A Day in the Life, 5 years ago

I can't believe I'm actually posting this on the world wide web. Five years ago today, I kept a detailed log of my day. It's a testament to my scatterbrained ways, my lack of a routine, and my lack of housekeeping skills. No big suprises there, huh? It's embarassing, but what's new? It's also boring and I'm sure you have better things to do with your time than read it. No really, come on... Go turn on some educational TV or go for a walk already! If you insist on reading it, then suit yourself. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Since 2003, I've had February 19 marked on my electronic calendar every year thinking I'd do another "day in the life" to see how our lives have changed, but I've never gotten around to it. I'm finally attempting it today. I doubt it can be too much more embarassing than the one from 5 years ago so I'll probably post it one of these days.

By the way, the pictures below weren't necessarily taken that day. I just picked a few from the month.

Thursday, February 21, 2003

The other day, Scott suggested that I keep a log of everything I do so I can find a better, faster way of doing things and put together a schedule. This, of course, made me want to kill him with my bare hands. It was in the midst of a discussion about how he doesn’t understand how I can be tired because I should just be taking naps every day. When I said I didn’t have time, he said of course I did. The nerve! No doubt he thinks I spend my days lounging on the sofa. How does he expect me to keep to a schedule with a 5-month-old baby around?

What upset me even more was that I really thought I’d been doing a great job, trying a new recipe or two every week and keeping the house cleaner than it ever has been. Since I’ve been on leave, I've decided that I should look at this as a job. So in addition to taking care of Amanda, I figure I should make an effort to keep the house relatively clean and make dinner on a regular, well at least semi-regular basis.

I’ve even been patiently working my way through Scott's list of complaints. Actually I’ve worked my way through almost the entire house wondering if his list will ever end but even he admits it never will. The house could be pristine and he would be saying, “Is that a speck of dust under the refrigerator?” He insists there is always room for improvement. I insist that perfection is not my goal and never will be. I want it to be clean enough, but I really don’t care if the cabinets are perfect. I’d rather spend time with Amanda than spend time organizing the bathroom.

Anyway, so like I said, his suggestion ticked me off, but still, I thought the idea of keeping a log might have some validity. Of course I would never tell him that, but the truth is that often the hours do seem to run together. I get to the end of the day and think I haven’t accomplished anything. Sometimes it feels like all I do is feed Amanda, change her, bathe her, etc. So I thought it might be interesting to keep track of where the hours actually go. Humiliating as it is, it might be fun for Amanda to read someday. I just have to hope that Scott never gets a hold of it.

Wednesday, February 19, 2003

8:15am Breast-feed Amanda, change diaper. Do dishes from the night before. Take recycling outside, spray new bleach spray on sink and countertop stains and straighten up living room.

9:15 Amanda falls asleep. Turn on computer and the Dr. Phil show in living room.

9:17 Pause Dr. Phil to search for camera battery charger. Check diaper bag in Amanda’s room…nope… check duffle bag in your room that hasn’t been unpacked from last week’s trip to Monterey/Irvine. Work quietly so you don’t wake Amanda. Discover baby bottles, pacifiers, a box of wheat thins and the battery charger. Plug in battery on way to kitchen with other stuff. Admire how sink is sparkling. Bleach is miraculous! Decide to try bleach on guest bathroom sink. Want to spray shower in your bathroom but don’t want fumes to kill baby who is sleeping peacefully in your bed.

9:26 Unpause Dr. Phil, restart computer because Internet connection isn’t working.

9:35 Decide to work on eBay stuff. Start looking through one of the huge tubs of cameras and become overwhelmed at the confusion of it. Go to bathroom. Stop to admire the way brown gunk behind faucet has started to disappear, spray with more bleach.

9:36 Amanda is awake. Decide immediately that there is no way she is going back to sleep. She is too wide-awake, happily playing with her toes. Snuggle for a while, discuss your plans for the day, play silly games with her and then carry her to living room, put her on blanket surrounded by toys. Return to bedroom where you clean puddle of spit-up off carpet. Feel relieved that she managed to miss her clothing and yours. Return to bathroom and search for old toothbrush to scrub behind faucet. Feel horrified at the amount of gunk behind faucet. Wonder if mother-in-law has noticed. Realize that you may have never cleaned this spot since moving into house 3 years ago. Wonder why you care. Turn on fan because perhaps bleach fumes are causing permanent brain damage. Refill liquid soap. Check on baby and then go to your bathroom and spray down shower with bleach. Feel annoyed about it because Scott asked you to spray the shower when he spotted you with the bleach earlier. Decide you should feel grateful that he usually cleans the shower since you hate it so much. Return to kitchen to put bleach away. Check for gunk behind faucet. None there but notice that in comparison to sparkling sink, stovetop looks really gross. Spray generously with scrubbing bubbles bathroom cleaner. Realize with complete relief that you are probably not turning into obsessive housewife, but rather that you are procrastinating on the eBay stuff. Check on baby who is happily eating giraffe. Scrub down stovetop and vow to put away bleach for the rest of day.

9:50 Attempt to feed Amanda oatmeal for the first time. Hope she likes it better than rice cereal. She doesn’t. As you try to feed her, she tries to eat her bib, her chair, her hand, your hand, everything but her cereal. She flatly refuses to eat any cereal. Try some of it yourself to see if it’s really all that bad. After all, she was right about the baby cough medicine. After telling her over and over that it was cherry-flavored and yummy, yummy, yummy, you tried it yourself to discover that it truly was nasty. The oatmeal is really not bad though. Definitely edible, though you wouldn’t eat it yourself. But someone like Amanda, who would eat her Daddy’s shoes if you allowed her, should really enjoy it, you’d think. Finally you give up. Wash as much as you can off of her face and hands, give her a pacifier and then clean the oatmeal off her chair, the floor, and the side of your hutch. Cuddle with her on the couch for a bit. Notice that her nails are getting really long again already. Didn’t you just clip them yesterday? Go in search of clippers. To keep her entertained, let her rip out handfuls of your hair with one hand while you clip the nails on her other.

10:20 Hear instant message warning. Put Amanda on blanket with toys and start chatting with Cara. When Amanda fusses, comfort her. Play with her a bit while continuing to chat. Discuss the best place to buy jeans, Valentine’s Day, Bryan’s new girlfriend.

10:50 Amanda falls asleep on blanket next to you. Remember you need to thaw chicken for dinner. Realize that rather than skinless boneless chicken breasts, you bought split chicken breast with ribs. Get confused about how many you need for your recipe. Put chicken back in freezer and return to living room to continue instant messaging Cara. Talk about her relationship problems, dating, and her shriveling ovaries. (Click here for up-to-date information related to Cara's ovaries.)

11:20 Amanda wakes up. Change diaper and put her in her gymini. Jiggle toys around in hopes of keeping her entertained for a bit. When that doesn’t work, take off her socks so she can play with her toes. Feel surge of pride when she manages to get them into her mouth. Praise her like crazy and then picture yourself getting a phone call from her fourth-grade teacher saying, “She’s been eating her toes in class again.” Decide to cut back on the praise a bit.

11:40 Stop chatting with Cara and give Amanda your full focus. Hear non-lady-like noises coming from diaper region. Decide it’s a good time for the two of you to take a shower. Gather her stuff: clean blanket, clothes, diaper, wipes, towel.

