The last day of the year. Unbelievable.

New Year's Eve - when "people" attend fantastic celebrations or do expensive romantic things. I don't know any of these "people." All my peeps are letting the kids stay up to midnight, watching rented movies and getting slightly tipsy, if they are able to between fetching more popcorn and sippy cups.

By staying up until midnight, I mean every time you pass a clock, you turn the time ahead by 30 minutes (or an hour, heh) and having a noisy celebration somewhere around the kids' normal bedtime.

"Hooray! Happy New Year! Now off to bed!"

As to the expensive romantic stuff, well, I couldn't really be more specific about that kind of thing. We're into cheap thrills around here.

I have spent several recent New Year's Eve nights in the company of my sister and my hubs and children. We get takeout Thai, and act like doofs. Two years ago, we were joined by my double-mint birthday twin, just before she took a flight into the Southern Hemisphere to take a vacation from a recent heartache. She ended up meeting a wonderful man, and she currently makes her home with him there. How I miss her. Happy New Year, N... may all your dreams come true in 2005!

I am actually musing on my theme for 2005. If it isn't readily apparent, I am a GIANT DORK. Three years ago, I decided to be indecisive. That lacked staying power, because I am nothing if not an enormous bag of opinions and blanket declarations.

Then, two years ago, the theme was "New Year, New You!" Yes, with the exclamation point. After a few drinks it morphed into "New Year? Screw You!" Still with the exclamation. That pleased me to no end.

Last year was "Reclaim Yo' Brain" which seemed really spunky and relevant. I was going to found a book club and think about stuff. Really important stuff. Oh, okay. I can't remember what was so pressing, but suffice to say, the book club didn't make it past the first few months and I ended up starting this blog to give myself an outlet.

This year... I haven't locked onto a notion yet. Ooh! Here's a big ole metaphor: what I want more than anything is traction. I want my wheels on the pavement, and I don't want to be hydroplaning or drifting into the wrong lane because I'm too busy on the phone to keep my attention on the road. I don't want to sleep at the wheel or be stuck in traffic. I want backroads, and beautiful scenery. I want to be aware, to see the landmarks, to enjoy the journey.

Okay. So what about "Shut Up and Drive 2005!" I know, I can't help it. A theme for a whole year REQUIRES an exclamation point. It just does.

Or, hmm. "Don't Make Me Honk You, Buster!"

Did I ever tell that story? Where the hubs and kids and I were at the drive-up ATM and my hubs was getting flustered as I continued to sit at the ATM while I put the cash in my wallet. He kept making "mmph" noises and looking behind us and fidgeting. I shot him a look and said "What?" and he said "You should pull up. We're going to get honked!"

*crickets chirping*

Oooh! No! I can't be honked! I'm not that type of girl! You don't just honk me, no sir you do not. I didn't laugh in his face at that moment, but I sure as shootin' called all my family and friends and told them that my hubs is afraid of a little honk.

Is honking the expensive, romantic thing people do on New Year's Eve? Because when I go pick up the take out Thai, I am totally going to do some drive-by honking. I'm just bad like that.

I'm open to suggestions. You see, if I get a few glasses of wine in me, I'm going to be making all sorts of stupid themes up, and before you know it, 2005 will be the year of the Big Honking Easy-Bake.

Happy Honking New Year! Be safe out there!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 31, 2004 5:06 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

Karen double dog dared me to invite guests to my home and serve them an entire meal prepared exclusively in the Easy-Bake. I'm totally going to do it - I plan on making it a photo essay. Stay tuned for that...

I spent the day at my mom's house, just me, and the stack of her business accounting paperwork I never seem to make time for. I've been a bit slack-assed about getting the stuff done on a monthly basis. In November, I threw up a white flag and suggested that she hire a professional, someone who gets like 6 hours of sleep a night, and who doesn't make her babysit three houligans while she enters invoices into the computer.

I've worked with my mom in many capacities. All through high school she managed retail chains, and I worked as the "my mom is the manager, yo" assistant. We did Hickory Farms. I can sample a Beef Stick like nobody's business. We also did Mrs. Fields. I remember hauling bags of left over cookies down the cliffs at late night beach parties, and being treated with reverence. Everyone likes cookies, you see. Especially after inhaling the crisp salt air. Ahem, that's it, the crisp salt air. Makes people very hungry. For cookies.

Not me, though. I found that salt air made me quite ill. As did cookies after baking and hawking them for hours a day. But they sure made me a popular girl (even if everyone defaulted to calling me Cookie Girl. Salty dorks.)

Where was I? Aha! Giving my mom "the white flag." She's been asking and asking for months for me to just wrap it up, so she can turn it over to the newly hired offsite accountant. And I've been dragging my feet, because I find it extraordinarily difficult to get away from my children, and when I do, my brain is like marshmellow, and the numbers don't add up. It's hard to apply myself at my mom's house, too. She likes to chat and make little snacks, which she serves every 15 minutes, whether you want them or not.

Eat, Papa! Noone likes a skinny Santa!

Today, she was out on a huge staging job, so I had the office to myself, and after 15 minutes of coffee swilling and random paper shuffling, I set about prettying up the numbers that I've been neglecting. Seven hours later, I was toast, and the work still isn't done. I've promised to finish it before Monday. Gah! I hope I can I hope I can I hope I can. It's not my fault! I'm rusty! I'm sleep deprived! I...I... aw, I just want to be magically done.

