Life is Art

Today marks the second day I haven't breastfed my wee son. For any readers here who don't have small nurslings - I saw that your eyes started to glaze over, by the way - just go ahead and skip this entry now.

Thank you.

For the remaining two readers still with me (perhaps a few of my breeding / nursing / weaning Mama & Papa faithfuls) I want to first admit I am freely offering up my confusion and uncertainty at how to proceed. My son is almost 19 months old and seems to be in a classic window of opportunity to wean. Concomitantly (wink! wink!), I have been for the past year completely irritated at his intense-clamping, non-eye contact pillage technique. It's more of a breast-rape than anything else. Sure, sure, I know at least he is enjoying it - his eyes do roll back in his head as he mashes and pinches and gnaws, sometimes while playfully attempting to kick me in the face. And I do believe in the immunological benefits which have been scientifically proven over and over again. Perhaps in large part because of my commitment to breastfeeding, both of my children seem to enjoy very good health, even my daughter post-weaning after three years of nursing.

Implied in that last sentence is the issue at hand for me - I nursed his older sibling until she was three. There is a significant part of me that wonders if my thought to wean Nels at 19 months is a cop-out along the lines of the many "Fuck-it!" decisions you start to make with each additional child added to your household (there is a mathematical relationship, I'm sure of it). When I ask myself if I'm just giving up easily because I'm tired of almost five years of constant pregnancy and/or nursing, or whether Nels and I really have outgrown it, I have no clear answer.

Ah, but nursing my first child was so different. She would pet my face and laugh and snuggle and at age two started saying things like, "Mama, I love nursing the mannas!". She also seemed to gain more emotional comfort from it than The Boy does. He has never been a child to need the breast when he's had an upset. A couple weeks ago at the doctors' after he got his shots he was over it so fast I wouldn't have had time to whip out the boob, anyway.

I posted to my local parenting site with a "I'm not digging this at all, will someone give me some support to continue?" plea months ago. One woman wrote back. No one else did. For all my irreverent but not-serious digs at the "La Leche League Mafia" and their "militant nursing" perspective, that was a time I could have used a little, "Goddamnit, you need to butch up and do this!" advice.

Well, I'll admit, the idea of being done with nursing is tempting. I took a weekend away with my oldest a couple weeks ago. It was lovely not to have to compromise my clothing and my body for two days and two nights. The Boy himself experienced no distress my husband could fathom. It was me, on the second night away, feeling that backed-up-milk-poisoning feeling. So maybe I just need to taper off, gradually. And try to forgive myself if I don't do the same exact thing for one child that I did for the other.

Or, maybe just allow myself to feel that oppressive, no-matter-what-I-do, special kind of guilt. That's what being a mother is all about, right?

Perhaps a few of you ladies about town have noticed my husband's new haircut. Friday night in a fit of "I-used-to-be-cool-and-now-I'm-losing-my-hairline" angst - with a healthy dash of the kind of pent-up aggression that comes from not taking enough Me Time for oneself - he disappeared in the bathroom and took the scissors to his luxurious mane of reddish-brown curls. I have seen some bad haircuts in my time but this was excellent. Sort of Braveheart-esque in the choppy randomness, but without any cool Scottish braids or twigs and shit.

In about an hour's time he really regretted this.

Yesterday he wore a hat or hood all morning then in the afternoon slunk out the house and went to a barber. He later related that the barber laughed so hard he had to hide his face in his hands. At any rate, it was so short in places that he only had two options: shaved entirely, or the "high and tight" choice of jarheads everywhere. So yeah, I've got a military-man döppleganger for a husband these days (at least it isn't spiked - he kind of resembles Bigwig now, and I actually find it cute). First the Great 'Stache Incident of a few weeks prior, now this. I wonder what he's trying to say?

This morning my husband tells me he wants to go on a lengthy bike ride with the kids. His agenda and his energy are interfering with my morning plan so far which consists of sitting in my pajamas, greasy-haired, and smoking a cigarette in the house while watching downloaded back episodes of The Colbert Report. In true PT style the wind is gusting and I finally have to don a hoodie and head outside to finish my break, since the smoke is coming back at me through the torn screen on the window where I flick the ashes of my occasional (read: daily, these days) indoor fag.

