Go on. Click to get a feel for where this post is going. (This one goes out to a special little lady who KNOWS where I'm going.)

I lay in my bed last night alternately blowing my nose and swigging water to soothe my sore, dry throat. Not much sleep was had. This irritated me.

This morning, I woke up to rain. Again with the irritation.

Even now, I'm gingerly attempting to eat, as a result of burning the crap out of the roof of my mouth on a slice of too-hot pizza Sunday evening. Ow. And also, grrrr.

Oh, and don't even get me started on the whole bake-it-yourowndamnself pizza action. I've revealed my inability to cook a pizza in my oven without setting off the fire alarm. Sunday night was no different, except I was in a foul mood to begin with.

Midway through the cooking, the meh!ing of the detector started up. The kids were in various states of undress, and there was much flapping, laller lallering around the kitchen island, and random tush-smacking and armpit farting. Again, I have reason to fear that in the event of a real fire, we're so hosed.

Ahem.

So, I'm feeling a bit saggy and worn-out this morning. I have a lot to accomplish, and a short time to do it. This is why coffee is my friend.

I actually have a funny story to share about the man to whom I've pledged my eternal love etc.

For as long as I've known him, and really probably his whole life, the man has had an idea in his head that it is optimal to go poop only once a day, at the same time each day. To this end, he wakes, has coffee, often standing so as to 'preserve the line' and then proceeds to the bathroom with the sports section to worship at the altar of absolute and terrifying predictability.

Any alteration of this schedule causes much consternation. He once informed me that he doesn't like to eat salads for lunch, because they 'give him the urge' a few hours later, and then he is forced to either break ranks (!) or suffer until the next morning with a queasy stomach. (Ooooookay.)

Naturally, I laughed in his face with a giant Bah! Hoooo! Bwa ha ha ha ha! And then I made some comment about "the baby" knowing when "it's time" and then I laughed some more. Heeeeee! Seeing the devastated look on his face, I got myself halfway under control, and told him about the wonders of fiber, vegetables and a healthy digestive tract.

So, we're laying in bed. It's dark. He addresses the ceiling. "One of these days, I'm going to eat a salad for lunch."

"That's nice." I mumble, forgetting the whole debacle from a while back.

"Yeah, I'm going to eat a big dinner, maybe Chinese food the night before, and then I'll have a salad for lunch. Long about 3 o'clock, I'll be headed for the bathroom."

I sat up and snapped on the light. "Seriously? You're planning a menu for a future bowel movement, and scheduling it?"

"I'll have to go to lunch at 12, if I want to be in the bathroom at 3"

"Seriously? Seriously."

"People might know that I'm, you know. Maybe I should try it on a Saturday."

"Oh. My. Seriously? You are planning a dress rehersal for a bowel movement?"

"Well, just so I can get the timing right."

I lay back down and turned the light off. Oy.

"I figure it's the best way to know." He sighs and flopped over on his side. "Right?"

That's my man. He's a planner.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 31, 2006 5:53 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (18)

Yesterday, I couldn't stop over-emoting. It was one outburst after another. It felt like I couldn't get out of freak-out mode.

Actually, it reminded me of my college course in Interpretive Reading. Has anyone else taken this? I almost joined the college speech team as an interpretive reading specialist, except I had to work and pay bills and stuff.

Basically, there is a whole performance art element to it - lots of facial and vocal fireworks, posturing and my favorite, using the book as a prop. Talking about birds? You gently flap the pages to mimic flight. Talking about guns? Suddenly snap the book shut and glare down the spine as if lining up a shot.

Very effective when done right. But also very funny.

When I'm trying to drive a point home with my kids or husband, I often unconciously seize a nearby object and press it into service. I bang my coffee mug on the counter, punctuating each word as I demand "you. must. get. your. shoes. on. now." I wave the broom handle around in broad, sweeping strokes as I pontificate on "all this mess that you all helped make!" My voice swoops down low and raises to a banshee screech. I can liquify metal with my angry stance, people.

Yesterday, I wasn't in competition form. I started off with empassioned pleas, delivered in a husky voice. Not getting a response, I switched to typewriter-clipped diction, and a business-like demeanor. No. No matter what I asked, I was getting nothing.

I did a good "Incredible Hulk" and started tossing things around, huffing and puffing and growling. Every word that left my lips was a shout. And I couldn't back down from it. I had rage inside me, and I couldn't stop yelling at people.

At one point, my husband asked me what I wanted for lunch and I shouted, with veins popping out in my temple, "I DON'T KNOW!!!!" about a foot from his face. He calmly asked "Why are you shouting?"

I stood there like a carp, mouth opening and closing, fists clenched, pulse pounding, poised on the tips of my toes to fly into his face and yell some more, and nothing came out. I rocked back onto my heels and said "hhhmph" while I bit my tongue. Time to step up the b12 vitamins again. Sheesh.

I am having to make an huge effort to stay calm today. I still feel the Hulk simmering under my skin, just waiting for a chance to explode. Or maybe that's just that my pants are about half a size too small. Hmm.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 30, 2006 9:11 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

The birth of my brother, a short four years and some odd months after I made my grand entrance into the world, squashed my status as the baby of the family. I remember resentment and the smell of baby powder. It's funny how the four-year-old mind processes things. I loved him. I hated him. I wanted him to just go away. I wanted to protect him with every fiber of my being.

From very early on in my childhood, I would dream about him. I would dream that he was in trouble, and I would wake up crying. It was always something that I couldn't change, couldn't interrupt, couldn't chase away, and in my dreams, I would shriek until I was hoarse, watching helplessly as harm befell this red-headed, pain-in-the-ass, won't-listen-to-anyone brother of mine.

I don't write about my brother much. His late teens were a tumultuous time, and he made many choices that drove a giant wedge between himself and the rest of us. We have reached out again and again, only to be slapped away, and kicked for good measure. I loved the boy he was, pain-in-the-ass who stole my position as the baby of the family but good. I do not know the man he has become. The dreams of peril continued in earnest, tinged with anger. He didn't hear me. He wouldn't hear me.

We had a brief chance, this last year. He came around, seemed interested in knowing us, if only superficially. We hoped. In an all-too familiar fireball of lies and cruel behavior, he has once again kicked the door shut. We've been down this road before with him. How long will it be this time. A year? Three years? Ten?