12:00pm Move Amanda into her crib. Turn on aquarium, wind up mobile, and go take a shower. Truly enjoy first two minutes and then wonder if Amanda is okay. Think about article Scott emailed you recently where a new mother asked if it was okay to take a 5-minute shower, leaving infant alone and know-it-all nurse practitioner with 20+ years of experience and probably no children of her own says that under no circumstances should you EVER leave your child alone, that you should take showers when someone is there to watch the baby and if that is not possible, say perhaps you’re a single mother with no friends and the stench from your unwashed pits begins to threaten the health of your baby, then and only then, should you risk taking a shower and then you should only do it if you can bring the baby into the bathroom with you or leave her right outside the door where you can see her at all times. Guess that this same nurse practitioner would be completely opposed to the idea of letting your baby sleep in bed with you because of the possibility that you might crush her in her sleep or at the very least, destroy her emotionally. Yes, much better to let her sleep down the hall in her own crib all night, as long as you don’t take a shower during that time.

12:09 Grab your robe and return to Amanda’s room to discover that, thank God, she has survived yet another one of your showers. She not only survived, but she is in fact squealing happily. Undress her while singing the naked baby song and then swoop her off to the your bathroom where you both do the naked baby dance in front of the mirror. Reassure yourself that she is laughing because she is having fun, not because she thinks you look funny naked. Get into the shower with her and sit cross-legged on floor with her in your lap. Begin washing baby as you sing a delightful medley of shower tunes. Vow once again to look up the words to “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair”. When she happily sticks out her tongue every time the shower sprayer gets near her face, let her drink a tiny bit of water, vowing that nobody needs to know. Wrap her in her towel and whisk her onto your bed where you wrap a warm blanket around her and run back for your robe. Get her dressed and as you do, remember that the chicken for tonight’s dinner is still in the freezer. Put Amanda in her ultrasaucer. Play with her for a minute and then return to kitchen where you spend several minutes trying to decide how much of the chicken you should thaw. Decide that this is why you don’t cook more often. It’s too complicated. Call Mom. Have long conversation about frozen chicken. Decide she’s probably right and then disregard her advice anyway. Put some chicken in the fridge to thaw. Admire sparkling sink again. Eat a banana and then a can of slimfast. Feel bad about horrible eating habits. Comfort yourself with a Reeses peanut butter cup or three.

1:00 Breastfeed Amanda. Clean spit-up off the front of her clean outfit. Move her back to gymini. Throw a load of whites into the washing machine. Turn off the Dr. Phil show, which has been paused since this morning, and turn on some music in hopes of stimulating Amanda’s brain. And yours.

1:50 She’s asleep again! Move her to crib. Remember that you’ve only had one cup of coffee today and you’re allowed two. Go to kitchen to pour coffee and wonder if someday they will determine that even two cups of coffee while breastfeeding will stunt her growth or lower her IQ. Use coffee to wash down prenatal vitamin and feel much better. Finally check email for the first time today. Get email from Darin asking if she’s done something to offend you. Assume it’s been way too long since you’ve talked to her, because she’s not the overly sensitive type. Wish she would get instant messaging. Write her a long, chatty email.

2:20 Amanda is awake and crying. Decide to change her diaper whether it needs it or not. Stand her up on her changing table holding her under her arms and watch as she does this new thing where she swivels her hips around and round. Wish you had a teeny baby hoola-hoop. Consider this may be her secret hidden talent and that you should do everything you can to cultivate it. Okay, not really.

2:45 Hear the mailman come and realize that you can’t go outside to get the mail because you’re still wearing your purple bathrobe and your hair has dried in the most unattractive way. Put Amanda down for some tummy-time and go to your room to get dressed. Try to remember how much time she has spent on her tummy today. Remember that Scott had her on her belly for a while in bed this morning. Think that with you as her Mommy, this child may never crawl. Suddenly picture her as a fifty-year-old immobile woman still laying on a blanket on your living room floor. Shudder at the image. Hear her crying in the other room. She hates tummy-time. Resist your urge to rescue too soon and finish getting dressed. Check on her again and notice that she is now playing happily. Return to bedroom. Make bed quickly and retrieve dirty diaper you left there earlier. Drop it in the diaper genie and hear Amanda getting fussy again. Return to living room. Feel startled to see her new stacking toy sitting next to her. You can’t remember putting it there. Wonder for a second if she waited for you to turn your back so she could run to her room and get her toy just to screw with you. Scoop her up and take her back to your room where you dance in front of the mirror until you’re exhausted. This is a guaranteed laugh for both of you. Put her on your bed and attempt to do something with your hair, nothing fancy, but just enough so you don’t scare the neighbors. Amanda starts whining, a habit she’s picked up only recently. Feel it grating on your nerves almost immediately. Wonder why whining bothers you so much when few things do. Decide it might be because it reminds you a bit of her father. Try propping her up on a pillow so she can watch you and see herself in the mirror. When that fails to stop the whining try singing whatever song comes to mind...”Just a spoonful of sugar” and then the theme song to “Green Acres”. Carry Amanda outside to get the mail. Feel minor disappointment over today’s mail selection, which is mainly junk except for a baby magazine that you only noticed recently focuses completely on the age your baby is. Vow to read this issue, which is all about your 5-month-old, before she is a 6-month-old. Shove it under the coffee table where you most certainly will forget all about it. Remember load of clothes in washer. Move to dryer.

3:45 Another instant message from Cara. She asks what you’re doing this evening and if you plan on watching The Bachelorette. Tonight’s the finale. Of course you’re watching it, you admit, shamefully. She wants to know if she can come over and offers to bring the makings for tacos. She’ll be here at 5:30. Chicken cancelled until further notice.

4:02 Straighten up living room. Drag the two huge two tubfuls of eBay cameras into Scott’s office. Put Amanda in her ultrasuaucer so she can watch you vacuum. Feel grateful the house is so clean. Doubt that Cara will notice your sparkling sink. Call Scott to tell him about your new dinner plans. He says, “I thought you were gonna make that chicken thing. I’m not really hungry. I had a big burrito for lunch.” Tell him you’ll make the chicken thing tomorrow and ask in a slightly annoyed tone if he intentionally had a big lunch because he knew you were cooking.

5:00 Breastfeed Amanda. Realize with disgust that you forgot to put breastpads in your bra, and as you feed her with your left boob, a large wet spot is growing on the front of your right. Curse your boobs. When will they ever learn? According to the breastfeeding book, it’s normal at first for one to leak while you’re feeding with the other. Maybe your boobs assume you have twins. But eventually your boobs are supposed to figure out that you’re only using one at a time and start behaving. Well it’s been over 5 months now. Perhaps your boobs are slow-learners, just like you, who can’t seem to remember the stupid breast pads after 5 months. HATE the new game Amanda has started playing with your nipple. She keeps her jaw clenched tightly on it and then quickly turns her head away from you while you can only watch in horror as your nipple stretches to a completely unnatural length. Tell her as sweetly as you can that if she tears off Mommy’s nipple, Mommy is not going to feed her anymore. Watch as she repeats game. And just think, it was so cute a couple of days ago when she played the same game with her pacifier. Holding her jaw shut and yanking the pacifier quickly out of her mouth so that it made a loud “POP”. It was so adorable that you and Scott cheered her on as she did it over and over again, not considering that she would later be using you as the pacifier and the loud pop would be replaced with a loud, “OUCH!”

5:20 Change wet bra and shirt and Amanda’s diaper.

5:35 Cara arrives. Put away food while she plays with Amanda. She says that her mom told her about every single moment of her trip with you to Monterey & Irvine. Including the parts Cara thought she might leave out, like her little panic attack when she couldn’t calm Amanda down when you and Scott went to a dinner party in Monterey and about how she puked in the car on the drive to Irvine. Apparently her mom said she understands you better now. You immediately start over-analyzing this statement. Assume it means something negative. You didn’t know she didn’t understand you before. Picture your mother-in-law with a confused expression on her face saying, “I just don’t understand her...” Wonder what on earth it was you did during your week together that made her understand you better. Picture your mother-in-law observing you with that same confused expression and then suddenly hear her saying, “OHHHhhhhhhh…it’s all starting to make sense now.” Ask Cara if she has any idea what on earth her mom was talking about and she says no, she was just really glad she’d gone. Said she felt like she’d really bonded with you. Oh. Bonded. Consider for a moment that perhaps when she said she understood you better she meant it in a good way. Nah. Decide to analyze every move you made later on.