I try to buy him off to a lesser errand - biking up to the Goodwill to scavenge up some winter clothes. I bitch and moan that my tires are low in air (it's true!) and that we go to Fort Worden too much (damn, do we!). But ultimately I know how much he loves this kind of thing so I don tights and corduroy and about eight layers of upper bodywear (I'm a "coldie"), roll up my right pantleg, put on my mittens, and we're out the door.

My kids love it when I come along on these rides. From the bike trailer their little eyes follow me everywhere. When Ralph leads down a narrow section of terrain I hear my daughter pipe up, "Is Mama back there?" I'm touched by how much I am simply desired by these wee creatures (the husband, too, come to think about it). I have never found my family's love for me smothering (I guess I've always been the needy type, socially, and they fit this void very well), but I have found it miraculous. There is almost nothing I've done to be worth their love except work hard at being a mom and love them fiercely despite their occasional rottenness.

I end up doing well on the ride to the Fort but after our home-packed lunch and a coffee I suffer much more on the trek back. Specifically the leg stretching up Discovery from San Juan - I pussy out and walk the bike for a few blocks, thinking to myself at every Saab and Volvo station wagon that passes, "Shut up, at least I'm off my ass!" I marvel at my husband's strength at keeping a good pace with 60+ pounds of kid and bike-trailer on the back of a dilapidated free 10-speed from the 70s. He's the "roughin' it" type.

My buff construction neighbor is just getting home as we are pulling up to our home. This is the guy who broke his back - or something like it from what I could see out my kitchen curtains last week - so pride prohibits me from walking it the last few feet home. My quads shriek in betrayal as I hump it up the last bit of hill to the oil-stained broken concrete of our driveway, which is seeming like paradise to me in this moment. I stagger in the house, leaving the husband to deal with the unpacking of the children, and vow to never again do any physical exercise of any sort.

OK, I hate regurgitated material, but there is simply some awesomeness that made my day today.



This is from the postsecret project, which is cool in its own right.

One of the sweetest moments in parenthood involves the times you lift your child off the couch, or out of the carseat, or off your lap at the drive-in where the little guy has fallen asleep, and carry them to bed. Their heads are heavy with sleep, their scalps smell sweaty and wonderful, and their bodies rest against you in a dependence made all the sweeter as you think of how brief this period in your life is. You lay them in clean sheets and soft covers and they settle in with a sigh. Their body is relaxed, their skin is perfect; your arms are empty again.

In this simple act of caretaking you realize you are so much larger, have so much power and are responsible for all those Big Scary Adult things to be taken care of - bills to pay, meals to cook, illness to heal and console through. Yet in their limited understanding of the world you know they are missing a truth you feel in your bones: within them resides so much more strength and a boundless energy that will continue to bloom and swell even as, in time, your physical body begins to fail. They are unstoppable and massive, lovely and amazing, even as they rely on you for every aspect of their care.

Today was a good day with my children; I cared for them and I played with them and I reveled in how much I like them. My son I like today because he takes care of himself so well; he is bold and adventurous and takes the initiative on what he wants (as he did earlier today, by standing up on the chair at the dining room table and drinking a fellow Mama's glass of water without spilling a drop). My daughter I like because she can tell me her feelings and because she and I treat one another like adults, in many ways. She also is a courageous soul - going to preschool this week even though she's been having a tough time (painful heel blisters, black eyes, nap transitions, and emotional breakdowns to name a few) in recent days.

Thank you, Lord, for my children.

Overheard husband, as I readied myself for a girls' date tonight:

"There's three eggs! We can have eggs and waffles tonight, kids!"

A beat later, disappointment in his voice:

"Oh wait, it takes an egg to make waffles."

My daughter, who is napless for the second day in a row (which means early bedtime - a good thing) has nevertheless been a complete angel ever since I picked her up from school. She and The Boy are currently lying on the floor in the living room while she feeds him nuts, one at a time.