I had a dream last night. My husband and I, my parents, my children, my sister... we all were at a fantastic theme park, having a wonderful time. The kids were winding down, and long shadows were stretching across the blacktop as the lights on the rides started to come on. We rested on a bench, and I noticed a little red-headed boy, about seven or eight years old, running down the path. He fell and skinned his knees, and then pulled himself up into a sitting position, and wrapped his arms around his knees, tears in his eyes, but not making a sound.

My dad walked over to the kid and put a hand out and said, "Are you okay, son?" And this kid, it was my little brother, and he stood up and threw his arms around my dad's waist and he said "I'm so happy I found you!"

I woke up sobbing again. I wish he could be seven again and start over. I wish he would embrace my dad and be happy to know us again.

I wish he would hear me.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 28, 2006 9:23 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

I've been walking around clutching a tissue for days. Every few minutes, I'm dabbing at my eyes, and sniffling, and dabbing some more. My under-eye cream is seriously challenged this week. Will the delicate skin survive? Am I hormonal? Have I been wronged?

Nah. Just a run-of-the-mill cold, which, given the pneumonia and sinus infections and all, is actually a dainty little thing to deal with. An unfortunate side-effect is constantly weeping eyes. Alas, I look like I'm deeply sorrowful, and I've been given lots of little 'pat-pats' on the back by fellow moms, who assume I'm cracking under some imagined pressure.

Lest anyone get the wrong idea about me: I HAVE VERY LITTLE STRESS. I'M JUST A COMPLAINER. WITH A COLD. I don't weep, people. I seep.

True, I make my life sound pretty darn challenging some days, but that's mostly just poor planning and procrastination. Well, and the kids add their own desires to the mix, but all in all? Things are rosy around here.

I had a vivid dream that I had backstage passes to the concert I attended back in October. I was standing there with James Blunt, Jason Mraz and Tristan Prettyman, and I was repeating myself, over and over, to poor Tristan, pressing her hands and insisting that she needed and I mean NEEDED to play xylophone. The lovely girl humored me for a few repetitions, and then said jokingly (but not really) "You're crazy!"

And the dream-version of me pulled herself up to her full five-feet and shouted "I. Have. Three. Kids." As if that explained everything, the crazy, the xylophone, the repetition, my whole deal in a four-word sentence.

And then I woke up.

You know what? Funny as the dream was, that doesn't explain anything at all. And yet I throw that 'reason' around all the time.

Can't make it out the door on time? Three kids!
Can't find time to write outside of blogging? Three! Kids!
Exercise? Um, threekids.

Let the record show that two of my three children are in school now, and although my youngest is a potty-training terrorist and newly nap-rejecting primate, my load is lighter than it has been in years.

The house needs to either be cleaned, or burned to the ground. One, two, count 'em three kids.
I'm not taking time for friends. Three, two, one, ignition!
Checking out my womanly curves in the mirror, I sucked in my stomach as best as I could. Sigh. Three. Kids.

The fact is, I am more than capable of making things happen for myself. I just like procrastinating.

It's time for me to suck it up and start taking action. I've got things to do! I have friends to see! I have a house to scrub and clothes to sort and donate! I have weight to lose and exercise to tackle! I have big plans!

Oh, man. Whew. Glad I got that out of my system. Sheesh. I'm all worn out. I think I'll have another cup of coffee. I need the caffiene, you know. Three kids and all.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 27, 2006 8:34 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

My son has been working on his armpit farts.

And when I say "working" I mean he uses any free moment (at home, so far) to whip off his shirt and squeeze out a couple. The first few times were funny. Really funny. I laughed, a musical tinkle, a delightful, silvery sound to express my amusement at my precocious son's new-found skill.

Oh, okay. I busted a gut guffawing as he pumped his skinny arm up and down like a chicken wing, fierce concentration on his face. He flapped so much he bruised himself. I think I even snorted, so unlady-like was my response. It was funny. Then.

Now, I am removing my endorsement of the whole armpit fart concept.

My son has taken this whole thing to a new level. He greeted my husband after work last night by whipping off his shirt and performing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" with his right pit. I have to admit, it wasn't even tough to make out the tune. Then he used his left pit as percussion as he sang his interpretation of the William Tell Overture.

Dah nuh nuh nuh dah nuh nuh *fart, fart*

He's got bruises shaped like his little fingers on his shoulder blades, people. He's taken to this new venture with the zeal he normally lavishes on dinosaurs. My husband is not supportive of my desire to squash this. No. He thrust a hand into his pit and played along, giggling madly. His sisters think it is a riot, but so far have not been able to master the pit-fart themselves. This is not for lack of trying, however. I'm torn between amusement and despair.

This morning, after brushing his teeth, my son added some foot stomps to his routine, and a "woo!" and a "yeah!"

I announced that I had seen/heard enough of that, and please stop for the love of dinosaurs. He put a quick *pfft pfft* stinger note on his tune, but the gleam was still there. He's going to be working up bigger and better routines, and I'm going to be powerless to stop it.

Ah yes. The wonders of parenting a son. I wonder what's next? Belching the alphabet?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 25, 2006 8:44 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (19)

I've been mired down with horrible headaches and sleepless nights, due to the kids and husband all being sick and giving it to me.

Thank you. Thank you VERY much.

I took the kids to school today. My daughter was well enough, certainly. My son, not so much, but he begged to go. After weeks of enduring him begging to stay home, I didn't need to be asked twice.

I have been re-reading Raising Your Spirited Child, looking for clues and methods to try with my son. He's responding well to constant positive praise, but as his teacher noted, sometimes it is exhausting to be a cheerleader all damn day. "Yay! You're really sitting quietly! Yay! You're keeping your hands still! Yay!"

Woooo.

My girls also have 'spirited' personalities, but a different approach seems to be required to reach each child. This truly is exhausting, but I'm working on my mantra "No, Spirited isn't just another way of saying Pain In The Duckus."

This weekend's newspaper brought a little gem of a concept to my attention: Indigo Children.

Who knew? I didn't know about this. It seems that the 'markers' for an Indigo Child are all present in my children. Apparently, they are present in something like 90% of all children, today.