We've been having crazy rain here - at 1 am this morning, the kids scampered into our bed as the wind raged. We were treated to a thunderstorm and hail travelling horizontally at our windows, and noise that sounded like our roof being ripped off. After 20 minutes, it returned to normal heavy rain, and the kids fell back to sleep. I was sorely tempted to bust out my best Sound of Music "Favorite Things" dance number, but we're short a few kids and would have to double up roles.

Driving those rural roads to my parents home, I was treated to a blue sky, hung in patches with heavy, sodden grey clouds - they looked like a child's feltboard cutout. Slightly fuzzy and fixed. Still high in the morning sky, the nearly full moon hung to the west, and arching over the clouds and just under the moon was a glorious, fully arched rainbow. I cursed my lack of camera, but savored the magical view.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 30, 2004 9:11 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

I'm obsessed with my five year old's new Easy-Bake Oven.

Seriously.

Oh, admit it. You wanted one, too, when you were a kid, and either you had one and loved it (I hated you, you spoiled monkey-brat!) or you wanted one real bad, and your cousin had one and she mocked your ovenlessness.

My mom announced that she would be buying this coveted piece of plastic for my daughter, and I played it cool on the phone. My palms were sweating a little bit just thinking about it. (Whee!)

I could tell by my mom's breathless description that she had always wanted one, too. She even said something to the effect of "oh, well, if it's going to be a huge bother you can always have it be at MY house..." Yeah. Fat chance Grandma. Dibs! Mine mine mine, ahem, I mean, my daughter's "toy" should be at our house.

We just (I helped/micromanaged my daughter) baked a screamin' apple tart. We've made cakes, cookies, nasty mac-n-cheese, biscuits - I'm plotting already for the next round of goodies. I am dreaming in dolly-sized portions. I'm thinking about getting some extra pans so we can just keep that baby fired up all day and eat our little round whatevers as they come out. Hee!

Okay then. Whew.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 29, 2004 6:41 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

My sister bought my oldest a tiny kareoke machine for her new bedroom. She actually called me from the store aisle to ask my opinion, and I gave her some suggestions.

None of these suggestions included a microphone. I'm just saying.

So now, several times a day, my daughter cranks the machine on and turns the 'echo' effect to the max, and pages people. "Mommy (ommy ommy ommy)! To my bedroom (oom oom oom). Mommy (ommy ommy ommy). Bedroom (oom oom oom). Thanks (anks anks anks)." And then she makes a noise with her mouth meant to imitate the sound of a CB radio cutting off. (Crrrh!)

She also serenades the family at top volume, lounge singer style (How you doin' folks, where ya from? Boca? Greeeeeat!) Good times, people, good times.

This same sister (the only auntie) gave my son a Power Rangers Dino Thunder dressup outfit, including a mask, sword thing, vest, gloves and a wrist thing that makes sound effects that sound like swordplay. Guess who has children doing dead-ringer impressions of the three stooges without even knowing what they are doing? They are fake slapping "bonking" nyuk-nyuking and whoop whoop whooping away, sometimes amplified over the microphone.

She gave the baby board books. Which is a welcome respite, you know.

Oh, I hope she has kids someday. I have got the BEST gift ideas for her future brood ;)

(Just kidding, Diva! We love the gifts!)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 28, 2004 5:27 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

Guess where I'm blogging from? My hubs' computer. Because mine? Is still not set up.

Good thing I totally was lying about holding my breath.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 26, 2004 10:01 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)

You know, for the last several years (pre-kids even, so like 10 years) I have vowed that Christmas would be about family, not gifts. I maintain that it truly is the thought that counts - but oh, how I love the sight of excited children standing at my bedside crowing "Santa came! Santa came!" and seeing the wonder on their faces when they behold the gift-wrapped and beribboned atoll that now surrounds our glittering tree.

Sigh. I loves me some retail therapy, and really, it's like, so fun this time of year. Oh no! I just admitted it. I broke out of my holiday funk by spending money. I didn't find my holiday spirit by volunteering at a food kitchen, or by decking my halls. Me? I found it at Target. 60% off, even.

I decided that this year, since my oldest had finally gotten her own room, that we would surprise her and pimp her ride, so to speak. My mom gave me a end table and small desk/dresser and a headboard, all of which I decided to paint glossy white.

So yeah. I watch HGTV. I just painted some walls in my house. I can paint. Except NOT. Picture me painting on a cement slab floor in a 40 degree garage with a foam brush, on furniture that has darling turned spindle legs and lots of cubbies in the desk. Picture me trying to steal moments during the day when I'm supposed to be with my kids, trying to keep the surprise, and discovering to my horror and dismay that I SUCK at painting.

Want to make me even crazier? Tell me after I've botched two coats that it would have totally been easier to spray paint it. Don't. Want. To. Hear. It.

I don't know if I ever fantasized about refinishing flea market finds, or what made me think that it would be a piece of cake. Duck soup, just slap on a coat, right. Or eight, you know, because it looked like hell the more I tried, and it wouldn't dry right. Streaky, globby, runny - and then there were the stains from some ancient wax job that kept surfacing. I finally threw up my hands, and poured a big glass of wine. I'll redo it this summer. Or not. Hah!

Fisher-Price apparently employs some deeply sadistic people who enjoy making parents undo twist-ties, only to discover that the twist-tie secures more cardboard, sealed with packaging tape, that leads to another twist-tie. I have blisters and papercuts and calluses, people. I curse the twist-tie!

Christmas Eve turned into a very early Christmas morning, and included furniture moving and bed-making, as well as train assembly and gift wrapping. We enjoyed a nice visit with my parents, and returned home by 8:30, but the baby didn't drop off until almost 10:30! We finished our frantic activity around 1:30, and I managed to squeeze in about 2 hours of sleep before the boy tried to get up and see if Santa had arrived.