On the way home from Chetzemoka Park today the kids are lulled by the iPod pop playing and the hum of our family car. The sun is streaming through the window and I've only got a half hour left before my husband gets home and I get a dose of adult-time and child-reprieve. I'm feeling good. Suddenly I see it on the side of the road: a small, rolled up baggie with indeterminate vegetable contents. I pass by. No need to pull over, someone will pick it up, I think. But then I muse, "Gee, that looked a bit like marijuana!" Curiosity piqued, I turn around and head back, pull over and quickly swipe the Mystery Baggie from off the side of the road (intending, of course, to turn any contraband over to authorities). However what looked suspiciously illegal turns out in fact to be a tidy couple servings of mixed nuts! An expensive-looking mix, too. I shrug, toss the baggie in the car, and head home for the last part of my stay-at-home-mom day.

The nuts occupy the kids; the laundry is folded; it's time to coast a bit. But I want to add that one of the ways it's obvious I'm a Nice Girl is that, even though my husband is due home any minute and even though I'm ready to take it easy, I nevertheless changed the Foul Fecalstorm that is my son's diaper, rinsed it out thoroughly, and washed it. I also wiped up their hands and faces and cleaned the living room.

Of course, it helps that I'm going out for margaritas with girlfriends in about 45 minutes.

Last night. It's 10 PM and I'm feeling sad. I've been picked on twice lately, and it's sitting with me now. Nevermind by who, or how; it's unimportant. Every once in a while I'm the victim of cruelty, and every once in a while it takes me a while to process. The hurt here is fresh.

I'm in a quiet mood. My tummy hurts. This is a standard symptom I get every once in a while when things are bad, or in the post-traumatic period of a stressful encounter. I recognize my body and acknowledge the signals it's giving me. After the last piece of laundry is folded my husband and I sit on the couch next to one another in the soft glow of the nightlight and we talk for a bit. I feel the clutching feeling in my body start to soften; then our daughter wakes from her sleep and cries out.

I slip into bed next to her and she slides into my arms, sucking her thumb. Her hair, her cheek, and her ear are all close to me, all smelling distinctly different, each in a lovely post-bath sleepy way. She insists on sleeping in my arms and lays her head on my chest, with her knees pulled up against my tummy. At first I lie there hoping to get up in a few minutes and do some more work around the house; wanting some more head space. Then, from the area precisely where her knees are, I feel the tension in my body start to let go, as if a muscle that was seized up is relaxing. It is a warm release, almost like slipping in a bath. I get the distinct impression she did this to me on purpose; it was why she had to hold me close. Like a physician, forcing a cure on a recalcitrant patient. I know now I can handle slings and arrows. I feel peaceful. I hold my husband's hand in bed and we three drift into sleep.

"9:39 some of us are just more vocal about it"
- Jen, tonight on IM

Last night in a minivan parked in my driveway I told a friend, "My goal right now is to stay married." Now, I didn't mean that I'd about had it up to here with the husband. And I don't have any fears that I'm going to leave, or that he's going to leave. It's just that life can be difficult - and has been, since a few months after The Boy was born - and I'm as aware now as ever that marriage could slip through my fingers (true for anyone, whether they want to believe it or not).

Yeah, it sounds pathetic, I know. Seems to me in my circle we're all supposed to act like our marriages are just fine. But I have a prediction. Right now, see, my kids are 3 1/2 and 1 1/2. Life is difficult due to sleep deprivation, diapers (the first full day I go without getting shit on my hands I will be quite pleased!), nursing hormones, and children that need most of their physical needs met by SOMEONE ELSE (guess who?). I know there's a time coming up when your youngest is in school and you lift your head up for a whiff of fresh air. That's when a rash of divorces hit (if I'm to trust my friends who are a bit ahead of the game) - when you look at your partner and think, Who are you? Who am I? What the fuck happened to the dreams I've been putting aside?

So, I'm putting my nose to the grindstone now. I tell myself I will be the bitch who sails through this time unsullied. I will be having sex with my husband in the tavern bathroom against the mirror, not some other babydaddy. Dammit! Or, so I hope. So I predict in a self-fufilling prophecy-type of way.

My husband and I have been together for almost 8 years and we are raising two children. Tonight, I am proud of us.

My son is talking now. A lot. If you say anything to him he gives it his best shot to repeat it to you. He loves taking the batteries out of the Playstation controller and whispering, "batteries". And it's been so fabulous hearing his word for nursing, which is totally different than Child #1. Of course, half the time I pretend I don't understand what he's asking for.