I can't say "third-eye chakra" without choking on a surpressed laugh, nor can I see auras. I suspect that many of the parents of these "Indigo Children" cannot see auras either, and are relying on this checklist of traits to determine their child's Indigo status. These are New Age children, born to New Age parents...yet I am not sure that 90% of children in the world qualify as the information claims.

New Age crystals and gongs don't really inspire me to new spiritual heights, but there is a lot to enjoy in the Indigo Child label. In fact, there are plenty of adults who are well outside the twenty-year time frame who are also claiming the Indigo label for themselves. They, apparently, are scouts, sent to assess the readiness of the planet for the coming of the Indigos.

These kids are going to SAVE THE PLANET! And bring around MASS REFORM of our social, economic and political structures. Their lack of conformity will force these changes, and their warrior spirit will bring about WORLD PEACE!

This is starting to sound better than calling my kids "spirited." If they are Indigos, the disruptive behavior exhibited by "spirited" children is just further proof of their higher evolution. I would love to drop that particular bomb on my daughter's teacher. "She can't be expected to finish her math worksheet on time. Her Indigo nature cannot be denied."

Apparently, there is a 'new' breed, the Crystal Children, who are just being born. These kids are joyful, and have all of the peace-making and harmonious qualities, and none of the warrior spirit. Now, why did I have to have garden variety Indigos, when I could have had some front-runners for the next evolution?

I'm trying to keep an open mind, here, but this smacks of wishful thinking. What parent doesn't want to believe that they are raising a special, gifted child? We want our children to change the world, to make it better...and if these stats are to be believed, most of the children born in the last two decades are destined to do just that.

I just don't see it, yet. My native optimism is lacking on this Indigo business.

No, I'm going to stick with "spirited" for now, and we'll go from there.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 24, 2006 11:08 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

Friday! Friday! Friday!

Whoopie.

Usually, the arrival of Friday signals the start of good things. This week, my children are oozing toxic green stuff from their nostrils and when I dropped my kids off at school, the janitor had already cleaned up two different vomiting episodes in adjacent classrooms. With our immunity at what I assume is an all-time low, I indulged in a full-body dip in Purell upon my return home, and plan to soak the children in bleach after school.

Once upon a time, I wouldn't dream of sending my snot-oozing, ready-to-be-distraught children out into the world to infect other children and disrupt classes. Today, I not only took them to school, I let them ride their bikes (they begged, this was NOT my idea) in the chilly foggy weather. I'm either a bad mother, or as I like to think, preparing them for the harsh world that awaits them. Sort of like real world bootcamp. Besides, think of the stories they'll tell their grandchildren:

"I rode my bike a whole mile in the freezing cold, with a runny nose and my mother trailing behind, embarrassing me with her hollering about stop signs and cars backing out of driveways. It turned me from a pansy into one tough cookie. Yeah, back then I hated it, but now I'm thankful for those hard years."

This evening, we are supposed to attend a bi-lingual concert as part of our children's theater subscription, and I'm a-feared. Lordy, the thought of having to maintain my composure and whisper in my good-mom faker voice for a full hour is horrifying.

Of course, the program could actually be great, and hold their attention. I hope the old guy with the stick up his *cough* who sits in the row in front of us would decide not to come tonight, unlike last time when he turned around and glared at me after my daughter accidentally kicked the seat in front as she wiggled out of her coat and then snarled "I hope those kids aren't going to kick my seat all night."

Look, buddy. You're at a theatre performance for three-to twelve-year-olds, and I hate to break it to you, but little kids sometimes get squirmy and their legs don't touch the floor, making an accidental kicking of a seat back an unfortunate, but not unlikely event in a tightly packed theatre row. I'll do my best to make sure they don't ruin this fine, musical prodution of "Calliou, The Most Annoying Child On Television" for you, but if you snarl at me one more time, I'm going to kick your seat myself, and see if I can't dislodge that *cough* you have rammed up your *cough cough* - alright?

And then! Saturday, the "Winter Sharing" is upon us, and while I look forward to watching my daughter perform, I'm feeling apprehensive about having to bring my other two children to watch. They take the classes too, but they aren't performing, which means that they will likely want to get up on stage and join in the fun, invited or not. The good-mom-faker voice will have to take on the hiss of tire with an air-leak so as not to disturb the musical program, and I figure I've got about a 50/50 chance of ruining somebody's home video, even with my husband and sister there to help run interference.

The sad thing is I'm confident in my parenting. I do not allow disruptive behavior, and as you can see, I plan for the best, but secretly expect the worst. I have an exit strategy for every event hardwired into my brain along with the location of every restroom.

Every successful outing is met with rejoicing. Every public display of demonic possession is a reminder that the parenting gods don't like rejoicing, and that I should think twice before taking kids with head colds to concerts.

It's going to be fine. It's going to be fine. It's going to be fine.

Or, hey! If it isn't, it will probably end up as a funny blog entry.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 20, 2006 8:57 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

So, today was the dress rehersal for my kids' "Winter Sharing" program put on by the Orff classes. My son, as I've mentioned is having a wee little problem acting human and sane.

When I picked him up from school, he was already in a fine state. School, it seems, is a bother. Lunch? Also a bother. Walking without swinging his backpack into fellow pedestrians? So lame. Eyerolling and huffing-worthy.

Tra la la laaaaaa!

With all three kids (and the stroller, too!) loaded in the van, we headed home for a snack before music.

That was mostly fine, except for when there were dinosaur "fruit" snacks and he is the dinosaur expert, and therefore all things dino belong to his dinohighness, and not "da gulls."

Lo, there was screaming. There was honest to goodness rending of garments. There was mending of said garments as well. No one was happy. Where I said before that it was mostly fine? I was lying.

The dog chose this moment to dig under the fence and bark at the UPS truck. I grabbed the hapless hound by her collar and tossed her into the garage to languish in canine agony until our return. Then I seized the kids by their collars and tossed them into the van.

I kid. But that would have been awesome!

So, no. I was like a shepherding dog. Bark bark barking along one flank, circling behind the pack, growing and snapping as one of my flock wandered toward the swingset. Finally, I got them sheep in the van, and fired up the engine.

