Get set... Laller laller laller laller laller laller laller.

Look at me! I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off! I'm running in circles! I've got one half of my toenails painted and one half of my lip waxed and hair dye on my head and hair remover on my legs! WOOOOO!

People better notice the effort, is all I'm saying.

This evening I join in the mass exodus towards San Jose, CA for BlogHer 2006. My roomies will have already arrived, and I will be staggering in with moments to spare before boarding a shuttle to the first party on my schedule.

I'll be blogging as I get the chance - check back for updates.

WILL she finish painting her toes?
WILL she successfully pack everything she needs into one bag?
CAN she remember to leave cheat sheets for her husband?
IS a grocery trip going to happen?

Find out all the riveting details in our next installment of Ringmistress - Running Away From The Circus.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 27, 2006 9:12 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

We've had a series of blazing hot days here in Northern California. The weekend temperatures were 109 degrees F, and it was too hot to sleep, let alone cook or do laundry, or pretty much anything but sit in water and complain.

Hooo-wheee do I love me some complaining. I could medal in it, in the lightweight problems division.

Today was clear and hot again, and apparently a call went out to residents and businesses alike to conserve power in the face of all this heat. We kept the TV off, but I had to do laundry, and I ran the dishwasher. According to my husband, this will weigh heavily on my energy-wasting conscious. My selfish need for clean clothes and dishes singlehandedly blew forty-two transformers somewhere else in the state.

I'm bringing down the power grid, one load at a time.

I shouldn't joke about it, and honestly, I would have waited until after 7 pm, but I had 6 loads of laundry to do, plus bedding to wash. I'm really sorry, PG&E, if I pushed that grid to the breaking point. I'm caught up now, and I'll lay off the energy wasting.

Anyway, in the interest of power saving (ie, didn't want to cook because it was too hot) I've been feeding my children sandwiches and microwaving simple foods that don't require thought. Cereal? Awesome. Yogurt? Perfect.

It's been three days of this, so tonight, when the temperature dropped down into a normal evening range, I celebrated by baking brownies. I called my kids to come get their chunk of fudgy goodness, and my son appeared eagerly. My youngest popped around the corner right on his heels. My oldest didn't respond.

"Yoo-hoooo! Brownies!" I hollered down the hall once again. "Come get yours!"

Nothing.

"Excuse me, Princess. Your brownie is ready!"

Nothing.

I was starting to get steamed. Then I saw her exit my bedroom in slow motion. She was making a rope pulling gesture in front of her body, and awkwardly making her way down the hall, silently straining on an invisible rope. Could it be? Was this what I suspected?

Oh yes. She wasn't answering because she is now a mime. A very bad mime, who takes talking breaks, but a mime nonetheless. A mime who moves slowly, because of the invisible wall blocking her path. A mime who does things like waving her arms frantically, and then putting them on her hips and staring at you with one eyebrow raised. And then she huffs and repeats it. Six times, until both of you want to weep with frustration.

And there you are weeping from a combination of frustration and mirth, when she takes an abrupt talking break, and says "I am a crab fisherman" before frantically waving her arms once again, and then returning to her hands on hips stance.

This new mime thing has wowed the little kids - my son and my youngest will no doubt start miming things for me to weep at. If I have to choose between suffering through countless undecipherable mime routines based on obscure occupations or listening to bickering, I'm leaning towards the art of mime.

In fact, I'm going to brush up on my imaginary box skills, to uncork during time-outs. Oh no, children. You are trapped in a box. See? Here is the top! Here are the sides! Oh! Whatever will you do? You must silently struggle inside that box until the timer goes off. See, I'm pointing at my wrist to indicate a timer. See?

I'm so clever.

Then, of course, I can also frantically wave my hands around and then put my hands on my hips and raise an eyebrow. They will guess that I'm a crab fisherman, but I'll silently shake my head no, and repeat. Only I will know that I'm playing a frazzled mother, calling her children to come get brownies.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 24, 2006 9:43 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

I took the kids on the weekly grocery run yesterday. I keep waiting and waiting for things like grocery shopping to become pleasurable again. Pre-kids, I loved toodling around the produce section. Even with one baby, it was fun to shop. I'd wear her in my leopard-print sling and spend hours wandering around the local malls and grocery stores. After the birth of my son, I found myself with one kid in the sling, one in the cart. It became more of a song and dance act to keep everyone happy, and I began to loathe shopping.

After my third child was born, I had one in the basket of the cart, one in the seat of the cart, and one in the sling. Grocery shopping became purely physical - a task like digging ditches. Although the kids are older now, shopping with them remains exhausting. Forget pleasurable, at this point, I'll settle for routine.

Believe me when I say that nothing about a Circus shopping trip is ever routine. There is a wild unpredictability every time I open the front door and lead my children out into the world - will they amuse me today? Will they embarrass me? Will I be left flabbergasted, silently opening and closing my mouth in mute horror? Will I beam with pride as my children make it in and out of a place of business with no mayhem?

I'm wishing that I would have signed my children up for finishing school instead of horse camp. Alas. They behave as thought they were born in a barn some days. Why not have them learn about their heritage?

It struck me as I hissed and scolded my way down the aisle of Target that maybe, just maybe, I was simply pissy, and taking offense where none was intended. Because I'm all touchy lately. And I mean, I'm the first to admit I've been off my rocker lately.

I've been insomni-mama again, and therefore prone to emotional outbursts. I'm not feeling particularly tired, but I can tell that my brain isn't altogether engaged. It's like walking through a fog, and noticing landmarks, but not really seeing the details of the landscape.

