you Elaine!

I Am That Mother

I am that mother whose toddler stands up in the grocery cart. Give me all the evil glares you want--and then why don’t YOU try keeping her strapped in. Yes, I KNOW she can climb from the seat into the cart by herself. Believe it or not, I AM WATCHING HER.

I am that mother who, when her preschooler with the ear infection bursts into tears in the hair care aisle, gives in and lets her have the hairbands AND the barrettes AND the obnoxiously tiny, chokeworthy butterfly hair clips.

I am that mother whose snot-dripping toddler, shrieking with glee, redistributes the bottom two rows of cold and flu aids while the aforementioned ear infection sufferer screams that she will NOT share the headbands with her younger sister, NO!

And I am that mother whose prescription is rushed by the pharmacist so that she will get the hell out of there before her kids destroy the store.

Yep, that’s me. Happy RSV* season, everyone!


*RSV = Respiratory Syncytial Virus, the cold of choice of my children. It and its look-alike landed the Wee One in the hospital not once, but twice, last winter. The fact that she reacts so strongly to it (virtually everyone gets it, but not everyone's lungs crackle and pop like breakfast cereal when they have it) means she'll probably have asthma when she's older. Yeeha!

I'm Psychic (Though In My Family We Call It "Psycho")

“Look at that UPS truck! Maybe there’s a surprise package in it for me!” I swear I said this to the Husband of the Blog only yesterday, as I drove him up to the airport. “Ooh, or maybe there’s a package for me in THAT truck--or THAT one!” I love packages, and there has been a lot of crazymaking going on lately--maybe that's why I was having the idea that someone might send me a package out of nowhere.

So then, when we arrive home from the Wee One’s doc appointment (cast all gone, yeeha!), what is there waiting on the doorstep? A SURPRISE PACKAGE. Containing the TWO BEST surprise package ingredients EVER--chocolate and coffee.

Thank you, Ms. Lisa. You are indeed a good, good friend!

Why I Am Never, Ever Going Outside With Them Again. At Least Not Until It Stops Snowing. Which Will Be In May.

This morning I hit upon the idea that we should get out, out of the stuffy house, out into the lovely beautiful snowbrushed landscape. Kids like snow, right? Kids want to play in the snow. I shouldn’t deprive my kids of that simple pleasure. So it’s decided, then. We’re going out in the snow!

I made that foolhardy decision at 9:19 this morning. We actually stepped out the door at 10:05. The preceding 46 minutes were spent locating coats, snow pants, mittens, hats, frog boots, frog boot liners, blankets and the sled, then wrapping the Wee One’s cast (don’t ask) in plastic bags and large socks, maneuvering both kids into previously mentioned snow gear, listening to them gritch about the heat while I tried to find MY snow gear, stuffing cookies and water and overdue Teletubbies videos into my backpack, securing the Wee One in her sled and squeezing out through the mudroom all at once because the Biggie was suddenly too shy to leave my hip and walk out one foot ahead.

We then commenced on the four-block walk to the library, a trip which would normally take a brisk walker like myself seven minutes, tops. Our first stop was 35 feet from the front door, when the Biggie had to kick snow into the creek from the bridge. This is good, I thought, this is the playing in snow type of stuff I was thinking about. We went one block, and then she had to sit in a snowdrift and take a drink of water to “give her legs engerny.” Half a block further, and we dallied by a bush while she dug through the snowy envelope to create a soft, soft bird’s nest. “I am making it extra-soft for the little birds, Mama!” Never mind that all the little birds are sipping Shirley Temples in Florida right now.

Then came the spike in the foot. “Oh, there is a spike in my foot!” she cried and dropped into a snowdrift. Off came the boot and sock, which were each carefully inspected by the chief spike-remover and found to contain no sharp objects. Back on went the sock, tucked carefully into the snow pants and topped by the boot. Upon standing and shuffling forward, “OW! Spike in there!” She took them off again, foot naked in the 16-degree air. Another inspection. Another redonning. Another shuffling. Another removal. Another inspection. Another redonning. Another shuffling. Another removal. This time the spike was on the side. “Can you just walk on the bottom of your foot so the spike doesn’t hurt you?” NO. Off again, inspected again, still nothing found, but this time the spike mysteriously disappeared. I suspect it’s because the chief spike-remover energetically threatened to turn around and go back home again.

By this time, we were nearly two blocks from home. Thirty minutes had passed. The Wee One, immobilized in her sled, was starting to turn a beety shade of pink. At regular thirty-second intervals she was shrieking that shriek of unhappiness, the ear-melting shriek that makes me want to fill her prescription for Tylenol with codeine over and over again. I tried to speed up, but this caused massive outbursts of whining: “You are going too fast! You are going to lose me! STOP! WAIT FOR ME!” Copious tears. Have I mentioned the exponential increase in whining activity lately? How it starts in the morning, gathers momentum in the afternoon, peaks before dinner and ceases only when she starts snoring? (“Ah, this is what three is like,” her teacher says in a knowing way. Um, well she’s FOUR, but I’m sure there’s a nice, pat, unchangeable explanation for it at that age, too.)

Somehow I hustled them over the last two blocks to the welcoming entrance of the library, where we ditched the sled, two layers and the whining, for the moment. Total time elapsed: 52 minutes.

Do NOT ask how we got home.

“Mama, do you want to know what makes a baby in the mama’s belly?” “Sure.” (I’ve dealt with this before--see the entry for August 25, 2003.) “A little bit of love on a little honeymoon.”

This is what happens when you allow your child to listen to country music. We have the Husband of the Blog to thank for this, NOT ME. He has them trouping about to the melodies of Alan Jackson and his ilk. Not that I ever listen to it, no. It’s not like I have the lyrics to “Livin’ on Love” and “Drive” memorized, no way!