Today, my son started preschool.

As the door of the classroom shut, I swear my heart made that Law and Order sound. Duh-dun. I choked back the sudden lump in my throat, took one last look at his newly buzzed scalp bent over a truck on the carpet, and then riverdanced my way to the van with Only! One! Child!

This morning, I was compelled to keep saying "Hey, buddy! You start preschool today!" The poor kid kept rolling his eyes and saying "Like I'm going to forget, Mommy" or "I KNOW, Mommy." He was trying to play it cool, but the fact that he stood by the front door, hand poised on the knob for 20 minutes, and when I told him he didn't have to stand by the door, he wanted to sit in the car and wait spoke volumes about his excitement level.

As I buckled his seatbelt, he whispered, "Mommy, I'm a little nervous." I smiled and he smiled back as I told him, "You're going to be just fine. You'll have so much fun!"

Where did it all go? The last 4 1/2 years have been a blur. I don't know whether I am happy about the cheerful way my children are bounding ahead, passing milestones with hardly a sideways glance. They seem designed for this type of passage - finding the next stepping stone in the stream is fun, and even if their shoes get wet, they have a blast. They shout with joy as they leap, calling out "Look at me, Mommy! I'm a frog! Come on, Mommy! Jump with us!"

And then there's me, waxing nostalglic about the past and trying to find a jump off point from behind the reeds, one that will safely deliver me across the rushing water so that I can celebrate fording the Nile.

There was a subtle difference in my son when I picked him up. He proudly handed me his art project and talked non-stop to the van.(this is THE SAME as always, hah!) He loved being at school. He loved being away from home. Sigh. He was also happy to come home and snuggle, but my baby boy is beginning the journey that will lead him further and further from my apron strings.

Today, preschool. A week from now, kindergarten registration. Come September, I'll be walking two children to elementary school.

And in 20 years - I will be sitting on a beach with my dh and a pitcher of margaritas, waxing sentimental over all the years, the good and the bad, yet to come.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 31, 2005 4:39 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (10)

On a lark, my husband and I decided that since we had new faux-hardwood floors, we totally needed a Roomba.

I'll pause here for a moment, so you may laugh and point.

I know. Nobody NEEDS a robotic vacuum, but come on! It is a lazy person's best friend, and I am a lazy, lazy woman.

So we purchased it. And we've been using it. And it rocks. It's just like a regular member of the family now. Except it actually cleans up and doesn't talk back.

The goal of this type of thing is apparently to turn it on, and walk away. It will clean, so you can do something else. The problem is this: I turn it on, and then stand around and watch it work. Never mind the fact that I could be washing dishes while it vacuums the living room. Heck, I could be sitting somewhere with my feet up, reading a tabloid and eating bon-bons. But no.

My inner geek is enthralled by watching this frisbee drive around, ricocheting off walls and furniture. It feels a bit like those photos of families in the 1930s, watching their radios as they listened to a favorite show.

Since my oldest child became mobile, I have cursed their psychotic need to run around the area that is being cleaned, flapping their arms and SQUEELing like hyperactive rodents. Whether the thorough redistribution of dirt is their ultimate goal is irrelevant. It. Makes. Me. Nuts.

Now, they chase the Roomba. Hah! It works in mysterious ways, so they trip along behind the damn thing like it's the mother ship, frequently bodychecking one another into stationary objects when the vacuum zigs or zags. Yeah, they'll spread the dirt around, but hey! The thing keeps working until it gets it all, so WHATEVAH.

If I had known that this thing would be such a hit, I would have just skipped getting the dog.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 29, 2005 10:23 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (19)

The die has been cast. The Dork-Force is strong in our family.

My daughter came to me last night, dressed in a pink fuzzy bodysuit that we bought at Target after Halloween (on clearance, baby!) and struck an obnoxious pose. I looked down at her and waited. She shot me an exasperated look and said, "I am Queen Princess Pink Poodle Patootience, and you NEED to bow to me. Now."

What could I do? I bowed, and then I fixed her a bowl of cereal, which Her Royal Patootience decreed would be served on the floor, so that she could eat like a Pink Poodle. Standing at the counter, watching her slurp and periodically pretend to scratch a flea, I didn't even bat an eye.

laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller

My son, after an hour long monologue on the existence of a dinosaur named Dinah, who works in a kitchen, and on the railroad, all the live long day, took a deep breath and sighed.

"Hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hey, hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hi."

**crickets chirping**

"Hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hey, Mommy?"

"Okay, what?"

"Hi, Mommy. Get it? Hi!"

laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller

They come by it honestly. I grew up with people who find it ever-so-entertaining to slide out of a dining chair and onto the floor, periodically flopping an arm or leg while making distressed chicken noises, while the rest of the family screams with laughter at the "boneless chicken" routine.

We do a whole boneless barnyard, people.

There is a freedom that comes with being a dork. Laughing until your sides ache, or engaging in some benign horseplay with the people you love - it fills up those empty places in your heart, and leaves less space for disappointment, anger, insecurity.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 28, 2005 10:59 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

Lately, I'm spending a lot of time being called out on the carpet by my know-it-all children, who have major doubts about my knowledge of world events and natural disasters.

Just this evening, while cuddled up on the couch watching Animal Planet's The Most Extreme, I was put on the hot seat after we caught a teaser promo for the upcoming special on Pompeii. My oldest has crossed that threshold where she has become aware of Bad Things That Sometimes Happen. Naturally, seeing cities buried in a cataclysmic cloud of fiery volcanic ash raises some questions for this girl of mine.

