Now Let Me Tell You Something

‎( █ ) ███ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██. This comment has been found in violation of H.R. 3261, S.O.P.A and has been removed.

2012-01-18T09:36:00.000-08:00

Contact your Representative and Senator today: Stop SOPA and PIPA.

In an effort to organize my life a bit . . .

2012-01-13T13:09:00.000-08:00

I'm killing off my craft blog and reorganizing over here a bit. Bear with me, I'm sorry about the mess.

To write. . . to write. . . to write. . .

2012-01-13T13:03:00.000-08:00

This is among my biggest personal commitments in 2012. I need to write again. I was strolling through old e-mails and happened upon some old poems and oh my goodness.

They were solid first drafts of poems that could become so much.

Additionally, I have my NaNoWriMo pieces from 2009 (or was that 2008? Gosh, I can't even remember) sitting in a folder here that need to be revised and compiled.

And a universe that could benefit from my spending less time screwing around online and more time making things - creating things - crafts, poems, baking. Whatever that is - whatever it is that needs to be created - that's where I need to put my energy.

And so I shall. But I promise I'll stop by here and let you all know how it's going. :)

A few new crafts. . .

2012-01-12T19:30:00.000-08:00

I am committed to crafting this year and have been trying to do something every day or two. Using the pattern from the last post, I made another knot bag with some remnant fabric from Denver Fabrics. I LOVE this fabric - it's a strange and inexplicable obsession, but I love love love love it.

However, I hate to sew with it. Blech. Must get back to the fabric store and get some interfacing. THIS bag is currently living in Lilly's room.

My next design was one of my own - using the top section from the bag above, I made a circle to use as the bottom of the bag, then did some mathmagic and voila - new pattern.

Using a very old remnant from a wall hanging I cut up to make into a sling 10 years ago and a skirt I got from the future Mrs. Matt Mason when she was travelling through town doing poetry. . . I made my new FAVORITE bag ever. I LOVE it.

And so does Darth Vader. It's the perfect size.

I then got bold and decided to resew a pair of jeans. So I ripped them apart. Everywhere. Turns out, I don't really know how to resew jeans. These were a failure of epic proportions.

January 1st craft. . .

2012-01-01T19:28:00.000-08:00

Starting out small but strong! I used a pattern I found online for a Japanese knot bag for my buddy AO. . . I'll modify the pattern for future bags, I think, but this was a good start:

Outside of the bag

It was an interesting experiment for me - the design of the bag allows for a little peak of the interior fabric, so I wanted it to be interesting -- I chose two fabrics with some complimentary colors but they were very different. The outer fabric is a sort of peacock pattern and I loved the way it was mottled with a lot of black at the top.
The inner fabric is a very bright floral - it didn't have the yellow like the outside, but instead has a purple highlight in it. They look quite nice together, I have to say.

I wasn't exactly happy with the pockets in the bag, though - they are very shallow and I doubt they'll provide much in the way of benefit. Next time, I think I'll make the pocket as deep as the bag itself and only put a single divider in, making it a little bit bigger. Perhaps big pockets on one side and smaller pockets on the other, I don't know. Still, it was a nice little project that ate up a few hours of my day. Next time, I imagine, I'll stretch it over a few days as well - hard to block out such a large amount of time for sewing!

2012: Year of the Crafts

2012-01-01T08:56:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay, not really. Or really. I'm not sure. I'm trying hard to dedicate MORE time to making things and LESS time to slack-jawed web-surfing.

My first craft on this new kick was to refurbish a sweater/shirt I had - it was covered - and I do mean covered - in sparkles. I've only worn it once in the whole time I've had it. . . and, sadly, that was it. As I was removing the beads I found dozens - and probably made more - of holes. So it's. . . gone. I invested 1 hour in removing the beads only to decide that it just wasn't the thing for me! It's OK though - I tried!

Bye Sweater: You will be missed.

I've also committed to doing much more sewing this year. I have a machine and gads of fabric downstairs - but so far I haven't made a thing in months! Time to pull out the ole machine and get busy. . . but first off to Denver Fabrics -- 2 days *before* their big 30% off sale. . .

(That's today. I'll be going back!)

Here's my haul:

Can you tell someone barely left the blue table?

What are YOU up to this year? What crafting will you be doing?

In your 54th week. . .

2011-12-11T07:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Tenacious E:

You've been in our family for a year now. In a way, it feels like you have always been here - or, rather, like the idea of you has been here so much longer than you have. I've been thinking of you as the exclamation point at the end of our family sentence, because you are all BIFF - BAM - and BLAMMO, but you are so much more than metaphorical punctuation.

You will know, eventually, the stories of the nameless brothers(?) and sisters (?) that paved your way here - how your father and I felt our family was complete with Monkeymoo and the Budge but then that Valentine's Day surprise in '09 stuck around just long enough for us to envision our family big enough for one more person. You'll know the long days to follow and how close we got to giving up - how if our family wasn't going to grow, we'd come to understand that that was okay too. One day I'll tell you the story of that positive test on the day after St. Patty's day - how my calendar that month said "Once More With Feeling" and how I walked out with a test with two pink lines and told your father and he replied "I think I have to go to the emergency room" because his appendix was ready to rupture. You didn't come from the auspicious beginnings of the EPT commercial - the smiling man and woman in a soft-glowing light and not anywhere near disgusting bathroom beaming over a stick with the sure knowledge that in nine short months they would be holding a baby. You came in joy and anxiety and frustration and fear and more joy and as the weeks passed and you grew it was more and more and more joy. The moment before you were born, I nearly passed out because I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe under the weight of our anxieties and hopes and dreams for you.

And now you are here and you are amazing and tenacious and sneaky and smart. Your father and I knew we would be outnumbered when you got here - but we underestimated the ramifications, the exhaustion, and the delight.

Thank you for rounding out our family. Thank you for grabbing my nose in the middle of the night and squealing "honk". And thank you for being all energy and elbows and wide-eyes and need. Most importantly, thank you for coming to us. We are so happy you are here.

6 Seasons and a MOVIE!

2011-11-16T10:29:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my birthday. In honor of my turning 35, NBC decided to give me the worst present ever and retool their fall schedule. In doing so, somebody clearly got drunk and forgot to put the Community magnet back on the Thursday night board. In fact, they dropped it behind the desk or something and omitted it altogether.

Did somebody call NBC a network-shaped toilet?

Now look, I realize the ratings are low - but the quality is high. Yes, yes, yes, that didn't save Arrested Development - but look at the post-AD-buzz that *still* survives.

Honestly, NBC, if you cancel Community, you'll probably be punished via Troy and Abed suicide pact. . .

'Tis the Season to eat some fucking turkey. . .

2011-11-11T20:42:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay, normally I save my curses for the body of the post, but I can't help it. I'm going to write a bitching little post about something that is near and dear to me: the month of November.

I'm sure you've seen this. It's floating around Facebook:

Yeah it's from a few years ago but that's not the point.

November is a special time in our house. It's Birthday Month! My younger sister, my two daughters, and I all have November birthdays. November 29th is my mother and stepfather's wedding anniversary (their 24th, I believe). All Saints Day (11/1). World AIDS day (11/1). Veteran's Day (11/11). Nigel Tufnel Day (also 11/11/11). There are elections the first week of November. And the whole month is Native American Heritage Month, National Diabetes Awareness month. Then there's Thanksgiving. And Black Friday (or Shop Main Street or better yet Buy Nothing day!).

And only then - THEN when the turkey has made us all sleepy and we've watched Nebraska play Iowa, THEN it's time to allow Christmas to creep in.

And YOUR TURN comes after ADVENT.

I'd say I'm sounding like my stepfather, except my stepfather was a Godly man who never cursed. But the next holiday after Thanksgiving is Advent. The great waiting. When we anticipate Christmas.

And before you go on calling me a grinch - I love Christmas. It's sparkly and shiny and lights are pretty and who doesn't love CHRISTMAS. And let me tell you something I love about Christmas - tough as it is, I love that moment in the morning that we grudgingly get out of bed and pad into the living room and get really excited and then OMGOMGOMGCANWEPLEASEOPENIT? PLEASE???

Playing Christmas music in November - in early November - it's the equivalent of chucking some unwrapped presents under the tree. I want the holiday to remain special which means I refuse to spend 1/6th of the year celebrating it. I used to think 12 days was a long time to celebrate Christmas. . .

So here, on the day after Thanksgiving, I will (grudgingly - it's far too early for my liking) decorate the tree. It will come down on Epiphany when Christmas is over.

Do I blame you for wanting to celebrate Christmas already? No, I don't. It's awesome. It's special. It's super cool. But it's awesome special and super cool because we don't do it every day. Once we do, it's meaningless.

I've got them mid-semester blues. . .

2011-10-26T09:53:00.000-07:00

the ones where I feel like a terrible teacher and a terrible wife and a terrible parent and all I want is a snow day except not a real snow day just a day with snow but all the kids can go to school including the baby so I can eat bon bons and sit on my butt drinking coffee with Baileys in it.

You get those too, right?

The days where you want a warm blanket and to hide from the world?

That's where I am. It's OK. I'm ok. I'm going to knead up some sort of tasty bread product, make some soup, and reevaluate my expectations.

Because it's hard to feel like a failure when you can make bread.

Dear Humans,

2011-09-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Please, for the love of all things holy, put down your phones.

This morning, a student came to ask me a question about material covered in class. She did so while reading her Facebook feed. Through her phone. Which she was also using to listen to music through Pandora. Through her phone. As I answered her, I realized she was not listening to me. Or looking at me.

I finished class and went to leave campus - at which point a girl who was texting while driving practically ran head-on into me as she was driving through the parking lot.

I drove two blocks and was nearly hit again by somebody talking on their phone while driving.

I'll be honest: I love my phone. I don't have to worry about terrifying payphones and their germs and availability. My husband can find me. I can ask quick questions of my friends via text while the baby screams at me (often those questions go something like this: "Why is the baby screaming at me?"). I can contact just about anyone just about any time about just about anything. . . which is cool.

And also not. Because I didn't need to update my boot order from the doctor's waiting room. Nor do I need to text a picture of a car to my husband while I'm driving. Nor do my students need Facebook updates from the classroom.

Here's the thing: My life is important to me. And yours should be important to you. So on this little thing, even if you keep texting in the classroom, can we please, please, PLEASE agree to put down the phones while we're driving?

Pretty please?

That post about 9/11. . .

2011-09-21T10:11:00.000-07:00

Everybody, it seems, had one on 9/11 and I couldn't manage to wrap my head around what I wanted to say. I know that 9/11 was this pivotal historical event that changed the face of the United States, or, some might even argue, the world.

But it changed me - truly and deeply. And not, I guess, in the ways that you might imagine.

The morning of 9/11, I rolled out of bed at my boyfriend's house and got ready to go teach. He and I were doing well - though if I'm being honest (and hindsight gives me that privilege) we were ignoring a few 800lb gorillas in the room of our relationship. Like everyone, I listened in horror. I watched Tom Brokaw choke back tears as the towers fell. Then I crawled into my car, drove past a nuclear plant, and faced a classroom of 23 eighteen-year-olds in what felt, then, like the most agonizingly long 75 minutes of my life.

Because I had nothing for them. Now, 10 years later, I see that as a watershed moment in my teaching career - standing up in front of 23 students and saying "I don't know" felt like the wrong thing to do that day - but it turns out that not only was it the right thing to do then, it's nearly the right thing for me to do every day. "I don't know but let's learn more about it" is practically a mantra in my modern classroom. But that day? It was hard and it was scary and we watched the vague outlines of smoking rubble through the television fuzz in our classroom and we said very little.

That night, I went back to my boyfriend's house and witnessed something that, to this day, makes me hopeful and happy. One at a time, our friends - local poets and artists and lovers of poetry and art - they rolled over to my boyfriend's small (and I do mean small!) home with words and song and poetry and a general need to come together and create - to somehow strike a balance for the universe in the face of such dark destruction. My friend Steve brought his guitar and the lyrics to "This Land is Your Land." My friend Prudencio brought his djembe. Eventually there were people making rhythms on tables and pots and pans and notebooks and the backs of guitars, there was clapping, there was a room full of people searching for meaning in the creation of a thing - something - in love, in life, in music, in art.

Since then, when I think of the powerlessness I felt the morning of 9/11, I always reflect on that evening on our response - this impromptu gathering of good people forced by the universe to come together and make something good. Together. And while I am not grateful for the events of 9/11 and several decisions our nation made afterward, I will always remember with fondness this circle of friends who coped through creation.

Nothing is more memorable than a smell

2011-09-11T08:05:00.000-07:00

Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth. ~Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses

Yesterday, I chopped garlic and onions in my kitchen while ground beef sizzled on the stove and after a deep breath, I was 12 or 13 in my mother's kitchen talking with my stepfather. When I walk past the smokers on campus, it is, at once, my father (again I am 12 or 13 or so - he quit smoking when I was 14) and my college years. Lightning (yes, it has a smell, which science has taught me is ozone) is my wedding day. Pabst Blue Ribbon and cooked cabbage (because that's a combo you encounter often!) is my grandmother - but only with an entire Thanksgiving dinner behind it. Sawdust is my father again. Baby powder is fairly meaningless, but lavender shampoo and tea tree oil is my children's infancy.

I leaned over yesterday and sniffed the most sniffable part of my youngests's head and I realized that she is on the precipice of toddlerhood. To be clear, she's only 9 months old but she's losing her baby smell. You know the smell. I know the smell, though there's no way to describe it except "the exact smell of every baby when they lay their head on your chest and you sniff the crown of their head."

But at some point between baby and toddler and kid, my kids seem to cast off the baby smell for the smell of sunshine and play, sunscreen and shampoo, and, strangely, at night when they are in their beds, Chinese food. Yesterday when I sniffed Elsa's head, I smelled sunshine and Chinese food masking out the undertones of baby.

She's growing and it is truly bittersweet.

I am delighted to watch her bloom - as I watch the other two bloom - but I remain saddened that soon the baby smell in this household will be a memory evoked only by sniffing the heads of other people's children and saying "Do you smell that? Do you? It's intoxicating. It's baby."

Just make 'em. . .

2011-09-10T07:24:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who knows exactly how I feel when those words pop up, even though the end of the sentence for me (sleep) and for her (eat) is different. Before I was a parent to my kids, I was under the impression that infancy was about telling them them how and when to do things and that soon they would control these things on their own.

My children disabused me of that notion. They have taught me that there are a few things parents simply cannot make their children do. We can encourage, cajole, bribe, and reward, but we cannot control (barring medical intervention, I guess) their physical selves.

You cannot make a child sleep, eat, defecate, or urinate.

The sooner you, as a parent, let go of the idea that you can control this independent little person in those ways - the happier you'll be. Again, I say, you can encourage, cajole, bribe, and reward, but you cannot control.

This is a secret most parenting books don't share. The books - from sleep books to cookbooks to potty training books - act as though it is your parental duty to control these things in your child. Your failure to do so sets them up for any wide variety of disorders and proclivities.

Are you listening to me? The parenting manuals want you to know that YOU WILL FUCK YOUR KIDS UP if you do not make them bend to your will in terms of eating, sleeping, urinating, and defecating.

I have been a parent for 8 1/2 years now and over the course of the past 9 years I've read more books related to potty training, feeding children, and sleep training than I care to share. I could probably dedicate an entire post to specific book reviews, outlining for you the very moment I cast the books across the room and cursed at their authors for making me feel like I had the ability - the right - and the duty - to control these things. A few are exempt - and even the ones that aren't have taught me a thing or two, so I don't protest reading.

I simply oppose the guilt that reading these books seems to create in my parenting friends. Instead, I offer this: Our kids are incredible, amazing creatures who often grow up to be incredible amazing adults despite our best parenting efforts. I do not exempt you from your parenting duties, but there's freedom in that - in knowing that we do our best, we sometimes screw it up, sometimes the kids screw it up, and still, these kids? My kids? They're full of awesome.

But you can't make 'em sleep.

The baby's mouth and what we've found there:

2011-09-09T21:05:00.000-07:00

Baby E (Tenacious E and Honey Badger to those who know her well) is the adventurous sort and thus eating has been quite the ride for all of us in the NLMTYS household.

There's a movement afoot called Baby Led Weaning which focuses on children being in charge of what they eat from an early age -- before weaning, solids are really more social than nutritive and thus the Baby Led Weaning idea focuses on self-feeding for the children. Rather than shovel pureed peas and potted meats into the now-adventurous eating baby, you spread some food on their tray and go from there.

Here in the NLMTYS household, we didn't really focus on BLW so much as ended up there out of necessity. We have 2 other children, a geriatric cat, a frog, and some fish to take care of - so often sweet Baby E was a bit on her own in the feeding territory. We started small and she'd rake handfuls of rice krispies into her mouth. Little actually stuck and she got a few servings of rice cereal, pureed sweet potato, and some winter squash - but she, and we, soon grew tired of the process. Baby E has MonkeyMoo and The Budge to keep up with and she wanted to eat like they ate. So, for the most part, we let her - with some chopped up beans here and some banana spears there.

Overall this has worked out very well for us. Dinner time is as social as it can be with 3 overly tired and twitchy children. Baby E barks out her rudimentary language at intermittent intervals, trying to fit in and keep up with the big kids.

But you have to remember: babies are kind of stupid.

Well, not stupid so much as inexperienced. Inexperienced enough not to really know or understand the subtle difference between food and non-food items. I think that introducing her to a world where SHE is in charge of shoveling things in her mouth (rather than her father, siblings, or me), may have upset the delicate balance that keeps her from eating, you know, trash.

Or maybe she has pica. Who am I to say?

But I just wanted to run you through a brief laundry list of what we've found in Baby E's mouth since she began crawling five weeks ago:

A button. Cat food, which she picked from cat vomit. An almond. Grass. The graphite powder that lined the track for the back door. Leaves. Tiny bits of wood. Bigger bits of wood. Cat hair. Garlic skins. Dog hair. Cat poop. Sand. Pebbles. A fairly large hunk of onion. A small bit of spicy jalapeno. A balloon. A chunk of stomp rocket. Herbs. A bit of silver ribbon. A walnut. Cords. The tubes to the fish tank bubbler. The fish tank bubbler. A bug. As much of the sofa as was humanly possible. Flip flops. Crocs. Aglets of any shape or size.*

*Incomplete list. (And there will be no diaper-related addendum. Nobody needs that.)

