Since we have spent all of our money (as well as a lot of money we don’t have) on buying and renovating our house, we are incorporating a “shabby chic” decorating scheme. Unfortunately the Big One has declared that she doesn’t like going to the “Salivation Army.” Also, she has requested that we not say “dammit, shoot or darnit” when we are riding in the car.

“I am sick, Mama, because I am coughing and sneezing and burping and spitting bad-tasting things out of my mouth. For all of those reasons, I am sick and cannot go to school.”

Theoretically, you can now post comments on the blog. I don't know if it's working yet--I have to post a new post to see.

My Girly Girl

I could charitably be described as a tomboy. I wear jeans and sneakers whenever possible, shave my legs semi-annually, and last bought makeup in 1996. I totter on my sole pair of heels, which measure in at a whopping 3/4 of an inch high. It’s not that I have an ideological problem with the trappings of femininity--I simply avoid them, because they scare me. Whenever I find myself cornered in a perfumed temple of womanhood such as a hair salon, my palms sweat, my pulse races and my thoughts are reduced to elemental, animalistic fight-or-flight reactions.

So of course I have given birth to the girliest of girls.

She kicks off her jeans and begs for dresses and tights. She lobbied for ballet slippers for two weeks, and had a tantrum when I wouldn’t buy her a white dress for her pretend wedding. Her favorite cartoon characters are Disney’s Princesses, who as far as I can tell have the free will and initiative of gnats. When I broke down and bought her pink lip gloss, she covered her entire face with the stuff and spent the next hour analyzing herself in the bathroom mirror.

The problem came to a head for me today when I had to call a friend to ask her if I was allowed to wear a blue shirt with a black skirt. (Let me remind you that I am THIRTY YEARS OLD.) It looked ok to me, but I was vaguely aware of some sort of blue and black rule. Aren’t I not supposed to wear blue with black? I had a friend in Seattle who thought I was clueless because I didn’t match my socks to my shirt. Where did she learn that? Did they teach us in school and I just missed it, the way I never learned fractions because I was reading “Ramona” books under my desk in Mrs. Geary’s class?

I don’t think so. I think that I, being female, am supposed to have some deep, genetically based understanding of the rules of clothing, facepainting and general self-decoration. The problem is, I DON’T. So what am I going to do when she asks me how to pluck her eyebrows, or what the difference is between “matching” and “going with”? I have spent some serious insomniatic musing time on this subject. I am prepared to take a course, or bring in outside consultants.

“I really AM sick, as you can tell because I am coughing and burping. I CAN’T go to school.”

Did You Know...

That volcanoes don’t explode, they “interrupt”?

I convinced two other women to do the triathlon with me. They each have two kids, too. The times we’ve gone running, it’s as if we’re sailors on shore leave. An hour away from the kids, the messy house, the neverending chores! We sail through the woods, bounding and laughing, giddy with freedom. None of us has any idea how we’re going to fit in biking and swimming, but I don’t think anyone cares. The point is really just to try.

When I went out to get the paper this morning, one of my co-conspirators was talking to a neighbor, a woman with three kids. “Hey, I’m gonna do it!” she yelled across to me. Yeeha! We need a cool name or something, we triathloning mamas!

We stopped by the new house yesterday to say hi to the owners, who were having a garage sale. The kind woman wanted to give us a purple glass ornament. “Don’t give it to the little girl,” her husband said. “It might shatter in her hands.” We thanked them and walked away. I held my breath as the kid contemplated this.

“I am not little,” she began. “The man said I was little.” “You are clearly not little,” I replied, hedging, “He only thought you were little because he, compared to you, is enormous.” “I am enormous,” she said. “No, you are not enormous. You are a big girl, but to grownups you look small.” “I AM enormous! Look at my body!” cried the 38-inch-tall, 32-pound kid.

It’s a Miracle I Have Teeth

I have been a dedicated drinker of Coca-Cola for years, ever since I was a freshman in high school. Come to think of it, that was the last year I ever grew. HM.