6:00 You make dinner, well really, she makes dinner while you run around locating items for her and helping occasionally, well not much at all actually.

6:30 Leave dinner warming while waiting for Scott to return from his cat-sitting job at Ravi’s.

7:00 Amanda starts acting cranky. Her “mommy is about to eat” sensor is working just fine. Notice she’s rubbing her eyes. Lay her down in her crib and cross your fingers. Miraculously, she falls asleep instantly. She must be on her best behavior for Auntie Cara’s benefit. You eat dinner while watching the Bachelorette, a show where one single woman chooses the man she wants to marry from 25 single men. The fact that you watch the show is rather humiliating so, of course, it’s more fun to suffer this kind of humiliation with someone else. You all make fun of the bachelorette and the bachelors. You actually cry at the part where one of the final two bachelors asks for the bachelorette’s father’s permission to marry her if it comes to that. Your mother-in-law calls partway through the show to find out how her grandbaby is doing and to say how much she enjoyed the trip. She’s grateful you asked her to go with you. Says she feels like she got a chance to get to know you better and to spend quality time with Amanda. You decide not to bother analyzing the “understand her better” line from earlier. Pretty sure she meant it in a good way. She talks to Scott and then Cara while you do the dishes and clean the kitchen.

8:30 Amanda wakes up and you finally continue watching the Bachelorette. Scott talks endlessly through most of it and when it gets to the end where the bachelorette finally tells the guy she’s chosen him (and of course she completely shocks everyone by not choosing the guy we expected), Scott will NOT shut up. The bachelorette launches into this speech about how she’s dreamed about this day since she was a little girl, and Scott starts retching. You tell him not to wreck your moment, you get so little romance in your life as it is, but he can’t help himself. You threaten to rewind every time he opens his mouth and soon all of you - yes even you - are gagging at her sappy sweet speech which includes something like: “I see a future of dreams come true, I see smiles and laughter, I see babies and grandbabies, I see comfort and safety, I see a white dress...” You are getting to know this speech well because you rewind it many times as Scott continues to pretend to be all choked up saying stuff like, “I see smiles and puppies and dresses and more puppies… I see trees and clouds and smiles and babies and laughing puppies...” Though you want to kill him, it is rather amusing.

9:00 Cara leaves. You make yourself a cup of hot chocolate and a pot of coffee for tomorrow. Amanda starts getting fussy. It’s bedtime and she’s hungry and you know you have a very limited amount of time before she starts screaming. You change her diaper and put on her jammies. The bad news: Scott wants to try feeding her oatmeal. Try to convince him it won’t work, she’s too far gone: too hungry, too cranky, crying already, not to mention she HATES oatmeal, but he insists.

9:30 She SCREAMS as he tries to feed her, but he just keeps trying. You hate to discourage him from what might be the right thing to do, so you go along with him encouraging her to eat. He finally realizes it’s not working. You wash her face, her hands and the wall, then take her to bed and breastfeed her until she falls asleep.

10:20pm You suddenly remember the load of laundry is still sitting in the dryer wrinkling. The laundry can wait, you think as you look over at Amanda sleeping peacefully and then kiss her forehead before rolling over to go to sleep yourself.

Parenting Mistake 4,768: The Loft Bed

We just passed our crib and changing table on to Cara and Rick who are anxiously awaiting the arrival of my newest niece in April. (YAY!) To fill the empty space, we bought a loft bed, which just might be one of my biggest parenting mistakes so far. Also on that list would be choosing to parent my children with a man who apparently believes he is completely indestructible and that he somehow passed on that genetic wonder to his two daughters.

The loft bed was Scott’s idea. My husband is a big fan of furniture that performs more than one task. A chair that is just a chair is just STUPID. We couldn’t get the coffee table that only held a few magazines and your drink. We had to get the coffee table that has storage underneath and a top that extends up and out to become a table so you can sit on the couch and comfortably eat your dinner in front of the TV.

Somewhere I have a photo of Scott sitting on his fantasy couch, this hideously ugly enormous blue microfiber sectional thing at Sears that must have comfortably seated at least 47 with two reclining seats (yes, one for each of us because he loves me like that!), built in heat and massage units, beverage holders in the arm rests, a storage compartment for the remotes, a built in ice chest and an optional sleep section. All we would need was one end table that turned into a microwave and another that turned into a porta-potty and he could have lived out his life happily without ever leaving his big screen TV.

So it’s not at all surprising that when considering a new bed for the girls’ room, the one Scott wanted was an all-in-one unit, a loft bed with a trundle bed below, seven drawers, a built in desk with a bookshelf and a large closet area extending the length of the bed. I had to agree that it made sense for us in terms of storage space which we’re in desperate need of in their room. What didn’t make sense was the potential it held to break the necks of one or both of my children.

A bit of marriage advice: if you’re married to someone, you might want to actually talk to them every now and then. You’d think after eight years of marriage, and even having noted in our wedding vows that we are total opposites, I would have figured out that we are likely to see things quite differently. But no, there are still times when my point of view makes so much sense to me that I can’t imagine Scott feeling any different. Meanwhile he is feeling the very same way about his totally opposite point of view.

After we bought the bed from someone on Craigslist (Please note that means it’s non-returnable), dismantled it, hauled it home and reassembled it in the girls’ room, it turns out that Scott and I have very different visions of how this bed will be used.

In my mind, it was obvious that my thrill-seeking two-year-old shouldn’t have access to the top bunk with all of its potential for jumping or falling. Call me crazy, but I like my children completely intact and unbroken. I asked Scott at least ten times if the ladder was as easily removable as it appeared to be and he assured me that it was. So from that I assumed that he and I were on the same page and that the ladder would be hidden away most of the time and only placed there permanently when Alyssa was much older.

Our disconnect became obvious when I noticed he’d bolted the ladder to the bed and wanted Alyssa and Amanda to sleep on the top bunk together on the very first night. He said I was crazy and overprotective and I said well maybe but at least I’m not trying to kill the children. There’s a warning right there on the bed itself that says to avoid serious or fatal injuries, children under six should not be allowed on the top bunk, and that there should never be more than one person at a time up there. There is no little asterisk with a note saying "Unless they're Scott's children and then it should be okay."

Yes, it’s probably true that I’m overprotective. When I said we weren’t taking the training wheels off of Amanda’s bike until she turned 23 it might have been a BIT overly cautious, but I think I’m being very reasonable when it comes to this bunk bed thing.

Scott insists all we need to do is teach Alyssa the basics of ladder safety, have her practice a couple of times and tell her not to lean over the side and everything will be fine. I say perhaps he hasn’t noticed that this is ALYSSA we’re talking about and we can talk to her for days about safety and then the second we turn our backs or more likely right in front of our eyes, she’ll be jumping off the side, swinging from the ceiling fan or worse.

We’re still in deliberation over the matter and will continue to be until he manages to see things my way. I’m hoping we can come to a peaceful agreement soon so I don’t have to set fire to the ladder while he’s asleep.

The Scoop on Valentine's Day

Well we survived another Valentine’s Day. I say survived only because by the end of the day I felt a bit like I’d been run over by a bus. But other than that it was a perfectly nice day. I volunteered in Amanda’s class to help out with their party and there’s just something completely exhausting about trying to keep up with 18 5 and 6-year-olds PLUS Alyssa.

I swear it’s the addition of Alyssa that kills me. I volunteered without Alyssa only a couple of days before that when they celebrated the 100th day of school and it was no problem. But try to supervise the making of 18 heart-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while chasing down Alyssa and I’m wiped out.