I lied like a dog. "Oh, no, honey. Santa hasn't been here yet. I was just out there, and until you see the Christmas lights, he hasn't come." He totally bought it. Yea, me - I totally forgot to turn the tree lights on before I went to bed. Of course, I had to get up later and turn them on, but still...

I got him back to sleep and the newly minted two year old decided that she needed to fart and scream. And fart. And scree-hee-heeam. When she finally dropped off, I curled up in my bed and as the clock glowed with a not-so-brutal 6:00 in red, my eyes and ears were assailed by excited children who breathlessly reported that despite their incessant misbehavior, the eleventh hour appeal had been won, and the sleigh made it, so get up already, MommyDaddy and come see, eh?

We followed the troops to the living room, where my son discovered his new GeoTrax train set, and my oldest tried on her roller skates. The baby? She lay on the couch and picked her nose. And I have it on video, because I was so groggy that I didn't realize what I was taping until I got a good long shot of it.

We got through Mount Saint Presents in pretty good time. We had a little bit of time to play before we had to drive two hours to visit the hubs' family. We timed it well, and had a nice, three hour visit. Once les petits monstres started winding up, we loaded them in the car and hit the road home. Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge, the weather was sparkling and clear. We were treated to glorious night views of San Francisco.

As we drove, we listened to Victor Vito, and now every member of my family has that song stuck in our heads. Hilarious stuff.

Also, as we passed through our town, we saw several signs that read "Peace on Earth, Goodwill to ALL" which cracked me up. Not the sentiment, of course. Just the phrasing. I know the phrase from Christmas carols - "goodwill to men." We live in a very liberal, very politically correct area, so the use of ALL generally encompasses men and womyn, as well as all animals, plants, and pretty much everything else down to rocks.

I got off on a big tangent about goodwill to womyn and then ended up paraphrasing Life of Brian, the part where Stan decides that he wants to be a woman, and wants everyone to call him Loretta. There was much eye-rolling from my hubs, but I had myself a good old time. Hee!

So, to summarize - spent lots, ate lots, drove lots, sung lots, and slept not lots. In fact, I think I've officially used up any reserves I had left in the energy department, so it's off to my warm bed in my new fuzzy socks.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 26, 2004 9:00 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

I imagine somewhere in the world, Santa is already in flight.

Yesterday morning, as my children were playing in the yard, I heard shrieks coming from the top of the swingset. I scooped up the youngest (she was in the house with me) and raced to the yard, heart pounding.

"Mommy! Look!" My son and daughter were pointing skyward at a hot air balloon that was hovering over our house. "Do you think it's Santa's elves checking up on us?"

I tried not to burst out laughing. Mustering my best serious face, I nodded and said "Yes. I can see their pointy hats from here."

Much shrieking and butt waggling and laller lallering and waving then ensued. My son yelled "I want GEO-TRAX!" and my daughter yelled "I'm TOTALLY GOOD!" My youngest clung to me like a monkey and pointed up repeatedly, saying "Ball-oooooooon!"

I let them carry on for a few minutes, no doubt to my neighbors' delight. Mercifully, the balloon pilot hit the gas and they soared away on a sudden gust. As the colorful spectre disappeared from our view, my oldest turned to me and said with a twinkle in her eye - "My lucky charm is SO lucky that it brought a balloon full of elves to our house!" With that, she held out a bundle of hair elastics, as proof.

Wishing you good luck and a lot of magic! Merry Christmas!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 24, 2004 8:12 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

My computer? Still AWOL, which makes blogging nigh impossible. Today, my man promises me. Today. See me turning blue? Yes, that's because I've been holding my breath. ForEVAH.

So, my mom and dad host a gathering on Christmas Eve every year. Since we have lots of Santa traditions to enact before the kids crash, we have to time it right, or the kids poop out in the car. Oh, wait. I mean, they fall asleep. They don't poop in the car. At least, not now, anymore. It's happened, sure, but not in a long time. Ahem.

Anyway, so since timing is an issue, my mom asked me earlier this week what time the hubs gets off work on Christmas Eve.

Me: "It's a regular work day for him. He's off at five."
Mom: "Nooo. He's off that day. Everyone is."
Me: "Uh, no. He's working, and it's until five."
Mom: "Surely he has the day off."
Me: "Regular. Day. Five."
Mom: "Nooo."
Me: "Uh, yeah."
Mom: "No."
Me: "Five."
Mom: "Even if he has to work, they will send them home early."
Me: "Five. FIVEFIVEFIVEFIVE. But I'll ask him to take the afternoon off."
Mom: "Sigh."

Flash to later in the day. Hubs is home.

Me: "Hon, my mom wants to know what time you get off on Christmas Eve."
Hub: "Yeah, I'm off that day."
Me: *($&*&#@&*#*)*)&!!!

Of course I panicked and decided to cover myself with a "oh, he TOOK the day off, but he really was SUPPOSED to be there." For a moment.

Then I laughed and called my mom and 'fessed up. I hate going to the mat and being wrong.

In other Circus news, my children are working themselves to a fever pitch as the holiday approaches. We are not a religious family, but I have been reading a lovely board book version of the First Christmas to my children, which was a baby gift to my oldest from my aunt, Merrilan. I do want them to know that this holiday is when many people celebrate the birth of Jesus, and what that means.