Could it happen here? Did the people get away? When the people found the city under the ash, did they save everybody?

Despite my best attempts at downplaying the whole volcano thing, she still sat next to me with her brows furrowed and her arms crossed on her chest, wanting a better answer. By better, I mean she wants a happy ending.

This kid doesn't appreciate drama. Nope, not at all. She has been known to screech "Why did we rent this stupid movie?" when for five seconds the movie people would have you believe that Lassie didn't survive the plunge over the waterfall. No happy ending in the world is going to win her over, either. She's a softie, and when something frightens her or makes her mad, she doesn't want any bullsheet excuses about 'it was just a dream.'

As the show started up again, they were doing something about leopards, and had a nice little segment on Aztec warriors feeding the hearts of human sacrifices to leopards. Aaaargh! 6 o'clock in the evening, and I've got SO much 'splaining to do.

Bedtime brought the opportunity for me to debunk the rumor that zombies are in the neighborhood. I encouraged her to surround her bed with an army of My Little Ponies to serve as bodyguards. My Little Ponies can blind zombies with their rainbow brightness, did you know? (Her invention, not mine. I was all, um, the ponies can kick them. I'm a creative genius!)

I *knew* this was coming, and I've guarded against it as best as I could. We haven't discussed the war in Iraq with our children, yet when my daughter came home from school asking for toilet paper to send to soldiers, and wondering what will happen if we lose the war, I wanted to make her watch Teletubbies until she forgot all about it, and I wanted to suddenly have the wisdom to explain it. I don't even know how to start.

So we make it up as we go along. We reassure them that while bad things happen, it is rare, and promise that we will protect them. And then we cross our fingers and buckle our seatbelts and hold on tight, since we are determined to enjoy the ride.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 26, 2005 10:33 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

Alrighty- Jacqueline would like to know...

1. Total amount of music files on your computer: 4.28 GB, if I did the search correctly ;)

2. The last CD you bought was: Laurie Berkner, Buzz Buzz for the kids, the soundtrack from Garden State for myself.

3. What is the song you last listened to before reading this message? "Dance" by ESG(please right click and save as), which is a fabulous way to start the day, along with "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" and "I Feel Good.

4. Write down 5 songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you.

American Pie by Don McLean...I have always loved it. It seemed really deep the first time I heard it, and provides ample opportunities to mangle the lyrics and/or throw your head back and howl as you kick it up an octave.

Power of Two - Indigo Girls(please right click and save as)

...Introduced to me by a dear friend during our carefree drinking and country dancing phase. Took on new significance when I first met and developed a crush on my husband. My friend and I took him out to dinner and sang this song together in the car, with harmony and everything. Hmm. Actually, that's kind of strange, now that I think about it. I should ask him what he was thinking during that. Hah!

I Will(please right click and save as)

- both the Beatles and Alison Krauss...the first song I sang to each of my children at birth. It just started coming out of my mouth, and it says it perfectly.

Papa Loves Mambo - Perry Como(please right click and save as)

...Haaaaaaa! I bought a compliation CD of cheesy retro latin songs when my oldest was about three, and my kids went nuts for this song. They shimmied and shook their little butts all over the place. We have listened to it on repeat 9000 times and it never gets old. Just good old fashioned corny fun.

Bamboleo - Gipsy Kings(please right click and save as)

...Always makes me happy. It's just great.

Nightingale's Lullaby - Julie Last(please right click and save as)

...Recently, my youngest snuggled in my arms and sang along as I sang this to her. Melted my heart but good. It's a lovely, uncomplicated song, promising peaceful slumber.

Obviously there are hundreds more that leap to mind, most of them much more rockin' and what not ;) But these will have to do for now, as the kids are going apeshit.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 26, 2005 8:38 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (2)

Excuse me for a moment while I bask in the glory of having a child with an amazing memory, and a firm grasp of phonics.

And now, let's watch while I freak the heck out.

*laller laller laller laller laller*

When I picked my daughter up from Kindergarten today, her teacher was biting her cheek as she wished my daughter a pleasant afternoon and she wouldn't meet my eyes. I figured that it was just one of those days - I mean, the woman is in a room with 21 5-year olds, for 6 hours a day. I imagine I'd be very stewardess-like - Buh-bye! Have a pleasant afternoon! Buh-bye! Thanks! Buh-bye! and then as soon as the last kid passed through the door I'd be curled up in the back of the classroom with a half dozen mini bottles of booze and a People magazine.

Anyway, as we walked home, I asked my daughter about her day. "Oh, you know, it was PE day, we did fancy jumping jacks and stuff."

I asked, "What's the letter this week?" You see, each week belongs to a letter, a number, and a "popcorn" word. This week, the letter is "F."

One of the first activities they do each week is start a large, poster sized sheet with words that begin with the special letter written in list form. As we walked, I asked my daughter to think of some "F" words.

Her face lit up and she said "Oooh! I was the best at F words today. Mrs. Blahblah was so happy!"

"Really? That's great." I'm feeling a wee bit uneasy about this revelation.

"Oh yeah. Every time I said something, Mrs. Blahblah got a HUGE smile on her face."

"What words did you choose?"

"Fat, Funky, Ferret and Fabrosaurus."

"What about flower?"

"Booo-ring. I also told her Fart, and then I made a fart sound."

"What about free?"

"Susie said that. Then, I chose Fan-Freaking-Tastic!"

"Really. Hmmm. What did Mrs. Blahblah say?"

"She said it wasn't a real word but I told her you use it all the time. And you're really smart, aren't you, Mommy?"