Also whose bright idea was it to start all kinds of fun little traditions for my children and why didn’t anyone tell me that not only would I have to remember what those traditions are but then also follow through with them in a somewhat timely manner?

After making a last minute trip to the grocery store for Kindergarten party supplies, then overseeing the folding, signing, and envelope stuffing of the Valentine’s for Amanda’s classmates (Hello Kitty for the girls and Ratatouille for the boys), then putting together mini goody bags for each kid (which included mini tubs of play-doh among other things because just because my kids aren’t allowed to play with it doesn’t mean her friends shouldn’t) I had Amanda’s back-pack packed and was ready to call it a night when I suddenly remembered that I always make a trail of Hershey’s kisses to lead the girls to their Valentine’s gifts. And of course I didn’t have any Hershey’s kisses. And what’s a trail of kisses without kisses? It’s just a trail, that’s what it is. So back to the grocery store I went.

Then on Valentine’s Day I told Amanda she could open her gift as soon as she finished her homework, hoping this would inspire her to work quickly instead of piddling around like she usually does. Well it didn’t work. She goofed around and finally finished her homework just as Scott arrived home with dinner, a heart-shaped pizza (another Valentine’s Day tradition that is far more wildly romantic than it sounds simply because the fact that Scott is paying the same amount of money for less pizza almost kills my painfully practical husband. To show you how difficult this was for him he said next year he’s going to buy a regular pizza and cut it into a heart-shape himself and eat the remnants when I’m not looking.). I suggested to Amanda that we wait until after dinner to open our gifts and her lip started quivering.

“But you promised…”

So that’s why I presented my children with a boatload of chocolate only moments before dinner. Just another brilliant move on my part. And that’s why I never bothered with tradition #3, these Choco-Hoto-Pots in cute little heart shaped ramekins. Luckily it’s also a tradition for me to be scatterbrained and forgetful and I’m frequently known to extend holidays and birthdays by doing stuff late. I will eventually get around to making my dessert, hopefully tonight. Happy Valentine’s Day to us.

Happy Valentine's Day

Sending you our love and lots of hugs and kisses...

The Kiss Me Ring

It’s time for another random memory from my past. When I was little my dad would occasionally take my brother and I on long walks on Sunday mornings. I would hold my dad’s hand or ride on his shoulders if I got tired. Whenever I see one of the girls riding on Scott’s shoulders I can feel myself go back to that place where I was safe, secure and on top of the world.

My brother, Danny, would usually walk a few steps ahead of us and scan the streets for money or random other treasures. He would flip open the change door on every pay phone and newspaper stand we passed in hopes of scoring a dime or a quarter left behind. We often would go to this restaurant called Sambos where I always ordered the same thing: pancakes and hot chocolate. The hot chocolate was heavenly because it came piled high with a tower of whipped cream and sometimes the waitress would come around and give you even more whipped cream if you ran out.

On one of our walks we stopped at a store to pick up milk or bread or who knows what and after sufficient begging, my dad gave us money for the candy/toy machines. This was a rare treat, if I’m remembering correctly, so when after agonizing over which machine to choose and then twisting the dial, and holding my breath while I waited to see which treasure dropped, I was CRUSHED when out popped this ugly brown plastic football shaped ring.

To make matters worse it said “NFL”. I was five and learning how to read so I KNEW that wasn’t a real word. It couldn’t be since it didn’t have any vowels. Where was the A-E-I-O-U or sometimes Y? I tried sounding it out but what was it? Niffle? Nuffle? It was the DUMBEST RING EVER, that’s what it was.

My brother put his money in a second later and out popped a hard plastic neon-pink puffy heart-shaped ring with gold embossed lettering that read “KISS ME”. In other words it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. For a brief moment I thought everything had actually worked out fine. I got the boy ring, Danny got the girl ring; we would trade and everything would be right with the world again.

But seeing how desperately I wanted that ring made my brother just as desperately want me not to have it. The tears flowed freely as I imagined how he would torment me with it. Knowing him, he would flaunt it endlessly and when that got boring he would make me watch as he ran it over with his bicycle, crushed it with a rock or lit it on fire. It was a horribly traumatic bad awful tragedy, the kind that only a five-year-old understands. I was devastated and probably proclaiming it loudly enough for all to hear.

Finally my dad stepped in very calmly, as usual, and said, “Son, give your sister the ring.” As I wrote in #13 on my 50 Reasons I Love You list, that’s when my dad achieved hero status in my eyes. He swept in like a superhero and saved the day. I doubt he would have been thrilled to know that the ring would play a big part in my first kiss only a few days later.

I proudly wore my ring to Kindergarten, showing off like I was a movie star or something. And just like a moment right out of the movies, at morning recess Tim Snead walked up to me and asked, “What does your ring say?”

I responded, “Kiss me.”

And he did!

I lub you too

Alyssa is in this super-sweet-most-adorable-child-on-earth phase. To be sure of this, I just looked over at her as she’s napping next to me and noted that perhaps some would not find the snot-bubble blowing in and out of her nose adorable, exactly… but other than that she’s pretty cute. She’s very much into giving hugs and kisses and saying, “I lub you.” Not just saying it but often yelling it from room to room.

Here’s how it goes: I disappear from the room for more than three seconds. Alyssa cries out, “Mommy? Mommy? Mommmmmmmm-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?” If she doesn’t hear me respond immediately (and I have that kind of voice that is so quiet even when I’m yelling, that NOBODY EVER SEEMS TO HEAR ME) she will reach the same level of complete hysteria as if, say, I have moved to another country without leaving a forwarding address and she’s never ever going to see me again. (I've thought about it but I wouldn't actually do it, okay?)

Me: “Yes Alyssa, I’m right here.”

Alyssa: Very matter of factly, completely hiding the terror in her voice just a second before: “I LUB YOU!”

Me: “I love you too!”

Alyssa: “Awwwwwwwww!”

The awwwww part gets me every time because that’s what I said the first three thousand times she caught me by surprise with an “I lub you.” Now she has claimed it as her own. So it appears she thinks it’s just the sweetest thing ever that I’ve said I love her. Mommy loves me. Awwwwwww…

Unfortunately it’s not just about me though. She loves everyone. All the expected people, like her sister, her dad, her grandparents and other family. But she also loves Bob, our next door neighbor. Random friends who she sees only occasionally, Amanda’s teacher, the cashier at the grocery store… She’d probably love the UPS man if he wouldn’t run back to his truck so quickly.

She’s also into giving tons of hugs and kisses and again, for a while there I thought it was all about me. Awwwwww, she loves her mommy… until I saw her kissing the wall in the hallway. Umm. Okay, this isn’t about me at all.

Why can’t it ever just be about ME?

Her First Talent Show

Amanda made her big debut last Thursday in the school talent show.

She was snowman #7 in "Ten Little Snowmen." ("One Little, Two Little, Three Little Snowmen"..."Ten Little Snowmen learning to read.")
They also sang:

I'm a little snowman short and fat.
Here are my buttons.
Here is my hat.
When the sun comes out, I cannot play.
Slowly I just melt away.

Complete with motions and all. I'm sure I don't have to tell you they were adorable!

Are you happy?

Quote of the day:

Alyssa: "Are you happy, Mommy?"

Me: "Yes, I'm happy. How 'bout you? Are you happy?"

Alyssa: "No, I not happy. I Alyssa!"

Shirley Goodness

My mom and I spent several weeks last October collecting stories and photos and putting together this Shutterfly album to celebrate my brother, Dan’s, 40th birthday. Every time I came up with another story from our childhood, my mom would ask, “What’s going to happen when YOU turn 40? You know you’re probably going to have to make your own album, right?” She was sort of kidding, but not really.