I'm looking at my statistics and. . .

2011-09-04T14:05:00.000-07:00

Google has referred 8 people here using searches related to the term "Sharpie." They have also referred 6 people here in the last month using the terms "Whose boob do I have to suck to get a drink around here." One reader came from the search terms "Apostrophe logo". Finally, this month I have gotten - as I generally get - at least one person from the line "Life isn't bliss, Life is just this. . . it's living" from Joss Whedon's Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical episode.

I am delighted and terrified that people stumble upon me courtesy of my love for office supplies, grammar, and Joss Whedon.

Thanks for visiting, readers. Good to have you here.

Side note: Who's coming from Gothis? I have no clue what that is and I keep getting hits from it, so I am curious. Leave a comment! Tell me who you are!

Now I wonder how many potential readers these phrases might get:

XXX bikini girl

Boobs

Chocolate Salted Caramel anything

Okay, okay, I'll stop boring the snot out of you. Back to my cleaning. . .

And, by the way, just 6 days late:

2011-09-02T16:26:00.000-07:00

Holy shit, you're like 9 months already

(a letter to my daughter)

So I know it's trite to say "It seems like just yesterday" and it doesn't seem like just yesterday - but in the blur of 9 months of diapers and sleeplessness, of vomiting and crying and learning to balance your needs with your siblings needs, in a summer of trying to keep quiet enough that your father can work, and those other months with school and schedules and trying to bend your will to the almighty nap, my dear, sweet HoneyBadger, it seems like a dream stuck inside of a moment I glimpsed just a few hours ago. . . the moment of your birth seems both so close and yet so far away and me, I feel like I'm in some sort of final episode of Star Trek with a space-time continuum issue where you are at once not yet a person and a newborn and this big, opinionated child, ripping up the New Yorker as you chirp at my feet.

You. are. amazing.. Fun and sweet and saucy. And trouble. I'm afraid to blink again and find you two and a whirlwind of determination and spunk.

You're crawling and standing and cruising. You're saying "Mama" in the middle of the night when you want my attention (and don't want to be alone!). You're into everything. If it's on the floor, it's in your mouth. If it's in your mouth you swallow it and if you can't, you cast it aside and move on to new adventures with little more than a shrug.

You are MonkeyMoo and The Budge's biggest fan. When they walk into the room, you light up. When they squeal in your face, you light up more. When they shove you down, sit on you, or somehow topple you so you land on your head, you scream as though you've just encountered the greatest of tragedies. They've gone back to school and now you crawl around the house during the day - I think you're looking for them. When you wake from your afternoon nap and they are home - you are delighted.

Sweet girl - you're exactly what we were looking for through that tough journey to you. Thank you for coming to us. Thank you for having the tenacity to stick with us. Here's to awesomeness, my Ninja Gingah. Now let's go cook dinner.

A new old project. . .

2011-09-01T16:16:00.000-07:00

Today, I posted this photo on my Facebook page - inspired by Dear Photograph (which is an incredibly charming site full of joy and reflection - things I'd like to have MORE of in my life as I strive to let go of strife and grumbling and conflict and anger).

This is a picture of my mother, stepfather, and sweet Monkeymoo on our first 4th of July in this house. David putzed around in the yard practically all weekend on that trip (in fact, I feel like I should probably apologize for the vines creeping up the stairs, as he pulled them back and lovingly trimmed them on that trip - to help me bring our greenery under control). We had such an excellent time.

The photo makes me realize how much I miss him - how lucky I am to have had him in my life and how very much I need to get back to something I started during NaNoWriMo of 2007 - a series of essays about him. I began the project during National Novel Writing Month - not to write a novel but a collection of essays to capture what he meant to me - to all of us - so that I could give it to his wife and daughters and grandchildren so that they could have something - a mere shadow of what he had been - but something tangible to revisit. It was hard. And it hurt. And you can see that reflected in the essays on the page - which is why I had to carefully pack it away in a file folder and leave it for several years.

But I'm ready to revisit. I'm ready to imbue it with the hope and light and happiness - the unconquerable spirit that he had. I'm ready to work on it. I have a goal in mind for finishing - we'll see if that happens. But I'd like it to happen. Because I think it's time.

Parenthood got me down? No way!

2011-08-31T20:38:00.000-07:00

I've seen a few people write about this post on the Baby Project Blog @NPR. The author maintains that parenting is hard and nobody lets us talk about it. Hold on. Say WHAT?

People don't talk about this enough. It's really hard, being a parent. At times, it's crushing. But you're never allowed to say this.

Excuse me? Wait, what? I figure she's too busy with her children to log onto Facebook for the daily onslaught of parental complaints. And somehow she's missed out on glorious ladies like Kate and Lydia at Rants from Mommyland (who seem to be, awesomely, EVERYWHERE these days!). Perhaps she missed drop-off at Preschool when at the very least one bedraggled sweat-pantsed lady talks about the tough morning they had rolling out of bed. The virtual mommy-water cooler is full of ladies are talking about being down - and getting right back up.

But M, you say, she's not talking about tough days, she's talking about the grueling project of raising a child.

But so am I. I have never been made to feel that I can't talk about how tough this gig is. My youngest is 9 months old and I still get So how are things going? and Is she sleeping? and How's life with 3? and even the occasional Hey. You ok? . And the people who ask get answers. They get honest answers that are multifaceted. It's more than It's the toughest job I've ever loved! or I'm exhausted, but it's so rewarding!

I love parenting. I'm 8 1/2 years in with three kids under my belt - dare I say it, I enjoy it. I've learned that practically every tough time - the fourth wakeup by 1 am or the 5 year old screaming I hate you! are countered by snuggles and giggles and watching these little people discover a world that I've come to ignore.
It *is* hard. And the best part about this gig is that nobody has ever made me feel bad for saying that.
On the flip-side, though, I have discovered something about parenting. I've discovered that those who are trying to become parents often encounter plenty of folks who work hard to discourage their expressions of frustration, anger, and loss. Over the course of the last several years, I've met a whole lot of lovely ladies for whom the road to parenting has been hard. And what do they hear when they talk about how tough it's been? Relax! It'll happen! or But you can do so much without babies! or Just think of all the things you can DO without kids! or my personal favorite: If this doesn't work out, you can just adopt. It seems that while people feel comfort in the Parenthood's-got-me-down persona, they often don't or won't acknowledge that Wanting-but-not-having-Parenthood is a whole other bag of got-me-downness that is all too often dismissed or ignored.

So to the parents I know who are feeling down: let's talk, like we always do. And to the incredible people I know who are still somewhere on the road to parenthood: I'm here and I'll listen. I can't pretend to understand, but I can promise not to dismiss your trials and tribulations.

Friday Miscellany

2011-08-26T17:11:00.000-07:00

1). I did a photo spread with the Ging-ah and a gummy snake yesterday. She's officially shed Tenacious E and Gingah and taken on a new nickname: Honey Badger. Randall can tell you all about it.

2). Speaking of Ginger: I've had this song stuck in my head all week. Of course, Honey badger isn't an official Ginger, she's a Ninja Gingah.

3). I went to a friend's house today and she showered me with hand-me-downs. Which is amazing and awesome and goes with the hand-me-downs I get from another friend and you know what? EVERY time I dress Elsa, it's like shopping. There's SO MUCH and it's so awesome.

4). The next time one of my children screams, I'm going to punch myself (couldn't finish this entry because all three children were screaming at me. So I was busy punching myself in the face. Oh yeah.).

5). Rebecca Black is obviously a child, because in MY house "It's Friday" means at approximately 3:47, this house will fall apart into shards of screaming children and fragments of pain doused with a healthy dose of starvation and omygodi'mgoingtodieifidon'teatsomethingnoooooowwwwwwwwwwwww. In other words, there's no kickin' in the back seat or sittin' in the front seat. Which seat do I choose? The one on a train out of town for a girl's weekend, that's which one.

6). I've had "Come on Eileen" in my head since the news started covering hurricane Irene, except I switch Eileen to Irene. And then I feel like I might be taunting the hurricane which makes me feel bad.

7). Carter has a new daily exercise of claiming he's sick. His throat no stomach no head no arms no legs no his pockets hurt. We have a new daily exercise of not caring - but this leads to a conundrum as a parent, doesn't it? Perhaps I need to read him Chicken Little, and not the movie version. Or The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

8). My son went to his first day of school in a tuxedo jacket, a tshirt, tux pants, and flip flops. I've never been so proud. What a good Colorado boy I have!

I swear I have something to say. . .

2011-08-17T13:14:00.000-07:00

but it's going to have to wait until tomorrow.

Sorry.

I will, however, leave you with this, Andy Rooney style:

You know what I hate?

The word FINALLY.

Particularly when someone uses it in the sentence "My child is finally sleeping through the night" and their child is under a year old.

Repurposing for the BUDGE:

2011-08-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

I'm on a repurposing kick. Of course part of it is that I'm cheap. Super cheap. Another part is that the BUDGE is way way way skinny. He's so skinny that his SLIM jeans fall down. Unbelieveable, really.

So I found this tutorial and decided I'd go ahead and make some pants that fit.

I started with these awesome soft pants that Tim never really liked. OK, I'll be honest, they were supposed to be dry clean. Or, rather, they were Dry Clean Recommended. And I didn't. I mean, I rarely dry clean things that require dry cleaning so given the opportunity to skip it altogether, I did. To, apparently, the detriment of the pants. I don't know if they shrunk or what, but Tim no longer wore them. It was sad and they languished in the basement pile of clothes (actually, they were slept upon by the cat) to be ironed.

See how wrinkly? Yeah, well, fortunately 5 year olds don't mind wrinkles. So I ripped them apart while watching TV last night, then, today, using the aforementioned tutorial, I sewed them back together so that they looked like this:

Okay, so there are a few problems. I miscalculated a few things and, strangely, the Old Navy jeans I used as a pattern must hang VERY differently from these. . so I learned some lessons in draping and stuff. Rather than being on the sides, the side seams sort of run at an angle around the boy's leg, but it gives them some personality which, to be frank, is fitting of The Budge.

Here's the back. See those side seams sneaking back and across the back of the leg? Again, clearly I'd be kicked off the Project Runway crew this week, but what the hell. Like I said, the kid's five and pants are pants, right?

Edited to add a few things:
FIRST OFF: They look much better now that they've been properly ironed and hemmed. Not perfect, but OK. Secondly, my mother patiently told me I cut them on the bias when I changed the angle -- which is, I guess, what I mean by "I need a Project Runway lesson in draping." For real, people, it's the fabric, not me. Or, well, it *is* me. But it's the fabric too!

Update: I ironed down the seams, per my lovely friend Julia. Problem is this fabric really is impervious to ironing. Still, they look better than they did yesterday:

A break from the introspective touchy-feely bullshit for a post on. . . GRAMMAR

2011-07-11T07:37:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine who lives in Florida (I specify where she lives so that you don't think it was me) recently went into Spencer's gifts. I can only imagine she accidentally turned into the shop because she hasn't slept more than 4 hours in a row for 11 months now. . . because people don't go to Spencer's gifts on purpose, right?

So here's what she found:

Of course it's tacky. It's in Spencer's, home of "Future MILF" and "BOOBS" t-shirts. But really, I'm concerned about our future people. This is exactly the kind of shitty bib some Sixteen and Pregnant or Teen Mom girl would slap on her baby (should she choose to nurse, that is). All of her friends who see it would giggle, "Oh, that's so silly!" Strangers, even, might laugh. "How funny!" they'll say. "The bib upon that child's chest is asking who has the breast the tiny thing must suckle for refreshment!"

Unless, of course, they know thing one about grammar, in which case they would lament the future of the apostrophe. That sneaky little bastard has gone ninja on us all - appearing in the unlikeliest of places and absent where we expect it. The people who know about grammar would be a little sad because that bib doesn't make sense.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't have an issue with crass or tacky but I do have an issue with flogging the apostrophe. That poor little piece of grammatical gold. Of course my grammatical issues (for those who don't see it - that bib reads "Who is boob do I have to suck to get a drink around here". Drop the apostrophe and add an se and you'll get the intended "Whose boob do I have to suck to get a drink around here.") don't even address the really atrocious things about that bib - for that, I'd have to get my friends the graphic artists and the typographers.

And none of it has to do with a joke about breastfeeding. I mean really, Spencer's. Even YOU are better than this, and you sell a game called "Pin the Cock on the Bachelor."

I'm feeling a bit of regret over my Mothering FAIL post.

2011-07-01T08:16:00.001-07:00

It's one thing to have a mothering fail. We all experience them daily.

It's another thing to post about it.

On the one hand, the story's kind of funny. On the other hand, it makes me seem rather monstrous. And look, I have a WIDE VARIETY of failings as a parent. Some moments I do seem monstrous. But I have one thing going for me: I wake up every morning asking myself how I can do this better.

Reflection and constant commitment to change - that's what's going to make me a better mother. There's a confessional nature to my mothering FAIL post and it's true - I needed to confess. Now that it's off my back, I can think that perhaps I've simply given my children something for their Sedaris or Kimmel (Haven not Jimmy) -style future memoirs. One day, that snail story might be a best-seller.

And even then, it will cause me to reflect. Respond. And be a little sad.

Yesterday while cleaning the back porch I found a hammer in the rose bush (Don't ask. I don't know. Honest to god. The kids must've put it there. They must've taken it out of the junk drawer to hit things. I don't know. And it's not like I can yell at them for it, since nobody knows when it happened, right? And besides, if I did, what am I going to say? "We don't hit things with hammers, we just make stupid sputtering threats about it and never come through on them!" Riiiiiiight). And it made me sad, that stupid shiny misplaced hammer.

Because it's misplaced. And stupid.

So I put it away. Literally and metaphorically. And now I'm going back to the books and saying to myself "How can I be good at this?" Because clearly parenting doesn't come to me naturally.

Every day is an exercise in making sure that these moments are of love.

Today, I revisit the mantra, the family mission: Our family's mission: To be focused on peace, discipline, and simplicity.

And I say a little prayer. Please, let me be worthy of such a task. Failure is not an option.

An e-mail in the life of a teacher:

2011-06-27T07:44:00.000-07:00

Dear teacher/prufessor/Mrs. Flugleir (or my personal favorite: Monica),

i saw on the schedul that the dates for the discussion assignment were wed/fri and then fri/sun and i wasn't sure which wun to use so i didn't post at all and i'm sending you this e-mail to explain that i will post now but i was confused about the dates.

also, you say we're studying chapter 9, evaluation but my book has chapter 8 as evaluation not chapter 9 which is something else. am i supposed to read chapter 9 or chapter 8 or how's that messed up and i noticed that the sample essays you talk about and say are on pages 300-311 are not actually in my book and pages 300-311 don't fit in chapters 7 8 or 9. what's wrong here?

finally, i am going to be out of town on the day that the final essay is due and the second to final essy so can i turn them in at my convenience in November?

(No signature, of course, as I'm supposed to know who they are from their e-mail address which doesn't correspond with school documents).

**
NOTE: This is *not* an e-mail from my student. It is a fictitious account of the types of e-mails I get from my students. Because of privacy laws, I'm not allowed to share the actual stupid things they say. So, to be fair, I made this one up by changing some words here and there, but trust me when I say, this is the compilation of three separate e-mails I've received over the weekend from students.

Without further adieu: Mothering FAIL

2011-06-26T06:52:00.000-07:00

Or rather, I guess I should say mothering and language FAIL. Or growth FAIL. Or nurturing FAIL. Or whatever. I guess the point to remember is that I strive to be a good person and, like that old Muppets song goes: Everyone makes mistakes oh yes they do. Your sister and your brother and your Dad and Mother too. Big People. Small People. Matter of fact all people. Everyone makes mistakes so why can't you. But this failure is important to me and I'll tell you why: Because I've been recently discussing language and being nice to the humans you love and how important it is not to be mean. So when it happens to me - when I'm mean or cruel - I'm humbled and saddened.

But I will say this: It started with a near car-accident caused by noise and yammering from my 5 year old. No, I will clarify further: it was the result of total and absolute fear after my second near-miss in the car caused by yammering and fighting and noise and Ohmygodwouldyougetthatoutofthebaby'smouthrightnowbeforeshediesplease?

I know. Excuses, excuses. And now you think I'm going to say something like "And so I stopped the car and beat everyone." But I didn't. I just beat them up with my words and that's the FAIL. But it's also kind of funny, the amalgam of idiocy at play and so I feel like I really need to share it.

So you know there was the stress from the near-car-accident. You should also know that one thing I've said sometimes as a parent is I would like to hit that toy with a hammer. Often I don't say it out of malice, it's just a thing I say when faced with a particularly irritating or annoying toy. Or sometimes if, say, I've stepped on my fourth Lego of the day. I'll scream One day, if you cannot respect and take care of your things, I will hit *insert thing here* with a hammer!

And on particularly bad days, you should know that I sometimes think of that *thing* that my children want more than anything else in the world. And sometimes when that happens I say If you cannot respect the things that you have, I'm going to go get *insert thing they want most in the world* and hit it with a hammer. No, it makes no sense. I get that. It's a total fail in terms of parenting to threaten the thing they don't even yet own because they can't respect the things that they do own.

But humans are not rational creatures. In any way, shape, or form. They're even less rational when they're going into their 3rd hour in the car, headed to their second omgreallyfun thing of the day, with the children who don't seem grateful for the fun, and they've just almost rolled into the street out of the McDonald's parking lot right into another vehicle (because of the potential car accident and omgIalmostspilledmycaramelicedcoffeefromMcDonalds).

Now I should tell you that the thing my 5 year old wants more than anything else in the world is a snail.

That's right.

I did it.

I nearly hit another car. Then I came mommy-unglued and super ugly. If I'd eaten pea soup in the past 24 hours, I might've spit it. My head probably turned around once or twice. And my son laughed because let's admit it - when mommies go all sputtering nonsense, it's funny.