I have never given much thought to what was in that little red can. Caffeine, caramel coloring, bubbles, it’s pretty simple, right? Oh yeah, and some sugar. “Some.”

Do you know how much sugar there is in a can of Coke? 39 grams. It says so right there on the side of the can. Have you ever MEASURED 39 grams of sugar? It’s more than a THIRD OF A CUP. IN ONE CAN. I, who regularly halve the amount of sugar that’s called for in the baked goods I lovingly prepare for my child, have been hypocritically consuming this super-saturated sugar solution in front of her very nose!

When it comes right down to it, I must say that I enjoy my teeth, and would like to keep them. So I’m going to give it up. Yep, no more liquid candy. No more mid-morning carbonated lift. No more sweet “ka-shwack” of the opening can. Farewell, sweet friend, farewell.

TRIATHLBLOG

If you were the mom of two young children, one of whom requires your physical presence in order to fall asleep three times each day, you would decide to DO A TRIATHLON, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s not like training to swim half a mile, bike 14 miles, and run three miles in under two hours would require an extensive time commitment or anything. It’s not like my flimsy joints are still recovering from the rigors of pregnancy. It’s not like my chief support person is trying to work, finish school and start a company, giving him zero extra time to provide childcare. No, I think this is a wise decision.

I have done a triathlon before. Of course, during the swim portion, I was moving so slowly and haphazardly that the rescue crew asked if I needed a lift into one of their canoes. I was actually doggy-paddling. Once I got out of the water I did ok, though, and crossing that finish line was one of the defining moments of my life. I had completed something difficult, reached a goal. That sense of accomplishment is something one rarely feels as a parent. Sure, you are constantly working to raise your kids to the best of your ability, but you never finish anything. There is no point in time when you sit, pat yourself on the back, and say, “great job.” (While you did that, your preschooler would surely strip down and paint her body green.) And that is one of the most frustrating aspects of parenthood for me, a former goal-setting, checklist queen. I just want to finish a task. Hence, the triathlon.

The Wee One is now officially mobile, though not in any traditional crawly way. She pushes up on her hands, raises her back legs, and pivots on her belly. Then she either rolls over and over or pushes herself backward until she finds something, or somewhere, that’s interesting. I left the room for thirty seconds today and came back to find her under the couch, gnawing on one of its legs.

Also in Wee One news: She’s eating rice cereal and yams. We use the two-spoon method, wherein she seizes one food-filled spoon from us, shoves it into her mouth, spits out half the food, and throws the spoon to the floor. We then hand her another spoon, and she repeats the performance while we retrieve the first spoon.

She’s not a little baby anymore, a fact which makes me misty-eyed until I realize I’m that much closer to the point when I can expect to sleep for more than three hours at a stretch, or make it through the day without someone shoving their fingers up my nose. Ahh, these are the days!

"I'm just following orders, sir."

Y'all film-minded folk, go to Dierdorf's blog! Fishsuit! Posthaste!

Scott's "wicked cool" film festival, Stockstock, is gearing up for another run, and I am shamelessly plugging it. You can enter, I could enter if I still had a brain (and a lot of film-making equipment, experience, etc), it's the film festival for the masses. Go check it out!

Sobering Realization of the Day: I have now been out of the “work force” for as long as I was in it.

From the Mindworks Division:

“Mom, thinking is like a morning dream.”

Mom of Two Part...Three? It Feels Like Nine Thousand.

We are rockin’ today. Doing laundry. Doing dishes. Meal planning. Grocery shopping. IRONING, for God’s sake. We are the CEO of the home. We are an efficient homemaking machine. Yeeha! But then the migraine fairy, who is always sitting on our left shoulder, starts to cackle. Hee, hee, HEE.

It starts when I am on the phone, because it always starts when I am on the phone. I should blow up the phone, and then maybe these things wouldn’t happen. I step in to the Kidderito’s room with some laundry and am hit by a wall of...smell. Yes, it’s that smell. The smell that every parent dreads. The smell of the potty-training child taking things, literally, into her own hands.