I’m the one who does this kind of thing, this scrapbooking kind of thing, that is... so if I want an album I will probably have to make it myself. Which is fine. But it’s so much easier getting motivated to surprise someone else. I just can’t see working myself into a frenzy to "surprise" myself. Luckily I do have a long, long time before I turn 40… well, unless I choose to live in reality and then I don't actually have that long… ACCCCCH… I hate reality.

Anyway, instead of putting it off until the last second, which is what I would normally do, I think I'll try to write about some random memories from my past every now and then right here on my blog. Lucky you! Lately, Amanda and I have talked a lot about what it was like when I was in Kindergarten so I’m starting with a Kindergarten memory.

I went to a private Christian school for elementary and junior high. I’m not sure if this happened on my very first day of school but it happened the first time we went to chapel, so it was some time in the first week. We sang a hymn about the 23rd Psalm and the chorus went like this:

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days, all the days of my life;
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days, all the days of my life.

Nobody ever explained and I was too embarrassed to ask, so my little five-year-old brain was left to wonder: Who IS Shirley Goodness and WHY is she following me?

She had her own song, so I knew she was really important. But why hadn't anyone ever mentioned her to me before? My mind ran rampant with the possibilities: Was she like Santa Claus and she would bring presents? Or like the Easter Bunny and she’d bring candy? And who was Mercy? Was he her sidekick? Were they superheroes like Batman and Robin or did they have their own variety show like Sonny & Cher?

The most disturbing part was that she was going to follow me every single day for the rest of my life. I spent a lot of time looking back over my shoulder that year. I assumed the whole "following" thing was along the same lines as the "you better watch out, you better not pout, better not cry I'm telling you why..." thing. But let's be realistic, Santa obviously wasn't watching that closely. I cried and pouted on a regular basis and still got Christmas gifts but what if Shirley was more of a stickler for the rules? And forever? This lady was hardcore. As far as I knew, Santa and the Easter Bunny only trailed children but this chick was gonna follow me FOREVER. That's an awfully long time to be good.

My niece, Courtney, transferred to my old school when she was in 3rd or 4th grade and I pulled her aside to warn her about Shirley Goodness. Because I only wish that someone had warned me. She thought it was pretty funny and for weeks afterwards I got phone calls in her little voice saying, “Hello, is this Dione? This is Shirley… and I’ve been following you…”

If you don't enjoy stories about puking you might want to skip this post

My kids are sick. AGAIN. There is just way too much throwing up going on around this place and I’m ready for it to be over. Yesterday it was Amanda. She was miserable, poor little thing. By bedtime she was feeling better and I thought life would be returning to normal. Then at about 4:30am Alyssa woke up crying inconsolably. I finally got her to sleep in my lap and breathed a huge sigh of relief when I felt a sudden warmth flood over me. Unfortunately it turned out not to be motherly love, but instead the contents of Alyssa’s stomach, which is not nearly as pleasant. All over her and me and my clean bed sheets. Ick.

Having a 2-year-old who’s throwing up us is an extra special kind of delightful because there’s that added element of surprise. You can sit within inches of her for hours fully prepared to capture the puke with a bowl or a wastebasket or your husband's golf hat, but just as you stand up to use the bathroom or attend to some other completely unnecessary task, say like feeding your other child, SURPRISE! Puke everywhere.

Until Amanda started school, she rarely got sick, but now she seems to catch every single bug and then brings them home to share. Our last round of sickness happened before Christmas, first Amanda and then on the first day of school vacation Alyssa came down with it. I’d recruited my niece Courtney to keep the girls entertained while I helped out Santa by building a Barbie House (which, in case you're wondering, was too big to fit through the chimney fully-assembled). I had these grand plans of sending them off to the park or Super Franks (which is like Chuck E. Cheese but less annoying) for several hours while I built the house and ran a few errands. Alyssa had shown no sign of illness when I made those plans though.

When she woke up that morning with an earache I got worried. But after some Tylenol and eardrops she was back to herself and I’d adjusted my plans to think Courtney would be sticking close to home and then just as we were heading out the front door to pick up Courtney from the BART station I heard this huge SPLASH at my feet. HUH? Sure enough Alyssa was throwing up. She was thoughtful enough to completely miss her clothing and everyone else’s. Bravo for that.

The fact that I was picking up Courtney kind of brought this puking moment full circle for me. My sister, Darin, had her two daughters when I was a teenager. Perfect timing since she’d wasted… err spent… almost every Friday night of her teen years babysitting my brother and I… and as the story went, I OWED HER BIG. So I babysat my nieces quite a bit.

One time I remember rather clearly was when Courtney was just a baby… under a year I’d guess…so I was 15 or 16 and though my sister had a wonderful babysitter they called “Nana” who watched Courtney on a regular basis while Darin worked, she wanted me to baby-sit Courtney when she was sick, because though she would have gotten wonderful care from Nana, my sister said she wouldn’t feel comfortable calling Nana every ten minutes to make sure Courtney was okay…wouldn’t want Nana to think she was one of those neurotic new mothers or anything… so it was on this particular day that I had my very first experience with projectile vomiting.

This moment is etched permanently in my memory, as it was both horrifying and wondrous at the same time. Please note that Courtney is now 23 years old so it is possible that in over 20 years of telling this story I have dramatized the memory just a bit but not much. We have this plastic Elmo toy that we plug into the sprinklers, and I promise you that Courtney was just like that toy. One second she was this adorable slightly feverish baby playing on the floor in her purple footy pajamas and the next, her head started spinning around like a top and vomit started shooting out in all directions and in random spectacular patterns all over the living room carpet. Never seen anything like it before or since. It was AMAZING. Seriously, I wish you could have seen it. I just sat there staring, frozen, and then as quickly as it started it was over. Her head stopped spinning and she crawled over to me and smiled this adorable smile and then laid her head down in my lap.

It was one of those days that I’ll always remember because I actually felt like I learned something about myself.

Most of the guys I dated for any length of time at some point told me that they thought I would make a wonderful mother someday. I have absolutely no idea why they would have said that about me but I heard it a lot. I truly don’t think I mothered my boyfriends. I’ve always been the kind who needed my space. Oh no! Is it possible that it might be the longer term equivalent of, “Well, she has a wonderful personality”? You know how if a guy said a girl had a wonderful personality it almost certainly meant he thought she was butt-ugly? Well perhaps the “she’ll make a wonderful mother someday,” meant something equally as awful?

Anyway, as I said, I never could figure out what they saw in me that made them think that I would make a good mother. But my point wasn’t why they said it about me, it was that I didn’t believe it about myself. For years I thought I was far too selfish, self-centered and flighty to ever make a decent mother. I loved being an aunt and I figured I’d make a fabulous grandmother. But the thought of motherhood scared me to death. What if I couldn’t handle it? What if I was one of those moms who couldn’t take the pressure?

Well after Courtney puked all over the place and then crawled over and covered me in puke, my first thought was not the expected EWW get this kid away from me, but instead it was that I absolutely adored her. That I quite possible loved her even more after witnessing the amazing spectacle of vomit than I had before, and that I wanted to do anything in my power to make her feel better. This gave me a bit of hope and I thought maybe I will be a good mother! And then I took her out in the backyard and hosed her down.

So fast-forward 20-some years to when I picked up Courtney at the BART station with my own little vomiting baby and had to say, "Sorry Courtney, I hate to do this to you but YOU OWE ME BIG…"

A few photos and some recent quotes from our house

Overheard, Amanda talking to Rilie:

"I didn’t get to go to my Mommy and Daddy’s wedding 'cause I wasn’t born yet. But at least I get to go to the funeral!"

(I have no idea if she knows what a funeral is but she said it with such enthusiasm that I’ve been too afraid to ask.)

Me: "Alyssa, let’s go change your diaper."

Alyssa: "It’s not my job!"