Revelations this morning:

1. It isn't the bad behavior but the sheer sound of their voices that makes me want to throttle them today.

2. My son *can* in fact stagger down a steep hill at breakneck speed without falling (for locals, the near-sheer cliff separating the playground from the soccer fields at HJ Carroll Park). As I ran toward him - far too distant to catch him in time - it was such a cute feeling to be in between laughing my head off and vomiting from anxiety. My friend Abbi just watched and laughed, damn her eyes.

3. If you set your Skype status to "Skype Me" it actually means, "Hey Perverts, It's Open Season On My Sweet Ass!". (P.S. this program rocks - add me, i'm kellyhogaboom, naturally).

4. I am in love with a TV personality.

Life doesn't go the way you plan. I guess I should be grateful for my two small children, because the care of and tending to them just highlights this inevitable basic fact. This afternoon we get everyone suited up for a bike ride - helmets, coats, mittens, jackets, diaper bag, two bikes and a bike trailer. I'm already dreading the massive two hills we are going to have to climb to get to and from our destinations. Ten minutes into the trip Child #1 is being such a Horrid Beast to Child #2 we simply have to turn back (the two kids in the confines of the trailer is like a Baby Thunderdome). She is delivered to her room (crying, whining, howling, eventually snuffling and falling asleep for a much-needed nap) and Ralph goes out with The Boy to run the errands separately.

What I wanted was a bike ride with my husband where we can talk about things - uninterrupted. Bike rides really work for my head- and husband-space. Usually the kids are wonderful and adoring and talk and coo to one another, excited to be in the trailer watching the damp fall terrain whiz by (PT is beautiful this time of year). Not so today. So once again my man and I are sent back to our corners to deal with a child apiece.

One of the ways I know my husband is in a good place is when he teases me. In fact, the one nickname I've had in my life that continues to stick - Bird, which my family and a very few close friends call me - came from a pretty excellent public teasing Ralph nailed me with years ago. He has teased me twice today and I love it. I hope we can get through our day and connect in a playful way at the end of the day.

I went to workout with Stephanie again this evening. The dual rowing machine time was kinda comical, as we didn't really know how the fuckers worked. Also cute was the tall, bony fellow-iPod'er (yes, we watch for one another) who had some t-shirt on that made a SQL joke. My kind of people! I should have said some kind of greeting to him in Klingon (no, I don't really know Klingon, asshole!).

Got home to find my brother had sent Sophie a t-shirt with a graphic of her:



He has been secretly in love with her since two weeks ago when we went down to visit.

Early this morning I sat out on the porch and had half a cigarette. Some dude floated by downhill on a bike. He was typical PT fare - forty-ish, Carhartts, a silly purple beret, and some kind of bedroll on his bike. He didn't see me watching. I thought how nice it would be to be so unencumbered. I'll bet you a hundred bucks he wasn't headed to a job, but to a coffee shop. Free of little ones and all their bodily fluids and piercing shrieks. Even when I'm out of the house without them, I can feel them clinging to me. It isn't a bad thing, mind you. It just is. But still, for a moment, I remember how my body felt without their weight.

I just put my daughter to bed. Instead of a child's story, we read Hot Mama together - a coffee table book of sorts my friend Abbi gave me when I was pregnant with The Boy. Sophie is interested in being pregnant, so we read the entire book together, going at her pace. She asked about her womb. I can just picture it - a tiny plum-sized pink little organ nestled in her tummy. "I want to eat steak, and beans, and bread, and carrots when I'm pregnick [of course she can't say 'pregnant' right, which makes it all the better]. I don't want to eat fish." We learn that being pregnant sometimes makes your tummy nauseous, but that your hair and skin often glow and look beautiful. She takes it all in stride. She goes to sleep comforted by what women can do.

Vignettes from this morning's chapter in my quest for a kick-ass bod. Yeah, I've been working out. Did you notice? Check out the ass. Actually, I need more of an ass. This flat, yet broad, expanse of corduroy could use a little ghetto.

So anyway, a local gym is offering free membership for those willing to supervise their daycare mornings. My loverly friend Steph is taking advantage of this great deal and asks me along to her workout this morning. Excellent! I know the gym has a trial membership, but I'm not sure this trial will also include the daycare option... So... I'm a considerate woman (read: schmuck); this morning an hour before Steph picks me up, I call.

