This morning, my son crawled into our bed around four o'clock. Rather than haul him back to bed, I sleepily pulled him under the comforter and wrapped my arms around him. We both drifted off to sleep again. When the alarm went off at five, I woke quickly, but my son slumbered on. I nudged him awake, asking him to go use the bathroom, since nothing is worse than an accidental, uh, accident, which has been known to happen in the early morning hours.

Poor kid got my Circadian rhythm, and gets his heaviest sleep right when it's time to get up.

He came back to our bed after using the bathroom, and snuggled back in. He smiled up at me and said "Mommy! I was having the most wonderful dream! I was in a beautiful field with you and Daddy and the girls and Grandpa and Grandma and we were running around picking flowers and fishing in the stream and we were camping under the stars and it was so great." He sighed.

"That does sound like the most wonderful dream!" I whispered, smiling into his sleep softened face.

"And THEN YOU WOKE ME UP AND RUINED IT! And now I can't get back there. YOU WOKE ME UP. AND RUINED ALL MY DREAMS!"

Oh, uh. Hmm. I felt stung by his blunt summary of the situation. I patted him on the back and sort of rocked him, thinking that he might settle down. He continued to mutter in my arms. "Best dream ever. Woke me up. Ruined it. I'm thinking camping and then suddenly I'm sitting on the toilet. Woke me up for that. And now my dream is gone forever! FOREVER!"

That's me, you know. The one who goes around forcing people onto toilets and crushing dreams. I'm just good like that.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 30, 2006 5:41 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

Oh, people. Your little friend Jenny over here is on a roll. I'm rebounding like crazy. And I mean that sincerely.

That mini-trampoline I have at the foot of my bed? Oh, man. I'm having WAY too much fun on that thing. First I do little bounces. Then I go all "big air, yo!" Then I do tricks. Yes, ma'am. Tricks. I jump in a circle. I do little kicks and stuff. I make Shania Twain-like whooping noises.

Part of the fun is the fact that one of the TV channels keeps running that Bring It On movie, which instantly brings out my inner, wannabe cheerleader. I want to be one of the Clovers cheerleaders, though, not a Toro. I'm just saying.

My IQ drops with each repeated viewing, but it has the pulling power of Footloose. I'm sure by the time they stop running it, I'll be a slavering idjeet. I'll be all "Duuuuuuuuh" while I"m jumping up and down and whooping on the trampoline.

Oh, but it gets better. I've figured out how to sort of jog in place on the thing. So now I do this running-man move, and this other one where I lean forward and sort of kick my legs behind me, which allows me to dream of the day when I can, like my son, be a pain in my own butt.

I have to be careful, or I might become a work-out fanatic. I mean, can you imagine? That would be so out of character. What do you call a mini-trampoline fanatic? A mini-tramp? A tramp-o-natic?

Must be all those endorphins, combined with my Bring It On lowered IQ. Or endolphins, as my first grader likes to say.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 29, 2006 8:42 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (10)

Exactly why my children all need to wake at the exact hour of their birth on their birthday is unclear. However, having been down this particular block a few times, it was not surprising to be nudged by my daughter at 4:56 am on Saturday. After giving her a kiss and wishing her Happy Birthday, and inspecting her for birthday sparkles, I pulled her under the covers for some birthday snuggles.

Where did this long-limbed, long-haired, giant teethed girl come from? Where is the baby I could fold neatly into my arms?

By 5:15, we had already watched with bleary eyes as she tore open her presents on the foot of our bed. She was thrilled with the American Girl doll and Trixie Belden books we had chosen, as well as the bike basket and horn from her siblings. With that out of the way (and the day already off to a roaring start) we got up and had breakfast.

I attempted to bake a cake, but for some reason, it developed major fault lines, and crumbled as I tried to frost it. The more I tried, the worse it got. The finished product resembled a sponge hacked apart by a jackhammer, and then splattered with mud. We all had a good laugh over it, and then ate cake for a mid-morning snack.

I had planned an outing to the paint your own pottery place in town, and had invited two of her friends to come along. While the plan was to take my son along, he was in full tantrum mode long before the party, and when he collapsed into a nap, I shrugged and left him home with my husband and youngest.