And possibly my all-time favorite Amanda quote:

"If there's somebody that I really love, I take a picture of them with my mind and then I put it in my heart."

No writing allowed

So I've been hoping to get back in the routine of blogging and it's just not happening. I turn on the computer and get sucked into checking email, IMing, shopping for bunk beds and random other things and never get around to updating my blog. So I thought maybe writing in a notebook would be a better idea. Fewer distractions.

Every writing book I've ever read has hyped up the idea of writing on paper versus typing on a keyboard. Some say there's a connection between your brain and your hand and you shouldn't let a keyboard get in the way of it. Some say that it's far too easy to continually edit your thoughts on a computer which isn't nearly as simple on paper. Some say there's a certain flow or rhythm that happens when you're writing by hand that is harder to come by on a keyboard. There are various reasons but at the beginning of every writing book or class you're told to go out and buy a notebook.

Some suggest beautiful leather-bound ones, others push cheap spiral bound ones so you're not afraid to mess them up, but they all tout notebooks as being a very necessary tool if you want to write. So maybe that's why I’ve always had a mild obsession with notebooks especially empty ones. You can't be a real writer without notebooks.

I love new notebooks. I love flipping through the blank pages and I love the way they smell. Some people like the new car smell, I love the smell of new notebooks. (I’ve occasionally wondered if the first kid to sniff glue was just happily inhaling the scent of creative possibilities instead of trying to get high) For me, new notebooks have always represented a fresh start. Endless possibilities. Perhaps I would write something truly brilliant in this notebook. Yes maybe this would be the notebook that inspired me to greatness. Unfortunately I haven’t run across that notebook yet.

(1:38 pm Amanda attempts to take the pen out of my hand and asks, “Can I write something?” No.)

When I started working and was able to spend my money any way I wanted, I remember going completely nuts when I found a great sale on notebooks and I bought ten of them and then went back the next day and bought ten more. I felt like I’d scored the mother load. I could have a brand new notebook any time I wanted which was good because once I started writing in them, the shiny newness started to wear away. The thrill of a brand new notebook only lasted a short while before I began filling it with mindless drivel, the kind that I would be horrified to have anyone read.

It never occurred to me that having children meant that I would give up the option to freely write with pen and paper. For some reason, if my children see me writing they will do everything within their power to stop me. I still remember when Amanda was only a year old and I actually sat on top of my dining room table with all the chairs stacked on top of each other so she couldn't climb up with me while I handwrote a card for a baby shower gift.

Yes, my children have done their very best to cure me of my notebook addiction. Now the excitement I feel when I see a display full of fresh new notebooks for sale is tempered by frustration. Lessened by the knowledge that the newness of any one of those notebooks might last all of 3.2 minutes at our house. The newness, in fact might not even make it intact all the way to the check-out counter if Alyssa spies me attempting to place it into our shopping cart. “Me want book. Me daw Mommy?” NO! Once she gets a notebook in her hands it’s like setting her loose in a house built of cards. Certain destruction will follow.

In some ways I feel like on the day I gave birth to Amanda I gave up ownership to… well, pretty much everything… my body, my thoughts, my time, my energy, my love, my money, my food, my future plans, my devotion, my sleep, my home and everything in it, my privacy, even my dignity on occasion. I’m not complaining. I have to admit that it has been a good trade. Completely worth it considering what I’ve gotten in exchange. I willingly share most everything with my children, including chocolate. But when it comes to my notebooks I have all the maturity of a two-year-old. I want them to be mine-mine-MINE!

(1:46 pm Alyssa notices I’m writing. “Want pen! You done, Mommy?” No!)

I need to have at least this one thing all to myself. Each time I get a notebook I tell myself that this will be the one that the girls won’t touch. I will keep this one up high. I will only write in this one when they are asleep. Or tied to a tree.

But eventually – and it usually doesn’t take me too long – I slip up. I fall asleep after setting it on the nightstand or I set it on the table when I go to the bathroom. And then I forget about it. It never takes long before the Deserted Mommy Notebook sensor goes off causing my children to come skittering from wherever they may be to descend on my untainted notebook.

I’ve set them both loose with notebooks more than once hoping it would cure their fascination but apparently that only fed the monster. Now they think that ALL notebooks should be theirs to destroy in any way they see fit. Santa brought notebooks for each of them, which they loved but nothing is as good as MY notebooks. The fact that I don’t want them to touch them makes them just all the more intriguing. But I don’t want to share.

Alyssa can destroy an 80-page college-ruled notebook in less time than it takes her to sprinkle sand from one end of the house to the other after a particularly good session of playing in the sandbox. That’s under 48 seconds for those who haven’t been paying attention. She crumbles, she tears, she “washes” it with apple juice. She manages to leave a permanent mark of some kind on nearly every single page. It’s truly impressive.

Amanda’s method is slower, sneakier, and far more insidious.

“Mommy, can I draw in that book?”

"No Sweetie, this is Mommy’s. Use your own paper."

"How ‘bout just one page?”

“Amanda this is my notebook. Why don’t you go get one of YOUR notebooks? Do you want me to help you find one?”

“I want to write in THAT notebook.”

“I know Sweetie. I understand. But this is Mommy’s notebook. You know how you have some things that you don’t want Alyssa or anyone to touch? Well that’s how I feel about this notebook. I want it to be just for me.”

Unfortunately Amanda can spot a sucker from ten miles away.

“Okay Mommy, it’s just that I wanted to draw a picture for you. So when you look at it you remember how much I love you. But it’s okay if you don’t want me to.” (ding – ding – ding. We have a winner!)

“Okay, but only ONE page.”

“No, that’s okay Mommy. I don’t want to wreck your notebook.”

“Oh Amanda, I never said you were going to wreck it. It’s just a notebook. And I like your pictures. Here, draw one for me.”

Once she’s in all she has to do is wait 'til I’m distracted (and we all know I’m easily distracted), maybe on the phone or in the middle of doing laundry, trying to get Alyssa down for a nap or just smoking crack and all she has to do is flash me the page she’s already drawn on, “Mommy can I draw in this?” Sure!

And before I know it she has filled the entire book with drawings and stories (which are only somewhat legible at this point but getting better every week.) “Mommy, I wrote a book for you!” Great!

(1:53 pm I succumb to Alyssa's pressure and draw a picture of a baby in the margin of my notebook.)

The pen situation is even worse. There was a time in my life, pre-motherhood, when on any given day if I were to dump out my purse I would have found 10-15 pens. I was a pen hoarder to the worst degree. But now? I can never seem to find a single working pen.

Yesterday in an effort to fill out an extremely short permission slip and write yet another check to Amanda’s school, I hunted down, swore at and eventually threw away three non-working pens. More times than I care to admit I’ve been reduced to writing notes, grocery lists and phone messages with crayon stubs. The lack of pens in our house drives Scott crazy too.

Alyssa on the other hand, always seem to have a working pen in her hands leading Scott to announce, “She has another pen. Dione!!! She has another pen! Go give that to Mommy.”

Where does she get so many pens? I have No Idea. I seriously have wondered if she is squirreling them away somewhere and maybe one day I’ll stumble upon some hidden room where there is an intricate sculpture of the Taj Mahal built to scale entirely out of ballpoint pens and, well probably notebook paper.

Which leads me to another issue: creativity. I always thought I’d be the kind of parent to encourage and nurture creativity in my kids no matter what. I always pictured that my children would have round-the-clock access to all the art supplies their hearts could desire. Paint, play-doh, huge spools full of drawing paper, glitter, glue-sticks and crayons as far as the eye could see.

But then Real Life happened. Real Life with crayon on the walls, silly putty ground into the carpet, my grandma’s leather chair autographed with ball-point pen. And with Real Life came a Real Miserliness with the art supplies.