And so I said:
I'm going to buy a snail and smash it with a hammer.

I'd like to say it's the weirdest thing I've ever said as a parent, but I'll be honest, it's one among dozens of regrettable phrases like The only things we flush down the toilet are pee and poop and When you're not sure whether it's poop or chocolate, you wash it off, you don't eat it. It was irrational and stupid, triggered by being scared and being mad and being reminded that my children often know I'm more bark than bite. They've always known it. And it makes me feel powerless when I'm seat-belted into a car and unable, really, to do any sort of discipline whatsoever.

And I apologized. And when the boy got his snail, the very first thing I said was I think he's cute. I promise I will not hit him with a hammer.

Okay, really, I forgive myself. But it's a good reminder that words can hurt. Even when they're put together in bizarre and irrational phrases. And the best lesson is the apology that followed and the hope that I can calm down and not do it again, right?

Kid-ISMS, updates, and a True Mom Confession

2011-06-25T23:14:00.000-07:00

Carter: blah blah de blah blah blah

Me: Are you speaking in tongues?

Carter: Um. No. I'm speaking in English. With my tongue.

Carter: I wish I had a magic wand. And I wish that it worked. And if I had a magic wand that was real and it worked I would use it to turn you into Dad.

Lilly: :patting my belly chub: Awww wook, wouldn't it be neat if there was another wittle baby in dere?

Me: That'd mean more sharing. Even less time with Mom.

Lilly: That might be worth it. (Followed, of course, by a wink and a smile).

Carter: MOM! Elsa's finger is bleeding!!! :beat: Oh, nevermind. It's just pizza sauce.

(and a week later)
Me: Honey, there's blood on your finger. Go wash your hand.

Carter: Nuh uh. It's just pizza sauce. (Puts finger in mouth). Um. Mom?

Me: Yeah?

Carter: I do not think that was pizza sauce.

In update land:

Elsa is nearly 7 months old. I have no idea where the time went. She's trying to crawl.

Carter is 5. He's lean and hilarious and more active than I ever imagined. He's also the bug whisperer - or, rather, the animals-of-all-sorts whisperer. While he's unable to find his own shoes on his own feet, he manages to find all sorts of bugs, a crawdad, butterflies, worms. You name it and if it exists around here, chances are good that it's come to see Carter.

Lilly is 8. She's just digging in to book 5 of the Harry Potter series. I'm in awe. I can't get her to do much, but that girl will read. And read some more.

Now, for the True Mom Confession.

Nah, I'm tired. I'll save the True Mom Confession for tomorrow. Suffice to say, it took me 3 days to tell Tim. I need another 24 hours to tell you all. FYI: Everyone is fine. Safe. Happy. Well, happy-esque. . . mostly because they don't listen to me and my big mouth when it's wagging and frothing. Probably because of the stupid shit that comes out of it sometimes. . .

So I got this crazy fabric. . .

2011-06-10T09:57:00.000-07:00

from the remnants section of Denver Fabrics. I keep going through the tables and picking up fabrics - and then NOT sewing something right away, so I finally decided to do something with this. It's a crazy black and white print.

I've wanted a maxi-skirt for awhile - and a swim coverup as well, so I figured what better time than the present to turn this fabric into something. I looked around online at several tutorials and finally decided on one that was more mathematical equation than pattern. I laid out the fabric and had JUST enough to make it happen, so I cut it out. Blindly, really. Then I decided it wasn't quite enough, so I put scraps into it to expand the bottom of the skirt. I had a lot of problems with the top part - the waistband. I wanted it to be stretchy but firm enough to act as a strapless dress if I wanted. I tried an old t-shirt, but didn't like the thickness compared to the soft flowing rayon blend of the fabric, so I ultimately grabbed my Bella Band from my maternity clothes and here we are:

Sum total for this project: The fabric cost about $3.50 and I used practically every square inch of it. There's one scrap downstairs I might use to make a headband. The Bella Band was originally $15, but keep in mind I used it through my pregnancy with Elsa (and afterward as a tummy cover-up when nursing). And, of course, it took a little time as well.

Oh, rainBOWS. . .

2011-06-02T19:17:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, I got a wild hair to make rainbow cupcakes. I found a tutorial over on Living Eventfully and so I decided to give 'em a try. Normally I make cakes from scratch, but normally we try to avoid chemicals and too much food coloring as well, so we'll just consider this a total break from our every day life. The boy had his tonsils out last Thursday and is in need of both calories AND fun.

Fortunately, these had both.

Here are my ingredients. Or, um, some of them. I bought a mini cupcake tin because let's be honest: it's time to make the move to minis over here. I also bought an icing set, mostly because neat! fun!

Following the directions, I put a scant cup of batter in each of 6 quart sized ziplocs and added the food coloring. Then I closed the bags (carefully!) and squeezed them until the color was worked into the batter. I do wish I would've made the green more vivid. The original post calls for cake gel colorings, but I only had the wholly inferior liquid food coloring. We survived.

Here's all the little baggies with the colors mixed in. I will tell you - that green is far from vivid enough, having seen the finished project.

Then I started putting them in the pan. On the minis, about a dime-sized sploosh. On the bigger ones I played it by ear.

I put all the leftovers in a mini loaf pan. This would prove to be a delicious mistake.

Here are the minis. They took longer than I thought they would, probably because I kept peeking.

There's that loaf pan. I like to call it FrankenCake.

Here's the side view of the Frankencake. You can see that because it was overloaded, the bottom colors were pushed up and out the sides.

Here are 4 of the minis frosted. They're in metallic gold wrappers.

And here's one cut open. Not a bad first run, I have to say -- first time making rainbow cupcakes, first time making cream cheese frosting, first time piping frosting on. Overall, I'd say not so bad!

It's been awhile. . .

2011-06-02T17:20:00.000-07:00

and I'll be honest, I'm revamping a bit.

Why? Well, because I'm not knitting much. I am, however, crafting other things - from Pioneer bonnets to rainbow cupcakes and I need to tell you all about it.

So I will.

6 months and 1 day: A Letter To My Daughter:

2011-05-28T07:45:00.000-07:00

Sweet Elsa:

Your 6 month mark nearly passed without notice as your brother got his tonsils out the day before. He's a big ball of hurt and energy and he occasionally pokes at you in passing. Please know that this violence is a form of love - unrestrained interest wrapped up in boyhood. Also understand that the really big but not as big as Mom and Dad person who tries so hard to care for you exactly like we do - she's your sister. And yes, she let you fall backward and bonk your head, but she loves you with a depth I don't quite understand. And it, too, is awesome.

The cat has just taken notice of you - likely because he's an old man and only wants to be loved. He walks past you on the floor and dips his head down to rub yours and it's so cute I want to snuggle you both, but I realize you're all spit and he's all claws and that's a very dangerous combination.

Today I want to thank you. Not for sleeping through the night or what have you - but for making me realize, through our journey to get you and through these last past six months - what luck - what a random lightning strike parenting is - and how I ought to be damned grateful for it. My other two children came easily to me and my biggest failing as a parent, probably, was taking that for granted.

Of course this doesn't mean you'll be showered with gifts or spoiled rotten - but you might well be gifted with a mother who seeks daily to make herself worthy of this crazy random happenstance. I want to be a good mom to you - and your siblings - now that I realize what a randomly assigned miracle you all are and how many people in this world would give anything to have just a small piece of what I have.

So thank you. I'll never say that the long journey to you was a fun experience - but I WILL say that it was good for me in that it made being a mom matter to me in ways I never really anticipated.

So here's to the first six months. Let's push on into the next half of the first year and please, as you grow, remind me of all of the growing that I need to do.

When Facebook goes wrong. . .

2011-05-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

Awhile back, I wrote this post wherein I identified our family's new mission statement as: To be focused on peace, discipline, and simplicity. I continue to struggle with what it means to act under this new mission. How can we focus our lives on peace, discipline, and simplicity?

Recently, based on some interactions I've had on Facebook, I've gone through a bit of reflection on social media and the internet as a whole - what it contributes to my life and whether, in the end, it's good for me. Obviously, blogging and interacting online is a hobby of mine, but in the end - does it contribute? How so? Can it be better? Can I ensure that it only adds to the peace, discipline, and simplicity in my life?

I have long been a member of a private group of ladies who came together with common loves: Parenting and Debate. They are a fantastic bunch who have, over the years, grown to be much more than internet friends. Real friends. Several years ago these real friends came to me - many of them privately and gently encouraging me to reflect upon my online persona - and how that online persona handled and treated them which was - I'll admit it - very poorly. Our mundane conversations about how to hang the toilet paper or children's developmental milestones unfolded for them one side of me - while our conversations regarding potential hot topics unfolded an entirely other me - one who was combative and rude, that made personal attacks rather than focusing on ideas. This persona was doing grave damage to my friends' ability to enjoy my presence in their lives - and many of them encouraged me to do a little soul-searching. Awhile later, after we experienced our first of what would come to be four miscarriages, I began to engage with another group of awesome women - ladies who held my hand and walked me through one of the toughest periods of my life. And Facebook - a whole other world of positive influence, allowing me to foster relationships I'd let die on the vine and unearthing new commonalities among old friends.

Unfortunately, over these past few years an uglier side of social media has come to my attention - one that greatly disturbs the peace in my heart, mind, and household.

The uglier side of social media - of course - that negative online persona rearing its head among those I love. My friends encouraged me several years ago to remember that if I would not say something to a person's face, I should probably not type it and let it loose on the web. And they are right. I try hard to abide that now - particularly when I disagree with someone. This has allowed me to deepen and expand friendships with ladies with whom I have serious political and parenting disagreements - but with whom I have other awesome connections. But not everybody follows this rule.

Some people seem to be more open with their judgement, meanness, and bigotry online than they ever would admit to in real life. Or worse, our conversations simply haven't covered that material and they might actually say some of the horrible stuff they post on Facebook to my face.

Of course the solution to that is obvious: on internet message boards, utilize the "Hide" feature and eradicate that person from your internet life. On Facebook, simply defriend them.

But what do you do when those people are family? How do you interact with them on the behemoth that is Facebook without taking some of the things that they say personally, particularly when those things are meant to be taken personally or violate what you consider to be some basic rules for living?

And ultimately: How do I reconcile those interactions with my quest for peace, discipline, and simplicity?

So, you know, THAT happened. . .

2011-05-27T16:14:00.000-07:00

(Please note, this post was originally written on 5/5)

Last weekend, THAT happened. And please don't misunderstand me when I say that while good is not the adjective I would use, I think necessary is the right word. His presence on this planet increased the likelihood of bad things happening to the people of the world and his absence makes that a little less likely.

So, you know, cool.

But now I struggle with how to reconcile my internal fist-pumping "YAHOO!" with what I want to teach my children about people, about forgiveness, about being a good Christian - or not even from a Christian perspective - about being a good human. About the root of goodness.

Believe me when I say it's a struggle to reconcile that initial jubilant feeling with the subsequent moral heaviness of what it means to be a person who joyfully celebrates the ending of another life. It's led me down a road wherein I examine my current stance on, say, the death penalty. Even abortion. And I think that a little moral inventory is good - necessary - and important for human growth.

While I was doing all of that and exploring the moral issue of torture (which inevitably arises in the wake of this event, thanks to "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques"), I was told by someone who I love very much that my cynicism in the face of torture is "pathetic. Sometimes you guys make me just want to throw up."

Summer Vacation, Day 1:

2011-05-23T12:05:00.000-07:00

It's 1 pm on the first day of summer vacation.

Heaven help us.

I'm cleaning the basement . . . so. . . NEW RULES:

2011-05-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

If it's on the floor of the basement in a messy pile, I don't care how much you *say* you love it. I get to trash it or give it away. Precious things are treated with care.

If it's broken? Trash.

If it was produced before 1990 and it's NOT memorabilia? Trash or Goodwill.

If it was produced by you, I'll take a photograph of it before I trash it. I love you and I love the things you make. I love them more on photo DVD.

If it hasn't fit for one full season? GONE. Also? Those tattered princess dresses are only going to make your baby sister feel like a loser. Let's start over, ok?

And for the rest of the world: I. Hate. Our. Basement. 'Nuff said.

In six days. . . my anniversary.

2011-04-21T20:16:00.000-07:00

I promise, I won't get too sickly sweet, but I have to tell you: I married the best man for me. I really did.

And I also have to tell you that last year we forgot our anniversary so this year, for about the past month, we're counting down together every few days, saying "X days to our anniversary!" and on and on like that. On that night, it's likely we'll do little more than watch Top Chef Masters or something. . . but we'll remember it, so we're already on better footing than we were last year.

Unless, of course, we forget.

Watched Happy Endings (a post about Motherhood and TV, two things I like best!)

2011-04-15T08:53:00.000-07:00

We watched 2 episodes of the new comedy Happy Endings this week. Overall? Interesting. And not in The Cape's "I'll give it a try because I really like sci-fi/comic book movies". Really interesting. Kinda funny. Quirky. I won't say much except that it's up at Hulu. Give it a look-see and let me know what YOU think. When they cut to the main guy in the HERS bathrobe in his bedroom during the pilot with some fantastic music in the background, I kinda wept with joy a little. I'll keep watching and hope that we didn't blow through the best ideas in the first two episodes.

I mention it, of course, because one of the characters had this great line about having babies and moving to the suburbs and suddenly it being 5 years later and having butch mom hair while driving a red minivan and I was all "OMGOMGOMG THIS SHOW SPEAKS TO ME!"

Why is that? Well, I recollect a time in my life when living in my cute turn of the century Cherry Creek home, mere weeks before my first child was born and saying to my husband You know, some people just allow their homes to be taken over by toys and children. I never want to be one of those people. Ever.

A mere year later, that self-same chic Cherry Creek living room, with the wide doorway between the fireplaced sitting room and the full dining room was walled in with backward bookshelves, a coffee table in front of the fireplace, a baby gate across the other large entryway to keep the baby off the stairs, and a thick carpet of toys, books, and half-saliva-soaked cheerios covering 75% of the floor.

I don't generally walking around saying to Moms-to-be "When you have kids, you'll understand" because generally that's dosed out with a large amount of preemptive judgment and bitchiness, but I can say this - until I had kids, the Happy Endings girl's freak-out was exactly how I felt as well - but a mere year later, when I was swallowed by the momness of it all, I wasn't upset in the least.

Had my standards fallen? I don't think so. My expectations, wants, needs, they all changed. I didn't understand until I was a mom. And again, not in a judgmental way, but in the way that, say, you don't understand that the world holds nearly 100 flavors of Kit Kat bars (so I've heard, but I don't *get* it, you know?) until you visit Japan home of the Green Tea and Corn flavored Kit Kats.

If you want to talk about standards falling, let's talk about now. I'm not only the woman who I was once terrified of - I'm the woman who once repulsed me - wearing a maternity tank & avalanche pants covered in baby spitup, hair in a ponytail, watching the baby roll around on a crumby floor, still mulling over whether simply flipping the baby-spitup-covered pillow was the right call at 3 am or proof that I've fallen and can't get up.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not feeling sorry for myself or where I am. Baby spit-up isn't to endure, it's to celebrate. It's awesome. It's a totally different life. And please note: not better or worse than someone who lives differently than I. Just different. *I* happen to love it in ways I did NOT love life before the kids took over, though you will note: I do not yet drive a minivan. I'm fighting that one tooth and nail.

But the minivan hatred aside (a hatred that will one-day be consumed with squeals of "Oh my god there's SO MUCH ROOM!!!"), the me of 10 years ago would be utterly appalled at the me of today. And you know what? She can suck an egg, man. Because the me of today is covered in baby spit and loving it.

My buddy is set to have a baby in an hour or so and I feel the deep need to give her a shout out during this terrifying and awesome time. Congrats and welcome to the ride, friend. You never know, you might end up in a minivan. . .

Okay, I've gone radio silent

2011-04-12T18:35:00.000-07:00

but I'm exhausted.

I promise I'll post again soon, I will. But right now, I'm all-on-all-the-time between the kiddos & teaching. It's also National Poetry Month (yay APRIL!) - so I've promised myself I'd write a poem a day for the whole month. So far ok. See the tab at the top of the page - NaPoWriMo. I'm particularly proud of the latest series of 4 - for the kids. It's definitely grist for the mill - in May, I'll spend time revising and polishing what I've made.

We're on the road to nowhere. . .

2011-03-31T09:14:00.000-07:00

Truly. But it doesn't matter where we're going or where we've been - it matters how we choose to walk together along that road.

Which is why the Mr. and I have decided to create that family mission statement I last posted about. Further, it gives us a language to use together - free of judgement ("Don't be such a jerk to your sister!") and full of investment ("Is this behavior reflective of our goals as a family?"). As Lilly and Carter get older, I struggle between the parent I seem to be naturally (which is, I'll admit it, of highly inferior quality) and the parent I seek to be (which is not perfect, but much, much better than my natural state). I would like my parentING to be mindful of who I strive to be - because I believe that, with practice, I can be a much better parent - and person.

When I was brainstorming ideas for our family mission, I was focused on the words peace, harmony, and love. The Mr. added the idea of discipline - something that many of the members (myself included) of this family lack. It is an honorable goal and now it's among ours.

Our family's mission: To be focused on peace, discipline, and simplicity.

(And in honor of that last part, I decided to make our mission statement as short and sweet as possible.)

Our next act is, as a family, to sit down and discuss what that looks like - how do we foster peace, discipline, and simplicity in the world? I look forward to the conversation if I can ever get people to stop interrupting and burping long enough to have it. Perhaps I should add respect - though I suspect that can be covered under "discipline".

Mad props to Mr. Thoreau

2011-03-28T10:14:00.000-07:00

When I became Elsa’s mom, I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life with my husband and children, and see if I could not learn what they had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life...

Yeah, yeah, I know I changed it. Deal with it, traditionalists.

I want to write a family mission statement, because I feel like we've been sometimes losing our way with each other, with ourselves, and not to good ends. I want to raise my children deliberately. To tend my marriage deliberately. To create real and lasting poetry on the page and in my arms with thoughtfulness and care. All too often these days, I bounce through life parenting by reaction, loving in response, and wasting time on things that, ultimately, do NOT do me or my family justice.