I get some pipsqueak on the other end, making powershakes or whatever. I can tell she doesn't "get" the daycare arrangement. She's acting vapid. I continue to press my point, thinking, For heaven's sake, I shouldn't have called! Finally, she breaks her slack-jawed silence: "Are you looking to get free daycare?" she accuses. Vomity little tart. I almost hang up. In a cold fury, I ask if there's someone else I can talk to. She puts a manager on and in two minutes I am off the phone, issue resolved ("Sure! Come on in!" the seemingly more sensible manager chirps).

[Sigh!] OK. Time to get The Girl out of bed (sleeping in, the little sodder), off to preschool, gym bag packed, hurry hurry. 8:45 AM, Obstacle #42 of the morning: I have no athletic shoes (the closest thing being my least butch pair of docs). Aha! The neighbor girl's Vans she left with me - at a 9 1/2, a full two sizes too large. Fuck it. Nothing, not rabid children or bitchy gym-counter girls or the fact I am wearing pajama bottoms, my hospital socks, and clown shoes - will keep me from pumping iron!

We get there. Throw the kids in the childcare room. Flaunt our "personal sweat towels" (Steph's old burp cloths) and my iPod. I do a little time on the elliptical machine. My ass screams in protest. I flail off to do some stretches so I won't be crippled tomorrow. I flop on the mat next to an older black man who is rolling an exercise ball into position. He is at least sixty pounds overweight yet I noted he spent over twently minutes on a stair machine kicking ass. Wearily he settles himself on the ball and picks up a large staff-like object across his shoulders. "Is that your Jedi saber?" I ask him. He sasses back, "More like Friar Tuck!" Giggle, giggle.

It's a good workout and we end up in the steam room (me and Steph, not me and the older dude). My towel is tiny and I am reminded of the locker room scene in Starsky and Hutch. A short shower and a kid pick up, then we're on the road for blessed, blessed coffee.

I feel great. I don't even hate my life for the rest of the day.

Labels: coffee, friends, i'm a hater, music, the bod

It's 3:45 PM and I'm at a little celebratory ice cream social at a sweet li'l uptown shop that is celebrating a successful first leg of business. I'm here by personal invitation (which I'm very touched about). The owner of the store is giving a small, tactful speech thanking each person there. Everyone is smiling. Then.

My son. Is the one. Writhing on his back, thumping his head against the flooring, and squalling. Brandishing two markers threateningly. The room is mostly adults who are probably alternating between pretending I don't exist and wishing I didn't. Of course, three other toddlers are there (one, my lovely daughter who is behaving herself very well), but they are pulling it together for the five minutes needed. But it's my kid. Right now. That is the problem.

Today Michelle said, "You must be pretty worn out by the end of the day."

Yeah.

Labels: chaos, humiliation, Nels, Sophie

Upon returning from the local video store:

Me: "Here, honey. It's a movie daddy will like, too."
Child #1: "What movie is it?"
Husband: "What makes you think I will like this movie?"
Me: "You don't like The Princess Bride?"
Husband: "I've never seen it."
Me: "You've never seen The Princess Bride?"
Husband: "Oh wait, is it where 'Anybody want a peanut?' is from? Oh, yeah, I love that movie! I thought you said The Princess Diaries."

The best part is my husband actually did sound somewhat optimistic at the thought he might in fact enjoy The Princess Diaries, which isn't so much a chick movie as a 12-year-old chick movie.

Labels: family life, film, Ralph

Sometimes my standards are pretty low. Like, this morning at about 10:25 AM. My standard of life was: keep fecal matter off of clothes and face (hands were out of the picture since I was changing a diaper and unfortunately you still have to use your hands for that). Five seconds later, as I tried to steady the boy and pull his pants up, even my modest boundary had to go. In case you, dear reader, are wondering how I could retain human feces on my hands or clothes let me just say that changing a shitty diaper on the shitty floor of a shitty rec center without a fucking changing table - on a 18-month old child who thrashes like a wolverine and screams like a torture victim whenver I lay him flat - is one of the worst things you get to do as a parent (so far, in my four years). If anyone needs a diagram or further exposition, email me and I'll fill you in.

But you know, I had to keep going with my day. What would I like to have done? I would like to leave my children, go home, strip down, take a hot shower, dress in PJs, crawl into bed, and cry. God, I don't even know what I'd like. It's been a while since I had it, whatever it is.