Best freakin' believe it, y'all.

I'm cursing my habit of embellishing perfectly good words with faux-foul language. Another shot at the Mother of the Year award, blown.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 24, 2005 6:27 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (23)

I think I've mentioned that I occasionally do assorted administrative tasks for my mom. Things like creating flyers and updating her website with new photos. Recently, these tasks have branched out to include writing articles to submit to newspapers and magazines that either feature her business or rely heavily on quotes from my mom and people that have worked with her.

I've got a few more to knock out, and as I hemmed and hawed about being so busy, so very busy, my mom pointed out that I am usually able to sit down an whip out a few paragraphs. I do it for this blog - almost every day.

Lately it seems that my fount of quick-writing elixir has dried up. I find myself wishing I could just open a can of Insta-Wit, and apply it liberally. One Coat Insta-Wit, so I don't have to second coat it to cover the bald spots. Or! Even better! EZ-Creativity in an aerosol can like spray cheese. With the neato pointy tip that makes it all pretty when it comes out.

Alas, it is not to be. It seems that my superblogger senses have dulled a bit, and those crystalline moments that popped out so stark against the fabric of my days, begging to be shared, have lost some of their punch. Maybe it's just fatigue. Je suis fatiguee, bien sur.

Surrounded as I am with comical goings-on and moments of poignancy, I still find myself staring at the "Create New Entry" screen with mouth agape, the miner in my head slowly sifting through heaps of ore looking for something that demands shaping and polishing - something that has potential to twinkle.

It honestly annoys me that my long-taken-for-granted gift for quick writing doesn't seem to translate to articles on my mom's business.

That is all. (And if that isn't proof of my need for an injection of good material, I don't know what is, hah!)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 22, 2005 10:42 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

This morning found me running late, and we pushed past the time where we could have walked and made it. Loading the kids in the car, I handed my daughter a mini-pack of tissue for her coat pocket. She launched into a story about a mean kid in her class who stole the last pack I had given her and had tossed it over a fence.

My son jutted his chin out, and in his Elmer Fudd sincere voice said: "When I'm in Kindergarten with you, I will talk to that kid and tell him to leave you alone. Then I will scare him really bad. We kids will look out for each other, I promise." It was so adorable - especially since he was saying "Weave you awone" and "willy bad" and "pwomise." I must be doing something right, right?

After a dinner of turkey sloppy joes, which were summarily rejected for containing visible green and red items that were not on the official list, I put the kids into a shower.

Yeah, I'm lazy like that.

I sat outside the stall and passed in the shampoo, and watched three wee people duke it out over who was standing in the spray. They took turns drawing pictures in the steamy glass (okay, it is probably soap scum, but I command you to shush! Speak not of my scum.) Their pictures looked like those giant figures in Peru. Very abstract until you got far enough away to say "Hel-lo, that's a monkey. Yup. Yes. Monkey, indeed."

Wow, I just solved a mystery. The Peruvian giant drawings? Done by giant toddlers. Case closed.

Anyway, after the shower dissolved into a echoing chamber of bloody screeching hell-fest, I wrapped the kids in fluffy towels and paraded them out to the living room, where I lotioned and pajamaed and brushed hair. Well, the older two went down like that. The two year old?

*cue the old west fiddles and whip cracking sound effects*
That was more like a rodeo hog-tying event. She burst out of the chute and started bucking for all she was worth. I got the arms into the sleeper, but she threw me off. We went around the arena at full gallop before I finally got an ankle, and then she went down with a feral scream. I pinned her with an elbow and caught a flailing heel to the chin before I got her diaper on.

She did a quick roll, but I managed to stuff her feet into her jammies and zipped her up with a flourish. I hopped to my feet as she lay looking up at me and pulled off my ten-gallon hat to wave at the crowd.

I so deserve a big shiny belt buckle.

After a few books (all Halloween themed, just because) I took the youngest into her bed and tucked her in with her Fisher Price Magnet-In-The-Butt-But-Still-Piddles-Every-Damn-Place Doll and returned to the living room to round up the rest of them doggies.

As I marched my son back to the bedroom he shares with the youngest, I heard the sound of the baby singing "Moon, moon, moon" (Laurie Berkner, again) and paused in the hall to listen to her tiny but earnest voice. I poked my head around the corner and was treated to the sight of my girl, laying on her back, swishing her dolly around over her head while crooning to it.

My son rested his forehead on my side and together we watched as that silly baby of mine serenaded her own baby, chubby cheeks working hard to form the words, square feet moving in counterpoint under her blanket. As the song ended, she gave the doll a kiss and rolled to her side.

My son was compelled to plant a kiss on the damp curls at the nape of her neck before he would climb into his own bed and snuggle in.

I am so blessed.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 20, 2005 8:44 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

I have just got to grow up and get over myself.

But until I do...

I'm currently working on losing about 40 pounds. This is apparently going to be quite a little project. In typical Jenny fashion, I've started out with the best of intentions, and lots of enthusiasm. I'm really watching the food going into my face, and have stepped up the exercising so that I'm actually sore. This is making me less enthusiastic, but whatevah. I'm doing it, ah-ight?

So, in my quest to 'feel the burn' I decided to turn on my long languishing DVD of the New York City Ballet workout. I bribed my son to play in the other room on the computer, put the baby down for a nap and fired up the TV.

So many things were funny about me trying to follow along. Watching these dancers with long, lithe bodies move gracefully across my television, I felt like my own motions were akin to the antics of a chimpanzee.