I want to downsize, to treat our remaining things with care, to treat each other with care, to work the soil together, to work cultivating college minds but also to focus on cultivating my little ones' minds. I want to play more - to ACTUALLY play.

I do not wish to live what is not life and I've done far, far, far too much of that lately.

Bliss.

2011-03-23T09:29:00.000-07:00

So, about a little over a year and a half ago I wrote a post on "Life isn't bliss, life is just this: it's living" from Once More With Feeling, Joss's Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical.

And you know what? Right now? Life is a whole lot of messy living. Today the baby pooped and it leaked through her diaper and, I thought, onto my pants. Turns out that which was on my pants was *only* spitup - an accoutrement I've grown so accustomed to that I barely flinch at it anymore. My laundry closet is overflowing. I'm on hour 96 of some tummy bug and now my sinuses are burning with -- allergies. The kids are on spring break which means EVERYONE is insane.

But at night when I flop into my bed exhausted and get ready for the OTHER work of my day - keeping the little one pleased and sleeping through the night, I lay back and reflect on the fact that for me, right now, Spike's wrong. This life is bliss.

If you would've told me 10 years ago that I would find this to be blissful living, I would've cold-cocked you, but today I know - the twists, the turns, the unexpected pregnancy, the shocking losses, the business ups and downs, the hard work for little pay with my teaching gig - it's messy, messy living - but given an opportunity to reflect?

Total heaven.

A big thank you to the man upstairs for each breath, for the lightning strike children that run through my household, and for those around me who make each and every day total messy, exhausting, frustrating bliss.

The mommy blogs are alive. . . with the sound of. . .

2011-03-16T10:49:00.000-07:00

judgement. And of course I have to chime in. I'm not going to judge, for the record, but more jazz-riff off of what she wrote.

Here is the article in question. Here is a follow up. I've been sitting here this morning reflecting on what this mother has to say. Because I teach writing, I've been contemplating the word love and what she means by that and because I'm a parent, I'm wondering if she meant like instead of love. Maybe not. I don't know. Who am I to say. I didn't honestly have much to say, really, until I read her follow up wherein she claims that the rest of us mothers have these ugly thoughts too and we ought not get too judgmental of her and if we don't like what she has to say, we should probably keep our mouths shut.

And anyone who knows me knows darned well that the best way to get me to start talking is to tell me to shut up.

So in response to her first entry, I have to say I have not had moments when I thought "I love my son more." I have often wondered if I'm more bonded to him, due to our failed epidural and the post-birth high that accompanies a natural birth. Or whether I was more bonded to my daughter who I nursed for nearly three years whereas I lost my patience with nursing my son at 14 months. I daily wonder which child I like better and let me be clear: that changes moment to moment to moment, though overall I am in utter wonder of both of them. I love and like both of them deeply -- and not in the same ways but not comparable in a quantifiable less or more sort of way.

When I do have rare moments of quantification - of I love him less or I love her less, I often reflect on the fact that what I'm feeling in my heart might well be manifesting in my actions toward my children- and whether it can be fixed by changing those actions. I watched a documentary once on oxytocin - it's considered a sort of love hormone - and the most successful relationships have high levels of individually programmed oxytocin responses. How do we program oxytocin response? By touching. When I'm feeling less loving toward one of my children (or, frankly, my husband for that matter), I correct what I'm feeling in my heart by acting more loving - by hugging more - snuggling more - by spending more time with that child (or my spouse).

In other words, the relationship is what I make of it - and while I do not attempt to love my children the same or treat them the same (after all, they are different people with different needs and desires), I love them with equal ferocity. If or when that love begins to fade - it's my job to reignite it.

This woman is pregnant again - with a third child - and expressed in her blog that she hopes it's a girl so she can start over on that girl/mom relationship and hopefully do it right. Anyone who knows me can probably guess how I'm going to respond to that. Gender preference is far from my thing. But more than that, using one child to cure the ills of another relationship is never, ever, ever going to work.

When I discovered that Tenacious E was a girl, I worried that my relationship with her might suffer like my relationship with MonkeyMoo sometimes does. Based on his age, I think The Budge and I did have a closeness that was fading with MonkeyMoo. But rather than thinking of Tenacious E's arrival as an opportunity to fix what was wrong with MonkeyMoo, I saw it as a daily reminder to fix what could go wrong with all three relationships. A cautionary reminder to daily strive to be a better parent to all of my children.

I know that this woman is feeling the sting of the blogosphere right now - and I want you to know that I truly and honestly do not judge her, I just wish she'd take this monster down, wrestle it out of herself through her actions, rather than parading it through her blog. And I hope, above all else, that one day she'll erase that blog so that her daughter might never, ever see it. It's one thing to discuss these issues quietly with friends. It's another to commit them to permanence, to highlight them, to loudly and proudly discuss them.

I cannot imagine as a daughter reading that one day. It's hard enough to be a functioning member of a family, to be a woman in this world. How heartbreaking would it be to see in print that your mom loved your brother more than you - and that rather than redoubling her efforts to love you - she wrote it out and shared it with the world.

I've recently noticed. . .

2011-03-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

that in the Hulu tv show vote-a-thon, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is currently losing to Modern Family.

I do not understand this world.

There's so much more I could say about the truly unfair and devastating things happening to the people around me - but I want to keep it light, so we'll just focus the thing that allows me to be irrationally huffy in the face of video and testimony about Japan, my friends' heartbreaking pregnancy complications, and the other things in this world that just hurt my heart. Screw that, I'm sticking to comedy. And in that comedy face off, It's Always Sunny should be KING.

Grab a mint julep, your quiet voice, and a comfy chair, kids,

2011-03-07T10:45:00.000-08:00

Cuz I'm about to tee off on the subject of gender.

A woman (we'll call her, I don't know, Silly Sally) somewhere said something so offensive, I just had to step in and say something - and because my parents taught me if you can't say anything nice to someone you shouldn't say it at all, I've decided to write it. So Silly Sally says she wants to have another child to "try for a boy". Silly Sally has always imagined "wearing a jersey at a football game on a Friday night."

Here's the thing: I know there are people out there like me who feel like this - but I have honestly and genuinely NEVER had a gender preference when I was pregnant. EVER. When I found out MonkeyMoo was a girl, I cried with the knowledge that I'd reap what I sowed and more as payback for *my own* teen years. When I found out The Budge was a boy, I wept with the knowledge that I had no idea what to do to raise a boy (turns out, it's quite similar to how you raise girls: love, food, change diapers, love some more. Who knew!). When I found out Tenacious E was a girl, I wept at the sight of that beating heart, those kidneys, and fingers, and leg bones all in the right places and the long 20 weeks to come while we waited and waited for her safe arrival.

Some women go through losses and realize that gender preference is stupid. Others don't need losses to realize that a child is a blessing regardless of their dangly (or non dangly) bits. But there are still some people in the world who have gender preferences. I guess that's their choice - and that's fine. I'd rather be elated at the positive anatomy scan than the actual anatomy itself, so insignificant is it, I feel, to my ability to enjoy a child.

But for those who *do*, well, let's revisit Silly Sally and her imagined future of "wearing a jersey on a Friday night game." I'm going to be honest - I've never held that preference and it's a damn good thing because my children weren't blessed with an overabundance of height or grace. I doubt they'll be swimmers or football players. Maybe chess. Are there jerseys for Chess Moms? Seeing as how my boy has a preference for Show tunes and wearing his rainbow silk cape or his sister's dresses, I have no idea right now whether he'll play sports or be in show choir. And - wait for it -

I DO NOT CARE.

Similarly, my daughter seems to be attracted to team sports like basketball and soccer. God only knows why - if she weren't so like me in every other way, I'd wonder who switched her at birth. She may well be into team sports and end up being the water girl for some actual team sport and I may well need to don a jersey on Friday nights to show my commitment to her. And you know what? I hate jerseys, but I'll do it. For her.

My point? It's around here somewhere, I know it. Oh, yeah, my point is this, Silly Sally: You may have a gender preference (though I think you shouldn't) but it's unbelievably unfair to weigh your child down with the detritus that goes along with that preference. Just because you have a boy doesn't mean he'll be playing sports. Maybe he'll be singing. Dancing. Maybe, just maybe, he'll be sitting alone on Friday nights playing Call of Duty with some guy from Luxembourg. Maybe he'll be the state champion in Chess. Who knows what he'll be - and honestly, it's unfair for you to put those expectations upon him before he's little more than an XY sperm that might one day meet an egg.

Meanwhile, look hard at your daughters. They might cook. They might do ballet. But they may well be the next NCAA college football kicker. Or cause controversy in the State Wrestling championships in Iowa. Who knows what they will be - or CAN be - particularly if you stack the deck in your expectations that with penis comes sports.

The only way for your girls to know that they can - or your boys to know that there are alternatives - is for you, Silly Sally, to stop saying shit like "We might try for another baby because I want a boy."

One of my favorite recent parenting experiences was watching three girls (one mine) dress up in wacky outfits and do battle on the field of the backyard while the boy child sat with my newborn girl and smiled, laughed, and nurtured her. THIS is what I want for my kids, Silly Sally. What do you want for yours?

(You should know, for the record, that Silly Sally's reasoning for wanting another child is because she wants A BOY CHILD. And if she had another girl, she expressed disappointment that her husband would be done because SHE WOULD WANT TO TRY AGAIN FOR A BOY. And she would "learn to deal" with having only girls.)

One minute she's happy

2011-02-28T13:05:00.000-08:00

and then - without the courtesy of an eye rub or a yawn, she's 15lbs of red-eyed screaming, kicking, overly-tired sadness.

And I am prone to taking that personally which is about the most stupid thing a parent could do, isn't it? Unfortunately, issues of sleep don't inspire rationality on the part of, well, anyone. There's a reason one of our favorite forms of accepted torture is leaving the lights on and keeping people awake. Eventually it is physically painful.

I'm not going to complain today, though. That's not why I'm writing today. I'm writing today because I noticed something when that screaming ball of tired took the paci and fell asleep. And it was amazing.

She got lighter. Softer and snuglier, I expected. I did not expect this feeling of lightness - the full trust and faith she has in me - and how her whole body just. . . releases. I can't help but feel as though there's a metaphor for faith in all of this, but today's not the day I'm going to make it. Today I'm just going to feel her lightness and recognize that if I had an easy sleeper she'd be in the crib and not in my arms and all of this would have escaped me.

Ssssssshhhhhhh. . . I'm hiding in the shower.

2011-02-24T12:10:00.000-08:00

Or, rather, I was hiding. From the 3 month old baby. Or,well, not really,I guess I was hiding from life. For just a few minutes. Don't get me wrong, I adore my life, I do. I love teaching and blogging and raising kids. It's unbelieveably awesome.

But my god this to-do list. Holy crap.

First there's the have to do. Then it's the really should do. Also the honestly if you don't do it the place will fall apart. That other sticky note? That's the if you do this the short people will stop screaming at you list.

My to-do list is simply a list of lists. My husband's favorite movie is Inception and I swear to you, our lists are working the same way - except rather than lengthening time each time we uncover a list below a list, we dramatically shorten it. And there's no kick to escape from it all.

But there is the shower. Why do I like the shower? Because in the shower I cannot read the lists, nor can I attempt to do, half-heartedly, stuff from five different lists. I can only shower. Is it any wonder today's was long enough as to be just a tiny bit shameful? Oh the wasted water. And time. Wasting things wasn't on any of my lists today.

Off to find a Sharpie and reorganize my lists. So very much easier than tackling them.

To the woman at Cilantros -

2011-02-19T13:55:00.000-08:00

You over there. The one with the quads. I'm certain you get a lot of attention and I'm even more certain that your journey to parenthood was rife with struggle and pain. Perhaps losses. Perhaps infertility. Perhaps both.

Mine was too.

But this isn't about your four children of the same age or my three children 4 years apart in age. This is about your eyes. Rolling. While looking my way. While the entire restaurant shuddered under the deafening tones of the emergency escape alarm that my son set off with his butt.

It is about you judging me.

And it is about karma.

And finally comes this: One day you will not remember this moment as one or two or three or four of your children do something stupid and asinine, something so unbelieveably embarassing you can only do what I was doing when you rolled your eyes at me: stare blankly at the restaurant of people and think to yourself "I cannot wait to post about this on Facebook." When that moment happens, I will know. An excited tickle will crawl up my spine and I will know that you, too, are finally and fully a parent.

God bless you. God bless those beautiful babies. And God bless the moment you discover yourself a teensy tiny bit less judgmental of all parents.

The Cold Coffee Conundrum

2011-02-15T09:32:00.000-08:00

I was just discussing the topic of cold coffee with another mother-artist friend of mine and had to come home and write this. We were talking about multitasking and motherhood and writing and reflected that this is a time in our life when we don't get enough time to sit down to finish a cup of coffee (the baby fusses in the carseat as I write this - which means I won't finish this post either) while it's warm.

And it occurred to me that I've gone one step further. I've gone so far down the rabbit-hole of cold coffee as to actually notice the occasions in which I get to drink it hot and miss the fact that every day is cold coffee day. Times when I drink coffee hot: 1). Church social hour. 2). Waiting rooms when something bad happens. 3). When my husband brings me Starbucks. 4). At 5:45 am to prep for my early morning composition course. And finally 5). When I was in the hospital alone with the newborn and the rest of the family was at home (note the past tense used there: I will not be enjoying this time again, so I look back upon it whistfully, despite or perhaps because of the percocet).

There was a time in my life when I drank my coffee in peace - and hot. At one point, I was a full-on coffee snob with a dedicated ritual of grinding, sniffing, brewing, sniffing some more, and then, at last, drinking my delightful coffee just at the edge of "too hot". I started adding cream and or milk right about then - just to take the fresh-brewed mouth-searing-nature away and replace it with warm (and did you know this: coffee with cream stays warm longer than coffee without cream!), deliciousness. If it got cold - or my guest's coffee got cold, I'd offer a "warm up" or a "top off" to bring back the heat.

I once read that in a study, coffee drinkers can identify the difference in sound between the pouring of hot coffee and the pouring of cold coffee. I was amazed, first of all, that anyone considered researching the distinction -- but secondly that anyone had the time to care, because by the time I read the study, I was a parent.

As a parent, I no longer practice my sweet coffee-shop-snob ritual of coffee brewing. Instead, I rush into the kitchen to the sounds of Can I have another waffle screamed over the baby crying, grab the coffee carafe, with coffee in it from yesterday or the day before that or the day before that, pour it into a pint glass, add a splash of milk (that I've grabbed from behind 3 pumped bottles, a half jar of strawberry jelly that dribbled its contents all over, and a beer that I wish I were drinking but it's before noon so not. quite. yet.) and run to tend other people, my coffee the neglected in this scenario. Or, if I shake the carafe and it's empty (which happens every day or two depending on the sleep I got the night before), I'm running to grab the baby, measuring out Folgers in my right hand while I bounce the baby in the left, saying sssshhhhh, it's okay it's okay it's okay please let mommy get her coffee while counting scoops in my head, and then standing over the pot whispering come on come on come on as it slowly dribbles along, clueless as to my addicted plight.

I guess we've identified a 6th time when I get hot coffee: the moment as it's brewing that I pull the pot out with it's 2 inches of jet fuel in it, pour that into a cup, splash in some milk (leftover, of course, from the kids' breakfast, most likely), and take a gulp which is nearly always followed by the feeling that 1) Folgers is coffee's satanic brother and 2) hot coffee is HOT.

Just in the past month, it occurred to me that if I put the coffee in the carafe while it's still warm - it might stay warm, and I've begun doing so - even heating the carafe up ahead of time with a fill-up of piping hot water. This keeps my carafed coffee hot for well over 24 hours (good carafe, Walmart. Thank you!) and yet does nothing for the cup - which will be poured and lost on any variety of flat surfaces while I chase the children around (children who seem to wake up with the energy it takes 6 cups for me to have. I swear, is there a LaMarzocco in their bathroom? And if there is, why the frak did we give it to CHILDREN?).

As I write this, I spy three cups - most likely filled with some version of lukewarm to ice-cold coffee. My father wonders why I drink iced-coffee in the summer. Silly man. Meanwhile, my friend today proved her genius: she explained that she only drinks coffee out of thermos cups, as they keep it warm until she needs it. A working solution to the cold coffee conundrum.

I could kiss her.

In this dream,

2011-02-13T16:11:00.000-08:00

I have lost you. Somehow, in the midst of taking care of the older two in the park by the river, you've gone missing. It is winter - bright white and snowy and the water in the river courses around small islands of ice. And I return home, empty-armed. Then suddenly, it is spring and I'm enjoying the sunshine with the older two - but there at the bank of the river, there you are, face-down in the water and lost forever.

This was my second terrible nightmare in as many weeks. The first is too terrible to recount. Both were woven with my fears and inadequacies as a parent - and are nightmares which I feel I could not survive. I don't know what to do with them - I can't get them out of my head - these images that are now tacked on to the vague fears I have as a parent. Over these past three years of wanting - then seeking - then getting our third child, I've been wracked with guilt and fear and an underlying feeling that we weren't getting pregnant with a healthy third child because I was not a worthy mother. And even more so, because I didn't deserve another child.

In fact, I was fairly certain at one point that I didn't deserve the two children I had, let alone another. Everything I did was wrong somehow - snapping at the kids, not playing long or hard enough, not eating enough good, organic foods or doing enough hands-on projects with each other. I wasn't hacking it as a mom and it was clear that the Universe was telling me as much.

In these past few years, though, I've come to the place as a mother where I realize that the act of parenting carries with it a series of feelings of inadequacy - whether that is true or not. In fact, I wonder if, among the best parents, there's a high population of those who feel like they didn't do enough, didn't deserve the amazing miracles that are their children, and, perhaps, could have done better. I don't know, I really don't. I do know that even now - to his well-adjusted thirty-something daughter, my father will occasionally apologize for ills and injustices that, to be honest, I've not ever spent much time resenting.

So I've come to the point now where, nightmares be damned, I feel like I am a great mom. Or maybe just a good mom. Or maybe just okay.