This afternoon my husband doesn't bother calling to let me know he's going to be an hour late. He calls about fifteen minutes before he's due home. While I'm cleaning Horrendous Fecal Event #3 of the day (the first being abovementioned incident; event Number Two was a delightful Hey-Why-Don't-I-Shit-In-The-Tub incident from this afternoon - by the way, shitting in a tub which was also full of newly-sanitized bath toys) - as I said, while I'm cleaning up shit just to maintain a safe household - my son finds a full pound of rice and dumps it on the floor.

But then I realize this is perfect. My husband was supposed to be home five minutes before the rice got dumped. So, I'm not going to clean it. In fact, I'm not going to go in the room at all. This wasn't the plan. Right now, I should be in the kitchen making dinner as The Boy and Babydaddy are tidying up the living room. Yeah. I'm not cleaning it up. In fact, I'm not leaving this room unless I hear breaking glass or my husband's voice when he gets here. And then I'm not speaking to him for a while, either.

Some days are just like that.

Labels: burnout, chaos, family life, Nels, random potty-mouth, shit

I mocked it. I taunted it. I made a small voodoo doll of it and stuck pins in it. But now that it's gone, I kind of miss it.

My husband shaved the 'stache this morning.

He'd been growing it to be funny and, due to a big job-related downer he's had to deal with over the last 24 hours (yes, we are not the only sources of misery in his life!) he told me today, "I just don't feel that fun anymore."

A sad day for 'staches around the world.

In other family developments, we were forced to gently usher our oldest child into the sobering discussions of race, poverty-related violence, and really, really gay dancing with last night's viewing of West Side Story. I seriously cannot watch that film without a constant giggle in my throat. Most notable, I feel, is the package on Ice, as played by Tucker Smith. Nice lift and separation, and an excellent emphasis provied by the fact his trousers are white (separating him from the many other well-displayed crotchal regions in the film). My husband hates musicals, but gets a lump in his throat during a few numbers, especially "A Boy Like That". Me, I just like watching the dancing and trying to ignore the orange pancake makeup on all the thirty year-old men potraying high school boys. "Rita Moreno is a stone fox," I say to my husband. He comments on the unflattering lilac-colored frumpy frock she dances in (it's true, it isn't that great of a dress). I further comment that the look of the high-and-tight fabulous bums on all the dancing "gangsters" remind me of his too-tight slacks he tried on the other day (no VPL). Not sure whether I'm turned on or kind of repulsed.

The Hogabooms go to bed vaguely confused about their sexual identities and bewildered by the trouser stylings of yesteryear. Sophie exclaims of the Puerto Ricans in the Sharks gang: "They all match!"

Did my post get a little too link-y? Perhaps a little pointless to those who are unfamiliar with this particular 1961 musical? Well, too damn bad. It is MY life you're reading about, anyway.

Sheesh.

Labels: cock talk, family life, film, Ralph, Ralph's filthy 'stache, random potty-mouth

Dear Readers.

So much to tell, and no idea where to start. The family drama. The impromptu, packed-up-in-twenty-minutes roadtrip whereby I loaded up my oldest child in our truck and headed down to visit my brother for the weekend. The two days away from Husband and The Boy where my daughter and I were thick as thieves, staying up to 2 AM then sleeping in together, limbs wrapped around one another and hands tangled in one another's hair. The sheer comedy of my daughter's unconditional and expressive love toward my brother, who can be understated as standoffish (until you get to know him, anyway). At 11:30 PM on Saturday night, the two of them head into a local pizza parlour. She: peaches-and-cream complexion, blonde wispy hair, white sweater and kitten hat, and frilly skirt. Holding the hand of her Uncle Billy: sunglasses, long dark hair and beard, slight glower to his walk, and in his perennial thick dark wool peacoat (which he wears even on the hottest of summer days). They spent many an hour curled up on the couch (watching Nightmare Before Christmas and - Ralph was so pissed to hear this - Jurrassic Park). I think he's still trying to resist her charms a little, but it isn't really working.

I learned that it's possible to have a vacation with a child. Of course, we've had the kids on vacation before. But I mean a vacation in the sense of: totally relaxing, responsibility-free, fun every single minute of the day. No back-breaking lifting of an 18-month-old squirming fiend. Caring for a child 100% potty-trained who also washes her own hands when she's supposed to and can occasionally find her own food. No goddamn breastfeeding! [sigh!] Bliss for a couple days.