The pottery studio was strange. The woman running it never turned the lights on. Despite running a birthday party for a large group of very young children, she never turned on any music or even cracked a smile. It was obvious that she didn't like kids. At one point, she snarled at my little charges when they came close to a shelf. "Be careful, or your mommy will end up owning this store!"

Okay then. Thankfully, we escaped without having to become business owners, and made our way to the ice cream store next to the pottery studio. We enjoyed giant cones and opened presents, and then made our way home, to find that my son had awoken prematurely from his nap and was mighty in his anger at being excluded.

Lesson learned: no more birthdays where mommy might have to purchase the store, and also, no excluding siblings for at least a few more years.

After a birthday dinner of finger foods, and a bakery cake to replace the monstrosity that I produced earlier, we snuggled in bed and read the first few chapters of the next Trixie. Right before she snuggled down in her blankets, she whispered "I can't believe I'm seven!"

I know how she feels.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 28, 2006 11:14 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (16)

I have been losing a tiny bit of weight lately, probably because I'm like, cleaning my house and stuff. I always thought those calorie burning estimates for vacuuming and dusting were a joke. Of course, I wasn't actually doing vacuuming and dusting, so what did I know? Apparently, flapping my arms while I roam around the house burns calories! This is exciting!

I got up before the sun this morning. My youngest crawled into our bed sometime in the middle of the night, and sat bolt upright, demanding to know "Who wizzpopped?" at 4:30 am. After I got done snickering as she accused first me, then the husband, then the dog, then the clock and finally decided that it was her own butt responsible, I couldn't get back to sleep. I lay on my back for a few minutes, with my three-year-old's fingers poking into my ear canal, and finally decided that I was better off getting up.

With an early start, I decided to walk the kids to school for the first time in, like, forever. I did it, too. We got to school, where I delivered my daughter's sack full of birthday snacks to the teacher. When I asked my daughter what sort of cupcakes or cookies she wanted to share with her class, she informed me that her teacher would prefer a snack that didn't crumble or make a mess, and could I please bring fruit leather? Being a snot, I wanted to bring crumbling, nonpareil covered cookies with icing that stains. Instead, I bought fruit leather. Boy, do we know how to party.

Back at home after my two mile jaunt, I decided to do a little work with weights. I mean, why not, I was on a roll. So I did some squats, and deadlifts, and some other things. And then I got out the weighted hula hoop and stood in my front yard, bashing the crap out of my ribcage with a giant grin on my face. I was all "Ow! Hee! Hoo! Ow! Haaaaa! Hee hee! Ow! Hah! Ow!" for five minutes and then I couldn't take any more. I've managed to clear a workout space in my bedroom, which I fully intend to use for yoga someday soon. I also set up the mini-trampoline at the foot of my bed, so that I can see our little TV while I exercise.

I don't know if you can call jumping up and down while holding onto my bounding breastesses so they don't achieve orbit, despite the use of a sportsbra, is actually exercise. I was too busy laughing and picturing the special moves that I could surprise my husband with at bedtime. I think I could work up to a fancy half-twisting mount onto the bed if I practice. A back somersault sounds like a good dismount move. But then again, I'm not sure I can stick the landing without spraining something.

Wahoo!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 23, 2006 12:13 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

It started as an impulse buy. Because, I mean, really...who PLANS to buy phyllo dough? (Okay, all you people who plan before you grocery shop - shush. I can't be reigned in! I'm free like a bird! I shop like an Iron Chef! I let the spirit of the ingredients move me! Also, I can't plan ahead. Ahem.) I stood with my nose inches from the glass freezer case door, fog blooming with each exhale. Ooh! On sale! I tossed two boxes in the cart. I mean, you should have a back up box in the freezer for a day when you might want some phyllo. Or something.

Admittedly, I'm not exactly a phyllo expert. In fact, I only know a few things to do with phyllo dough: spanikopita and baklava, both of which require a metric butt-load (thanks for that, Jenn) of melted butter. Melted butter? In copious amounts? Sign me up!

I threw a couple of packages of frozen spinach into the cart, and some feta and some water chestnuts and some herbs and hell, I don't know. A bunch of stuff. This is a return to my former confident method of cooking., whereupon I grab a bunch of stuff and make something yummy. The kids haven't proven to be impressed with my skillet full of yum method, but surely wrapping everything in phyllo and slathering it in butter would make even spinach palatable for my wee food critics.