But I'll tell you what -- my kids are fantastic.

They are witty and smart and rambunctious. They have no fear - or few fears. They are creative and energetic. They are fairly well-behaved in public. They have deep friendships and they want to be with me. If I've gotten all of that out of less-than-spectacular parenting -- just think of what's ahead of us.

Tim's living in Portlandia.

2011-02-10T17:02:00.000-08:00

I was going to blog about this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dream I had, but I'll be honest - the very idea of repeating it sends me into an anxiety attack, my heart in my throat.

So screw that. I'm going to talk to you now about plastic bags.

Several years ago, I committed to a life of carry-your-own-canvas-bag-shopping. It's fabulous - the bags are big enough to hold 3-4 plastig bags' worth of groceries and they have handles, making the trip from car to house much easier. However, my husband is not sold. As he's done the majority of grocery shopping in the past 2 years, and as such, we've gathered mountains upon mountains of plastic bags.

I cannot stand them, so I've begun trying to do something with them - and that something is. . . making shopping bags.

Last night, as Tim watched me making yarn from plastic grocery bags (it's called plarn. How quaint!), he told me he felt like he was stuck in the episode of Portlandia with the dumpster diving segment. "Ahhh, look! It's a Koala!"

If you haven't seen Portlandia -- please, please, oh please, give it a look see.

To the woman in the Post Office

2011-02-07T13:27:00.000-08:00

who practically spat at me when I said "Excuse me" to collect priority boxes and ready my packages:

Thank you. You could not have contrasted more brilliantly with the radio news piece I heard upon returning to my car - about a homeless girl who earned a scholarship to Harvard and was given a hand-up by people of all walks of life when her story became public.

Her voice, over the radio, was everything yours was not.

So thank you for your rudeness. It made a feel good piece on NPR feel even better.

Oh, I'm all the rage in Latvia!

2011-02-05T19:20:00.000-08:00

That's right, I see you Latvia. I've finally discovered the "stats" section here on Blogger and got that pretty pretty map with the green shading that shows where your readership is. I figure 99% of the United States hits are simply me refreshing the page to up my page count - or, of course, to read the occasionaly comment 72 times and pat myself on the back for it -- but I've discovered that my Sharpies post has been read nearly 300 times! I feel so. . . loved. Or maybe just Sharpies are loved.

I'm trying to be better about blogging - but I'm still struggling to find my niche, because I have SO MUCH TO TELL YOU about EVERYTHING. I mean, honestly, I could go on and on about apostrophes, motherhood, television shows, and Nathan Fillion for decades, or until Nathan Fillion shows up on my doorstep in his sweet electric car (yes, I've read your blog). Anyhow, when you have so MUCH to say, you never quite know WHAT to say. No worries. I'll figure it out. I promise.

Oh, but back to my point (it's around here somewhere). Blogging's sometimes a quiet experience. I pull out my virtual soapbox, yawp from the rooftops, or type out some half-awake-drivel and sort of barf it into the Google search engines with no real idea of who's here. Or why.

So if you're here. . . just this once. . . tell me who you are, how you found me, and what you'd like me to tell you! That includes you, Latvia!

Newsflash: Because it's a baby

2011-02-03T09:45:00.000-08:00

Cruising a local parenting site recently, I can't help but respond to a few things. For those of you who are members there, I adore you and these aren't about YOU. They're a broad response to the ladies on the 0-3 month section of the site. And it's as much a note to ME as it is to them, because even I need these reminders.

Dear ladies with less than 3 month olds:

You've recently had a baby. Congratulations! I'd now like to respond to several of your recent questions. No, I'm no specialist. I've been a parent for 9 years and thus have come to a variety of conclusions about children based solely on my own experience with three wonderful, lively, needy little munchkins. I'd now like to respond to a bevvy of your recent complaints.

Why won't he sleep in the crib? Because he's a baby. He spent 10 months growing in the womb listening to the loud noises of your heartbeat, feeling the warmth of your body heat. He wants to be next to you and I can't blame him. Certainly you can decide to accustom him to the crib, rather than using it as a folding table for the mounds of clean laundry that are piling up (hello snapshot into my home), but he won't naturally want to be there. Because, naturally-speaking, it's in his best interest to stay close to mom and not, say, be eaten by lions.

Why won't she sleep? Because she's a baby and while it seems totally and unreasonably counter intuitive, I've come to realize those little creatures don't just COME knowing how to sleep. Well, not all of them. Some do - and those mothers should excuse themselves from this blog before I find them and burn the maternity pants they surely aren't wearing because they've had time while the baby sleeps to work out which is, I realize, a useless punishment but I'm not thinking straight because I haven't slept in more than 2 1/2 hour increments for the past 9 1/2 weeks. Back to the question: But some babies don't naturally sleep. Why? Who friggin' knows. It's not about why it's about survival and sometimes survival says put that baby in a swing, carseat, sling, or your arms to get them to sleep during the day OR at night. My babies need to be walked and bounced and patted all at once while in a swaddle AND sucking on a paci in order to sleep. It's not about WHY, it's about the solution and that's the solution. I encourage you to find your own - try walking stairs or doing deep lunges with them in arms because it might work and for some of us it's the only postpartum exercise we're going to get. When they fall asleep, if putting them down wakes them up, then for god's sake HOLD THEM. You cannot spoil them. In fact, if you look at my last blog post, even if you could call it spoiling, you only spoil them into empathetic and smart adults.

Can I put my baby on a schedule? Sure you can, but it's going to be a struggle unless you let your baby put YOU on a schedule. Why? Because you can't circumvent circadian rhythms, can you? Or, rather, you can but it's hella work. Why not just go with it?

What is the E.A.S.Y routine? I don't know where this comes from, but I've read that it's Eat, Active Time, Sleep, You Time which sounds like it must be from some book written by a man. In this house the EASY routine is this: "Eat with baby in the sling doing whatever the baby in the sling wants to do but cover the kid's head with a napkin because hot pizza grease is really killer, Attempt to get anything you can done at any time and be prepared for that to get interrupted by your baby when they express their needs which at this age are needs and not wants, Sleep whenever and wherever you can - if the kid falls asleep in the car and you only have one kid, close your danged eyes in a parking lot. If you have two kids and you're in the carpool lane waiting for a school pickup, go ahead and throw the sucker in park and take a nap. The car behind you will honk when it's time to move forward. You need to take time for yourself when you can get it - and whenever you can get it whether the baby's awake watching the mobile turn while listening to Mozart or asleep in the carseat or asleep in the crib (lucky bitch!) or just laying on the floor contemplating the stuff babies contemplate. Get a cup of coffee, take a shower, hand that baby off to the nearest living person over age 12. I don't care. Take 15 minutes a day for yourself. You'll thank me for it.

My baby wants to eat all the time, is this normal? Yes. Okay, let me take a moment to talk about nursing. Newborns nurse. Some nurse for 90 minutes every 3 hours, some for 10 minutes every 2 hours. Some eat every 4 hours (and we hate THEIR mothers but I digress). Babies will ask to eat when they're hungry, so that's cool. And they're not yet big fatty comfort eaters like the rest of us who will say "Hell yeah I'll have hot wings" 10 minutes after lunch because let's face it, hot wings are AWESOME whether you're hungry or not. But that's not what I want to talk about now. I want to talk about this: If you're coming to me for permission to quit breastfeeding, and often that's what's behind these questions, then you have it. You have my permission to quit nursing. You have my permission to keep nursing. Because ultimately, it's not about ME or what I think you should do, it's about what's best for YOU and YOUR CHILD and that's a decision YOU get to make and YOU get to live with. Do I think you should keep nursing? Sure. I think nursing's awesome as evidenced by the 4 years between 3 kids (and going) that I've done it. I think it's pretty much one of the greatest parts of parenting a little one. But that's me, not you. And raising your kid is about YOU and YOUR KID, not me. So do whatever you need to - but please, if you're asking me questions about it, ask because you want answers, not because you want permission to stop nursing. I'll give you all the answers in the world about nursing - how often, how difficult, how to solve a variety of problems, but if you want permission to quit, you need to find that in your own head and heart and NOTHING I say will give you that.

When will my baby STTN? I've heard of this acronym - it means "sleep through the night". I've also heard of this strange phenomena, of a baby sleeping all night long without needing its mother. My babies STTN at: age 2 1/2, age 9 months (using CIO in desperation) and NOT YET. So when your child, which I do not know, will do it, well, let me get my magic 8 ball.

How can I get my baby to STTN? Ah, NOW we're getting to something. But let's please get to the REAL question at hand, because it's not about your baby. The REAL question is: "How can I get my baby to stop waking me up at night." Really, very few of us actually sleep through the night. We rouse, roll over, turn the pillow for a fresh cool side, adjust our covers, and go back to sleep. Some of us (like those who have bad bladders after 3 kiddos) go to the bathroom and go back to sleep. Our babies are no different from us - they wake in the night too. Some go back to sleep, some don't because there are other pressing needs (hunger, dry diapers, giant terrifying shadows, worry about the collapse of the Social Security system, who knows!). I cannot tell you how to get a child to stop needing you at night. Eventually they'll stop or you need to train them that you're not available at night. One takes longer. The other takes commitment and hardening your heart a bit. You get to decide when that happens. But for those of you with less than 3 month olds, let me tell you this: YOU SHOULD NOT BE TRAINING A BABY LESS THAN 6 MONTHS OF AGE THAT YOU ARE UNAVAILABLE TO THEM. If they learn that on their own - that's awesome. Don't tell anyone or you might be stoned and not in the fun 4:20 way. If your baby is older than 6 months and you want to train them that you won't answer their nighttime needs, knock yourself out but don't ask me for directions on how to do it. I'm still not over using CIO on The Budge 3 1/2 years ago.

Here's my final thought (all Springer Style - cue close up to me and some tinkle tinkle music in the background): Parents of less than 3 month olds, it goes like this: You had a baby. Congratulations. Your baby will cry because it's a baby. Your baby will be needy because it's a baby. Your baby will do ununderstandable things because it's a baby. Your baby will want to be held because it's a baby. Your baby will want you - your warmth, your heartbeat, your smell, the food that you create - BECAUSE IT IS A BABY. If you don't want to do those things, be prepared to tell that to a human that won't understand you. If you're not yet a parent and you don't want to do those things, I suggest looking into a hamster because even a puppy has these sorts of needs.

And every time you're at the end of your rope, look down at that wee one in your arms and tell yourself this: They love me with a love that is greater than the world because I am their world because he/she is a baby. This is the beginning of the end of being their world. Over time they will learn bed and puppy and school and friends and all sorts of everything. Until then, YOU are their all sorts of everything.

ETA: FYI, because I realize this sounds preachy: Much of this is stuff I wish someone would've said to me before, oh, say, Baby #2. Adjusting to baby #2 was worlds of difficulty and much of it because I really wanted him to not act like. . . a baby. With #3, realizing that she's a baby has made my world SO much easier. No, I don't get anything done. Yes, I smell like vomit and she's sleeping in my arms right now, but I didn't go through 2 years of miscarriage, loss, and anxiety for nothing - I did it for a baby. The one who's in my arms right now.

Just a wee bit on parenting:

2011-02-03T08:59:00.000-08:00

First, let me say that I love it. Let me also say I wouldn't trade it for the world. Let me also also say that I know how lucky and blessed I am to be a parent. When we were going through "The Great Suck of 2009", we became well aware of what great blessings had been bestowed upon us - and while "The Great Suck of 2009" sucked, it made me a better mom.

And I think I'm a pretty OK mom.

So, now, as a pretty OK mom, I have a few things to say:

OHMYGODWOULDYOUPLEASESTOPTOUCHINGME?

And

OHMYGODWOULDYOUPLEASEBEQUIET?

I ADORE my children. So. very. much. that I never anticipated the feeling I'd get between 3 and 5 pm each day as a mother. I think that feeling is best described as "Oh god if one more person speaks and/or touches me I'm going to set something on fire."

I had no idea the importance of silence and personal space until I lost it all. And now? Now I'd give anything to have it back *EXCEPT* giving up the things that would actually get it back. My kids. I love them too darned much to trade for silence and space.

So next time it's 3:17 and I'm screaming "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOULD YOU PLEASE USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE??????", I'm going to remind myself that I wouldn't ever, even for a moment, trade those nagging, noisy whirling dervishes for the silence that would be present in their absence, because in the 23rd consecutive hour of holding the baby 23 hours a day for 65 days of life, overwhelmed as I am, I can't imagine letting her down by putting her down. She needs me. The Budge and his constant vuvuzela lifestyle need me. And Monkeymoo? That girl needs me too.

So next time? A deep breath. Work can be set aside for awhile. My kids cannot.

And when I start to think I shouldn't spoil this baby so much - she *should* learn to be OK in the crib or the swing or the exersaucer or any millions of baby products, I will go to Time and read this article. I can't spoil her. I can't spoil them - not with love. I can spoil them with any amount of the physical objects that can fill the void between us when I say "OMGWOULDYOUPLEASEBEQUIET", but I cannot spoil them by listening. Or touching. What an incredible reminder to turn off the television and fill the silence with their rambunctiousness!

OH. And THE CAPE?

2011-01-31T22:53:00.000-08:00

Sucks.

I'm sad I spent so much time writing that review. No, not sad. MAD. Stupid lousy show. And speaking of stupid lousy shows -- I can't believe so many stupid lousy shows get renewed and Terriers gets canceled.

I'm still not over that. It sliced my heart right next to the barely-healed Firefly and Veronica Mars scars.

Oh Terriers. I miss you already.

I owe everyone a blog entry

2011-01-31T22:37:00.000-08:00

And I want it to be filled with witty repartee, but the fact is I had a baby 2 months ago and I haven't slept more than 2 hours in a row since then. And I'm not complaining, not really, as I'm delighted and at the same moment I say "LET ME SLEEP", I kiss that sweet girl on her head.
But she's killing my blogging and my fine-tuned razor sharp wit. These days it's sort of dull and slow wit that occasionally hits the broad side of a barn.
AND. What's worse? Some kid in my class today said:
Remember back when flip phones were popular?
I considered trying to explain to him that flip phones are once again rising in the geek population as many find the iPhone (and its various wannabes) to be fabulous tech for gadgetry but not really that great for making phone calls - so the real nerds have both. . . but, well, I couldn't get past Remember back when. . . when I remember back when cell phones came in bags, cost $500, and you paid by the minute.

Dear Cutie Pie and Lovie Pie:

2011-01-17T12:44:00.000-08:00

When you came to us, you were such wee things, petite enough to fit in the palm of our hands (were we inclined to pick you up, you giant wiggling bags of ooze).

Now you've gone and grown legs and arms. You looked cute for approximately 20 minutes and then I remembered that I had to clean your cage and now I have to feed you small legged creatures like crickets or mealworms.

And look, I kind of loathe you.

Were I in a habitat that supports bullfrogs, I'd gladly have let you go at the small man-made lake up the street where you immediately would likely have become heron food. However, I have come to learn that bullfrogs are an invasive species in Colorado and there is a fine for setting you free here. And then winter came and I'm pretty sure there's a karmic fine for setting you free in the garage just to see if you'll "hibernate" and take a trip to Tahiti.

So you sat in the basement, stinking, for two solid weeks - and then it occurred to me - why not let the children love you?

And they do so love you. They love you every day for 10 minutes. They love you so much they've renamed you "Mr. William Carlos Williams" and "Mr. Robert Frost." They love you so much, my son holds Mr. William Carlos Williams on her back and strokes her belly and my daughter holds Mr. Robert Frost and pets her head, sometimes accidentally touching her eyes.

And look: If you can survive this, I promise, I'll take you to Omaha and set you free to meet the local wildlife where you are *not* an invasive species. You need only bear the child-love for five more months.

And now for something completely different, a review of: The Cape

2011-01-12T10:05:00.001-08:00

NBC's been flailing about since, oh, the season 1 finale of Heroes in the way back days. Let's be honest, most of their shows kind of suck (excepting the Thursday night lineup which enjoys immense popularity that I really don't understand, other than the brilliant and always satisfying Community). Heroes was an attempt to bandwagon the LOST-loving viewers of the world and it failed miserably, thanks to insincere and cowardly writing.

I get it. It's tough to prove yourself these days and get footing as a television show when many shows are cancelled after one or two episodes (Viva Laughlin or Lone Star, anyone?). Writers have to cover a LOT of ground in their pilots - and even more in their first real episode - otherwise they'll hit the cutting room floor before they can even get their moms to host a viewing party.

So understand - I DO have empathy for writers, directors, and producers of television these days. That said, I'm not willing to cut them much slack when they compete for my prime time viewership. It's a tough world and if you can't cut it, go write for the CW or VH1 or MTV where I'm willing to allow you to get away with practically anything.

Now. On. To The Cape.

First off, let me say that Borat's side-kick is no liar when he says "The Cape? Well, you can work on that." Nobody wants a superhero with a dumb name, as evidenced by the Big Bang Theory's characters arguing over who has to be Aquaman. Still, I love comic book heroes enough to allow it. It's not the dude's fault his kid lacks discriminating taste in superheroes. The kid's 6, as many of us were when we loved Thundercats. . .

But here's the thing: NBC is going to get three kinds of viewers for this show: comic geeks, NBC drama folks who are willing to give it a shot, and lazy viewers who can't bring themselves to dig out the remote and are only watching it as filler before the 10 o'clock news. They are already in danger of losing the first two groups (if they're not gone already) and if they aren't careful, even the third will sigh heavily, dig in the cushions, and change the station.