We arrived at the lesson, and I was instructed to help the children don their costumes. Holding my squirming toddler in one arm, I pulled peasant shirts and felt vests over the heads of my children, and helped my daughter step into a full skirt. My three-year-old started screeching MEEEEE DOOOOOOO MEEEEEEE!

At that point, I plastered on my smile and stopped making eye contact with the other parents. I also started talking in my fake-good-mother voice, the "voice of reason and calm, serene parenting professionalism." I love this voice. It is so far removed from what I am feeling (and my kids KNOW that) that it's a wonder we don't all start laughing about it. Oh, that's right. They are too busy causing me to have to resort to "the voice."

So I'm all "tra la la I hear that you are filled with rage about not getting to hit your sister with a mallet. We must be kind. Oh, no, oh dear. Oh, we don't lay on the floor and kick the bench with our feet. Oh my." And then I reach the end of THAT tether, and strip my son of his costume and march his howling, limp ass to the van, with my three year old refusing to hold on, preferring to spend her considerable strength on screeching. "Oh, I hear that you are angry! I see that you don't want to participate in the recital! I see that all these other parents who have the gall to be knitting peacefully while their children sit silently and patiently beside them are not fooled by the voice, and I suspect that they have a pool going to see when I'm going to finally snap, and which child I'm going to send aloft, with the distance being the tie-breaker."

I wrestled the alligators back into their car seats and glowered. The heavens opened and the rain started. I had one hour to kill until my oldest child would be released from rehersal.

Right in front of the van, a rainbow shot across the sky. My son broke from his howling to say "oooooh!" Then he started up again.

"Let's find the end of the rainbow!" I shouted over the crying. I started driving. Gradually, the kids stopped the active wailing, and began helping me spot the rainbow through their sniffling. We drove down country roads, admiring the lush green of the farms and trying to find the end of the rainbow.

We drove for forty-five minutes before both kids were sound asleep, tears drying on their cheeks like the raindrops on the windows. We never got close to the 'end' of the rainbow, of course. The very idea of actually getting there was folly. In the silence of the van, I turned back toward the class, arriving with a few minutes to spare. I rested my eyes and waited for the burst of children to come out of the door.

Behind my closed eyes, I kept seeing that damn rainbow, and hearing Kermit the Frog. Someday we'll find it, The Rainbow Connection...but not today. I let the kids sleep, and grabbed my daughter as she came out. The rain clouds had moved back in, and the sun slid behind, erasing the rainbow from the sky. Ah well. The sound of the rain on the roof was soothing on the drive home, as were the sounds made by my snoring children.

Fairy houses, chasing rainbows...what's next at Three Kid Circus? Unicorns? Mermaids?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 18, 2006 10:07 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

We've just read a wonderful book for the kids: Fairy Houses is the story of a little girl who builds a fairy house in a designated forest on an island off the coast of Maine. She works on it every day, and is rewarded by a visit from the fairies.

This charming story quickly captured my children's imagination. We have spent the last couple of days working on our own fairy house in the yard. I think it's coming along quite nicely.

The rules are: use only natural materials, and the items you use must not be harmed - no picking flowers or pulling leaves from trees. If it is already on the ground, it is fair game.

The best thing, of course, is the checking to see if we've had any visitors. The book explains that when you build a fairy house, the woodland creatures all come to visit, because they are friends of the fairies. If your fairy house attracts lots of animal visitors, it is a very special house indeed.

My daughter tucked a small apple in the ground floor of fairy central, and was delighted to come out the next morning and find that someone had been pecking at the apple. She added a path of pea-gravel to the entry, and added a slide of bark to the sleeping loft. My son gathered a pile of twigs, and improved the roof.

Believing in magic is so important, at this age, and any other. I skulk around in the grown-up, pragmatic world, making sense and lining up my ducks, day after day after day. All too often, I march-step my children along with me, pulling and pushing their thoughts towards tasks. Always with the tasks.

My inner-child? The one with the lopsided pigtails? She's loving the fairy house. I find myself as giddy as the kids when I see a visiting bird. I can see it from my kitchen, and it makes me irrationally happy. A cluster of twigs, some dead leaves, gravel and other yard debris - mundane has become magical.

The end of the book has the visiting fairies turn into a fluttering mass of butterflies. What do you call a group of butterflies, I wonder? A herd? A flock? I always loved the fact that a group of rhinos are called a "crash." Really, I should start referring to my children as a "crash" of children. That is much more descriptive.

Ahem.

I'll be riding to the school on my awesome bike to pick up the kids in a little bit. I promised we'd take a roundabout route home to look for treasures to dress up the fairy house. We'll see how that goes, because my son has a flair for getting tired of riding his bike midway through the route and flinging it to the pavement, giving it a few kicks for good measure. It is um, what's the word I'm looking for here...challenging. So we might not go too far off our beaten path.

In any case, check Fairy Houses out. It's a wonderful find.

edited to add: Fairy Houses site!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 17, 2006 11:59 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (14)

My son was invited to a friend's birthday party at the local ice skating rink. I was grateful for the opportunity to spend a little one-on-one time with him, and left my husband and the girls at home with a giant sigh of relief.

I've mentioned my son's demonstrative nature, and his daredevil tendancies. Ice skating was a disaster the first time we tried it, about a year ago. He expected to be a 'natural' and was astounded that he struggled to keep his skates underneath him. He watched other children wizzing around the ice, and he gave a primal scream of frustration, sitting on the ice for the first of many times that outing.

It took all of my self-control not to join him on the ice, screaming and gnashing my teeth. He was like an octopus, skin rippling in anger, forming spikes and turning scarlet. A trip to the in-rink cafe for a hot chocolate turned my son back to his familiar pink color, but he sulked and refused to return to the ice. The memory of that day left me wary of a repeat incident.

Nonetheless, the boy was excited to go. We arrived at the rink with a crush of people, all eager to get their hands on a pair of battered rental skates. My son jittered with impatience, but we were able to keep the head-spinning to a minimum. "I can't wait to get out on the ice!" he shouted, over and over.