Of course, this has raised questions: first and foremost, are Jesus and Santa the same person? If so, where were the elves at the First Christmas?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 23, 2004 7:30 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

On the morning of the winter solstice, our local paper ran this photo by photographer Kent Porter. This is the fog I was talking about... (my house is under there somewhere)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 23, 2004 7:28 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (1)

At four o'clock in the afternoon yesterday, a deep, white, mystical fog settled over the neighborhood where we reside. It was beautiful, and a bit eerie - we rarely have fog in the afternoon. It's more of a late night to mid-morning thing.

I had spent an hour trying to paint a dresser, child's table and headboard in the frosty tundra that is our garage, and when I headed back to the house for a warm shower, I was mesmerized - in the late day's light, the fog was bright white and dare I say, twinkly. I wrapped my arms around myself and watched as the fog caressed the trees and settled lightly on the roof.

Back in the house, I pondered the fog while I regarded the new, white high-gloss enamel highlights that I was now sporting. "Do you think it's going to snow?" asked my hubs as he passed by the bathroom.

"I don't know. Maybe?" It snows here every 10 years or so, for one night, and then by the middle of the next day, it is gone, replaced by mud. The last snowfall came on a winter night when my son was a tiny babe in arms. I sat by the window and watched the snow fall past the streetlight while I nursed him back to sleep in the wee hours.

Last night, all my kids wanted to do was snuggle in my arms. I have so much to accomplish, but I took the evening off, and after dinner, we all curled up like a pile of puppies on the couch and watched obscure holiday specials on television. Did you know there is a show with Leprechauns? Those TV people were really reaching.

After the kids dropped off, one by one, we tucked them into their beds, and I did a bit of wrapping, but outside my window, that magic fog had put me in a bit of a stupor. I ended up crawling into bed at ten o'clock - early for me, and ridiculous considering all I have left to do. But there I was under my blankets, next to the man I love and feeling content.

This morning, the fog was gone shortly after dawn. It had taken on the typical grey hue anyway, just your run of the mill Star Trek looking tulle fog. Although the sun has risen on a cold and crystal clear day, the sharp air hasn't managed to penetrate the blanket of contentment I burrowed under last night. I'm at peace, and although I still have a giant list to accomplish, the sense of being burdened is gone.

I feel all Christmasy n shiznit.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 21, 2004 8:26 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

I still don't have my computer back in the house - it's on the agenda for tomorrow...

Today was supposed to be THE DAY. The arrival of the Merry and the Peace and the Joy. After the flooring blitz of this last week, I closed my eyes last night and envisioned sugar plums, and pine fresh scent wafting through my house, mingled delightfully with baking cookies.

At 3 am, it wasn't the Herald Angels warbling "Hark!" at my bedside, unless they've learned a few new Hi-5 tunes. At 6 am, burrowed on the couch and in a state of twilight slumber with a finally sleeping baby collapsed on my chest, I was commanded to arise by the Merry.

Yes, my Merry minions had donned Santa Hats and were marching up and down the halls, singing Faller laller laller la laller laller laller and Dingle Balls. Or maybe they were singing Bingle Bells. They like the aliteration thing. So funny. Hah. Ha. Hmm.

Next came the Peace smackdown. More specifically, Peace Officer Mommy had to report for duty. Apparently Merry = Mayhem and requires screaming and running and sliding. And crashing. I brought the Peace. I kept on bringin' it. And it was greeted with catcalls and butt waggles. Also funny. Hee.

But the Joy. Oh! The Joy! We ran through acres of Christmas trees at the farm, so filled with the Joy that we forgot to even look at the trees! We ran and ran. We fa la la la lallered ourselves sick. We even managed to find a tree that wasn't too pokey or sheddy.

Once we got home, I was still in Peace Officer mode, and felt sore afraid as the Merry Makers made off with Christmas decorations like squirrels heading for the hollow tree stump. Instead of Joy and Peace, I felt very scrooge-like, and wanted to sideline the Holiday Festivities until I got a good night's sleep.

But then, my daughter drew me into her bedroom to see her "Winter Wonderland" display that she had set up on her dresser - a fiber-optic tree draped with red beads and surrounded by a mud covered football, a Rudolph that is missing half a leg and his tail, a stuffed snowman and a Christmas tin in the shape of a train. She stood under this carefully arranged vignette and said "tada!" while wiggling Holiday Spirit Fingers at me.

I complimented her on her setup, and then felt like crying for shame in my piss-poor behavior. Tonight, we are going to let them have at it, and if I have to muzzle myself, I will not be a killjoy. Holiday Joy arrived today, and marched up and down my hall singing carols. I didn't even offer up egg nog.

That my children have such joy and hope despite my attempts to bring it down a notch tells me that I'm missing something - maybe it's the Magic. Seven days 'til Santa and I'm still working on my routine.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 18, 2004 5:40 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

We are back in the house! Woooo! I'll post pictures next week, but in the meantime, we've all been doing our best Risky Business sliding.

I have to give a huge shout out to the anonymous person who informed my oldest that Santa uses smoke detectors to keep an eye on kids... apparently, they are a direct link to the infamous magic crystal ball, and since they are pretty much in all buildings, his bases are covered.

Dude, that is the best thing EVER. EVER! My kids are fully paranoid now. Not that they are being good, but still - now I can just dramatically point at the smoke detector and give them the ole hairy eyeball, and they KNOW Santa knows.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 16, 2004 11:09 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (19)

Our flooring guys are total rock stars - the floor should be done days ahead of schedule. However, for now, I'm blogging from my mom's house. Thank you for all the kind comments on my wee little primate's birthday. She is having a wonderful start on her third year.