I made a bunch of spinach handpies. They were not well received. I've eaten them all myself, while making Mmmm! Mmmmmmmm! noises. Then I took the rest of the dough from that first package and slathered it with butter, cinnamon and honey and rolled it and baked it up. And then I hid in the closet and ate the whole pan.

I found myself singing "Phyllo when I was young, I used to call your name..."

I have decided that when I die, I want to be rolled in phyllo, and slathered in honey and butter. Maybe sprinkle a little cinnamon on for good measure, because that's pretty close to heaven, in my book.

I'm already thinking about the next box. Perhaps some savory samosa filling. Maybe a cheese mixture. I must be stopped.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 22, 2006 6:41 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (10)

I've been asked by the lovely ladies over at BlogHer to ask my readers to participate in a brief survey - please, please pretty please take two minutes and click on over. All the questions are strictly optional, so if you don't want to answer something, you can still take the survey. Mwah!

Be a love and take this survey, eh?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 22, 2006 4:32 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (0)

You want to know what's super fun? I've just learned that all members of the W.H.R.G. get to wear princess hats.

You want to know what's not so fun? Being on the heavy day of my womanly moon festival and having my mom call and announce that she wants to drop by for a little spot check to see how I'm doing on the housework.

*insert Tarzan yell here*

See, okay. I'm doing better with the house, but I've been *insert your favorite excuse here.*

So with my internal red lights flashing and sirens blaring, I ran around picking up and sweeping and mopping and wiping and cursing the amount of slack time I must have taken last week, even though I don't remember bon-bons.

My husband just observed that I work much faster and harder if I'm freaking out that I'm going to be busted by my mom. Great! I'm a naughty fourteen-year-old, and Mom's almost home from work, and I haven't cleaned my room! Why I can't just be motivated to keep up with the cleaning without having to go all DEFCON 5 on myself is beyond me. I'm totally bringing that up in therapy. Heh.

Anyway, this afternoon, my mom called again, and we rescheduled our 'visit' for tomorrow.

I should be in a better mood tomorrow. Less woman issues and all. Plus, I did need a kick in the ole butt to get a good burst of cleanin' on. So, I should just shut my complainin' mouth and be glad for the push.

But really, what fun is THAT?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 20, 2006 4:56 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

Aw yeah.

It seems that I have been voted president of a new sorority of sorts. Try not to be too jealous. I am the High Queen of the freshly-minted Wind Horse Riding Girls.

Let me repeat that for y'all in the back. Wind. Horse. Riding. Girls.

And I've got the t-shirt to prove it.

Let me back up a bit and explain. When I was little girl, I read the entire Trixie Belden series, one after another. I loved every single one of them. Now that my oldest enjoys having chapter books read aloud, I thought that pulling out ole Trixie would be fun for both of us.

My girl is obsessed. She loves her some Belden. We snuggle up at night and read a few chapters, and she hangs on every word. We just finished the third book, which features the formation of a club, and includes descriptions of club shirts and jackets that one of the members is going to embroider, thereby demonstrating her useful and feminine skills with a needle and thread, and gaining the approval of the male members of the club.

This is also the book that features extensive use of the name "Dick" for one of the characters, and refers to pickpockets as "dips" and also calls detectives "dicks" and oh my GOD between all the dicks and dips I was fighting the urge to snicker like an eight-year-old for the entire book. Lucky for me, my seven-year-old doesn't have any associations with the word "dick" yet. Whew!

I mean, okay. The gender stereotyping is a little annoying, and the fact that my daughter now calls her jeans "dungarees" is weird, and the obsession with being wealthy is not exactly what I'm looking to teach, but overall, there is a lot to love about the spunky Trixie. First and foremost is the horses. The kids ride horses, and solve mysteries, and wear playsuits, and swim before breakfast, and have a club! And they ride horses! And have a club!

Last night, as we finished the book, she was reluctant to say goodbye so quickly. She asked me to read the back cover to her. The blurb said "There's no one quite like Trixie!" I looked down at my girl, and she had a private smirk on her face. I raised my eyebrows, and she whispered, "There's me. I'm like Trixie." Her face lit up, and she smiled. She ran her eyes over the cover art, looking for similarities. Finding nothing obvious, she whispered, "We both like bugs."