Why? Well, here's what they are doing wrong:

The theme music: the opening credits are borderline cool and have a comic-book-movie feeling theme, but there's no major catchy set of notes there for us to hum. Sure, a great theme didn't save Terriers, but nobody watched Angel without humming along during the opening credits. It doesn't make a show but it sure can help to keep viewers around in the beginning and it's great free advertising when a nerd says "I just can't get the theme to THE CAPE out of my head."
The writers are rushed: A good story needs to breathe a bit and a great comic book hero needs setup, creation, a backdrop, and a villain. We know that The Cape has all of these things, because someone told us that in about 30 seconds. Or 1 hour. I get it. That was the pilot and they needed to set the story immediately, but they did it at the cost of setting the tone. The best ending for the first episode would have been the fiery explosion. Viewers would know he wasn't dead but would wonder - is he OK? Deformed? What now? How will he redeem himself? What will come next? As it was, they barely got that dialogue through their heads during a commercial break before The Cape was undergoing the radical transformation with the Carnies.
Too much telling, not enough showing: we're told there are bad cops and shown one grimacing. We're told the hero loves his family and shown snapshots of him snuggling down with his son to read comics. We're told the Carnies are bank robbers and shown a quick montage of bank robbing. But none of this is allowed the breathing room it takes to be very interesting. Either the writers are, as noted above, rushed, or they just don't care that much.
They are wasting their talent: Keith David, James Frain, and Martin Klebba are awesome. Honestly, a friend commented on Facebook that the show practically writes itself and the writers are in the way. He might not be wrong with these three on board. James Frain's talent alone could carry the villain - and yet what we see, either because of the writers or the director, is a ridiculously restrained version of the man we saw on True Blood last season.
Honestly, I could go on but I won't. It's not fair.
CGI Cape. Really? I mean, REALLY? We all saw the CGI sharks on LOST. TV should probably just do its best to AVOID CGI in general.

Now let's look at what they did right:

They're seeking that comic-book feel: They're trying. The show's tonally confused and so to them I say this: go big or go home. If you don't take the full jump into the comic book land, you'll fail. Right now you're straddling the line between drama and comic book drama. Only Joss Whedon does that well. As for you, embrace the camp.
They hired Martin Klebba, Keith David, and James Frain. USE the Carnies and USE the villain. Let those actors breathe. Be honest with yourself: The Cape needs a world to function within and that world needs to be as well-drawn as The Cape himself. And everyone knows Superheroes need foils. Ratchet up Frain as a foil and perhaps your main character will shine as well.
Give Summer Glau some screen time, a back story, and some build up. You've got the Whedon geeks all lined up for a new joyous romp of geekery and you are going to LOSE them. Confused about the power of the Whedon geeks? Ask the former head of Fox. Or Universal. That's a phalanx of powerful tv-watchers with discriminating taste. Get them on your side and can do the impossible. Lose them and you will fail.

Look, I wish you luck. I really want to like The Cape, I do. I'll give you a couple more episodes only because I have a newborn and nothing better to do on Sunday nights. But shape up. I've got a pink slip right here and I'm ready to mid-mid-season replace you with old reruns of Angel. Or It's Always Sunny. Or Twin Peaks. Might do you some good to watch all of them and get back to your writing and directing. The Cape could only be better for it.

Reflecting on Ghandi:

2011-01-08T16:06:00.000-08:00

You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.

A man is but a product of his thoughts what he thinks, he becomes.

You must be the change that you want to see in the world.

What impossible tasks! In the face of violence, the tragic events of this week - of the shooting at Millard South, the shooting at today's political rally in Arizona, and the shooting at a hospital in New Mexico, I am mad.

Very mad.

I want revenge. My blood lust has been triggered and I want people to be punished.

Unfortunately, many of them already have been punished. The others will be punished under due process of the law, not my immediate blood lust, thank God. And it is my job to what? My job to do what?

It is my job to love.

In 2009, over the fourth of July weekend, Pastor Dave asked our congregation to love radically. He explained to us that the challenge of Christians isn't to LOVE people who are loveable. It's to love people who are unloveable.

What a challenge.

So now: Deep breathe. Reflect. Concentrate. Think the change. Be the change.

I was laying in bed this morning

2011-01-08T06:49:00.000-08:00

thinking of the 1001 things I need to do before school starts on the 18th, with sweet Elsa sacked out on my chest, her hair tickling my chin.

This weekend my mom, two sisters, brother-in-law, three nephews, and grandmother have come to witness Elsa's baptism. Over the past 10 days, we've had my father and stepmom, a brief visit with my cousin, her husband, and her two kids, Tim's mother and brother, and now these guests - and it's a lot. It's overwhelming.

But to be so blessed to be overwhelmed with so many people who love us! My list of 1001 things will be here tomorrow. . . and the day after that. . . and the day after that. I'll get to it eventually. For now - I have so many people with whom to share my time!

So there was a shooting at Millard South.

2011-01-06T09:03:00.000-08:00

A 17 year old walked into the front office and shot the vice-principal and principal. You know, since we moved to Littleton and I began teaching students who were graduates of Columbine, school shootings have been an object of discussion among my classes. They come up once or twice a year - moreso when one happens elsewhere in the world.

I've considered them as a student. As a teacher. But today I'm struck with the consideration of them as a parent.

To be fair, we don't know much about this kid yet. We've seen his smiling yearbook pictures and the media has dug up some of his friends who told us how normal he was.

And yet, there's nothing normal about walking into a school and taking the life of a vice-principal - a woman whose life was dedicated to enriching the lives of students just like him.

I'm just gobsmacked, really. And, as a parent, a bit terrified. What do I do to ensure that my kids won't ever consider that the solution to a problem?

Do I commit to living in a home without guns? I know, I know, guns don't kill people. But people with guns are more likely to kill people than, say, people with knives or baseball bats. Knives and bats have a purpose other than the destruction of life - guns symbolize and function for the sole purpose of destroying life. Gun owners often say they aren't willing to draw their weapon if they aren't willing to kill someone with it. But what's that saying if you're willing to own one? That you are willing, at some point, to draw it - to kill someone? I don't know. I'll not be in the forefront of the "BAN THEM" mob, nor will I be in the "God given right" group. I'm confused on guns - but I wonder what sort of message their very presence in our lives sends our kids.

Do I stay up in my kids' mix? It seems like this kid's parents weren't fools - and were trying to do right by him. What happens when you do right by your kids and that ends up being the wrong thing? We all make mistakes like that as parents, don't we? When my Dad was teaching me to dive, an arguably essential skill (though having never really acquired it, I can't tell you how important it really was) for swimming - he tried to do right by me and tell me how to do it. The end result was that I threw my legs out behind me and fell right into the edge of the pool, scraping myself from thigh to kneecap and earning some most excellent bruises. My point? We make those mistakes all the time as parents - doing what we think is best and ultimately doing what's worst.

I don't know. I'm confused. I can't "Tell you something" today, because I don't have anything to tell. A friend of mine posted a status update on Facebook yesterday about this being a senseless - and ultimately nonpunishable crime. The kid delivered his own punishment. I'm just sorry he felt he had to do any of it at all - and I'm unwilling to wipe my hands together and say "Well, that's someone else's mess."

Because it could very well be our mess one day, especially if we don't figure out where it came from.

A letter to my youngest daughter,

2011-01-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

on the occasion of her 1-month "birthday" (written nearly 2 weeks late):

Dear Tenacious E:

We've settled upon a nickname. Okay, not really. Your father still calls you "Ellie Belly" or "Ellie Bean". Both are deliciously cute, don't get me wrong, but I'm sticking with Tenacious E and here's why: tenacity is the trait that brought you to me - and the trait that will make you an awesome and excellent adult. It is the characteristic that I will struggle against throughout your infancy and childhood and I need a consistent reminder that it is beautiful, cute, adorable, and above all else, essential. A sweet nickname is the best way to remind myself of that, I think.

Why do I say it's what brought you here? Well, when four others failed, you hung on. I'll never understand why and I don't care - I don't need an answer, because I have you. When tenacity's the trait that brought you to me, I probably shouldn't spend a moment lamenting it. I should embrace it in all of its forms.

You are a month old now - actually a month and then some because your mother lacks commitment to regular blogging. I should be writing this in your diary, I know, but I'm not. One day I'll print this out, how's that?

What do you do now? Everything that good babies should: You eat, sleep, and cry. You've begun to coo a bit and to smile too. We sleep together nearly every night and you sleep on my chest most days - and when it gets to be too much, when I'm exhausted or frustrated because of the mounting list of things I need to do - I try hard to remind myself of our journey to get here -- and of how short these times are. Your birth was the beginning of a process of growing AWAY from me - a slow process, certainly, but one I've watched in your brother and sister and while they are growing away and into awesome independent people, there is still no time in their lives that they will be closer to me than they were during those 3 a.m. feedings as newborns when they snoozed and snacked and snacked and snoozed. So when you do that - and I'm exhausted and a bit annoyed - I try to remember that this moment is among the closest we will ever have.

Right now you are napping on my chest and I am in heaven. The house is quiet but for the sound of your breath. My list of things to do is huge but right now there is no more important thing for me to do than to take this in and love it for all that it is.

Goodbye 2010. Hello 2011.

2011-01-01T16:20:00.001-08:00

I don't have the laundry list of complaints about 2010 that I did about 2009. Here's hoping 2011 brings us even more joy.

In search of a nickname:

2010-12-16T15:51:00.001-08:00

So, Monkeymoo and The Budge earned their titles fairly quickly - and easily - but Ms. Elsa has simply earned the nicknames "Ellie" or "Baby Elsa", neither of which really FIT with Monkeymoo and The Budge.

I suggested "Squeaks" but it doesn't seem to be sticking. Right now the appropriate nickname might be "Pukes". I'd go for "Eats, Pukes, and Screams" but it might be a bit too nerdy.

So I'm at a loss. This girl's about 20 days old- shouldn't she have a nickname by now?

A note on timing:

2010-12-16T11:30:00.001-08:00

Ms. Elsa was born on the Saturday before the First Sunday in Advent. Before sunset on the last day of the church year, our much anticipated baby girl came to meet us and the very next morning we embarked on the Advent journey - one of waiting, anticipation, and patience.

If I were Lisa Simpson, I'd say it's "Aaaaaaaaaapt."

And now a word from my son:

2010-12-05T17:56:00.001-08:00

"When I grow up I'm going to make a movie. It will be called Boss, Please Believe in Me."

He went on to tell me it will be very violent. I'm not sure whether to be proud of his aspirations . . . or a little scared.

The Grand Entrance of Ms. Elsa Clare

2010-12-02T19:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Blog-readers, family, and friends: I'm going to talk about Elsa's birth. I've been trying to figure out a way to do that without injecting details about my physical self that I'd rather keep to myself and, in a lovely turn of events, Ms. Elsa was born on a big football weekend. Forgive the extended sports metaphors here. Football lovers, please enjoy. Others, please do your best to keep up.

On November 17th, I went to my routine OB appointment. After discussing my size, history, and physical condition with my OB, we scheduled an induction for the Friday after Thanksgiving (also known as CU vs. NE day, hence the extended football discussion). I would check in at 7 pm for an induction. On Friday night we would use cervical ripening drugs - followed on Saturday morning by pitocin. This was quite similar to the strategy we used in Carter's induction. This photograph is one of my last belly pictures - taken the afternoon of 11/26. Please note the overall largesse of the belly. Because this was the evening of the Old Littleton tree lighting ceremony, I sent my family downtown to watch it while I spent a last few quiet moments at home. I checked in to the hospital at 7 pm and by 8:30 the family was ready to come and say hello and I was just getting my first dose of medication: 50mcg of oral cytotec. Standard protocal would be to administer 3 doses of the medication throughout the night. My nurse checked me and let me know that I was still backed into my opponent's red zone and facing a very strong defensive line. And sadly for us, we also had the refs from the A&M game at play, so my midnight and 4 a.m. medication doses were met with flags. 15 yard penalty. No more meds. I threw my headset and received a personal foul.

Despite a lack of further medication, I contracted regularly - and strongly - throughout the evening. Unfortunately for me, the strong defensive line held - and my further checks at midnight and 4 a.m. revealed absolutely no running OR passing yards on the field. We were absolutely stuck. By 7 a.m. we had a small glimmer of hope -- the fluids I'd been getting were calming my body enough that I could receive pitocin to help augment labor. The other good news? Some small amount of movement on the field. Still, I felt like slinking into the locker rooms and giving everyone a good Pelini-style screamfest, erm, I mean "pep talk".

At 9 a.m. my doctor visited to check me - and broke my water. He let me know we were at about the 35 yard line and the defensive line was weakening a bit, but was still quite daunting.

By 11, I was exhausted. I ordered the epidural - and because I was a third-time mom, I got to cut in line and get it as soon as possible. By about 12:30 I was resting and comfortably numb from the waist down. The nurse came in again to check me about an hour later and let me know we were at the 40 yard line and the opposing team had suffered injuries requiring the 2nd string replacements for Defensive End and Cornerback. Finally! We were getting somewhere!

And then! THEN! Finally a good run for us - 2:15 rolled around and the defensive line was feeling significant pressure. We were at the 50 and we weren't stopping. By 3 we were at the 70 - and by 3:15 we were staring down one or two plays to the end zone. By 3:17 we were watching that sweet final pass sail into the end zone.

And then? This:
Although, to be fair, she was much messier and way more disgusting than she is in this photograph. Sweet little Elsa Clare was born at 3:25 after 18 hours of labor (also known as the longest single football play in sweet blogger metaphor history) and 5 minutes of pushing.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. . .

2010-11-25T07:10:00.000-08:00

I was going to start a post about the things I'm thankful for - it's been my habit for many years now to spend my journal entry on Turkey Day listing off everything for which I have serious gratitude until my pen or my stamina runs dry.

But today, there is so much, I can't even begin to put it down. Today I am grateful that my heart is full - to bursting - with the amazing gifts in my life, from the children who snuggled with me this morning (for the 30 seconds I could get them to sit still) to the stranger who took the time to say "Hello" to me. From my internet community to family to church home, there are so many of you who bring so much to my life. Thank you for that.

And thank God for pie. Happy Thanksgiving Day to you all - love, hugs, and pie to everyone who brings small and large miracles into my life.

My son made the sermon!

2010-11-24T01:32:00.000-08:00

Growing up, Erika, Kirsti, and I would groan weekly when Sunday morning rolled around and we just knew that some personal story was going to make it into the weekend's sermon. We loved it when David would talk of a movie review or something equally mundane - and leave us girls out of it. Yet I have to say, the sermons I remember the most - the ones etched into my mind - these are the ones that we girls were in.

The last sermon I watched David preach that was about us girls wasn't about us at all - it was about our boys. My stepdad preached it on July 2nd, 2006 - the day of Carter's baptism. The general tenor and theme was tough - he'd just been diagnosed with a more rare, more aggressive form of liver cancer. We faced a difficult journey - and yet the diagnosis confirmation came between the baptisms of two of his grandchildren within a week of each other and his sermon, while tough and realistic, was imbued with a faith and hope that we all needed to hear.

And now Carter's found himself woven into another, happier sermon. This time, upon describing the faith of the preschool kids at Holy Trinity, pastor Dave had to share Carter's "Why do you people keep telling me this!" answer to "Do you know God loves you very much?". The snickers through the congregation tell me that this story might possibly be fairly well-known already.

That kid.

You should know, though, he got Pastor D back during the children's message when he asked Pastor "Why are you such a silly man?"

Oy. Seriously, every time that boy opens his mouth in church, I'm left with the competing feelings of awe - at the depths of his innocent and abiding faith - and great, great fear for what might come out of that little mouth of his!

Well. . . one week from now. . .

2010-11-19T16:55:00.000-08:00

I'll be checking in for an induction, unless Baby Elsa decides to come before then. I seriously doubt it.

However, she's out of room. She's currently squished up tight in my belly wondering why it's so dark, why she's upside down, and why she consistently hears strangers saying "WOW! I mean, just WOW!"

I'm sporting the kind of torpedo belly that makes strangers think "Oh, you poor thing."

But it's OK. Nobody need pity me. I love this belly - its hugeness, its gravity-defying torpedo nature, and its symbolic state as the end result of two years of long, dark roads. I am so very blessed.

The nasty, nasty truth:

2010-11-14T13:48:00.000-08:00

Carter (poking at his pumpkin pancakes): Mom. MOM! MOM!! This looks like squash a little.

Moi: Oh. Well, here's a newsflash: Pumpkin is squash.
Carter (pushing plate away): I'm done. I don't want any more of this. I don't like squash.

Moi: I'll remember that when you want some pumpkin pie. I'll call it squash pie from now on.

Carter: Mom ruined pumpkin pie.

And now, the lovely, lovely truth: 11 days to Pumpkin pie day!! Bring on Thanksgiving, the family has something truly awesome to celebrate this year.

HONK HONK: An open letter to the neighbors

2010-11-10T00:36:00.000-08:00

No, not you, neighbor. I'm not talking about you, across the street, with a 3-year-old and a minivan he likes to break into. It's not your car horn that bothers me, because it's both rare and understandable. To a 3-year-old-boy, the front seat is akin to nirvana and the car horn is a rare and unusual beast that beckons everybody. What astounding power! That, I get.

And I'll be honest. When it happens, I grin a little and say "Oh, AJ" and move on.

So please don't think that this letter is for you.

Nor is this for our neighbors to the north who busily and sometimes not-so-quietly leave the house in early morning. Your noise is both purposeful and incidental. And rarely involves a car horn.

No, friends. I suspect you share my cantankerous attitude for the neighbors to whom this letter is aimed.

Now. You. The people who need to read this letter. I want to tell you that I've tried for months now to understand your peculiar habit. I've discussed it at length with friends. I've tried to explain to myself and others why every day, every time, upon entering your driveway, you honk - twice. HONK HONK. Some friends offered up the idea that perhaps the driver lacks keys to the home. I told myself that after an unfortunate incident walking in on an embarrassed teenage son's onanism, you opted to announce your arrival or that, perhaps, your 1980s Honda had some short in it that made the car honk twice every time it was placed into "Park." HONK. HONK.

I do not think this is the case. I have a deep suspicion that this is simply your way of saying "Honey, I'm home!" and that you have little clear understanding of the idea that your neighbors - ALL OF US - can hear your honking as well. HONK. HONK.

Let me tell you something, sweethearts: We can. We hear your double honk at 3 p.m., 10 a.m., and it rings particularly well throughout the neighborhood when you pull up at 11:30 p.m.. HONK. HONK.

We live near a lake that is inhabited practically year-round by geese. Trust me when I say this: their honking is enough. Yours is over the top and I've grown weary of it. HONK. HONK.