I did plies
I did releves
I did tendu after tendu
I even did fancy little combos involving swishing arms and pointing toes.

And then I got to the jumping part. Bah! Hahahaha! Oh, no no no, cherie. The dancers moved gracefully into second position, sank into a plie and shot themselves into the air, over and over. If I actually got air, it was on accident. I was deafened by the sound of my thudding feet hitting the floor, and was treated to my son's alarmed face poking around the corner.

I ended up bent over, clutching my stomach, gasping for breath, because I was laughing myself silly. I couldn't make it to the end of the jumping section, but I figure I got enough of a workout with the belly laughing.

The fun is totally going to continue tomorrow, because I just got myself a copy of Tae-Bo, and I'm going to be kicking some pretend ass and probably peeing my pants laughing about it.

Must be the endorphins.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 19, 2005 6:48 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

Sometimes? I just have to throw my head back and laugh.

I was just giving my youngest a bath. At just over 2, she's already mastered the art of bait and switch, and is working on perfecting the time-honored fakeout of batting her eyelashes while looking innocent.

As I sat on the toilet and supervised, she splashed around in the water (against regulation #1: NO SPLASHING) and smiled sweetly at me. With an audible *pop* - I swear to you at that very moment, she had a little angel appear on one shoulder, and a little devil on the other. She said, "No splashing! Oh, no. I'm not splashing. I'm excited!"

I chimed in. "No splashing, please."

She smiled again, and went back to splashing. "This? Isn't splashing. This wimming. See? Wimming. Wimming. Wiiiiii-ming!" She threw herself belly first into the water and wiggled vigorously on the bottom of the tub.

Temporarily exhausted from all the wiggling and not splashing (or could it be the weight of her consious?) she lay with her chin propped up on her fists and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. She extended her tongue and began to lick the water.

Before I could get a word in edgewise, she said "Oh, no. Babies don't drink the bath water. Meow. I'm a cat. Meow. Cat so thirsty. Oh no, not a baby cat. No. Big girl cat."

I'm thinking the little devil is winning.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 18, 2005 6:29 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

My husband will be winging his way across the country for a quick, two day business trip. Again. Sigh.

I am glad he isn't travelling to Asia anymore, and that his trips are usually jaunts to New York area or the Midwest, but I still don't like surprise trips (we found out yesterday, and he's on the plane tomorrow.)

Anyway, I decided to run to Target, where we should just turn the paycheck over and move on in, to replace some of the toiletries he'll need. When I was leaving the store, I walked out at the same time as a burly, tatooed, handlebar mustache sporting, leather wearing biker dude. On my other side was a woman dressed very professionally, with a young baby in the cart. I let the two of them exit in front of me, and watched as they went to the parking lot where their almost identical SUVs were parked side by side.

I walked to my van, got everyone loaded, and as I waited to exit the parking lot, I found myself sandwiched between the two SUVs. We all turned right, and as we waited at the next light, the driver's side door of the SUV in front of me burst open, and the driver ran into the oncoming traffic to rescue a tiny kitten that had wandered into the road.

As I sat transfixed on the kitten rescue, the driver behind me started laying on the horn and yelling obscenities, while making rude gestures out the window. Can you guess which driver was which?

That's right, the biker rescued the kitten, while the professional looking woman with the baby in the car behind me ranted and flipped him the bird. I can only imagine what her deal was, but it just goes to show you, you know?

**edited to say: what? What was I trying to say here? What goes to show what exactly? Yeah, draw your own conclusions about this little tableau, 'cause. We good?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 18, 2005 11:29 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

I feel like I've just had my debut into Society. I was out of the house at PUBLIC VENUES, like, TWO nights in a row.

First, we left the baby with my parents and went to see the Peking Acrobats with my oldest two children. Then! Last night, we left all three kids (cue brass horns and angels singing) with my parents (again, suckahs) and went to DINNER and to see a CONCERT.

I feel revirginated.

The Peking Acrobats were amazing - but the hubs and I both found that some of the more dramatic stunts (performed without nets or wires) freaked us the heck out, and lessened the enjoyment of the show. Comparing notes afterwards, I confessed that I was terrified watching the tiny Chinese man doing a one-hand stand on top of six chairs, which rested on top of four glass bottles, which were balanced on a 6' platform. My hubs confessed he, too, was terrified.

His thought: if that guy falls, he's going to be killed, and it's going to be horrible!

My thought: Holy Sheet. The kids are going to try this and we have a $50 copay for emergency services.

We're just a couple of killjoys.

So, last night, we went to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. The waiter was very chipper, and immediately requested my ID. Hah! He was SO working it for a big tip. We each got a margarita, and long before the food arrived, we were playing footsie and giggling like a couple of dorks.

The waiter brought dinner, and I found myself forcing my eyes down to my plate so that I didn't leer at the poor guy, or say something smarmy. He suggested another margarita, and I said "YES!" so fast that he hadn't finished suggesting yet. As he walked away, I said something to the effect of "Couple more sips and my top is totally coming off" - to my husband, as a joke. Apparently I wasn't quite as quiet as I thought, because heads wheeled around at several nearby tables. Hah!

After dinner, we had time to kill before our 8 o'clock show. We drove to the nearby Target and had ourselves a tipsy wandering spree. I went down the same aisle several times, and found lots of things to point at and exclaim over. Tequila enhanced Target was really fun, especially without the kids in tow.

So anyway, we finally left for the show, where we saw The Bobs. They are really a fun show, and the hubs enjoyed it, even though he was ready to stage a revolt when we entered the theater and saw that the average age of the other ticket holders was 75. It was a sea of gleaming scalps and shiny silver.