We actually dressed the kids to the nines and hauled them to the mall (OMG, I just typed maul! hahaha so appropriate!) for Santa Photos. (Yeah, yeah, Carmi, I know. I know.) But that adventure, my friends, is deserving of an entire entry, and I don't have time to do it justice today.

My four year old son (and actually, all three of my kids) have a nice/naughty switch in their brains that gets flipped to ALL NAUGHTY, ALL THE TIME on December 1st each year. I don't know. It's nuts.

So, being a parent governed by cliche', I have been barking "Santa! Watching!" and "I'm calling Santa!" 500 times a day. Seriously, there has to be some other way to motivate my children to be good, but this is the one time of year I fall back on the pathetic be good or you ain't gettin' nothin' routine.

Ahem. So, yesterday, while my mom and I were trying to wrestle my son into his glad-rags, my mom started laying it on thick. "If you continue like this, Santa will fill your socking with coals and switches."

The boy said, "What are switches, Gram?"

My mom filled him in - "Switches are sticks."

The boy looks very serious for a moment, and my mom and I exchanged a silent Woo! with our facial expression. We got through! We got through!

"Well, sticks are kinda fun to play with," offers the boy. "I mean, you can build things, and beavers use them for dams, and the pigs! Pigs use them for houses. And you can wave them around..."

My mom and I had to look away so he wouldn't see us fighting not to laugh.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 14, 2004 11:23 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

Because we'll be out of the house much of next week, I will be blogging sporadically. Since my wee one is turning two on Monday, I give you the story of her birth:

This is the birth story of our third child. After a relatively fast (6 hours, no ruptured membranes) labor with our second, I suspected that my third labor could be speedy. As usual, I was right on the money.

My official due date was December 14, 2002. I had joked on my favorite discussion boards that I would no doubt deliver on Friday, December 13th. The afternoon of December 12th, I had groceries delivered. Feeling lazy, I put away only the perishables, and left the boxes, bags, jars and cans piled on my kitchen island. The hubs brought home dinner, and we got the kids to bed at around 8pm. I went to bed, watched some TV, and finally fell asleep.

I slept fitfully. The boy joined us around 1am, and I clung to the outer 18 inches of our king size mattress, dodging the flailing limbs of my snoring two year old. Around 3 am, I had a contraction. It lasted a full minute. I watched the glowing numbers on our alarm clock, but it seemed to be an isolated event. I mounted my body pillow in Child’s pose and snoozed.

At 3:30, another contraction, again lasting a minute. And again, that was all.

At 4am, things got rolling. I visited the bathroom repeatedly, checking for leaking, but since I was wearing a maxi-pad the size of Texas, I couldn’t tell. Contractions were coming every 5 minutes, lasting a minute at a time. I didn’t want to wake the hubs and the kids yet, and since my parents would have to come and get the kids, I kept thinking it would be nice if I didn’t wake them for another hour or two. I also experienced a moment of panic realizing that my neat-freak mother would be arriving to groceries stacked all over and a generally trashed home. I got over it.

I made some coffee for the hubs, and then decided I should pack bags for the kids. The contractions were just too much, and I gave up, and sat in a semi-reclining position on our couch. Our Christmas tree lights were twinkling at me, and I breathed through the contractions. At 5 am, I figured I should wake the hubster and get the parents moving, since I wanted pain meds, and things were starting to get intense.

Now, the hubster’s morning routine is the source of much hilarity in our circle of family and friends. He must drink coffee while reading the paper in an upright posture (preserving the line) so that he can proceed to the bathroom at the precise moment, sports section tucked neatly under his arm. A shower immediately follows. However, this whole business usually takes an hour, and I was in LABOR. I believe I made a few pithy comments along the lines of “Oh, just GO already!”

I called the hospital, and informed them that I was in labor and would be arriving soon. The receptionist was very perky and didn’t seem to buy it that I meant business. She said, “okay, well, why doncha have some light breakfast, and take a nice shower, and then come on in and we’ll check ya.”

I then called my parents who asked “Are you REALLY in labor?” Um… shuddup and get over here, already!

I spent the next half hour watching Christmas lights and thinking of a special friend and her Christmas time birth experience. I felt connected to laboring women everywhere. Meanwhile, the contractions seemed to get longer and longer, and I couldn’t wait to get me an epidural. Giddy-up, Husband!

At 6am, we shooed my parents out the door with both kids in weird outfits chosen by Grandpa from the laundry pile. Hubs walked me out to the car, and I reclined the seat after clasping the belt around my copious belly. I was wearing a lovely blue velour dressy pantsuit, but still managed that je ne sais quoi that comes from rolling out of bed at 4am. I swear I was in one solid contraction from the time we pulled out of the driveway until we arrived at the hospital 20 minutes later.

I walked quickly with the hubs trailing behind (men!) to the elevator, then into the L&D where Nurse Perky awaited. She was all “Okay, let’s get your card and get your forms…” I gritted my teeth and said very clearly “I WOULD LIKE SOME PAIN MEDS NOW.” She smiled and said “Okay, well, we’ve got your room all ready. Let’s get you into your gown, and get a listen to that baby…”

She leads me into the room, hands me a gown and a cup for a urine sample and traipses off to her desk. The hubs returns to the car to get my bag. I waddle into the bathroom, wondering how the heck I’m going to get a urine sample, when it dawns on me that the pressure I feel is not just another bowel movement waiting to happen.