I've tried to imagine practically any scenario that would allow me, as a good citizen of a neighborhood, to make a nightly noise after 9 p.m. that rivals your double - or sometimes triple honk. Each time, the explanation includes serious illness, emergency, or perhaps fire. Rarely, in my mind, is it a nightly habit practiced after your average neighborhood citizen has gone to bed. HONK. HONK. HONK.

Every day. Every night. HONK. HONK.

I've thought of thousands of ways to respond. Few of them include civil conversation, partially because I'm in my 67th week of pregnancy over the course of the last 104 weeks, but also because I cannot imagine a scenario wherein honking one's horn in one's own driveway several times a day for no discernible reason is civil or worthy of civil response.

My only thought now is to grab the car alarm Emergency button and try to beat you to the punch. Or announce my leaving on mornings when I teach, with my own HONK HONK at 6 a.m.. Or perhaps waddle over some night with a dozen eggs and give them a toss at the offending vehicle. Or waddle over and ask "What kind of short does your electrical system have that the car HONKS every time you put it in park?"

Unfortunately for me, I'm a bit too civil. This is my only weapon. HONK. HONK.

And I haven't even BEGUN to discuss your epic battle on the front lawn of last Friday. That was both civil AND classy. Thanks for delivering to us a sweet soap opera. HONK. HONK.

Okay, okay, okay, it's probably time for another post

2010-11-09T19:59:00.000-08:00

but let me be clear: I don't have anything to say.

Or, rather, I probably don't have anything to say that you want to read.

This is the end, folks - the last 19 or so days of pregnancy and most likely my *last* pregnancy. Since this pregnancy is coming on the tail-end of the great Crapdom of 2009, I'm going to say this about these last 19 or so days of pregnancy: I'm plagued with the routine ills of third trimester and I'm extra bitchy about it, but I realize what a blessing it is. I really do.

I realize it so much that I'm not going to talk to you about the "routine ills of third trimester."

I am, however, going to tell you that this kid is about to burst out of my belly Alien-style so she needs to consider maybe possibly listening to gravity and just doing it the easy way.

But back to why I haven't been posting. I'm going to let you in on a little secret here. Or maybe it's a big secret. Or maybe, if you're someone who's been around someone who's pregnant, it's really no secret at all.

I promised not to talk about the routine ills of 3rd tri, but I will mention this one: often the woman engaged in the routine ills of third trimester can occasionally become a raging, hormonal, evil, terrible, horrible bitch.

There, I said it. Pregnant friends, I'm sorry. Maybe you're better people than me. But I'm not better than me, I just am me. . . and me is a horrible person right now who thinks terrible things, says terrible things, and considers throwing erasers at students or walking outside screaming "IF YOU HONK YOUR HORN AGAIN AT 11PM STUPID NEIGHBORS I WILL COME BARF ON YOUR FRIGGIN' DOORSTEP". Look, it can't be helped and I guess knowing is half the battle, maybe?

So for those of you I love - and for those of you who read this blog - please understand, my silence isn't personal. I'm not avoiding the phone or Facebook or Blogger because I've forgotten you or no longer care. On the contrary, it's because I *do* love you. I love you way too much to subject you to. . .

Me.

And since hormones are such awesome fluctuating things, I'm sure I'll be sunshine and puppies in a few days and I'll come back for a longer, sweeter post.

33 days. . . or less. . . left

2010-10-26T11:12:00.000-07:00

And now comes the hard part -- the last weeks are tough for any pregnant woman, and I've seen several of my compatriots fall to the "term starts at 37 weeks" fallacy that leads them to believe that their discomfort and contractions will lead to a baby 3 weeks before their due date.

To be clear: for some, it will. For many, though, it'll simply lead to the idea that every moment they endure still pregnant past 37 weeks is agonizing. I know, I've been there. But it's the wrong mindset to be in, it really is. We are blessed to be here - ask any mother of a NICU baby, any mother of a child lost, any woman unable to have a child. We are blessed to be in those long, miserable last few weeks of pregnancy.

It's hard to remember, I know. I give myself a short pep talk and lecture each morning, because here's where I am today: I am in the last 5 weeks of what will most likely be my last pregnancy. This is likely the last time it'll be socially acceptable for me to walk around with a gigantically bulging belly peaking out from underneath my t-shirts. It's likely the last month I'll have to feel the bumpity bump of a baby on the inside. The last time to enjoy moments with my family of four before we become a family of five.

I cannot imagine wishing away these times - despite the sleeplessness, despite the physical difficulties, the breathlessness, the lumbering and clambering, despite it all, I cannot in any way, shape, or form wish this time away.

There is but one thing I could do without over these next 5 weeks: the crushing anxiety of pregnancy after loss. That is all. In the meantime, bring on the prodromal labor, the waddling, the reflux and heartburn and every agony of late pregnancy. I am lucky to be here and I refuse to allow myself to wish it away.

Aaaand now: What I've cast on

2010-10-23T23:55:00.000-07:00

I can't tell you what I'm finished with because I suspect this is a long-term project. Please, oh please, don't let me lose interest!

Ater watching me knit for baby Elsa for the past :cough: 5 months, both kids have requested something of their own. I committed to making the Moderne Log Cabin blanket for Carter in Autumn Red, black, and gray Caron Simply Soft. Lilly requested that Star Blanket I made for Nana, Grandma A, and baby Elsa -- I'll make it a little bigger for Lilly so it has some staying power - and likely knit it in a Caron Simply Soft as well. It's a workhorse yarn but it lasts - and knits up smooshy if you can get over the fact that it's acrylic. And well, to be honest, if I'm going through the work to knit up blankets for my kids, they'd better be acrylic. :)

I'll start by saying this: I'm no artist

2010-10-19T07:26:00.000-07:00

But I was hopeful that I could pull off just the teeniest art project for Ms. Elsa's room - some letters and a facsimile of this card:

And I like to think that I did OK. We'll see, I may go back in and add more flowers but I don't know. Because I used a lighter pink, the white dots for the chain link fence don't really show up as well and I'm not sure what to do about that, but it's decent. The plan now is not to frame them, but to paint the edges in the bright turquoise of the owl, cover the staples with a ribbon (and some hot glue), and be done.

We'll see. I'd like to simply get it up on the wall and move on to the curtains - because she *NEEDS* curtains, right?

Here are the letters I did for another wall:

I'll be purchasing a couple of smaller canvases and having the kiddos each do a painting too. The whole room will be a family affair. :)

I am the Face of 646.3, "Habitual Aborter"

2010-10-15T08:05:00.000-07:00

A year ago on this night, I ground my teeth so hard I cracked a back molar in anticipation of my impending due date and the bittersweet birth of my sister's twins. They were born the next morning while I was in the dentist's chair learning that to crack a molar in that way required greater than 200 pounds per square inch of pressure. I wasn't feeling pressure - or even stress really. I was blessed to have a sister who handled me with a grace and empathy I only now understand. It was simply that looming date - October 19th - that was weighing on my heart and mind in ways I really couldn't fully understand or anticipate. 10/19/09 was the date we were to anticipate welcoming our third child into the world.

October 19th is the anniversary of Tim and I coming back into each other's lives, so it seemed an auspicious due date when I calculated it after staring at the shocking result of a "PREGNANT" blinking back at me on February 12th, 2009. We were not quite in the business of seeking another child yet, and *poof* one was on its way. After a few days to adjust, we were excited - delighted even. Our other surprise child, the first, had been nothing but a blessing unfolding herself in front of us for the previous 6 1/2 years, so why not anticipate a new journey of joy.

As many people are unfortunate enough to know, though, pregnancy doesn't always bloom in that way. Sometimes it unfolds into a terrifying series of moments and terms - the spotting, the dark blotch on the ultrasound screen where a flicker should be, the doctors and nurses unable to meet your eyes when they tell you "there's still a chance", the words "threatened abortion". I remember walking into our room at the ER and flashing back to the sights and sounds and smells of my stepfather's last days - whether we knew logically or not, I knew in my heart this baby would not be. Just as quickly as a third child appeared in our lives, it was erased. *poof*

We went on, over the course of the next 11 months, to lose a staggering three more pregnancies at different stages and for, presumably, different reasons. At one point, while watching the nurse take fourteen vials of blood to try to discover what was wrong with me, I remember feeling as though this was it - we were done, we had two uneventful pregnancies and births, we'd played out our luck, and we were quite blessed. My understanding of pregnancy and birth had gone from something that happened quite easily to the deep feeling that my children were lightning strikes - miracles of chance illuminating my life that might never be repeated.

Before we started this journey, I had a textbook understanding of pregnancy and infant loss - I have friends who have gone through losses - multiple, single, first, second, third trimester loss - even post-birth. I understood in my head what I could only glimpse from my heart. Even now, I feel quite certain that I have not suffered these losses as others among me have - coming home from the emergency room to two concerned children, to their hugs and their hearts thumping deep in their chests - it was a blessing.

Now, though, I have a deep understanding of my losses, of the subsequent journey of hope, desperation, reflection, and spiritual struggle of these past twenty months. I also sit here and feel the quiet thump of my daughter, now at 33 1/2 weeks gestation and I know that my love for her - and my other two children - has fundamentally changed in ways I could never anticipate. It is, in many ways deeper, stronger, perhaps even a bit more patient.

Tonight, to honor October 15th as Infant and Pregnancy Loss Awareness Day, I will light four candles - one for each of our potentials (to borrow a phrase from Joss Whedon, because I still personally struggle with the idea of angels) and I will hold in my heart all mothers - whether they went on to bear living children or not, whether their journey turned to one of live birth, adoption or a life without children- those mothers for whom "How many children do you have" is rocky and dangerous emotional territory. I am thinking of you - and grateful to have had your hands, your faith, and your hearts along this journey.

Coming Home Outfit

2010-10-14T18:55:00.000-07:00

And another thing I haven't yet blogged -- baby girl's coming home outfit. Admittedly, it's much less rustic and far more beautiful than the red baby sweater (looking at a pic, it seems a hot mess. Hopefully a wash or two will make it. . . less of a hot mess?).

But back to this outfit - I made the Sweet Baby Cap, Yoda Sweater, and some mitts and boots - all with free patterns from Ravelry to go with Elsa's sweet embroidered Gap dress.

Ensuring an unseasonably warm winter,

2010-10-12T16:28:00.000-07:00

I've knit another baby sweater. I'm so so on the results for this one. Some stitches are too loose, there are several things I wish I'd done differently, but overall, it's a fair representation of the Dincadoo Baby Sweater. I wanted Sock Monkey buttons for it, but those are hard to come by.

And one more post about the kids. . .

2010-10-11T06:27:00.000-07:00

Regarding the gestating one: 4-7 weeks left. Wow.

And the Budge: You know you're raising a nerd when the boy says to you, while watching football, "Which is the side that we're on, the ones that look like Dr. Horrible in the beginning (in white) or the ones that look like Dr. Horrible in the end (in crimson)?" And you know you're a nerd when that brings to your heart a deep warmth.

The Budge's new joke, the day after the NU/KState game: Knock knock, who's there, SUCK IT FANCY WILDCATS!!!! Clearly the boy sneaks out to the living room under the cover of darkness to read Rants from Mommyland. Kate and Lydia should be proud.

And Monkeymoo: I had an excellent modern feminist raising an awesome girl moment this weekend. After spending the late morning and early afternoon running around a dusty farm eating gritty pumpkin pie and finding our pumpkins, my girl had a playdate with her BFF. They snuck downstairs, got into the costumes, and prepared for a "Crazy Fight". I couldn't actually ascertain the rules of said fight, other than something along the lines of "Become a superhero of your own making in princess dresses and soccer cleats with a handbag or a tin-can-drum as your only weapon." Then the girls went outside, dug up worms, and (much to my chagrin at cleanup time), set up a secret fortress of wormdom in the Fisher Price Bat Cave.

But the most awesome part about that is that Monkeymoo & her BFF were both making AND breaking modern gender roles, which is, after all, what we modern feminists should strive for, right?

The latest knit? Another pair of tights/pants

2010-10-08T10:51:00.000-07:00

I couldn't help myself - these are scraps from the coming home outfit I made as well as from mom's scarf that got eaten by dogs.

They turned out pretty cute, I must say. :)

But wait, there's more. . .

2010-10-06T05:03:00.000-07:00

Mom: Please be sure you get your water bottles closed. When you don't, they leak all over your papers.
Lilly: (mumbles) Oh. Yes. I see. I see right here in my damp sweater.
Mom: YOUR WHAT???
Lilly: My sweater which is partially wet but not soaked making it D-A-M-P. Did you think I said something else?

*******

And then this one: Carter and I went to Home Depot to get a new deadbolt for our iron screen door. We purchased the deadbolt, after looking over 101 different knobs and locks. On the way out to the car, I was explaining that he could help me fix it so he could learn to fix it himself.
Mom: Because someday, you'll have a house, right? And then someday maybe your lock will break and then what will you do?
Carter: I'll have a wife who can fix it!!
(Man nearby loading wood chuckles)

Some days, it's terrifying,

2010-10-03T06:59:00.001-07:00

that brief moment before my children open their mouths (if, that is, they've been temporarily closed after vuvuzela-ing) to answer another person's question. See, I have a friend who likes to remind me that apples don't make pears and why in the world would two sarcastic, witty, smartasses ever make children who were compliant and sweet? And she's right. More interesting, in my opinion, is the fact that I often reflect to imagine a world with sweet, compliant little children, dressed neatly with combed down hair and, like Cordie after her ascension to the heavens, I want to exclaim I'm so. . . bored. Not that kids like that aren't great - they serve the fantastic function of being walking mannequins for their parents and fulfilling their own parents' needs to have children just like them. They often grow up to be highly beautiful and successful and rarely attend a party with a Chiquita banana sticker stuck to their buttocks. They also write Thank You Notes often and on time. Like I said, they're important. They're even cool in that retro-chic kind of way. But they're not my kids.

My kids? My kids are the ones with the sticking-up hair dressed like eighties tv star Blossom in clothing inappropriate for the weather and, recently, with temporary tattoos on their necks. My son's teacher recently exclaimed With the Budge, everything's a full-body experience. And she's not wrong. My kids are also the ones, when asked a question, suddenly pique the interest of all around. My kids have that whole post-modern-meta-George-Michael-Bluth thing down pat.

For example, The Budge goes to a preschool that is connected with our church. Recently, during one of their first Thursday morning chapel sessions, Pastor Julie asked the group of preschoolers the following question: Did you know that God loves you very, very much?

Without missing a beat, my son answered, throwing his hands in the air: Yes. YES! YES! Why do you people keep telling me this! I know this! When are you going to stop?

I'm delighted that my son's got that whole faith thing down enough to understand the deep and abiding love of Christ. I think that's awesome. Equally awesome is the depth of his understanding being deep enough that to say it out loud seems as meaningless as to say Did you know the sun will rise tomorrow? Perhaps even more awesome, of course, is that the ensuing hijinks in his expression have earned him a spot in the hearts of many and the consistent greeting from family and friends: Hey Carter. Did you know God loves you very, very much?

Church, actually, is the place we, his parents, live in fear. Every time he clambers (and he really does clamber, for the record) up for the Children's sermon, we begin our silent prayer: Don'taskquestionsdon'taskquestionspleasegoddon'tletpastoraskanyquestions. But God's too busy loading up the perfect scenario for Carter's answer to hear our prayers, I think.

On another Thursday morning chapel, Carter decided to share his excitement regarding the impending birth of baby Elsa. My mom's going to have a baby soon. And we're going to have it hypnomatized here. We're all set. I've put in my personal request that the hypnomatized baby be told to sleep well, be a good eater, and be very well behaved, but I'm going to guess, judging from the two we've got, that it's not very likely.

And I shouldn't solely focus on The Budge. After all, his sister, she's a handful in and of herself, though as I tell my students, one can rarely convey proper tone in text and these days, that girl is all about tone. It's not so much what she says - it's how she says it. From the physical ticks to the eye rolls and intonation, I can tell you this: She's growing into a force to be reckoned with, that's for sure.

Bear Lamp Refurb: Kinda OK!

2010-09-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, so here's the deal. I had this cute teddy bear lamp that my grandma and grandpa gave us when Carter was born - but it no longer matched his room and it wouldn't match Elsa's room, so it was in the give away pile until one of the children saw it and pitched an unholy fit (because we simply cannot abide things disappearing from our home).

So I agreed to use the lamp in Elsa's room -- but the colors didn't match the bubble-gum pink scheme we have on the walls, so something had to give. I figured I'd just refurbish it - so I removed the outer part of the shade (it had a teddy bear print on it) and decided to dust and hand-paint the rest of the lamp in colors that matched the eventually-to-be color scheme for the room (if I *EVER* manage to do the artwork). So here, my friends, is the finished product. I'm not terribly happy with the lamp shade. I might just go to Big Lots and grab a new, plain white one, but this'll do for now. Chances are good Elsa will forgive me for some messy recovering, right?

Today's Craft: Husker themed newborn gown!

2010-09-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

What do you do when your husband is drowning in Nebraska Cornhusker t-shirts and yet you have nothing for your wee daughter-to-be to wear on Nebraska/CU game day? (Please be here by then, Ms. Elsa. Please. I beg of you. Please!)

Why, you make a gown! You start with a t-shirt. . .

Cut it into pieces:

And sew it back together!!

Next up? LAMP overhaul, Window treatments, and the coming home outfit!

Oh, what wonderful things. . .

2010-09-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

In a world without internet, fashionable friends, and crafty neighbors, my children would have lovely, plain nurseries with pre-purchased decorations.

I'd go to Target and point-and-click myself into a nursery. While I was there, I'd probably buy a coming home outfit. Everyone would be happy.

But no. No. Not me. Me, the woman with 2 children, 1 frog, 1 froglet, and a yowling senile cat, the woman who works 30 hours a week with only 16 hours a week of childcare, all while gestating. . . I've decided to get crafty.

Add to the craftiness a deep and loud self-criticism AND being a perfectionist and you've got: WHACKADOODLE PREGNANT LADY!!!