I think we'll book a geriatric cruise to Alaska and take up Bingo.

The show was great. When we left and picked up our three sleeping angels from Grandma's house, we felt recharged and like we had gotten away with something.

I feel human this morning. It's a wonderful feeling. (Thanks, Mom, Dad and Diva!)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 16, 2005 8:31 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

Tonight finds me holding four tickets to see Peking Acrobats with my two oldest children and husband. Can you just imagine the tricks my children will be attempting tomorrow?

I can, especially since I've finally set up my mini-trampoline a few days ago, and both kids have taken turns catching some serious air.

In fact, the other day, I caught my son merrily rebounding away, minus his pants.

"Honey, you need to have pants on!" I had visions of weird impact injuries to delicate parts, and besides, the trampoline was big as you please right in front of the window.

"Mommy, my pants were weighing me down. Now I can jump, and my dingus can jump too! And I can kick my own butt! See? Laller laller laller!" *insert poppin' fresh dough boy laugh and the sound of bare heels hitting bare bottom*

Oh, uh, hm. No. No, that isn't okay. Funny, but no.

"Pants, please. I'll help you get them."

"But, my ding won't fly then."

"Yes. I know. It's for the best." I don't think he bought it, but he did put the pants back on.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 14, 2005 4:15 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

We got a Laurie Berkner CD, Victor Vito, for the kids for Christmas. I can unashamedly say that I love every song on the album, and we will be getting all her available works, and suggest that you all run out and do the same.

In any case, Laurie has inadvertently inspired us to adopt one of her songs as the official Three Kid Circus anthem.
Please please please right click and save as:

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 13, 2005 9:35 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

Today dawned way too soon. I woke up entangled in the sweaty bodies of my two daughters - my oldest had her nose pressed against my scalp and an arm and a leg thrown over me, and my youngest was snuggled into my chest, her thumb still resting inside her mouth.

I thought, hey! The boy slept in his own bed all night! Far out!

A hazy memory surfaced - no, he was in my bed for a while. Where is he? From the kitchen, I heard "oof" and the shuffling of pajama feet on the floor. Oh, great. What is he getting into?

I could have gotten up and investigated, but a glance at the clock told me I still had a few minutes to rest before the fun started, and I opted to be in denial for a while.

Suddenly, the hall light flicked on. Shadowed against the bright light of the doorway, my son came through the door holding our broom aloft, bristles towards the ceiling. A momentary panic set in...was he coming to bludgeon me - and even if that wasn't the intent, would I get a broom to the head to start my day?

He crowed "Mommy! I can almost touch the ceiling!" (Whew! He's not avenging the wrongs I have dealt him!)

"Oh, cool. But can you put the broom down?" He was waving it near the bed, and both sisters were awake and looking concerned.

"Shu-wah," said my son, and put the bristles on the windowsill and rested the handle on the mattress. "Mommy, I'm thirsty. Can you get me a drink?"

"Shu-wah," I said, and pulled myself gently free of the girls. As I slid out from under the covers and stood upright, my son said "Now, LIMBO! How low can you go? Hey! How low can you go? Hey!"

And you know what? I still got it, baby. I shimmied under that broom and finished with a flourish.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 12, 2005 10:19 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

I've been manic the last couple of days - and my kids are starting to lose patience with my sorry self. I've told them "No. Not now. Mommy's busy. I can't. I don't. Later. Wait."

I know I've been expecting a lot, and giving the bare minimum. I have a lot of catch up work to do, and while I sit in front of the computer trying to deliver some of the work I've promised to other people, my children have been repeatedly pushed away. Chubby hands reach for the mouse in frustration, and I have found myself snarling at the owner of those delicious dimples "don't touch."

My youngest is going through a big indentifying phase. Everything gets a label, and she usually prefaces the label with "My." My shoes. My toy. My house.

She managed to clamber up into my lap while I tried in vain to continue typing. She sucked her thumb and rested her cheek against my chest as I tried to work around her. After a minute or two of that, I began to gather her up into my arms so that I could once again find another place to put her, away from my working zone.

She grabbed both my ears in her tiny talons and put her nose to my nose and said "My. Mommy." I couldn't help it. I just started to cry. I don't know how work (on jobs other than parenting and housekeeping) at home parents do it. I settled myself on the couch with my baby clinging to me, with a ferociousness that let me know I've put her down and walked away one too many times in the last couple of days.

We sat there, just leaning on each other, breathing in tandem. My son approached, and quietly sat next to me and pulled my arm around his shoulders. He melted into my side and we just sat quietly together. Both kids gave me gentle, almost subconcious kisses on my arms, my shoulders, whatever they could reach. It was a benediction, full of the promise of forgiveness for the lack of care I sometimes take with the precious gifts I have been given.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 11, 2005 10:26 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (20)

My husband is on a business trip this week (until Wednesday) which means I'm flying solo with the kids. I don't mind really - I mean, I miss him, and they miss him, but there's just a different vibe around the house when we know that Daddy won't be walking through the door.

Basically, we keep it going like a frat house party. We consume lukewarm food in unexpected locations, eschewing silverware. We crank up the kid tunes and rock out when we should be preparing for the next day. When the kids finally drop, I watch trashy tv and do girlie things like wear moisturizing gloves and socks, dye my roots and groom my eyebrows.

It's kind of a tradition, come to think of it. The man leaves town and I'm suddenly all about me. Could be worse, I guess. I could be calling in the dancing boys. Not me, though. I prefer to launch an assult on my stray brow-hairs and slather a pound and a half of cream upon my faaaaaaace...