"Remember, it takes practice...even really good skaters fall down." He nodded. With a final yank of my jeans cuff, I lurched to my feet and held his hand as we wobbled toward the ice. We made baby Frankenstein steps around the ice once. Then we glided together, hands still welded in an iron grasp.

As we reached the entrance again, his fingers released my hand, and he just started truckin' around the rink. He moved in a determined manner, chug chug chug chug. A group of larger kids flew by, and he landed on his butt with a thump. I reached his side quickly, and as I reached down to pull him to his feet, I felt his laughter radiate up my arm in a shock wave. His octopus exterior was rosy and content. He was delighted with himself.

"You're a great skater!" I told him, my ear-to-ear grin a copy of his own.

"I know. I'm a natural," he said, with just a hint of sarcasm.

After we finished the lap, he announced that he would like a little snack. We got a pretzel and soda from the snack bar, and he sat across from me, cheeks bunched up with the smile he was too cool to show. We returned to the ice in time for the hokey pokey and the snow-making machine - he held my hand "to help me" several times, but was happy to chug chug chug around the ice.

There were several more falls, of course, each greeted with good humor. As we finished up the skating, he asked for another trip to the rink. I have to admit, we had a blast skating to the medley of Grease songs...

We returned home feeling very self-congratulatory. My husband had taken the girls to Target, where they had purchased some glowing light-sticks on clearance.

After dinner, the kids turned off all the lights, and treated us to a light-show. There was marching. There was twirling. There were vaguely robotic moves galore. It was fan-freakin-tastic.

Between the ice capades and the light-show, I'd say the only thing we were missing was a couple of Sousa marches.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 16, 2006 10:27 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

News flash - I may be failing at many other areas of parenting, and I may not actually get to take credit for any of this but:

My three year old finally made pee-pee and poop on the potty all by herself, without me begging or reading 700 books and when I offered her M&Ms as a reward, she said "No, Mommy. Those are for you. You're a good mommy."

Let's recap:

Peeps AND Poops.
In the potty.
Without my having to beg, pantomime or otherwise humiliate myself.
Complimented.
Given chocolate as reward.

Yeah, I think that brings my average up a bit. I'm off to make an offering to the parenting gods to keep a comet from hitting my house as I sleep.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 14, 2006 8:10 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (14)

Yesterday morning, my son feigned illness. He did not want to go to school. He said as much, and added "I've learned all I'm gonna from there."

That magnificent grammar tells me that you've got some additional learning to do, son. And you are not feverish. You're going to school, buddy. Suck it up.

He howled and dragged his feet, like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. When I left him at the classroom door, I heaved a deep sigh. Peace! For a few hours! At last!

Then I noticed the screaming meanie at my feet. Yeah. No peace for me. But surely there would be learning for my son, right?

No. There was none.

Apparently, he spent the bulk of the day running in circles, refusing to join in any class activities, and at one point, he fell asleep under a table. He refused to eat lunch, and wouldn't stop giggling all afternoon. My mother-sense was tingling, and I picked him up early - his poor teacher was shell-shocked.

"He was just wild today."

"I'm sorry."

"He just wouldn't participate."

"I'm sorry."

"He's just...wild today."

"I'm sorry."

"I tried bribery. We had a birthday today, and I told him if he didn't behave, he couldn't have a cupcake. He told me he wasn't hungry anyway."

"I'm sorry."

I grasped my flailing son, and hauled him out to the van. He screamed a few demands at me, and then collapsed into a sobbing, tantruming heap. Within three minutes of driving, he was sound asleep.

I would love to blame this behavior on the recent swan-dive from the bunk bed, but in truth, this has been building since before Thanksgiving. He's making his will be known, and it apparently involves a lot of naps and also laller laller lallering.

This kid of mine requires steady, thoughtful, attentive parenting, and he's got a mother who is running around laller lallering herself. I'm going to have to settle down and breathe before I can get to the bottom of this wild behavior.

He's a funny kid. He will be attending a birthday party for one of the little girls in his class, and when I asked him what kind of gift he would like to give her, he lit up and beamed at me, smile curling around the words as he spoke. "I want to give her a set of bee-yoooo-tiful perfume bottles with lovely smells in them and little squirters."

I don't honestly know where the kid has even seen those. Why those? For a six-year-old? I am baffled. "Mooom. You don't know. It's a fancy thing. You don't know."

I don't know. He's right. I don't know about a lot of things, perfume and otherwise. I don't know why my son can cuddle up to me and profess his undying love one minute, and moments later demand that I vote him out of the family. He swings from bliss to pissed in a fraction of a second, set off by seemingly meaningless events. His virgo perfectionism is a double-edged sword.

When it comes to parenting this boy, I'm at a loss right now.

I'm going back to the drawing board with this kid. I'm going to re-read that spirited child book, and the siblings without rivalry book, and try to introduce more structure and even more vegetables. I want to listen to him and hear the things he's NOT saying. I know this is partly developmental, partly personality, partly environmental. I know this is something we can work through.

I'm going to help him get back on track. Even if it means I have to get my caboose on the rails again, too.

edited to add: These are the books I'm referring to above, and one additional resource for parents with babies/toddlers. While I don't think that there is any one-size-fits-all parenting advice, these books have given me positive, empowering tools to try in my parenting quest. I read them when my children were small, and I find myself returning to them again and again. I can't recommend them highly enough.

Siblings Without Rivalry

Raising Your Spirited Child

1 2 3 The Toddler Years

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 14, 2006 7:28 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

Everyone should run over to Mommybloggers today and read our guest essay. I'd like to take credit for finding her, but mazeway actually found me, and I've been snorting my coffee and giggling inappropriately and yes, even peeing a little since then. Girl is funny.

After you're done at Mommybloggers, trot off and read some of her offerings on her own site.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 13, 2006 7:10 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

"Mommy?" My son nuzzled his head against my waist. "Mommy, you're the greatest mommy I've ever known."

I dropped down to his level and gave him a hug. He gave a big sigh, and tucked his nose into my neck. I kissed his fuzzy head and beamed. Yes, my children adore me. Clearly, I'm a superior mother.

His voice was muffled against my shoulder as he continued: "Of course, you're the only mommy I've ever known."