Of course Amanda can use the crayons. But she must first provide me with two forms of photo ID and some kind of highly valued collateral before I let her “check out” three colors of my choosing with the promise that she will return them before she gets three more. If Alyssa gets ahold of one of the crayons I get to keep the collateral, and Amanda, I’m sorry that you can’t sleep without your lullabye rabbit but next time you’ll be more careful, won't you?

The Christmas Report

Though our house is even more of a disaster than usual, we're still totally in the Christmas spirit around here. Well at least the girls and I are. Can't speak for Scott who has sometimes been confused with the Grinch in years past. He's at least going along with it as much as he can stand. A couple of nights ago, after the girls had their baths and were in their jammies, I filled their sippy cups with hot chocolate, dragged out the Nat King Cole Christmas CD and we were going to drive around to look at the lights. Scott decided to go with us! I was thrilled but said, "You're not going to rush us are you?" and he said "No! How 'bout we go out for 15 minutes and then come back?" Ummm... are you kidding? He wasn't. He was a great sport and lasted quite a while. Just as he was about to overdose we dropped him off back at the house and drove around a bit longer.

Some of you know that last year I was all excited about starting a new Gingerbread House tradition. That was before I'd actually made a Gingerbread House. It seemed like the kind of thing I would like until I actually tried it with two small children as helpers. It was one of those kits too, so it should have been easy but it wasn't. I've blocked out most of the ugly details but I do remember mumbling, NEVER AGAIN to myself pretty much the whole time.

Last weekend Scott and Alyssa went to a party while Amanda and I stayed home (Amanda had been sick and we didn't want to expose the whole party to cooties). Amanda was horribly disappointed about missing the party so when I spotted the gingerbread house kit at the grocery store I grabbed it and we had our own little party which included making a gingerbread house. In the spirit of embracing imperfection I told her she was in charge and could do absolutely anything she wanted. At the grocery store this sweet old lady saw the kit in my cart and started talking about how neat it was. She said a relative had made several of them as gifts and that most of them have lasted five years. She said the secret was keeping them in a cool dry place. I told her I have two small children and I’d be happy if ours lasted five minutes.

So Amanda and I actually had fun making our house. I let her do her own thing. Didn't say a word when she decided to use every single piece of yellow candy all in one spot. Right now I'm still feeling really positive about the whole Gingerbread House thing, but Monday I'm going to school and helping Amanda's class bake gingerbread and Tuesday they're building houses. So we'll see if I return to my NEVER AGAIN thinking after that.

We went to visit Santa last week too. Some of you may know that I have a weird fear of the whole "Mall Santa experience" but last week we braved it...and in the short version, let's just say that Santa obviously got the job because of his realistic white hair and beard and not for his charming personality. He called Alyssa "Booger Baby" after she put her finger in her nose. Alyssa then refused to sit on his lap to which Santa said, "What? Are you mad at me ‘cause I called you "Booger Baby?" That's when Alyssa scowled at him and said, "I HATE Santa," and there was no way she was going to sit on his lap. So now we've done it. We’ve pissed off Santa and I have no idea if Amanda will be getting her guitar (the only thing she asked for) or if Alyssa will be getting her baby doll. If it's up to me Santa's not getting any cookies and milk at our house and I may write an angry letter to Mrs. Claus. Call my kid, "Booger Baby"... Bah Humbug...

The Chaos Report

Things have been even more chaotic than usual around here. First of all we've got major plumbing problems. A lot of the houses around here have plumbing issues so this is nothing new to us but it's worse than ever right now. And my adorable perfectionist husband doesn't trust a plumber to fix things, so for as long as we've lived here, he's been handling the problems himself. The one and only time we did have a plumber here, shortly after we moved in, they sent out a female plumber, which I thought was cool, but it freaked Scott out a bit and he became more determined than ever to handle this stuff himself.

For some reason our washing machine drains into the sink in our garage and when the drain starts to get clogged, I can't get through a complete load of wash without turning the machine off to let the sink drain. I'm admittedly scatterbrained which leads to much excitement around here and we have floods on occasion. I also can't do dishes at the same time I do laundry since the kitchen sink and dishwasher also drain into the garage sink, causing the same flood issues. Did I mention that I’m scatterbrained in addition to having a couple little distractions running around here?

The last time Scott tried to fix the clogged drain, he broke a pipe. Currently the garage sink drains directly under the house, which is not a good thing. Right now, I'm not allowed to use the kitchen sink and I've been instructed to use the dishwasher and washing machine as sparingly as possible. So the laundry and dishes are piling up. But the good news that Scott is actually considering hiring a real live plumber!!! Does anybody know a good plumber? He won't trust just anybody and I'm not sure how much longer I can take this.

In addition to the plumbing problems, we also have ANTS. I hate ants! They're driving me crazy!!! I swear they’re like really bad houseguests. We finally get rid of them and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Then just when things are getting back to normal we wake up and they’re back again and they’ve brought friends. HUNDREDS of friends.

I've tried a few child-safe options in an effort to get rid of them... bowls of vinegar... ha...chalk and baby powder... supposedly hey won't walk through it. This actually seems to work but only until they find a new entry point. I can only imagine that they're laughing at me back at the colony. Baby powder??? You've got to be kidding! Yes they’ve been here for so long that I’ve begun talking to them and trying to figure out what they’re thinking.

Oh and they're coming in from UNDER OUR HOUSE... so it's not like we can just spray them with Raid or something... I asked Scott if we could get Stan-the-Termite-Man to spray for them and he said, “No! Ants are good. They kill termites.” Yes, but isn’t that why we’re paying Stan-the-Termite-Man? There’s no doubt in my mind that my darling frugal husband just doesn’t want to pay Stan to spray for the ants.

I finally gave up on the child-friendly stuff and and bought some ant-bait. They’re supposed to come in to get it and then carry it back to their colony and it’s supposed to kill them all. Supposed to. Sigh… The first kind of bait failed miserably. I moved on to a different brand and so far so good. They've been gone for a couple of days and every morning I wake up just hoping not to find them all over my kitchen or anywhere else in the house.

By the way, should you ever reach the level of insanity that I have, where you become fascinated with your nasty little ant-houseguests and start watching them like they’re the ant farm you never had or wanted, I highly recommend the type of bait that has a see- through lid. The first kind of bait was just frustrating. I had no clue if they were taking it or not. The see-through lid is far more satisfying because you can see them all in there dancing around… Ant party in the ant poison! Woo hoo! Eat up, guys… you’re all gonna die… But the next time I looked, the bait was empty save for two dead ants. That just ticked me off. Couldn’t they have gone somewhere else to die? I mean seriously, if you heard about a great party with great food but you showed up and there were a couple of dead guys laying there, would you stick around? Probably not.

The good thing is that so far the ants have only been in the bathrooms. I can’t figure that out. I swear that my children sprinkle crumbs throughout the house like fairies sprinkle fairy dust and have I mentioned yet that I broke the vacuum cleaner while I was sucking up ants? And don’t forget about the pile of dishes because I can’t use my kitchen sink or dishwasher. So it's bizarre to me that the ants haven’t left the bathrooms. It’s like they’ve landed right next to a fabulous vacation resort with all you can eat buffets as far as the eye can see but for some reason they’ve never left the airport.

The Amanda Report

Amanda is five and is enjoying Kindergarten but frequently complains that she’s not learning anything because she’s having way too much fun. Guess she must have picked up the reading and writing stuff from all that educational TV she watches. (Some of it is educational, I swear!)

She has not one, but TWO, boyfriends. I had one of those scary parental moments when I was taking these pictures of her and trying to get a real smile instead of the fake one kids her age are famous for. I was talking to her about all kinds of stuff and she mentioned her boyfriends and I asked her which one of them she wanted to kiss, fully expecting her to say, "EWWWWW! Gross!!!" or start giggling but instead she got this dreamy expression on her face and said, "Dante... no Anthony... no Dante... no both... can I kiss both?" Good thing I didn't drop my camera!