So, last night, on the commercial breaks of Desperate Housewives, I was making those plucking faces and yanking rebel hairs out by the roots. Plucking faces are one of those things that I prefer to keep under wraps. It's just ugly.

So anyway, my eyes are tearing up and my nose is running, and I'm debating whether a glass of wine or two would numb it or if that would make me think that maybe all this boosheet is too much trouble and I should just shave the muthas off entirely. This would be a disaster, because I don't have a steady hand to begin with, and if I can make myself look just like Jack Nicholson as the Joker
with a red lipliner WHEN I'M TRYING TO JUST LINE MY LIPS, you can understand why I would not be a good candidate for drawn-on brows.

I decide to skip the wine, and gave a final yank to finish my left arch. I picked up the remote and unpaused the show, and felt a dribble running down my face. "Geez, I'm SO out of shape if pulling out an eyebrow hair works up a sweat," I thought to myself as I absently put up my hand to wipe the wetness away.

Glancing at my hand, I saw red. Blood. And it kept on coming, trickling down the side of my face. I pressed a kleenex to wee little spot, and still the blood kept welling.

This morning, it was still bleeding a little bit. What did I do? Did I select the magic hair that was somehow connected to a major artery? I found that resting my knuckles on my cheekbone, pointing my thumb at my ear and extending my pointer finger up to cover the wound made me look rather deep, but it got kind of silly.

Now, 18 + hours later, I've got a nice scab there. Because THAT really looks so much better than a stray hair. That's why people flock to me, you know. Because I'm literally groomed to within an inch of my life, judging from the blood loss.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 10, 2005 6:00 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

Right before Christmas, I took the kids (and the dog, because I'm smoking crack) to Petsmart. You know, because it's so freakin' fun to shop with your dog and three kids. At least, it looks like fun on the commercials. Truth in advertising? Nah.

Although come to think of it, all the people cavorting in the aisles of Televised Petsmart are either double-income no kids with pedigreed dog they paid more than my first car for, or exist only in a Televised Pet's dream sequence. There are no kids in Petsmart commercials! If I had paid closer attention, I would have seen the light!

Anyway...smoked some crack (kidding, Mom) and loaded up the van. Part of the fun of going to Petsmart, apparently, is watching your dog go nuts and try to make friends with all the other people's dogs. You know, all the other people who have brought their mongrel junkyard dogs to Petsmart, lured by the same commercial showing happy pet owners and glossy coated dogs gliding down aisles together.

The reality involves a lot more butt-sniffing and barking and growling, a few attempted humpings and a few doodies. There are lots of stressed pet owners trying to achieve traction on the slick floors as their dogs strain at their fancy pants leashes trying to pee on the end display. Everyone looks around, baffled, trying to see if anyone else is having a good time. From the looks of it? No.

My children love to visit the mice and the hamsters and the rats and the birds and the lizards and the fish (I'm SO never paying to go to the aquarium again. We have killed hours ooing and ahhing over guppies and bulging eyed goldfish. Hours!) so we dutifully make the rounds, while the dog whines and strains at her collar and tries her best to get us moving towards that other dog over there, who has an as of yet unsniffed butt.

Fun. For the whole family. Yeah.

At one point, we were watching the mice. There had to be 30 mice in this one 12" by 12" glass box, and most of them were crammed into a little plastic igloo like sardines. The exit/entrance tunnel was a squirming mass of fur (gave me the heebies) and they all seemed to be trying to get to the center of the pile. I was all, dudes - get out of there! You're all going to suffocate! Stupid mice.

Outside the seething masses, there were a few groups of mice who were running in exercise wheels. One mouse would get the wheel going, and then another one would jump on, and then a third, and then while one was running, another would hold on and do a 360. Ha! And then they'd take turns doing it! Over the top! Whee! Ha!

The kids and I were mesmerized (and the dog was frustrated beyond belief) while we watched these circus mice doing their weird, funny trick. "Mommy! We need those!" said my daughter. "Yeah!" said my son. Did I mention that my children are spoiled and feel confident that they can ask for damn near anything? Except vermin, because I am not down with that. Even if they can do 360s.

So, yeah. The pleading was Oscar worthy, but still I was unmoved. We left in a sonic cloud of whining and teeth gnashing, dog included.

As I watched my children play this evening, I patted myself on the back. My sister (she of the karaoke machine) gave my youngest one of those crawl-through cloth tunnels. As I watched my three kids squirming around in a pile inside the tunnel, I thought, dude! Get out of there! You're going to suffocate yourselves. Stupid kids.

And then I thought: Hmm, I wonder where I can get one of those wheels?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 7, 2005 7:15 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

Lately it feels as though I have been wearing fatigue like a tattered bathrobe - it's just the wrong look for me. I've been shlumping around, shoulders sunk forward under the ratty terrycloth, and I've been feeling blah.

Speaking of wrong looks - that end of summer brainstorm to dye my hair "Copper Shimmer?" I never managed to work out the weird color issues. Vivid red is too high maintenence for this girl - I'm going back to my old favorite "Iced Mocha." Of course, watching the previews for the Alias season premiere makes me think I should just go all Annie Lennox and keep a closet full of wigs. Because you know, I'm really just like Jennifer Garner. With kids. Really!

Stop laughing.

Anyhoo, we got the boy-boy the world's most gigantic Geo-Trax set for Christmas, and I've spent the better part of the afternoon on my hands and knees building elaborate, four story tracks that would make the people who first envisioned Geo-Trax weep with joy. I've got wicked track skills.