I get into the gown as quickly as I can, and then open the door to my room and say to Perkybutt, “Uh, I feel the head coming”

She smiles and says, “Okay, let’s get you up on the bed and see if we can check your progress, okay?” I heave myself up onto the bed, she snaps on some gloves, and performs a quick check. Her demeanor changes immediately. She throws back her head and bellows “SHE’S COMPLETE!” Suddenly my room fills with (apparently) every doctor and nurse on the L&D floor. It was very three stooges. They ripped the foot off the bed, turned things on, turned things off, told me to not push, to push, yelled names and titles at me.

All the while, I felt a sense of ease and complete control. Despite the whirl of action, I was very at peace. The hubs moseyed back in just as I began to push. I grinned at him, told him to get the camera. He looked bemused, but also took it in stride. One push delivered the head, and the next our baby emerged with wide open eyes and a startled look. No doubt she was feeling rushed, too.

We arrived at 6:20. The baby arrived at 6:29. After my placenta delivered and my tears were repaired, it was determined that I was still bleeding problematically. Despite a round of Pitocin, a short nursing session and several brutal rounds of massage, it continued. The doctors suspected a tear in my cervix, and needed to take me to the OR to repair it.

And so I DID get my epidural, after the fact. The hubs stayed with our baby as I was fixed up, and I was reunited with them 40 minutes later. I was cracking the corniest jokes imaginable the whole time this was going on. Interesting to learn that in times of stress, I become a raging dork. I could be dying, and I would be cracking one liners. Great.

It was a wonderful birth. It coincided with the biggest storms of the winter. As the baby and I relaxed in our room, the hubs returned home to the big kids, who were sick as dogs. It was so peaceful to be snug and warm with my new baby as storms raged outside. The nurses spoiled us rotten, and I was grateful for the night of alone time with my wee one. I left the hospital in good health and spirits the next morning, with the baby nursing and sleeping like a champ.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 11, 2004 10:14 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (18)

Apparently, nothing cures what ails me like ripping off baseboard.

Wahoo! It's as good as shredding entire heads of cabbage in my Cuisinart. I totally want a holster for the mini-crowbar I've been wielding.

Despite being married to a mechanical engineer, I am the family member who enjoys this kind of stuff. The hubs is capable, but doesn't get that surge of Mwahahahaha! when he hears the tiny shriek of the nails as they give way and the wood yields under his hands.

I don't find many opportunities to use power tools. Unless you count the blender. One memorable Saturday when I was a little beyond the edge of Crazy Crevice, my husband announced that he would spend the morning in the sunshine and fresh air, trimming the hedges, while I would clearly need to stay inside with my sick children and do laundry and wash dishes.

"Nuh-uh!" I hollered as I body-checked him into the wall on my way to the front door. "Me. Hedges. You. Kids." I disappeared into the garage and emerged with a swim mask and gardening gloves on and the chainsaw looking hedge trimmer. I turned and faced my bewildered husband, who was still standing in the front door, holding the baby, with the other two kids peeking around his legs. Apparently, I held the trimmer up, revved it a few times, and disappeared through the front gate. Also, he claims I had an ear to ear grin on my face and as I turned to go through the gate, he thinks I said "Suckah."

I don't remember that part, but...

Anyway, although I have a ton of work ahead of me this weekend, I'm looking forward to it. If you hear a bunch of "Wahoo-ing" coming from my neck of the woods, or see a short woman doing some sort of weird endzone dance while high on paint fumes, say hello. Or maybe run.

Because the Demolition Diva can't be held responsible for her antics, Suckah.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 10, 2004 8:06 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

I'm just BURSTING will holiday cheer lately! Could I complain any more? Well, actually, since you asked...

(cue readers covering eyes, moaning and making derisive noises)

I've been having a good chuckle with my mom this morning about my ineptitude in all areas of my life. I know, it sounds really dramatic and self-pitying, but it's so true.

Witnessesth:

I am the mother to three children, all of whom have needs. Like full-on, right the heck now kind of needs. None of these needs can be executed, say, in 5 minutes.

Example: I am changing a poopy diaper. Kindergartener wants juice. Four year old wants help with his puzzle. I am clever and suggest that big girl helps brother with puzzle, while mommy finishes diaper and washes hands. Big girl proceeds to take over all puzzle operations, boy disolves into sobbing heap, I forget to snap crotch of onesie and while I'm breaking up puzzlegate, I am slapped in the leg by a freshly removed diaper by a tiny girl who has also managed to remove her hair clip, resulting in her near blindness from hair hanging in her face. Big girl huffs off to kitchen and spills juice, boy is still sobbing about some damn thing or other and the baby is crowing like a rooster and smacking her nekkid bottom.

The hubs, well, he just wants some clean underpants. If I was a better wife/mother/daughter/employee/housekeeper then I would clearly have put it into his dresser instead of in the laundry basket RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DRESSER. But you know, I'm just pathetic that way.

I am daughter/employee to my very busy mother, and although her needs are very reasonable, and she has waited weeks and even months for me to fulfill her reasonable and tiny, baby sized requests, I continue to frustrate her by not just putting her list of needs first, and also now. Because she's waited patiently, but the time has come for me to deliver. And she's been waiting. And if I would just put her work first, then it would be done, and she wouldn't ask, because she wouldn't be waiting. Also, it would be done.

I mean, really, it's not her fault that I got myself into this situation. I just am not an organized person, and I put things off. Like, replacing my floors. If I had done it this summer (like she suggested) then I wouldn't be putting off her work now with such a lame excuse. Which is true.