Unfortunately, The Boy is making up for his lost time without Mama. He seems to have grown an inch and converted yet more of his precious babyfat to sturdy muscle. He also can climb higher, scream louder, and eat more.

Three more weekdays to survive.

Labels: birlo, chaos, family life, Nels, Sophie, tenderness

... in the world of womankind, the gossip quotient is staggering.

I'm not just talking about the, "Oh my God, did you hear that Betsy..." full-on reporting and back-talking that happens immediately after the poor woman in question is out of sight. I'm talking about the constant realigning and discernment of friends, foes, bitches, and ho's (is that how you spell "ho" in the plural?"). I'm referring to the morbid interest women show when there is in-fighting amongst girls, especially former friends who used to be tight.

At the party in question I quickly self-segregated into the handful who were intermittently heading upstairs to the pool hall (read: smoking area - hey, I was a Designated Driver and needed some fun). Even though I didn't make the rounds to everyone there, and had a relatively small number of interactions with different women, I was surprised at how many times attempts were made to seduce me into making or decrying particular alliances. A couple women bitched about a woman not present. One woman threw out a subtle barb referring to a perceived insult I had experienced from a third woman there (I didn't take the bait, though). A couple women commented on my tank top (not revealing, but tight and busty) in a way that seemed not-altogether-nice. It was sort of like a bunch of cats all sniffing one another. Except everyone was drinking, so a little like cats in heat. Or something.

Now, for the exactly three fellows who read my blog, this isn't to say I prefer the company of men, or that I believe an all-male get-together to be a more honest, open, and fun event. Hardly. First of all, the incidents where men get together - and do all the organizing themselves - are about once a year. If a man doesn't enjoy the pasttimes of either A. killing things, or B. golfing, this number is even more drastically reduced. Also, on the flip side of the female's more vicious inner workings exists a camaraderie, fierce love, and emotional openness that I can't honestly see a group of men exhibiting (I could be wrong, having no experience there). Part of the package of the intuitive and maternal Goddess is the murderous Kali-bitch who has a string of heads hanging around her neck.

And for the record: no, I'm not interested in back-biting, no matter how tempting; and yeah, I was fine with how tight my shirt was and the resultant boobage and soft-middle that was displayed.

Labels: Alpha-bitch, cocky, friends, girl life, party animal

What is that feeling I'm having again? It's so familiar. Not a good thing, either. Why am I acting so awkwardly? Why am I not talking? What's wrong?

Oh yeah. I'm the odd one out.

It happens every once in a while. Very rarely, really. In this case, it's me and a small group of ladies I would call acquaintances (as opposed to friends). They're friendly. They're nice. In their presence, I feel like a dork. I'm not telling the right stories. I'm not keeping my crayon between the lines of the coloring book we're using. Maybe I have an intensity about issues I shouldn't. Maybe it's how I wave my middle finger in the air to punctuate a story (never at somebody, more like to make a point). Maybe I should have smaller boobs and stop wearing tribal earrings (I swear, the only remotely "edgy" thing I have going!).

It's times like this I am grateful I (generally) like myself, and that I know people who like me for the person I am. Most of these people are women who are - to use my friend Steph's descriptive of yours truly - "brassy", irreverent, and outspoken, like me.

But sometimes - like now - I feel an elusive cliquishness that distresses me. I don't know how to break the code and play by the rules. I want to. I don't have a problem playing by different rules. So I stop saying anything snarky, or the word "crotch", or talking about my husband's ass. Still, I can tell I'm not fitting in. It isn't working! Last resort? Be quiet. Be a wallflower. Go home to those who like you. Call best friend up and share an amusing sexual harassment story.

These days I know enough about people to know that exclusivity is often not deliberate - it's a miscommunication between species. In this case, the vanilla-wafer jock / cheerleader girl with the overly-friendly, foul-mouthed trollop who takes smoke breaks behind the gym (guess which one I am?). It doesn't even hurt, exactly.

And then I wonder - do I do the same to other girls? Who are they, and what's their story? And why are they silent?

If that's me, I'm truly sorry, sisters.