So with the children helping (me saying "Hand me that thingie! No, the other part. No! That one. Right there. Yes. Now go get that other one. That other one. THAT one. Right. Yes. Thanks") we got the track of the day built in about an hour. We got all three individual trains running (and not on a collision course, which is SO funny to a couple of children I know) and all was well.

Then my 2 year old woke from her nap and came out excited to join in. She drove her train around the track once, and then got a gleam in her eye. While the other two kids were beginning to bicker over the details of loading the 'cargo' onto one of the other trailers, the baby scrunched up her face in her best monster impression, lifted one foot as high as she could, and proceeded to go all Godzirra on our setup. Towers fell. Bridges collapsed. There was screaming and running. There was lamenting and scolding.

But above all, was my Giant Lizard girl, roaring and stomping and giggling like a fool.

These next few years are going to be F-U-N.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 6, 2005 9:00 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

I'm awake. I'm awake. I'm awake.

Behind me at the kitchen table, I have three children who are eating cereal. I should say "eating" because they are actually squatting on chairs, alternating turns to leap up to a standing position while yelling Hoo-Weee! I see no cereal being consumed, but there is lots of giggling.

This whole hoo-wee business is baffling. It's from some show, and they all think it's the best joke ever.

The baby sings "And on that farm he had a...hoo-wee?" I'm going to get it on camera and post it, because it's hilarious. She scrunches her face up with a confused look, and says it like a question. Then, she yells Hoooo-Weeeee! and busts out laughing like a maniac.

I'm starting to think it's the best joke ever, too.

Oh, great. The hubs gave them juice boxes and disappeared with the sports section for his morning appointment. The baby just aimed the straw at her general face region and applied pressure. She's all wet and seems pleased.

me: "Oh, no! You're all wet!"

baby: "Wow! Great! Laller laller laller laller!"

me: "Let me wipe your face."

baby: "How 'bout...hoo-wee?"

Bwahahahaha!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 6, 2005 6:45 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

I'm still baffled by my post yesterday, and why it is STILL incorrect after several edits, and why I typed February repeatedly. And 2004.

People, they let me DRIVE. And raise children. And keep fish.

Honestly, I should be wearing something in a straight jacket. But nevermind.

I got "Losing It" up and running, but it's not all prettied up yet. It will be a work in progress for a while, since my layout/skins skills are painful to contemplate.

Nonetheless: http://www.threekidcircus.com/losingit is where you can find us. If you want to participate, comment here or email me.

Hey, it's blog delurking day, from what I hear. Let's hear from all youse lurkers, eh? (I promise a funny entry this evening :)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 5, 2005 12:25 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (17)

After Cooper's excellent suggestion of blogging weight loss support, I am going to create a second blog - this time a cooperative blog, intended to be a place where participants can give each other support and make each other laugh. I'll post a link here when I get it up and running. If you would like to join in, leave a comment or email me :)

In other Losing Things news...we have had an incident that is flat out odd.

A few months back, my mom bought the kids each a goldfish and one large bowl with gravel, a plant and a rock to swim through.

Stats (Day One):
3 healthy fish
1 healthy plant
1 decent sized bed of gravel (clean)
1 rock with hole in middle, upright (clean)

The fish were received with glee and promptly named: Princess (my oldest's) Coochie (my son's - and may I say ??) and Dish (the baby's). All was well in the bowl of Princess, Coochie and Dish - for like a month.

Stats (Day 30):
3 healthy, if overfed fish
1 plant, floating in dismembered strands
1 decent sized bed of gravel (filthy)
1 rock with hole in the middle, upright (growing things)

Ew! Ick! Poopy fish water. Must be changed. I donned my rubber gloves, removed the fish after much splashing, cursing and one close call with knocking the whole thing over.

Dump filthy water (and half of the gravel, right into the garbage disposal! Another brilliant demonstration of my mad skillz!) Wash bowl. Wash rock. Wash remaining gravel. Fill bowl with tap water, forget chlorine remover. Add kit and caboodle and put on top of microwave, whereupon hubs informs me that this is incorrect feng shui placement. Spend afternoon convinced that I've fatally poisoned the fish with chlorine, and belatedly add squirt of remover.

Spend half hour trying to pick gravel out of disposal. Brainstorm! Stuff dishtowel into disposal to dry. No. Spend 10 minutes with hair dryer aimed into disposal. Yessss! Insert vacuum hose into disposal, and hold in place with wooden salad tossers in the shape of bear claws, from Alaska doncha know. This should protect me from possible electrocution (along with wearing tennis shoes) in my best estimation. Freak out for a minute, then turn on vacuum.

Surprisingly, this sort-of works. We still find a rogue piece of gravel now and then, but seems to have been resolved. Genius!

Stats (Day 60):
2 healthy-ish fish
1 sickly fish (Princess)
1 sad-ass plant, all chewed up
Pathetic smattering of dirty gravel
1 rock with hole, laying on side
Water - opaque green

Bleh. Ugh. Ick. Princess is swimming on her side. She looks mangy.
So. Much. Algae. Perhaps this is ancient feng shui rebuke. I remove fish, plant and big rock, dump gravel into colander. Gross out about colander getting slimed with fish poop and decide to buy new one. Wash wash wash. Reassemble troops. Put on kitchen counter next to coffee maker. Hubs decides to keep his trap shut about feng shui.

I then set about ignoring the fish, until I noticed Princess floating peacefully at the top of the bowl right before bedtime. Hummed Taps and performed ritual flushing. Buh-bye.