During our conversation, where all of these shortcomings were listed and greeted with whoops of laughter from both of us, she asked me:

"How did you get yourself into this situation?"

I answered, "By being an insufferable know-it-all." Bah! Bwahahahaha!

My mom asserts (jokingly) that I just need to stop messing around and get back to juggling, because there are other Circus performers who are doing fancier tricks in cuter outfits, too. I'm trying, really. I can do the bite out of the apple and the water balloon and the tennis ball, but I'm having trouble getting the bowling ball into rotation, on account of the problems I had with the chainsaw. I'm just saying.

Truth is, I seem to wear a lot of hats, all piled on top of my tiara. They are all off balance because of the pointy part on the tiara, and the whole stack keeps swaying, which causes me to lurch and stumble around, never quite keeping my balance, but miraculously keeping the stack on my head. Except when the little monkeys keep plucking off the top few on the stack (which belong to my mother: sorry, Mom!)

I tell you what, though. I can totally picture me pulling myself erect, facing the crowd, and then wildly river-dancing while frisbeeing the hats past the footlights, one at a time. Maybe accompanied by some ragtime piano.

For the finale, I would stand in the spotlight with my tiara gleaming, fingers in my ears chanting nanananananana I can't hear you while the needs of my kingdom were efficiently and silently attended to.

But then again, my head would probably get cold. I didn't used to think I was a hat person, but the truth is, despite the effort in wearing them, they are so wild and colorful that they really complete my look.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 9, 2004 9:54 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

Hi! Remember me? Boo-hoo girl? The one who wants her babies to stay babies fo'evah?

Yeah. No. They can all go to college RIGHT NOW.

Or, okay: They could just sleep through the night. In their own beds. Without peeing anywhere but the toilet (and I do mean IN the toilet, not around it, boy.)

Again, the baby was awake at 2 am. Since we have her in the crib, but minus the side, she figured out that she could just stroll on into our room, stand on my side of the bed and slap my face repeatedly while I said "whuzzat? whu? no-no. Ouch!"

After several high pitched screams, I opted to take the wee offender out to the living room. After 15 minutes of VERY. AWAKE. antics, I decided to give TiVo a chance to earn its keep and put on a Hi-5 episode. I was laying on the couch with Wide Awake Girl held in a scissor grip by my knees. I dozed while she sang along with the gang.

Let me tell you, strange visions occur when Hi-5 is assulting your subconcious. Young adults in penguin outfits. A robot dance. A song with lyrics that go: North, South, East and West, let's get this party movin'...

After an hour of this, the baby crapped out. My son appeared next to the couch, and snuggled into me, so I decided we'd stay put for a while, and flicked the TV off. Which woke the baby up. Aaaaaargh.

More Hi-5. More Robot dancing. More educational but weird song lyrics infiltrating my brain. Two sleeping kids and the dog laying next to me on the floor. I turned the TV off for good, and we slept in a tangle of bodies until 5 am, when my husband announced that my oldest had wet her bed, but he handled it already. &*^%@*%$#*(*@&!!!!

Thanks for sharing that, dude. So glad you WOKE ME UP.

However bad the night was, I was delighted to witness the kids performing a multi-song concert of holiday favorites with tamborine and maracas for accompanyment, and plenty of butt wiggling and jumping as I tried to get them ready to leave this morning.

I seriously am going to try to choke down a bowl of that Peanut Butter Panda cereal. I'm convinced that it has a magic happy ingredient. Either that or the kids are all, "Quick, act happy and silly or she's going to start with the crying and hugging us again."

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 8, 2004 9:19 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

That twanging noise you hear? That's the sound of my heartstrings being pulled roughly. It's not bad, you know, but a little unnerving.

I used to pride myself on being level-headed. I didn't consider myself to be sentimental or overly emotional about the minute details of my life.

Enter the kids. I smiled as I took their baby months at a trot, cheered the milestones and looked forward to the next big thing. I tried to live in the moment as fully as I could, while refusing to be sentimental, knowing that behind this baby was that other baby, and then the other one, and the "lasts" were in the distant future.

Yesterday, my husband and I were trying to find the allen wrench to take apart the crib so that the flooring guys can do their magic. It was a little early, but we had the toddler bed all ready, and figured we could get her used to the new bed before the floors went in. We couldn't find the right wrench, and while the hubs searched the garage, I rested my head in my hands and cried. (We never did find it - the crib is still standing. Maybe I'll get it together this next weekend, or we'll just put her back into it. We'll see.)

That crib was the first "nice" piece of furniture we bought together. In fact, for a while there, it was the ONLY nice piece we owned. For a family that co-slept much of the time, it is ironic how much that crib symbolizes. I've spent hours beside it, singing, rocking my babies, leaning over the side to pat a tiny back or adjust a blanket. I've rested my head against the cool wood and cried, tears of frustration and pain, tears of joy and gratitude. I've listened to the rustles and quiet sighs as they slept, and chanted "stay like this stay like this stay like this stay like this."

My youngest is turning two. The baby years are evaporating even as I try to crush them to my chest, to keep them small and mine, all mine for a while longer. Gah, I'm bawling again. Not sentimental, my ass.

Then, I read this entry and it got going even more with the happy/sad crazy crying. As I went about my errands yesterday, I was red and puffy and quick to tear up (because the traffic lights were all red and green and pretty in the rain.) I did the only thing that made sense. I made a beeline to Trader Joe's and got another bucket-o-reception sticks and had myself a peppermint and chocolate party.