You should have stopped while you were ahead, my son. Tomorrow we begin our lessons in the joy of silent epiphanies.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 11, 2006 7:18 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

Hall Closet Hanger, originally uploaded by mizzjenny.

So, I'm in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher.

Doo dee doo dee dooooooo.

I hear some grunting coming from the hall closet, and figure my youngest is in there, baking a loaf, if you get what I'm saying, and I call out "hey, use the potty!"

She giggles in response. There is more grunting, and a scuffling sound.

I dry my hands and walk over to the closet, where I find her hanging from the closet bar.

Um.

HANGING. FROM. THE. CLOSET. BAR.

Proof positive that my spawnlings are part chimpanzee. There is no other explanation.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 10, 2006 6:48 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (21)

Yesterday, my three year old and I watched some music videos on noggin.com. One of the songs featured a child dressed in a robot costume made from a foil covered box.

My girl turned to me, and with stiff arms moving in jerky, up-and-down motions, said in a monotone, "Hello. Robot. Mommy."

I answered her doing my best Mr. Roboto. "Domo. Arigato."

She didn't break character for a second. "My. Name. Is. Baby. Robot. You. Are. Mommy. Robot. I. Need. A. Box. Costume."

Haaaa! Lucky for her, I had a small cardboard box, just perfect for a pint-sized robot. I cut out a hole for her head, and two holes for her shoulders. She beamed at me, and then proceeded to march stiff legged, arms bent at the elbow and occasionally chopping them through the air. "I. Need. A. Juice. Box." she announced. "I. Need. Some. Fuel."

I did my best to stay in character, too. We talked in choppy, Shatner-like cadence for a good half-hour. My oldest daughter got in on the act, and I made her a cardboard costume as well.

My son decided from the moment he came upon us that we were all a bunch of dorks, and he didn't want to join in our game.

This is the boy who laller laller laller lallers and flaps his hands and makes high pitched "meeep!" noises and is generally annoying, just because.

"What. Is. The. Matter. Robot. Boy?" I gave it to him with both barrels. Heh.

He was annoyed. I needled him for a bit longer, but ultimately decided to go make dinner. I told the girls to back off him, but secretly laughed while they continued to speak to him in Robot. Language.

He fled to his room, with the robot sisters in hot pursuit. I still haven't gotten the full story, but what came next was a scream that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, just thinking about it. A high-pitched wail of pain that just went on and on.

I raced back to the bedroom, where my two daughters stood looking concerned, and my son, already on his feet and looking green, had a huge scrape down the length of his jaw. He had fallen forward off his (new) bunkbed ladder and took the full impact with a nearby bookshelf with his jaw.

Mentally, I felt myself slip into an insulated, calm space, and I casually carried him to the couch, got ice, gave tylenol, got my husband's opinion on the situation, checked inside his mouth for any cuts, and finally carried him to the van for the fifteen minute drive to the emergency room.

After the impact, he was dizzy and nauseous, and although his pupils were fine, I was scared. When the first rush of the trauma wore off, he began to cry softly, and kept asking to sleep. Crap, crap, crap.

Still calm, I registered with the ER check-in, and sat down, talking to him about school, asking about toys - he stopped crying. By the time we spoke to the triage nurse, he was answering all the questions and arguing with me. We returned to the waiting room. After a few minutes, he was called back, and examined by a doctor.

She pronounced him a very lucky boy, and warned him about playing on the bunkbed. Aside from two very nasty scrapes and some swelling, he's fine. He's totally fine.

We returned home to my pale and worried husband, and reported the good news. We tucked the kids into bed, and went to sleep ourselves. We got up, got out of the house, I did some shopping, and when I got back in the van to come home, I just lost it. I sat in the Target parking lot and shook like a leaf, crying.

I don't think I realized how scared I was last night, and I never let myself go there. Even after we were all safe in bed, I thought "whew!" and drifted off to sleep. Today, however, the what-ifs are hanging like a cloud over me.

I've dried my tears, and I'm putting one foot in front of the other. It feels like I've been handed a giant warning notice from the parenting gods, and at the same time, a giant get out of jail free card. We are so lucky.

We are so lucky.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 9, 2006 12:26 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (24)

The scream came from the bathroom. I perked my ears up, and heard my daughter shout "Get OUT!"

I stomped down the hall, and stuck my head into the bathroom. My oldest sat on the toilet, a Kabuki mask of displeasure on her face. My son stood on the counter, holding the mirrored door of our medicine cabinet.

"Mom! Get him OUT of here!"

"Hey, dude. Come on out." I reached my arms toward him to lift him down.

"I'm going back to my boys club," he announced, and promptly placed one ear on the mirror over the sink, while pulling the medicine cabinet door against his other ear.

He peered into his myriad reflections and his voice rose again, muffled by the cabinet door. "Hi, guys! Who wants to play dinosaurs!" Then he spoke out of the corner of his mouth, fake-ventriloquism-style: "We do, we do!"

My daugher and I both started howling. In the Boys Club, apparently, everyone looks just like my son. I imagine the political discussions are a little one-sided, but at least lunch is a no-brainer. Heh.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 8, 2006 10:02 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)

Good God. I am a froofy coffee drinking person.

*hanging my head*

Oh, I thought my flirtations with the PSL were harmless. I could quit. I would quit. I was in control.

Sour Duck saw through my brave front, and tagged my caffiene-addled ass. Still, I indulged. I never got behind the wheel...of my bike. Couldn't steer my awesome bike and sip PSL. I just don't have the mad bike skills for that at this point. Something to strive for, I suppose. However, I located a drive-thru 'bucks and did engage in some operating of heavy machinery under the influence of crack.

CRACK, I SAY! Because I couldn't stop. I just kept getting the urge. And I kept getting gift cards from people. You people with your gift cards! Pushers! Enablers! (I love gift cards! I love people who give me gift cards!)

Certainly, I never put my children in jeopardy with my PSL drinking. Well, except for when I had a few too many PSLs before the parent teacher conference and acted twitchy and immature. But that's not really dangerous. Just unfortunate.

Ahem.

A Sunday came where I had a venti PSL in the morning, and followed it up with a venti PSF in the afternoon, and that, my friends, is when I admitted to myself that I had a problem. I freakin' knew that the biggest cup in the land was called "venti" and I didn't bat an eye at ordering it, despite the word "venti" making me cringe.