Yesterday, she informed me that she was forming her own club. The Wind Horse Riding Girls love horses, see. And they wear yellow shirts with W.H.R.G. on the back, and have baby blue jackets, also with W.H.R.G. on it. And they do stuff. Stuff that is yet to be determined. The wardrobe seems to be the most important factor, after loving horses.

I was thrilled to be asked to be a member. But being declared "High Queen" was overwhelming. I may have cried a bit. We got busy on Zazzle and with the help of a couple of scanned drawings, colored in photoshop, we have our shirts. I wonder what our motto is? We love horses and bugs but not boys? (I think you all should go buy a shirt, too, and you can join the club. We can do, uh, stuff. And love horses! But we won't embroider shirts, because Trixie don't play that.)

Alas, we don't have a horse. We've got bugs, though. And I've just learned that my sister is giving my oldest a series of riding lessons for her birthday next week. Whoa nelly - that right there is going to be an awesome surprise for my Trixie-wannabe.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 17, 2006 7:11 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (14)

Slumber Party, originally uploaded by mizzjenny.

They may argue during the day, but it appears they still like each other well enough to share a twin bed for a little slumber party.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 16, 2006 6:40 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (14)

So, yeah. I didn't have coffee this morning, because I thought maybe it was causing the insomnia I've been struggling with the last few days. I caved after a few hours, because who am I kidding. I haven't slept more than an hour or two a night in four days.

Basically, I'm all "Lallerlallerlallerlallerlallerlallerlallerlallerlallerlallerlaller" and wanting to run around in circles, waving my hands over my head. I'm just to that insane state of sleep deprivation where EVERYTHING is a mental effort. I stared at the baguette on my counter for a good three minutes, waiting for it to magically be sliced. Everything is also very funny. I'm sort of feebleminded, but giddy. This would be a good day to watch the Sound of Music again, I suspect.

Ooh! Or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!

But, because I am an adult, I'm trying to put on a good show. It doesn't help that the thumping of the tennis shoes in the dryer is making me laugh. This is really not a time to be moved to hysterical tears, and yet "boom boom, bah boom boom!" is really busting me up.

See, even though I tucked the kids into bed at 8, and climbed under the covers, I lay there just thinking and thinking about stupid stuff. And then I rolled over and decided to try to clear my mind by visualizing a sponge wiping my brain clean, and ended up giggling over the thought of Spongebob Squarepants in my brain. I was up and down all night, finally dropping into a deep sleep around in the wee hours of the morning.

I've got to get some rest tonight - I'm just hoping my brain will cooperate.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 15, 2006 2:47 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

We received a wonderful book at my first baby shower: Backyard Bedtime is a gentle poem that shows the world preparing to sleep. I really love the pictures in it. All the flowers and trees and houses have sweet, sleepy faces, and the colors are muted and restful.

After countless readings over the years, the soft cadence has been burned into my brain.

It's bedtime for vegetables, carrots and beans
Turnips and pumpkins, potatoes and greens
Curl close to the vine, now, my little sweet pea
I'll sing you an earth-song --
Hush, hush, sleep, deep

Last night as I cuddled with my kids on the couch for a last few minutes, we read through the books they had selected, and then I started shooing them towards bed. As we walked, I began to recite from Backyard Bedtime. The kids have it memorized, too, and will often join in. We must have eaten something silly at dinner, though. I got through two stanzas before my daughter offered up this:

It's bedtime for babies and monkeys round town...

I added in:

Go use the toilet! It's time to lay down!

My son threw in:

I don't have to poo now, but I might have to pee.

My daughters just lost it. She was howling, with her head pressed against the door frame. My son beamed as he emerged from the bathroom.

I decided to finish off the stanza:

I'll sing you a bathroom song --

I'll spare you the finish, but suffice to say that all three kids crowed assorted sound effects that might be heard in the bathroom. There's nothing like ending the night with three kids giggling themselves to sleep, making occasional 'poot!' noises from under the covers.

Sweet dreams, my strange little peepers.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 14, 2006 8:22 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

Thanks to the suggestion of my brand new therapist, I've been gleefully analyzing my every thought and move. I'm becoming totally self-absorbed. For example:

I sneezed when I opened the dishwasher. What did that mean?
The phone rang at the same time the dryer buzzer went off. I answered the phone. Why?