Labels: Alpha-bitch, friends, girl life, i'm a hater

This weekend we lost a neighbor. Not to age, or illness, or a domestic scuffle between houses - but to her move-out on being 18 and emancipated. As of last week, the transition wasn't going as smoothly as the turnkey operation both women had expected. As our dear fledgling girl came to find out, it is a pain in the ass to move, even if your possessions are constrained to that of a dependent in your parent's home. But with a little extra burst of energy, a bunch of cardboard boxes, takeout Chinese food and a few Coronas, it was accomplished. And two nights ago I found myself packing up, tearing down, and sorting through this girl's entire life - before waving goodbye to her and her history in her mother's home.

The first time I met our neighbor's girl I was seven months pregnant with my first child and we had only recently moved in. One crummy winter's night I came home to a locked-up house and since I was unwilling to climb through a window I went next door to find someone who could. I remember feeling kind of dumb, but that it was a very appropriate thing for a fourteen year old neighbor to do, and not an appropriate thing for a hugely pregnant woman to do. To think in such a short time would come to know and love the family and that little girl would not only babysit the child in my belly at the time, but another as well, and move out and get a job and take off into her own life - is further proof in how the universe moves on at its fast clip no matter what pace you move at.

Here's to your freedom, Pegs. I know you will enjoy it.

Labels: friends

OK, now that we're about three seconds into the month of October, it's time to bring out my pathetic way-too-into-Halloween self.

Sophie, Halloween two years ago:


Halloween last year:






Sophie and Ralph's punkin carvin' this afternoon:




I was going to post pictures of my husband's new fall mustache attempt. But it is really so filthy I can't bring myself to do it.

Labels: family life, holidays, Ralph's filthy 'stache, Sophie

Today as part of the Clallam County Farm Tour (doesn't that sound exciting!) we headed out to the Brown's dairy farm - which is on its way to becoming the first certified raw milk creamery in the state. Calves, cowshit, hay rides, and petting zoos - in short, our fat li'l munchkins' dreams come true.


Kids + yogurt.


Sophie + kitten.


Nels + Mama.

On our way out to Sequim we passed by a molester van (example here, and not to be confused with a serial-killer van) - man, I wish I could have got a picture. I point it out to the rest of our driving party.

Ralph: "Not a molester van. Too many windows."
Cyn: "But there are curtains!"
Ralph: "Too many windows. Toddlers can pull back curtains."

Labels: family life, friends, Nels, Ralph, Sophie

Last night 6 o'clock found us unexpectedly at a rather lovely dinner party with our kids in tow. We hadn't expected to go at all, since two separate childcare options fell through. But the host's ladyfriend and a small cadre of other partygoers put in a few calls during the day and begged us to come. Who can resist such sweetness? We cleaned up ourselves and our children as best we could and headed out to Cape George.

I do well at parties. I am comfortable talking to anyone. I don't always introduce myself to everyone, which I really do think I should. And it's easy to be intimidated by venues such as the one we were at - the house is expansive, spotless, Sunset-magazine material, built over a pond with little waterfalls and a beautiful open deck. Am I the only one who secretly hopes that at midnight the huge, gleaming hot tub will be unveiled and I'll be able to hop in in my panties, a martini in one hand, while still entertaining the sixty-and-up members of the Board with my witty and urbane conversation? Probably.

Here I was with my choice of wine to drink, a lovely catered meal (delicious, gourmet food that I didn't have to make) that included a chicken alfredo lasagne and hot banana bread pudding with rich cream and caramel sauce. The funniest part was our kids, who were in parallel experiencing equally Roman-esque entertainment: being cared for in the back guest wing by three teenage girls with giant bowls of chocolates and chips. Every once in a while one of these young girls, rail-thin and all eyeliner and dangling earrings, would come out with a child on a hip to find some milk. My kids attempted no eye contact with me or my husband - they looked like little waifs being taken into the arms and care of a brothel on opening-night celebrations.

At nine o'clock our son is looking red-eyed and dazed - his calling card for getting sleepy. He can't bear to miss out on what's happening around him, but his body is shutting down. We pack up the girl (so stoned on teenage girls, Muppets, and chocolate that she is whirring and hovering) - and head home.

A lovely, pampered evening.

Labels: family life, friends, Nels, party animal, Sophie