I though that I could just give up the PSL. I decided to break the cycle of addiction, and transferred my affection to the Gingerbread Latte. It didn't hold my love, and I moved restlessly from the Gingerbread to the Eggnog to the Peppermint Mocha. I tried to forget the Pumpkin Spice Latte. "EL" just didn't work for me. I tried calling it "ENL." No. "PM? PMM? GL? GBL?" It just didn't trip lightly off my tongue.

Then came pneumonia. And the sinus infection that rendered my tastebuds irrelevant. I was on the wagon. One cup of my "coffee that feels as good as it tastes" in the morning, and I was goooood.

And then I got an email from Starbucks.

"Come try our Cinnamon Dolce Latte!"

And I had a gift card burning a hole in my pocket. Thanks, Carmen. (Pusher!)

Yeah, I marched right up to the counter, acting all coy. "Oh! A new latte? Oh, I think I'll just have a regular OH MY GOD JUST GIVE ME A VENTI CINNA-WHATCHA-LATTE-THINGIE!" The barista acted casual, like she's used to people combusting in front of her, dissolved resolve puddling on the counter. She picks up a cup and scrawls "CDL" and then surrounds it with a heart.

CDL, people. It works. Oh yeah. It works.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 7, 2006 5:55 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

Earlier today, Jenn's husband posted that Jenn's mom passed away this morning. We are all grieving for them.

***edited to add***We're apparently having server issues, and both Mommy Needs Coffee and Mommybloggers are down right now. Both sites are back up. If you would like to leave comments for Jenn here, you may do so, and I will forward them. Alternately, you can send her a private note.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 6, 2006 2:04 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

Yesterday, we woke up and dressed for the big school drop-off, only to discover that both kids had fevers. I've got a sore throat, which somehow doesn't accurately describe the painful nature of it. My son, too. We're rasping and cranky.

I'd even go as far as saying I'm surly.

I just finished reading A Breath of Snow and Ashes, Diana Gabaldon's final (I think) book in her Outlander Series. Yeah, it's a historical/time-travel/romance complete with pirates and bodice ripping. Talk about escapist reading...like cotton candy for the brain. I loved the whole series.

Anyway, the main female character, Claire, has horrible things happen to her all the time, and she is always rescued by her hot Scottish husband. Well, except for that time she had to kill a wolf with her bare hands, which she accomplishes neatly. She's a tough gal, that Claire.

This latest book had her suffer even more indignities, which she handled by going apeshit on her attackers when she wasn't tied up.

This is sort of the approach I've been taking when the kids come flying at me, tattling and whining. Not the whole banging the war-helmet and biting the shield business, but I do have a touch of the Berserker in me.

Take yesterday, for example. The kids were home sick (sigh) and I was loading the dishwasher. A war broke out in the living room, over the new xylophone. Someone rapped someone else's knuckles with the mallet. There was a scream of indignation, and then a chorus of "Moooooooom! He/She hit me!"

My blood pressure shot up to 9 million, and I seized two of the pot lids that I was washing. Banging them together like cymbals, I tore off into the living room, trailing soap suds and roaring like a lioness. "STOP!" I howled, still clanging the pot lids. I lifted the gleaming metal overhead and made sort of a hoo-hoo-hoo grunting noise, legs in a second-position demi-plie. I must have looked like a rampaging gorilla.

With a final clang of the pot lids, I returned to the kitchen. The kids sat in stunned silence for a good ten minutes. I finished the dishes.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 6, 2006 6:40 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

It's a pretty sad commentary to admit that the best sound system in the house is on my computer. Since my computer lives in the kitchen, and like most families, we spend 90% of our time there, we've always got music on.

Last night, my husband was surfing the 'net, and listening to some of his favorite big hair bands from the 80s. My three-year-old curled up in his lap and smiled around her thumb as she watched my husband relive some of his concert memories.

I rolled my eyes from across the kitchen. He extended his thumb overhead as a Dio ballad played. My baby chirped "right on!"

Next, iTunes spit out some Cyndi Lauper. Watching the man I love rock out with my youngest daughter to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" was hilarious. Waggling fingers, shaking rumps, and an episode of wild spinning ended with the song as the two of them collapsed into a chair, giggling.

I bopped along in my little corner of the kitchen, not wanting to cut in on this father-daughter routine. They beamed at each other, while they danced through a few more songs. The last song was a slow one, and my girl had one thumb in her mouth, with the fingers from that hand grabbing my husband's nose. Her other hand was busy grabbing his ear, and she made contented snuffling noises.

I stood outside their embrace, but at that moment, I knew that everything was right in my world.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 4, 2006 8:20 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

December 16th was the last day of classes before winter break, and the day I put on two class parties. I struggled with my load of party stuff out to the van, accompanied by two walking children pushing the third in the stroller.

That right there was one stupid thing, because asking a six-year-old to push a stroller in a linear manner, and stay on the sidewalk, and without a power struggle with her five-year-old brother, well, that's just crazy talk.

So anyway, I had a major headache, and I was stumbling along with my giant rubbermaid tub of party crap, and sort of bleary-eyed. Every twenty seconds, I would bark out "get away from the curb!" or "let your brother have a turn!" or "stay on the sidewalk!" We got to the van, and I tossed the tub in the back. The kids bickered while I unloaded the baby from the stroller, and I put her into her seat while barking things like "just sit down!" and "both of you!" and "shush!" and "NOW!"

I leaped into the driver's seat and tore off towards home, still barking commands.

Meanwhile, back on the sidewalk, my stroller sat there, patiently waiting for me to load it, and my son's backpack.

Did I remember? No. Did I even notice for the entire Christmas vacation? No.

Someone found it just sitting there forlornly, and hauled it up to the office, where it sat abandoned. I picked it up yesterday after the principal called me and said something about "two weeks" and "left on the sidewalk" and "some woman found it." I blocked a lot of that conversation out.

I picked it up, and smiled meekly as the office ladies clucked their tongues at my forgetfulness. I stammered excuses about being sick, but in my head, I wanted to yell AT LEAST I REMEMBERED TO TAKE THE KID.