So what's on the agenda?
* Making a new crib skirt. Perhaps breatheable bumpers. Maybe. We'll see. Maybe not.
* Finding a cheap canvas (hellloooooooooo Goodwill & Savers!) to paint over and make a painting for the nursery
* Painting letters for the room (50% complete)
* Refurbishing an old lamp from Carter's room to be appropriate for Elsa's room - it's got a little teddy bear scene on the lamp base -- I need to recover the shade and repaint the lamp base. I just started this today, so I'm about 20% done.
* Coming Home Outfit (dress is purchased, hat and mitts are complete, sweater is 30% complete, and socks/booties still need to be done)

Then it's on to wall art. Perhaps a blanket/quilt? Cute owl-shaped pillows? Who knows.

What I'd really like, more than anything, is to be a weeeeeeeee bit less crafty. ;)

Edited to add: Listen up crafty friends: I say this with love. Despite my feeling overwhelmed by the need for homemade things, I am utterly grateful to have those around me who've helped me get over my "I can't!" and into "Holy crap, I just pulled up half the carpet in the house." I am often in awe of the things you create - and the things you inspire *me* to create.

This morning I showered with Batman

2010-09-08T06:20:00.000-07:00

and Padme Amadala. And the letters A, C, and Z. And Polly Pocket.

As I sudsed my hair, I reflected upon my preconceived notion, prior to having children, that somehow parenthood endowed a person with a certain amount of laziness. Look, after all, at any mother's minivan on any given day of the week - how many stories have we heard about finding that single stinky sippy cup full of 3 month old milk under the seat? How many loaves of bread or buckets of nuggets could we compile if we took a parking lot's worth of minivans and vacuumed them out? I assumed (we all know how that works out) that it was sheer laziness that led a parent to live that sort of. . . dingy. . . lifestyle.

And good parents too. Plenty of AWESOME moms and dads have succumbed to the child-related mess, from pacifiers in purses to toys in the shower. But why?

Now that I've been a parent for 8 years, I think I know. If Prometheus could have made his liver stop growing back. . . if Sisyphus could have let the rock roll and wipe his brow -- they would, yes? To be clear, I do not believe that being a parent is torture - but I do believe that this aspect of parenting is torture: the sheer weight of duties done daily to absolutely no effect.

Recall, if you will, the Simpsons episode when Marge spends the day cleaning the kitchen. Her family barges in and the doors swing open to a sparkling haven. The doors swing back and it's covered in filth. This is, in a nutshell, part of the chaos of parenting.

And yet, recall the same cartoon when Marge gets the extra fancy house that cleans itself. She's left bored in the kitchen drinking wine at 10 a.m..

Sometimes the chaos is the best part.

But sometimes, just sometimes, you give up. Give in. Shower with Batman and crew.

My baby will have the warmest. . . .

2010-08-31T09:35:00.000-07:00

Head.
Butt.
Body.
I do so love to knit baby things. I feel as though I've been unleashed. Finally.
What have I been up to? Here we go:

We'll start with the bonnets and mitts. You'll note the colorful bonnet has a matching pair of knit tights to go with it. Poor, poor Elsa won't be easily missed on "Don't lose the baby" pattern day. The purple set is made with Malbrigo sock yarn and it is so very soft. I'll be making socks to go with it, whenever I get back to them. :) Both patterns came from Ravelry - the Top Down Anime Bonnet and a mitts pattern which I can't manage to find at the moment. I'm hoping little Elsa won't oppose these mitts - so we can use them instead of the weirdly sized (always too short and waaaaay too wide) Gerber scratch-gloves.

The next big project was the star blanket. This is car seat-sized, so not all that big. It's a pattern I got off of Ravelry called the Radiating Star Blanket - with a few changes. I added about 5 rows of garter stitch before the border and then about 4 rows afterward, just to ensure that it wouldn't roll.

Finally, I wanted to share two others. This hat actually came back to me from a friend - I made it for her daughter when she was born. I'm looking forward to using it and have some of that variegated purple in my scrap pile (the pink too!) that I might use to make a matching set of mitts, because what's a hat without mitts?

And this is my last project. The body of the wool longies is made from random wool I found in the stash - it's hard to see the true color in this photo but it's a really beautiful green. The curly cuff is from a recycled sari silk yarn that I've had in my stash for - quite honestly - as long as I've been a knitter. I didn't know what to do with it but was running low on the green for the body, so I figured why not add a little pizazz to Elsa's wardrobe. It's bright and shiny and a little obnoxious, I'll openly admit. Once I'm done, I'll make a drawstring, tie, or some sort of pattern with the silk for higher up on the soaker, just to bring things together.

Doo do BORK BORK BORK, a.k.a. Meet the Human Vuvuzelas

2010-08-29T09:25:00.000-07:00

When America fell into World Cup Football (cough: soccer) fever a few months back, my husband and I tried to watch. Of course there was the issue of knowing nothing about soccer, but Americans, above all else, are sports people - surely we could watch and enjoy. Approximately 2.7 seconds into the first game, though, I asked my husband to turn down the volume, as I couldn't figure out what that irritating buzzing was.

Turns out, it's a wee little horn called the vuvuzela. Unfamiliar with the sound of the vuvuzela? Check out this little piece of footage. It sounded like an issue with the recording equipment. Or a swarm of Africanized honeybees.

Turns out, it's just a little piece of plastic, and while we call my son the Human Vuvuzela, that little piece of plastic doesn't hold a candle to him.

Before I became a parent, I anticipated all sorts of parenthood-y issues (as much as anyone can anticipate chronic sleeplessness or afterpains or nursing, that is). I did NOT, however, anticipate the significant increase in the level of noise in my life.

Children are the vuvuzela of this household. A low, dull hum that screws up anyone's ability to think clear, coherent thoughts. It is, I've decided, their greatest power. When a group of zebras is attacked by a predator, they move together and their stripes distract the attacker. When a group of children gets together, they make noise and completely annihilate any coherent thoughts their parents might have.

And my son is the best at this. He makes noise all the time. Even in his sleep. Still, God help you when he's awake. Then the buzz begins.

Of course, the buzz is occasionally interrupted by Swedish-Chef like insanity. Generally he saves this for the dinner table. Everybody's relaxed, focusing on their food and trying to have nice conversations that start with "How was your day, dear?" and then, in bursts the Swedish Chef.

Yet, I must say, when my family was out of town about three weeks ago (for five GLORIOUS days), I had the tv or the stereo on for most of the time. The house just didn't feel the same without my vuvuzelas.

It's been too long, I know.

2010-08-25T13:22:00.000-07:00

But I *am* knitting.

I'm making baby girl Elsa one of those big round star blankets like I knit up for Nana Elsa last Christmas. Additionally, I've got the yarn ready for a few diaper covers or sets of longies, and some beautiful red cotton for a yoda sweater, I'm thinking.

Now it's about finding the time to get everything done at once! Wish me luck. 13 and a half weeks left to knit before baby girl is here!

Double. Digits.

2010-08-21T17:13:00.001-07:00

99 days till our baby is here. . . . 99 days left to nest. . .

I *might* be a little excited. It *might* feel like this pregnancy will have been 2 years long. Well, not quite two years, but since our first positive home pregnancy test was February 12th, 2009 and our delivery date will be somewhere around November 28th, 2010, we're talking 21 solid months between "OMG! We're going to have a baby!" and a baby.

To be clear, I'm well aware that there are many, many, MANY people for whom this quest is much much longer - and I am consistently humbled by their commitment, faith, and deep deep strength.

I, however, am a petulant and impatient child. I.want.my.baby.

And it's looking more and more like that might actually happen. What a Thanksgiving this will be!

"You asked me once, what was in Room 101.

2010-08-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world."

Room 101 is perhaps the most strikingly fearful scene in Orwell's 1984.
Today marks 101 days until our due date.

And I'm going to allow today to be my day of fear. Tomorrow, I will open the door to 100 and after that to 99 and we can begin our delightful countdown to baby.

And fear, dear fear, I'm leaving you here.

My husband calls me NEST-OR

2010-08-16T20:33:00.001-07:00

As if cleaning every medicine cabinet in the house somehow qualifies one for a Japanese black and white monster movie title. That's right, kids, it's Nestor Versus Godzilla.

(If, by Godzilla, you mean "The entire 1,000 sq feet of the upstairs of my home + the entire 1,000 sq feet of the unfinished basement of my home + my entire catalog of poetry + that book I started to write but never finished + all of that baby stuff that probably should be done + a new Composition-themed blog to entertain my students and if, by Nestor, you mean yours-truly-minus-sleep).

Actually, on paper, it DOES look like Nestor Versus Godzilla: My spare list-making spiral notebook is taking on monster-sized lists (courtesy, of course, of the Sharpies and ONE entry happens to be "Drive to Office Depot. Buy $1 Silver Sharpie"). But that's on paper.

In truth, I came home from conquering my classes today to spend the rest of the day sitting in my rocking-chair-butt-groove wondering why in the world I signed up to teach three classes while I was engaged in the consuming task of making another person.

I mean yeah, she'll be a tiny person (better be a bit tinier than her older brother, that's for darned sure, because at 9lb 13oz, 14 3/4 head, and 21" long, he was like a three-month-old person the day he was born), but a person nonetheless. Making people is, apparently, exhausting work, especially while engaged in the task of chasing other people that you made while ~~saying~~ screaming things like "DO NOT STICK THE HOSE IN THE CHARCOAL BAG AND THEN STICK BOTH INTO THE WINDOW WELL AND THEN TURN THE HOSE ON" or "Please stop licking things in public".

But, but, where was I again? Oh, back to my point, or, I guess, what I thought might be my point - or what I wished was my point. THIS WEEK, this week will be different. This week Godzilla won't be writing the list, THIS WEEK, it'll be tackling the list!

A thing of beauty. . .

2010-08-09T07:34:00.000-07:00

I'm watching my daughter sit on the living room floor and go through her school supplies for the second time since their purchase yesterday.

It's a thing of beauty. :) She's also humming "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" while she's doing it. It really, really, really reminds you of my Sharpie posting, doesn't it?

(I'll update with photos later, I promise).

Gimme some wine

2010-08-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

I've lost my mind.

No, really, for really REAL I've lost my mind. Sometimes, when I'm having less than stellar days, Tim threatens to dig through my boxes of memorabilia downstairs to find my "alleged" Master's degree, as there really is very little chance a woman as flighty as I could have earned one. Let me assure you, it is in a box in the basement, though if I had to find the box, well, I think you might guess what would happen. I'd triumphantly pop open a box to find newspaper clippings from the 1998 Husker season, most likely.

Okay, but now, back to three reasons to laugh at me. Are you ready?

The other day I was drooling over these Pottery Barn Valances (I've since decided they were lame because they aren't wide enough for my windows and clearly, if they weren't designed with me in mind, they MUST suck). So I was on the phone with a friend at the time and I told her I'd send her the link (so that, of course, as women must do, we could drool together, then pick it apart and decide against the purchase of said valances). I pulled up my e-mail, cut and pasted the link, and sent it off. She replied quickly with a very short response, so, as we were still on the phone, I launched into "Aren't those great?" She, of course, had no idea what I was talking about. And my friend of the same name who'd received a random e-mail titled "these" with a link inside ALSO didn't know what I was talking about. Meanwhile, I couldn't understand why, after looking, and responding, my phone-friend was perplexed.

And look, folks, it took like 30-60 seconds for me to fully process this. Then it took 24 hours to get over my embarrassment as this is not the first time it's happened to me. Let's just say if I could Hot Tub Time Machine myself into the 70s, I'd tell mothers of Amys and Kristins to reconsider their decisions, for, of course, one day the flighty friends of multiple Amys and Kristins will screw up.

That's funny. I know. But you want one better? Further proof that this baby is eating my brain?

Yesterday morning, I told my sister to call me. Then I didn't understand why she didn't call. Then I couldn't understand why I couldn't find my cell phone. Then I called my cell phone and couldn't find it.

Then I made the bed. You'll never guess what I found. . . that's right, my cell phone. Inside my pillow case. Please don't ask why. I'm not sure I have a good answer other than "It's a perfect night light and I don't keep a clock by the bed." And that's lame.

But even MORE lame? Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I began looking for my cell phone, because, of COURSE, I needed it (see night light/clock excuse). I scoured the house. Every room. Finally, I resorted to calling it. And I heard it. And it was loud.

It was right behind me. So I turned around and couldn't find it. But it was right behind me. So I turned around again and couldn't find it. I heard that dang cell phone in every room I entered as I looked for it. And, of course, since it goes to voicemail after 4 rings, I had to call it.

Four times.

Before I realized it was in my back pocket.

Folks, I have no earthly idea how I'm going to stand in front of a classroom in two weeks with ANY sort of feeling of authority. I MIGHT have to go all Empowered Education/Paulo Freire inspired and tell my students to stand on their desks, because they are in charge of their own education, simply as a cover for the fact that my brain no longer processes much more than sleep. eat. keep children from sticking forks in electrical outlets. eat again.

I TOLD my students last spring that babies eat your brain. I had no idea how right I was.

An essential truth of motherhood, as explained by my Gemini:

2010-07-30T11:58:00.000-07:00

So I've been a parent now for 8 years. This is long enough to know that I don't know it all, but I know quite a bit, because really, when it comes down to it, there's very little to know about motherhood other than: 1) whatever it is, you won't find it in a book, 2) your friends know it and have been telling you about it for years but you weren't listening, and 3) as my MIL likes to say, "Everyone gets to do it their own way." Which is true, although that's sometimes when CPS comes in handy. Anyhow, back to what I know.

What I know is this. My children come in three versions. I'll use photos to explain.

Version 1 is the deliriously happy child. Typically, this is the child you meet when there's something they want from you. This child should generally be regarded with doubt and the occasional side-eye. This child *sometimes* occurs naturally - typically speaking these natural occurrences fall when 1) they wake you up early in the morning to snuggle just because they love you and 2) late at night when you've allowed them dessert and to stay up past their bedtime.

Here's child version 1:

And listen to me: When version 1 is around and his or her eyes are open, you'll think to yourself "Gosh, what a sweetheart, I'm so glad I had him/her." Or, sometimes you'll think "OMG, I cannot believe I just lost my schmidt with the kid and threatened to send him to the Haitian orphanage we saw on TV." Version #1 can also be found at any point in which the child is sleeping. The smile's not the same, but version #1 while sleeping ALWAYS elicits the "I cannot believe God blessed me with such an amazing and awesome creature when I'm so totally undeserving." while taking a large gulp of beer or tapping a T-box.

But remember, mommies (or soon to be mommies - or wanting to be mommies), every child embodies, like Janus, that second face. That version #2. Version #2 should be handled with aplomb, friends. Version #2 should be met with a raised eyebrow and a "You know, you're only embarrassing yourself." Whatever you do, do not fall into the sad-sack-guile that is Version #2.

What's Version #2? Version #2 is the child that makes old ladies weep for the cruelty you've bestowed upon a stranger to them. Version #2 is the look that makes you think perhaps you should give in just to get him or her to stop looking so pathetic. Trust me, only laughter is the appropriate response to this. Or, perhaps shooting a picture to share with all, and I do mean all, of your friends.

And version #3? Well look, I'd try to explain but nothing, and I do mean nothing, NOTHING can explain version #3 unless or until you've experienced it. It's the shrieking, and I'm not willing to share it, that makes all of the people around you say either 1) "Why can't she control that child" or 2) "A mom so bad as to have children like that shouldn't be a mom." And for those who say that, well let me just say, I cannot wait until you meet your own version #3. It'll be a glorious day - as all the mothers in the world take a deep breath and say "Something has changed in the force."

Aaaaand another pair of tiny knit pants/tights:

2010-07-26T13:57:00.000-07:00

Finished the second set of leggings. I think I'm done with this pattern for a little while, to be honest. It's slow going. Still, I really enjoy the outcome.

Not quite myself today. . .

2010-07-26T13:50:00.000-07:00

I must miss my old glasses.

Or not!

My eyebuy package came this morning, prompting me to run around screaming "My new glasses are here! My new glasses are here!" to nary a sly comment regarding The Jerk OR The Simpsons. I'm disappointed in my family.

What's that you say? These photographs are indistinct and blurry? Suck it, okay. It took me five tries to ensure that I didn't look like Drew Carey from one of the Ace Ventura movies, so this is what you get. Me. No makeup. Wet hair. New glasses. Yippeeeeee!!!

Okay, strangers, here's the deal:

2010-07-23T09:01:00.000-07:00

I am due in November. Thanksgiving to be precise-ish (actually several days after, but let's not split hairs here).

And here's what I know:

I know I'm big. But thanks. I know Thanksgiving's awhile from now. In fact, it's just about 4 months from now. I know you're not sure where I'm going to put all that baby. I know you don't know how I do it. I know you think I'm going to fall over! I also know you think you're funny.

And I know you know someone whose sister's brother's BFF had unexpected surprise twins! I know when you/yourwife/yourBFF was pg with twins she was just sooooooooooooo tiny. That's awesome. I know you were tiny when you were pg. That's awesome too.

I also know that when a woman becomes pregnant, suddenly her body is involved in the process of expanding humankind and THUS you might feel that it's your property upon which to comment freely.

Here's what you don't know: I have two children. This is my 7th pregnancy. This belly is a badge that I wear daily that says "We did this. WE did this." It is a marker of everything we have gone through since March of 2009. I wear it with pride.

I will be huge. I will be gigantic. I will waddle (hell, I waddle now). I will probably tip. And I will love EVERY.SINGLE.MINUTE of it.

Excepting, of course, when you, dear stranger, feel the need to comment on my size.

Dearest daughter, I love you

2010-07-23T06:53:00.000-07:00

and I'd like to get to the bottom of why it takes you approximately 27 minutes to get out of a parked car.

The thing is, I'm worried. Is your sacrum messed up like mine? Have you suffered premature aging? Could something possibly be wrong with you?

It must be. It has to be.

Case in point: if I accidentally knock into the Lucky Charms box in the cupboard, you materialize at my feet. Your talent and willingness to run swiftly through the house and yard (often with a soundtrack, but I digress) is well known among members of this household.

So why, my dear, WHY is it a 27 minute exercise to get you to remove seatbelt and climb out of the car?