I feel so much better. (If I ever complain about my butt, just point me here mkay?)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 6, 2004 12:43 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (18)

It's been one of those weeks. My oldest is constantly starving. I figure she's either growing like crazy or has a tapeworm. Hey! Maybe I can convince her that she has a tapeworm, and that equals a pet, and then she'll stop bugging me for three parakeets. (Not one, or two, but three.)

The boy-boy just. won't. shut. up. And get this: The little monkey was doing his infamous way past naptime venomous monologue in the car on Friday, a long rant about how he hates mommy and how this day is the worst day ever and blah blah blah. I know better than to engage him, and eventually he subsides into muttering like a crazy person with occasional outbursts, and then drops into a noisy, drooling sleep. Slightly before the muttering stage, I violated the rules of engagement by suggesting that he buckle his carseat belt. He jerked upright, shot me this baleful look and declared very matter of fact -"I find that you lack imagination." And then he went back to his regular rant about being totally neglected and deprived of all the joys in life.

He finds that I lack imagination? Me? Really? Bwahahahaha.

The baby, who is actually a toddler, will turn 2 before Christmas. She must be growing and or tapeworming, because she is also ravenous, and her sleeping schedule is still whacked. So I've been up every night from around 1 am to 4 am. I'm really running on fumes. I am annoying myself whenever I open my mouth.

Then! We have been overrun by ants. Again. I told my mom that we've decided they are pets too, and by golly, we're just going to share our ecosystem. Because I'm too loopy to deal.

The baby just went down for her 2 hour sleep stint, so I'm going to dive into bed and coax my brain towards counting sheep (or dipping them in pudding) and away from thoughts of 2 am sippy cups full of hot buttered rum.

I'm SO making a tshirt that says "Hi! I'm lacking in imagination!" which will go nicely with my son's "I'm a pain in my own butt!"

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 4, 2004 10:40 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

It's been positively polar around here lately. Temperatures in the low 20s overnight... I know, you people who live in 'real' winter climates can stop rolling your eyes. It's cold to me, and I'm the one complaining blogging about it.

First of all, I have achieved new levels of glamour, as I wore my opera length formal gloves while taking my daughter to school this morning. Sure, I had my coat over the whole shebang, but I knew they were on, and am sure people could tell I was extra classy this morning. *snort* (Yeah, couldn't find my regular gloves.)

Second, I have located my Holiday Spirit. In fact, I have two ginormous trunk sized Sterilite containers full of Holiday Spirit, plus several other smaller boxes. I looked upon said Holiday Spirit with awe and longing, but it mocks me from the shelves because:

*duh duh duuuuun*

Today is the day I take delivery of all my flooring supplies. Oh, happy day. Except, wait. I have to live with these supplies in my house until the 13th. Which is when I have to remove all items from all rooms except my kitchen, cram all removed items into kitchen and garage and adjourn to a lovely hotel suite room with my family for four glorious days of our regular life, transplanted.

At first, I was all, okay, sure deliver it, yeah! New floors. Then I got the manifest of what's coming. Dude. Where am I supposed to put 38 boxes that measure one foot by one foot by 16 feet IN MY HOUSE? THIRTY-EIGHT?

That's a freaking wall of boxes. I can make a fortress! Man the ramparts, kids! I'm not sure I even have walls in my house that are 16' long. Maybe one or two, but dude, we LIVE HERE.

*edited to add* Okay, just found out boxes are 4'x2'x6" which is more managable. But still. Great Wall Of Circus will be wonderous and like the Berlin Wall, will probably be covered in graffiti by the time they get around to installing it.

But it's all good. The Holiday Spirit will look fantastic on my new floors, yo.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 3, 2004 8:22 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

I was switching a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer when I heard a thud and a howl from the other end of the hallway. Slamming the lid on the washer, I poked my head around the louvered door and saw my son holding his chin, wailing with his head thrown back.

"What happened, buddy? Did you bonk?" I asked in a mild voice.

"YES! It HURTS!" He pulled up short at my feet and presented his chin for inspection.

Okay, ew. He was attempting to use a basket as a footstool to reach the yo-yo that I had put at the back of our kitchen counter, and it slipped. The resulting blow on his chin gave him a gaping, 3/4" gash on the underside of his chin.

I took him to the kitchen, where I calmly handed him two chewable tylenol, had him use a sterile gauze to put pressure on it, and found some cloth tape to make a makeshift butterfly. It stopped bleeding almost immediately, and although I was able to get a bandage on it, I knew we needed to get stitches. Bleh.

Attention, Parents Who Brag About Their Children's Health and Lack of Accidents That Require Emergency Room Visits: Ssssh! Parenting Gods are listening. Learn from me.

I called the appointment service center and they instructed me to go to the ER. Do not pass go, do bring $50 for the co-pay. I threw myself on the mercy of the advice nurse to send a message to our pediatrician, because she let it slip that they did have that dermabond stuff at the offices. Our doctor took pity on us, and was able to squeeze us in, on the understanding that we would have to go to the ER if he couldn't fix it with the glue.

As we arrived at the office, my son turned to me and said, "Mommy, this must be my lucky day!" I asked him why. He said "I get to push the elevator buttons all by myself!"

He stayed chipper and cheerful through the appointment, and we were able to avoid a trip to the ER. We stopped at the store for 'cool' bandaids to keep the stuff covered, and made it home in time for me to blog about it.

All I know is, I want to trade in my bad attitude. I will eat Peanut Butter Panda Puffs and drink Apple Juice every morning if it will give me such a rosy outlook. I want to see my grinning mug in the silver lining. I want this to be my lucky day, too.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%December 2, 2004 11:25 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (14)