Really though, that's a wonder in and of itself.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 4, 2006 10:28 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (20)

I spent an hour of my morning arguing with my three year old over a photo of a rodent. She said "hamster" and I said "gerbil." And then we kept going just like that, back and forth, with occasional high pitched screams (hers) and swigs of coffee (mine) thrown in for good measure.

I haven't quite managed to dismount from my high horse yet, but I am so, so grateful that the older two were back in school today. I would have taken the time to do something fantastic, but there was a rodent to argue over, and blogkeeping duties to attend to, bills to pay and laundry.

I'm thinking that the whole family needs to wear disposable paper clothing. It isn't very enviromentally friendly, but the laundy, she does not accumulate. Ooh! Or maybe some of those plastic clean room suits! Yes.

I recall what my blue, plastic, Disneyland-issue rain poncho did to my chubby head and pretty much, plastic hoods are an unkind look for me. So maybe not.

Anyway. I did some laundry, washing from the pile on the floor, and heaping the clean clothes into another pile on the bed. Sigh. I'm just shifting piles, people. I'm just shifting piles.

I fetched the older kids from school in a downpour, and returned home to find that I've managed to forget that my sister is returning from Mexico today and I'll need to pick her up at the airporter late tonight. Whoops. Mercifully, my mom called with the updated flight info, so I'm not going to be shocked at 10:00 when my phone rings.

I bet my sister is tan and rested. I'll be more than a little jealous while I'm driving her home tonight.

The last few weeks, it feels like I'm an overambitious juggler. In my moments of health and energy, I've been seizing anything that's not nailed down, and tossing it aloft. Things pass in and out of my hands, sometimes easily leaving my palm, and sometimes needing a little extra bicep to get them airborne again.

I'm pretty good at judging things, and although I'm known to drop a ball now and again, I'm still taking bites out of the apple as it goes around and around. I've dribbled a bit of juice down my front, do you see? I'm telling you. Paper clothing. It would save me a lot of laundry.

One of the clubs smacked me extra hard today, and I tossed it away again, hand stinging. I screamed "ow!" at it, and threw it hot potato style, back into the air. I don't think that will help matters. Who knows? Next time it might knock me cold.

In other circus news, my detail-obsessed six year old has lost both her front teeth. Oh, the wide-open real estate in that kid's mouth is making me swoon. It's so funny and cute. I'll post pictures later on.

**edited to add**

The tooth fairy brought her a silver dollar for one of the front teeth right before Christmas. Last night, the tooth fairy panicked again, and *gasp* re-used a golden dollar from a previous tooth fairy visit. She was in a pinch, and the golden dollars are kept in a ceramic piggie bank, no way to see them, right?

So the tooth fairy borrowed a coin, and took the tooth (and added it to the jewelry box) and this morning, my girl says "Hey! This is a coin I got before! See this smudge? This was from my third tooth. Why did the tooth fairy use the same coin?"

Color me flabbergasted. I'm sputttering something about "oh, honey, no really, that must be a different coin" and she DEMANDS TO SEE ALL HER OTHER COINS.

MEEP MEEP MEEP MEEP MEEP MEEP

Red. Freakin. Alert.

How could I weasel my way out of this one? I sent her to fetch a baggie, to hold the coins from the bank, and then I made a mad dash for some leftover gelt from the holidays. I grabbed a sack of golden coins and threw them under her bed right as she returned. I sat there all sweaty and out of breath and said "So, uh, hmm. I was, uh, looking at your coins the other day, and maybe I, uh, just dropped that one on your bed. You know. Maybe. And, maybe, when the tooth fairy came, you turned over really quick, right after she grabbed your tooth, and so she sort of dropped your coin, and it bounced off the bed? Or something like that? Should we look under your bed?"

She had the look on her face. The look of "oh my GOD, Mom, puh-LEASE" while I was flapping and gesturing and pointing, but her eyes widened and she cracked a big, toothless grin when we unearthed the bag of golden chocolate coins.

Saved! The! Day! We are still bee-lee-vaaaaahs!

That was a close one. I almost lost my b.s. license with that one.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 3, 2006 3:50 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

That ticking sound? It's the sound of my head with the pin pulled. Best get behind something, I'm about to scatter shrapnel.

I am having some sort of rage disorder today. You asked me for a pudding? A PUDDING? YOU asked ME for A PUDDING?!?

Really, go on. Ask me anything. I'll make it a problem. The weather? You asked ME about THE WEATHER?

This is a sad, sad offshoot of the happy busy brain of late spring 2005. Last time I was a creative genius. This time I'm just angry. Irrationally so, I might add.

In any case, I'm eating the last pudding cup (hah! take that!) and getting ready to fold a load of towels, the only laundry task that I enjoy. Mmmm. Warm towels, fresh from the dryer, folded into thirds, and piled on the shelf. It's orderly and tidy looking, and housewifey to the max. Unlike folding underwear, which, no matter what you do, just doesn't end up folded square, stacked neatly. Which makes me upset today.

Next, there's a toss up between pulverizing concrete with a sledgehammer, or pulverizing a bag of tortilla chips with my teeth. I'm thinking chips are the way to go. Damn my lack of construction projects! I could really use some demolition right about now.

This is what Bill Bixby must have felt like when he transformed into Lou Ferrigno. I guess it is too much to hope for that I will turn into some sort of eight-foot-tall bronzed goddess with lazer-beam eyes and abs of steel. No, I am transforming into a bitter shrew with sweatpant-clad Dorito butt.

Fear my wrath.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 2, 2006 1:27 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

My three-year-old has begun referring to me as "Your Highness" and "Your Majesty" - bowing everytime she approaches. Any request is delivered from her knees, and with lowered eyes. And! Get this! This morning, she KISSED THE HEM OF MY ROBE.

I don't know what brought about this change, but it beats the hell out of her shrieking "I. Want. Some. COOOOOOOKIIIIIIIIIIES!"

Oh wait. Party's over. She's now at my feet again, on her knees, with lolling tongue and pretend tail wagging. There is pawing and huhhn-huhhn-huhhn noises. She's a dog. Great. Just when I was getting all comfortable with the whole "Your Majesty" schtick.

Well, it was great while it lasted.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%January 1, 2006 12:44 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)