Flash forward to two days ago (which would be Feb 2, 2005, yes 2005, not 2004 as I had posted earlier. I will be forwarding the drugs to all parties who have requested the time travel special.) As I reached over the bowl to grab a paring knife to slice an apple, I was rammed from behind by the baby, and dropped the knife into the bowl. It landed harmlessly in the gravel, and since the bowl is once again gur-rody, it is time for the ritual cleansing.

Stats (Feb 3, 2005): (okay?)*edited again to note that WTH? Why does it say February? Why? What AM I smoking?*
2 vaguely suicidal fish
1 filthy smattering of gravel
1 stalk with two leaves, floating
1 rock laying sideways, propped against bowl side, green.

The fish allowed themselves to be captured with no effort. If there had been a sandy shore, they would have beached themselves long ago. Sigh. I retrieve plant remnant, gingerly remove knife, wash gravel and big rock in dedicated fish poop tainted colander, clean bowl, and reassemble. Fish give me fishy looks. They look so morose the way they just open and close their mouths like that. Glug. Glug. Glug.

Fast forward to this morning. My daughter asks to feed the fish. I hand her a few pellets and she drops them into the sparking (if I do say so) bowl.

"Mom! Coochie is missing a front fin!"

"Nooo. Look again."

"Mom, look. The fin is gone."

"Wow. You're right. Wow. That's WEIRD."

Now I am left to ponder where the fin has gone. Did it disinegrate in the foul waters of Circus Lagoon? Did Dish go nuts and eat it? Was there a rumble? Did I *gulp* slice it off when I dropped the knife? I never saw no stinkin' blood. Did I touch a dismembered fin when I was washing out the bowl? That thought right there is worth a creepy heebie-jeebie dance.

Ew. And they trust me with real live children.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 4, 2005 8:24 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (16)

I spent Saturday night on my couch, watching the E! channel. I claim to be disinterested in celebrities, but I actually love all that b.s.
Also, I enjoy the exclamation mark.

Anyway, it was either on that channel or VH-1 that I ended up watching the train wreck that is Vince Neil being remade. Oh. My.

After that traumatic piece, I watched My Coolest Years: the metalheads which basically was my husband's social peers. Oh, I laughed and laughed.

The next morning, I woke up and regarded my puffy face in the mirror. I've been studiously "accepting" myself for a long time, because it's easier for me to bask in self-love than it is to face up to the fact that I need to take off a bunch of weight, and that means applying myself to another task.

I caught my husband looking at his waist and sighing in the mirror today, after we spent last night snuggling and watching Food TV's new show about weight loss challenges. We both need to lose. The woman on the show kept saying "I had every excuse. I'm a mom, I'm can't find time, I just don't lose quickly, I can't plan..."

Oh. Crap. That's me. Except she had a pool.

As my husband was getting ready to leave, we decided that we would need to hire a personal trainer, a chef and a nutritionist. Oh, and some stylists, hair and makeup specialists, and all that good stuff. Then we would be fabulous. Hey, if Vince Neil could pull it together with all those professionals...

I loved all the 'secrets' they offered up. Eat less. Exercise more. No. Really? I'm like, shocked! Can it be that simple?

Bleh. My old post-partum excuse and my self-depricating humor (where I call myself a garden gnome) are lacking pizazz. So, my big thought: Eat less. Exercise more. Brilliant! I can totally do that!

Gah. It's a curse, this happy-go-lucky personality of mine. I wish for happy and healthy, in that order. The happy masks the unhealthy. I need to stare the unhealthy straight in the face and let it make me unhappy enough to move on it.

I would be such a fascinating reality show subject, wouldn't I?

Dr. Phil: You're FAT! You wanna be fat!

Me: But I'm happy! I like myself!

Dr. Phil: You're in denial. You hate yourself, and you're fat.

Me: Happy! Love!

Dr. Phil: Fat! Hate!

Me: La la la.

Dr. Phil: What is wrong with you?

Me: La la la :)

Wish me and the hubs luck. We need to do this, but the want is still lagging behind, and we all know that without the want, failure is guaranteed.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 3, 2005 9:05 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

It dawned on me this morning - I'm a mother of three KIDS. Not babies anymore. My oldest is coming up on six, my son will be starting kindergarten in the fall (unless we decide he's too young) and my baby is speaking in full sentences and has perfected the art of the manipulative tantrum and also tattling and the death scream of doom.

The death scream of doom was invented by my son, really from birth. He was screaming before his hips were delivered. It's very urgent and primal sounding, with a pinch of bloodcurdling thrown in. It shatters glass. It stops traffic. It blows eardrums. It causes farm animals to become hermaphrodites.

I jest...about the animals. The rest of it is all horrifically true.

This morning, my son and the baby, er, toddler (sob!) went head to head over the View Master.

Son: "Stop grabbing it!"
Baby: "I NEED IT!"
Son: "It's MINE!"
Baby: "Gimme that!" snatching at the hunk of plastic
Son: "No! No! No!" holding it above the baby's reach
Baby: "Uh, Aaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrgh!"
Son: places toy in my hands, plugs ears with fingers "Aaaaaaaiiiiiiiieeeeeeerrrrrrrgh!"

Best I can figure, this was now a choral screaming recital. Mercy. After a minute of sustained screaming, they began to screech in turns.

I stood holding the toy, ears ringing and eye twitching, waiting for their heads to start spinning around. Methinks we'll be working on alternate methods of conflict resolution today.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 2, 2005 7:18 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)