I hang up the damn phone. Trudge downstairs, take sweet child’s face into hands, ask gently, “Is there something you forgot to tell me?” “Um...no?” “Are you sure?” “Um, did I poop?” “Yes, you did.” We march up the stairs with rags and cleaner. “Look, I used two pull-ups, one for each poop! And I cleaned my own self up!” Sigh. Scrub, scrub, scrub. “Mama, you did a good job of cleaning that mess!” Thank you, dear, polite child of mine.

I foolishly get back on the phone. Yak yak, hi Mom, how do you make mashed potatoes? The bathroom door slams. This is always a bad sign. I open the door and see my darling child, who now has tomato-red hands, surreptitiously trying to wash them. Sigh. The wee one starts screaming her I-am-stuck-under-the-LaZBoy scream and I run. There is nothing obvious wrong. Nurse nurse nurse, change diaper, put her down, she’s still screaming. Sling her onto hip, head back to the bathroom. “I washed my hands, Mama!” She dances into the kitchen, and when I turn to go, there I see...a wall of red handprints. “Um, sweetie, is there something else you forgot to tell me?” She gives me a genuinely quizzical look. “No?” Shaking of small brown head. “Did you do some art?” “Oh, I made some handprints!” “You know what, sweetie, that is NOT OK.” “I’m sorry Mama. Will you clean it up?” “No, YOU are going to clean it up.” More rags, more cleaner. “Mama, are you going to still be grumpy when I am done cleaning?” Grrr.

OK, so the Husband of the Blog has pointed out that if number nine in the previous list were really true, then really, number ten should be to eat MORE broccoli. I’m sure the blogging world was afire with that debate.

For the Novices Out There: 10 Ways to Make a Baby Happy

1. Let her chew on your face.
2. Leave her bare-butt. (It is just pee-pee. You might as well get used to it.)
3. Hold the kitty down so she can rip out fistfuls of her fur.
4. Let her hold you down and rip out fistfuls of your hair.
5. Disappear and reappear multiple times, preferably making a nonsensical exclamation (e.g. “Boogedy!”) upon reappearance.
6. Throw her in the air repeatedly until she spits up in your mouth.
7. Walk, walk, walk. DO NOT SIT, EVER! YOU WILL BE PUNISHED!
8. Cure-all: The Change of Pace. If you are inside, go out. If you are outside, go in. If she is dry, jump in the shower. You get the picture.
9. Visibly and audibly share her enthusiasm for her toots.
10. Speaking of which (this one is just for the moo-cow): Do not eat too much broccoli.

You're welcome.

In the Parental Twilight Zone (aka the "Is This MY Kid?" Dept.)

Me: “I think we should have some pink ice cream.” Kid: “No, I don’t want any ice cream. It’s time for me to go to bed.”

The wee one is happy all the time, like someone is always telling her jokes. She makes little yodeling sounds at her feet when you leave her by herself, and then when you come back into her field of vision she greets you enthusiastically with rapid, staccato coos. This is what we call her “baby story.” “The cat licked my head! The rug tastes good! I got half of my foot in my mouth!” She’s trying to sit up now, and when I hold her on my lap she rocks furiously back and forth, like I’m a mechanical bull.

I have visited Home Depot’s web site approximately one thousand times since our offer was accepted. Visions of red granite countertops and frosted glass cabinet fronts dance through my dreams.

We did it! We bought the house in the hand, yeeha! Of course it’s all dependent upon the inspection, major structural defects, blar-dee-blar-blar. I am already envisioning myself retiling the kitchen backsplash. Yikes, I know what a backsplash is. Does this mean I’m a grownup now?

Oh, and in case you’re wondering why your kid needs to leave all three lights on in her room when she trundles into your bed at 3:30 am, it’s because if she doesn’t, all of her toys will shrink and disappear.