She's doing really well in school, in fact she just told me that she and one other girl are the only two in the class who have made it through all of the blue books, which is apparently a Big Deal. That means she's doing great at reading. That's my girl! But I've realized in the last few months that she's a total perfectionist in many ways. Homework can be incredibly frustrating because she completely falls apart if she makes a mistake. I still remember asking my mom what "perfectionist" meant after my own Kindergarten teacher called me one, so I know Amanda has it in her DNA... I'm sure she got some of it from her dad too.

I've been trying to emphasize that making mistakes is OKAY and part of the learning process. I'm always reminding her that everybody makes mistakes and it's no big deal. It took me a long time to figure out that mistakes can actually be a really good thing. Creatively, they can take you in a direction you had no idea you wanted to go. So my current motto is "Embrace Imperfection" and when I'm working on various projects I tell myself that mistakes are charming, kind of like a homemade quilt. I've come a long way... But I've also realized, in my effort to be a good example to Amanda, that sometimes I totally relax and don't worry about mistakes and other times I'm... well I'm a totally anal-retentive control freak. So I'm not quite THERE yet, but I'm still working on it. Nobody's perfect, right?

I've been volunteering in Amanda's class on occasion, which is a lot of fun. I don’t go as often as I would like because it can be tough to get a sitter for Alyssa but the teacher is so happy to have help that she really doesn’t mind having younger siblings along, so occasionally Alyssa comes with me which is always exciting.

Last week after a particularly long day of crafting with 5-year-olds, Alyssa was standing right next to me when the teacher said, “Let’s all thank Amanda’s mommy for coming to help us with our project.” So the eyes of 18 Kindergarteners and two other moms were all on me at the exact moment Alyssa somehow managed to tip over a shelf sending a flood of approximately 5 million crayons, 2 million colored pencils, 50,000 markers, buckets full of scissors, glue sticks, erasers, and every other school supply known to man into a huge mess at our feet. And all I could do was stand there and sigh. “Sure! Anything I can do to help! Same time tomorrow?”

The following conversation took place on the way home from home school today:

Me: So did you have a good day at school?
Amanda: Yep. Something really big happened today.
Me: Really? What?!?
Amanda: Dante kissed me today!
Me: (trying to remain calm and not crash the car) REALLY! Wow! How did that happen?
Amanda: I don't know. I was just sitting in the computer lab and Dante came over to help me with something and then all of a sudden he kissed my cheek!
Me: Wow! So what did you do?
Amanda: Nothin' I was just telling him not to do that and trying to get him off my cheek.
Me: Yeah? And then what happened?
Amanda: Well now he's my boyfriend for real. I mean since he kissed me. It's serious!
Me: It sounds like it. So are you two gonna get married?
Amanda: Yes, we are.
Me: You are?!? When?
Amanda: When we're all growed up. You know, when we're 16.

(Oh and just for the record, Dante is the blonde haired, blue-eyed boy that Amanda thought was so cute on her first day of kindergarten.)

Finally an update - The Alyssa Report

I know, I disappeared again. But since I've got a TON of stuff to do to get ready for Christmas, what better way to procrastinate than by blogging? I started writing yesterday and didn't stop 'til I reached about 6 pages. Either I don't talk at all or I can't shut up. So anyway, in order not to overwhelm anyone who may actually ever bother to still check in on the-blog-that-never-gets-updated, I thought I'd break it down into smaller pieces so I don't completely overwhelm you. It's feast or famine here. Sorry! So first the update on Alyssa...

She turned two in October. Really, extremely two. She has a mind of her own, knows what she wants (I believe she makes her choices based on finding out what I'm trying to give her and then immediately deciding she wants something else entirely) and will go to any extremes to get it. She’s completely fearless and despite my constant attempts to stop her, she has developed an extreme fondness for heights and once she climbs up she doesn’t want to climb down, she wants to JUMP down. It’s also getting nearly impossible to get her to keep her clothes on. If early childhood behavior is any indicator of future career paths I’m terrified she’s either going to be a stuntwoman or a stripper.

Getting dressed can be a huge battle too. I'm a pick-your-battles kind of girl and "Get dressed NOW and wear exactly what I want" is not a battle I choose to fight unless we're going somewhere important anytime soon. But at those times we often go through the "I hate this shirt, I hate those shoes, I hate clean di-pah... Want udder (other) shirt (preferably dirty), udder shoes (preferably Amanda's), want udder di-pah (I just got this one the way I like it, why are you taking it off???)" And then five minutes after going through the trauma that is Getting Alyssa Dressed, she will run through the living room singing happily, "I nakey, I nakey!!!" Yes I see that.

I swear to you that as I was typing this she started stripping right in front of me... I said, "Alyssa DO NOT take your clothes off. Do not take your clothes off. If you take your clothes off, you can't go with me to pick up Amanda." She disappeared for a second, returned completely naked and I said sadly, "Oh no! Now you can't go with me to pick up Amanda because you're naked!" So she went to put on a pair of shoes and returned to proudly announce, "Okay! I ready to pick up Uh-Nanda!" I said, "But you don't have any clothes on. You can't go pick up Amanda without clothes on. You'll be too cold!" So she ran off and brought me her jacket and said "Okay, now I ready to pick up Uh-Nanda!"

Her language is just taking off, which is so cool, but it also means a whole new bunch of headaches. If she's trying to tell you something and you can't figure out what she's talking about, it can get ugly. And the HATE word. I've been monitoring all of our speech patterns to see who is responsible for that little gem that is her all purpose tool to express her unhappiness with any given situation. (So far we're all guilty, Amanda hates almost every kind of food on the planet, Scott hates his job and I hate ants. By the way, know of any surefire kid-safe ways to get rid of ants? I HATE THEM! But back to Alyssa...) I imagine if she had the words she would say, "Why are you so stupid? Why don't you know what I want?"

Instead if I say, "It's time to eat lunch," she says, "NO, I hate lunch." If it's time to go to bed, it's "NO, I hate bed." And it can be something that she loved only a second before. Doesn't matter. The other day I was in a time crunch. Can't remember now what the heck I had to do but I had a limited amount of time to do it and I needed some quiet so I was happily going to let PBS entertain her while I did it.

I turned on Sesame Street. "No I hate Ehmo Wuh! (Elmo's World), wan Bonny (Barney), so I turned on Barney. "NOOOOOOOO!!! I hate Bonny! Wan Ehmo Wuh!" I went back and forth between the two with the same response and then she said, "No, I wan Cheh-wy!" Sherry? "No, Hate Sherry." Cherry? "NO!" Jerry? "YESSSS! Wan Cheh-wy!!!" Oh thank goodness!

You may wonder why I even bother trying to figure out what she wants at times like these. It's because if and when I get it right, I am met with all the overwhelming gratitude and pure delight a 2-year-old can muster. It's as if I have just performed some kind of breath-taking miracle and I don't know about you but I don't get that kind of appreciation elsewhere in my everyday life.

So Alyssa and I had a happy bonding moment over "Jerry" and over this major breakthrough in our mother-daughter communication and then, sadly, I had to ask, "Who is Jerry? Jerry Seinfeld? Jerry Lewis? Tom and Jerry? Jerry Springer? You wanna watch Jerry Springer???" The trauma started again and I finally turned Barney back on and fought the urge to say, "Look kid, Barney ATE JERRY. Jerry's not around anymore. Barney is it for you. I'm going to curl up into a ball and cry now. You watch Barney!" but instead I just said, "You can either watch Barney or I'm turning the TV off, to which she sweetly replied, "Okay Mommy, I love Bonny."