I think I might actually be making myself weirder. Laller laller laller laller!

In the course of all this self-analysis, I've decided to take on a complete overhaul of my diet and exercise. LIke, I'm going to thinking about actually doing something about the excess weight I'm hauling around. I know. What's my motivation? See? It is fun to be self-aware!

That's right, people. It's time for me to bust out the mini-trampoline, the hula-hoop, all the crazy exercise moves I've popularized convinced other people to avoid, from my painful, embarrassing mishaps! Stay tuned as I prepare to bust moves that no one should ever bust, in the name of fitness.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 13, 2006 3:54 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

On Thursday, our local weather stations were reporting a chance of snow on Friday. The skies were ominous, the mercury was dropping. Although Friday dawned cold, the skies were clear.

Saturday! It would snow on Saturday! I should back up here and explain that snow happens around here, like, never. The kids were excited. We put extra comforters on the beds. And? Nothing.

In fact, we've had lovely weather all weekend. Sunny, clear, mild.

I am so not listening to the weather station any more.

I wasn't going to discuss it here, but it's sort of like dancing around the elephant in the center of the room, so wham! I'm seeing a therapist!

I've decided to see a therapist (covered under my health plan, thank goodness) to try to get to the bottom of my reluctance to take care of business around here. I've never been good at following through with things, so I figure maybe the wisdom of someone professional will help me get past whatever is making me behave like a spoiled child who doesn't want to clean her room.

I had my first appointment last week, and it was eye-opening. Apparently, I'm a fast talker! And also, my must/want/should ratios are out of balance! I also don't get enough sleep! These shocking revelations (hah!) paved the way for a discussion of how I can uncover the resistance to following through on my daily responsibilities. I feel like Jack Bauer, trying to locate the nukes/terrorists/canisters before they cause widespread mayhem.

I realized that I prefer to do things that result in a reward. I crave approval and applause. I'm thinking I need to install an applause machine. Put away that laundry, and get a standing ovation. Even better, I'm thinking that balloons need to fall from the ceiling and confetti cannons need to activate when I put the final dish in the dishwasher!

Really, that beats the heck out of rewarding myself with a fun-size snickers every time I finish a chore. Come to that, I don't even have any fun-sizes right now. Maybe THAT'S the root of the problem!

Anyway, I explained my internet addiction fascination and the therapist nodded sagely and agreed that it is very difficult to walk away, and he loses track of time when he's online too! We bonded over that. It was a trust-building moment. I think. I'm not down with the lingo just yet.

In any case, he's recommending that when I feel resistant to doing a chore, I should take a moment and journal my emotions. I need to become self-aware, you see. (Bwahahahahaha - I am having trouble playing this straight) Because yes, I totally am needing more writing in my life.

I'm confident that we can get to the bottom of my mental terrorist problem, and save the area from catastrophic casualties.

Especially since I've discovered that the weatherman is the mole.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 12, 2006 8:17 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

I've mentioned Donna the Dog before. Donna suffers from separation anxiety, which makes even a trip to the mailbox a nightmare for both Donna and I. She freaks if I'm out of her sight, and leaps at me, barking when I reappear. She's also distrustful of males, and reacts aggressively if a stranger approaches our gate.

I put up with it though, because she's a good dog otherwise, affectionate and gentle with the kids.

Then on Wednesday, she bit a delivery guy.

She nipped his finger as he stuck his hand over the top of our gate, and probably felt all proud of herself for defending her family. The guy ran back to his truck, and when I came out to stop the dog from barking at the fence, he yelled from his truck that my dog had just bitten him.

Donna was still barking at the fence, so I grabbed her and tossed her in the garage, and ran out to see what had happened. He showed me the bite, a puncture in the tip of his finger, which was bleeding, but didn't seem like a mortal wound. I encouraged him to go get it checked out at the hospital, assured him that her vaccinations were current and after a few phone calls to his boss and wife and whatnot, he drove off, leaving me to deal with Donna.

I was shaking like a leaf for a few minutes. I let her out of the garage, and watched her carefully for a minute. She began chewing on one of her squeaky toys, and I exhaled and picked up the phone. At that moment, I just wanted her gone.

"Hello, humane society?" I explained the situation, and they referred me to animal control, so that I could report my dog to the officers and begin the 10-day quarantine that is mandated by the state.

A few calls to different organizations assured me that Donna will be able to be placed with another home after the lockdown ends, and I've found two rescue organizations that will take her, should the original shelter we adopted her from refuse to take her back (or give me any inkling that she will be put down.)

Over and over, people have said to me "well, she's a terrier, it's how they are." and "well, that's to be expected, she's protecting her turf" and I understand that. But now I'm plagued with the fear that a teenager will enter my gate to sell me a magazine subscription and my dog will see a threat. I'm not happy about sending her away, but I'm unwilling to risk any further aggression.

We've discussed it with the kids. We've all cried over it. In the end, the fear of another incident ended the discussion. But it still feels horrible.

**edited to add**

Donna is still with us. Her quarantine period ends Saturday. We've decided to have her evaluated by a wonderful trainer from the local humane society, in the hopes that she can give us a good read on the situation. We will meet with her next week. I appreciate everyone's thoughts on this. I don't know if there is going to be a happy ending, but we are trying.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 10, 2006 8:48 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (21)

I just wanted to let everyone know that I've put BlogAds on the site for a cause -

Over at Mommybloggers.com, we are going to send a blogger to BlogHer this year - ALL proceeds from my blogads will be going to our scholarship. If you've got a product to sell, or a site to promote, consider putting an ad here or on Jenn's site, and 100% of the proceeds will help a blogger get to BlogHer 2006.

(Details on the scholarship awarding will be coming soon over at Mommybloggers. We are working out the details right now.)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 8, 2006 7:32 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

I'm doing my best to stay on top of the housework, and stay off the computer. I'm becoming painfully, painfully aware that keeping a tidy house is, like, hard work. This is not to say that I haven't had a tidy house before. I have. I've even maintained the tidy for weeks at a time.

That was before the internet was a big part of my life.

So, as it stands, I'm staying off the computer during the day. In fact, this isn't me on the computer right now. No, it is some other person. *cough*

I mean, okay. It's not all that hard of work, except that my husband and I are the fatal combination of lazy and messy and apparently we've passed that fantastic example onto the kids. Slobberiffic!

So, yeah. I'm wiping down counters and sweeping the floor and decide to dust the light fixtures, and lo! There is a single crescent of orange macaroni on the ceiling. On the 10-foot high ceiling. How? Why? I must have missed that food fight, but it looks like it was a good'un.

I have also renewed my love affair with my roomba... who cares if it takes a hour to clean the kitchen floor? I don't have to do it, and it doesn't talk back! If it could talk, I betcha it would be cussing, tired of vacuuming up dog hair and crumbs. Thank goodness home robotic technology isn't quite there, yet.

I had to take my youngest with me to help out in my son's class today, and it damn near killed me. She is going through a finicky stage, where she is reduced to tears should I wear a blue shirt, or slice an apple, or really just breathe. Yes, breathing is bad, and she must cry about it. Loudly.

So I took her to a room full of five-year-olds and gave her a nice container of blocks, which she played with for about four minutes, before rampaging around the room, terrorizing all the kids and laller laller lallering like a champ.

(This is an aside, but I've really had to come to terms with the fact that as much as I like to claim that I'm a calm, rational person, the kids got the whole laller laller laller thing from me. The incessant talking, as well. And the show and tell impulse. You should see me competing with my kids for my parents' attention. Look at me! Look at me! Bah.)

So anyway, she was being horrific, and I muddled through the project as best as I could. About five minutes before the end, she lost it. Lost. It.

The force of her scream caused the windows to explode. The carpet caught fire. My head melted. The End.

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed her flailing body around the middle and struggled to the stroller. She was comically dressed in a one-piece, hooded fleece suit in pumpkin orange and it looked for the world like I was kidnapping a really pissed off oompa-loompa. Without a word or a look at anyone, I buckled her into the stroller, with the help of a knee in her chest, and then I ran out the door.

When I got to the car, I strapped her into the carseat without a word. She continued to scream and tear at my hair and pinch me (ow, that freaking hurts) and I held her hands and said "no hurting." She reached down deep (I guess) and released a howl two inches from my nose that was straight from the pits of Hell. I blinked twice, and closed the door. I drove around the block a few times, but she wouldn't stop screaming.

Back at home, I lifted her from her carseat, and watched as she collapsed onto the walkway. More screaming. I brought her inside. More screaming. More collapsing. I made a cup of coffee and switched the laundry.

Finally, almost a full hour after she started screaming, she just stopped. She was done, and I was deaf, but grateful that the fury was over. I still haven't figured out what she was on about. She peeled apart her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, ate one slice of apple and poured her lemonade on her plate before passing out asleep in her booster chair.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 7, 2006 12:26 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (19)

My son spotted the little Mozilla icon on my desktop over my shoulder as I was paying bills online.

"Mommy! That's a new dinosaur picture right there! Is that a game?"

"No, honey. It's Mozilla."

"Coooool. Is it a game?"

"Nope. It's a browser."

My daughter chimed in. "Mom? What's a browser?"

My son shot her an exasperated look and said "Duh. It's when you don't return your book at the library and you have to just look. Duh."

My ears perked up at that. "Oh, shoot. Was it library day?"

My son looked me dead in the eye and said "Just call me Mozilla. Raaaaaaaar."

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 6, 2006 6:22 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

As my husband and I enjoyed a second cup of coffee this morning, we watched as my youngest ran laps around the kitchen. She trotted in rough circles around the kitchen table, and then around the kitchen island. Around the island, and then around the table.

She muttered under her breath as she ran, feet beating a steady rhythm on the linoleum. Her hair was coming loose from her ponytail, and billowed around her face like a mane.

"She's like a caged lion," said my husband. He walked back and forth, imitating a restless lion in a cage.

From the back of the house, a chorus of incoherent noises and banging added to the atmosphere.

"I'm craving cotton candy," I mused.

The rain hasn't stopped all week, a cruel slap after the previous week's spring-like temperatures. My kids are ready to be sent out into their outside habitat, to swing from their play equipment and throw poop at the neighbors.

I'm consoling myself by drinking a giant mug of cocoa and wearing giant fuzzy pink socks with a pig embroidered on each ankle.

The dog just ran by with a squeaky toy, going hee-hoo-hee-hoo-hee-hoo-hee-hoo.

Sigh.

You know what else I need to do? I need to go steal my daughter's moon shoes and join the show. How's THAT for rainy day entertainment?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 5, 2006 4:43 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

Did I say Monday? Let it never be said that I am not an optimist.

Hi! Hello! Remember me? I'm the girl with the (still sorta) messy house who was going to clean for a weekend, and then come right back with funny stories - remember? Huh? Hello?

It's been a week, and I'm still cleaning my house. I'll bet you jokers had a pool going to see if I my decaying carcass was going to be discovered under a mountain of laundry, or if I had just thrown in the dust rag, cleared out our bank account and headed for the border.

It's been all twilight zone around here, as I've been facing up to the fact that I'm a little (just wee, tiny, baby, HAH!) addicted to the online world, to the detriment of the namesakes of this blog. In a show of bravado, I turned off the computer and left it off for a week, except for a brief email check each day.

And, well... things are both better and worse around here. The house is getting tidy, and the kids are delighted with my attentiveness. I've still got a long way to go, though, and right now, sitting here at the keyboard, I'm so happy I could lick the monitor.

For all my life, I've been a sweeper-under-the-rug person. Rather than take the three extra steps to get the dustpan and put the broken whatever in the trash, I just lift up a corner and use my foot to shove the offending shards underneath. After a while, the rug gets a little crunchy to walk on, so you walk around it, and then you spill some coffee on it, and pile some toys on it, and eventually you start feeling like a new rug is just the thing. So you start to roll up the old one, and you notice the stains, and the wear, and the shards of crap you kicked under it.

As I work, instead of feeling pride and accomplishment, I've spent a lot of time this week noticing the stains, scowling at the damage, and cutting myself on shards of things long hidden under the rug. It has been a tiring, dirty and discouraging excavation, and I'm tempted to waste time devising hiding places for all the flawed, broken crap that I haven't had time to fix. Perhaps one of those deep pile carpets would work...

But no. No more illusions. No more rugs. It's time to get out the dust pan and be done with it. I'm airing this joint out.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%March 3, 2006 9:31 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)