We did Target first, and made it out, battered but alive. Trader Joe's was our next stop, and when I buckled the kids into their car seats, they all started bickering and howling about assorted injustices. Like the fact that I refused to purchase gum for them. Aaargh.

When I pulled up in front of Trader Joe's, I stepped outside the van for a moment, and tried to gather my wits. Sucking in a lungful of bracing air, I pulled the van door open and fixed each kid with the old hairy eyeball.

"You guys are my team. I need your help in here. We are not going to throw tantrums or scream or run around and act crazy. We're just going to get some food. That's all. Food."

My oldest chimed in. "Mommy, can I bring my purse?"

"Sure, now let's go."

Once inside the store, my daughter insisted that she needed to use the restroom. Okay, well. I stood directly outside the door to the single stall restroom, and waited. And waited. And banged on the door, and demanded she hurry up. The other two kids were doing that flopping thing that indicates full-scale meltdown in imminent, and I hadn't put a single item in my cart yet. After 25 minutes, she came out, beaming. "I had GREEN POOP!" she announced.

I handed the two little ones fruit leathers to buy their loyalty, and we moved off, trying to get through the shopping trip before anyone else had to pee.

Two minutes later, it became apparent why my oldest had spent 25 minutes in the bathroom - she had a flashlight in her purse, and must have been playing around with it while we stood outside waiting. I figured this out, because she now had the flashlight in her hand, and she and my son were investigating the products on the shelves. They were having a good old time, and my first reaction was to snap at them.

"Get up off the floor! Give me that flashlight! You are being ridiculous!"

Then, for some reason, the fog lifted, and I realized that they weren't bothering anyone, they were playing nicely, if oddly, and just maybe, I was the one being ridiculous. Once I chilled out a bit, I noticed that they were always within two steps of my cart, they were speaking in hushed tones, they were smiling and cooperating, and even better, using their imagination to take the drudgery of a shopping trip and turn it into an adventure.

I kept one eye on my list, and one eye on the kids as we finished our trip around the store. Aside from a few standoffs, we finished with no more struggles. Loading the car with our groceries, I noticed that the clenched fist in my stomach was gone. The chatter in the car didn't fill me with frustration on the way home, and I just felt...

like the mother I want to be. The one who is raising children, not little adults. The one who can see through the quirks to the wonderful imaginations at work.

I get so frustrated lately. Make no mistake - my children can be naughty with a capital N. But that isn't who they ARE. They are these amazing little humans, so bold, so emotional, so imaginative. They barrel through their days with no regard for the limitations of their very human, very emotional mother. How many times have I shut them down before even hearing what they were on about? How many times have I told them that I'm stressed and annoyed, either with words or with actions?

It makes me want to weep.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 21, 2006 9:07 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (21)

I've been sitting on the couch with my husband and children, watching The Parent Trap on television. Actually, that's not exactly the case. I was sitting on the couch, my husband was sitting on the couch, and my three children were running in circles around the room, flapping and jumping on the trampoline and telling bad knock-knock jokes.

When my husband got home from work tonight, it was 7:30 pm, and the neighborhood was settling down for dinner. All the yards were quiet, except mine. My three kids were stripped down to their undies and splashing merrily in the wading pool in our sideyard. "Wahoo!" they yelled. "Mama, watch!"

I was keeping a lazy eye on them through the kitchen window while I loaded the dishwasher. Ooooh. Bad mother alert! I looked up from the sink and saw that all three kids had wedged their butts into the holes of small innertubes, and they were smacking each other with noodles.

As my husband came through the front gate, the dog charged, barking, the kids let out screams of joy and started piling out of the pool to share some soggy embraces with Daddy, and I put the last mug in the top rack and went to get some towels. Lots and lots of towels.

Once inside and dried off, we settled them down to watch a little TV. They couldn't handle it. No, they needed to move around. They could give a rat's ass about The Parent Trap. At one point, I looked up and saw my three-year-old, stark naked, standing on the arm of the couch, preparing to leap three feet to the center of the mini-trampoline, which was already occupied by her brother. The one with the funny, self-inflicted hair cut. Who was doing his best Poppin' Fresh Dough-Boy laugh. Ooh hoo hoo!

In a flurry of activity, my husband grabbed the base-diving streaker and wedged her next to me on the couch, and then turned his attention back to the fashion show being put on by my oldest. My son continued to rebound, doing all his moves - the spin, the flailing arms, the kicks and everyone's favorite - the look-mommy-I-can-kick-my-own-butt!

While we were distracted by all this baloney, my youngest slipped off the couch and returned moments later with a handful of pennies, which she emptied into my bra-tank. "Don't put money in my bra!" I bellowed, startled.

She reached in, grabbed the pennies back out, and dumped them into her own pants. I could hear her clinking as the pennies dropped out every few steps down the hall.

My oldest was still explaining the function of the snaps on her new half-chaps to my husband, my son was now laying on his back, using only his bony butt to bounce on the trampoline, making it look like he was having an attack of some sort. He let out little "hoo hoo hoo" noises as he bounced, so great was his delight. Down the hall, my three-year-old let out a yell.

I headed that direction, only to hear her announce that she'd found the booty - it was in her pants.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 19, 2006 9:11 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (17)

Some of you know all about my other blogs - Mommybloggers.com and Big Slice of Life, Small Slice of Cheesecake - it has been hectic keeping all these balls in the air (heh heh heh, I said "balls") but believe me, if you haven't been checking out what's going on at Mommybloggers and BigSlice, you're missing out.

We've got two interviews every week, plus wonderful guest essays happening at Mommybloggers.

And people, I did Cardio Strip Tease over at Big Slice, and am struggling with myself over whether my readers need a video demonstration of some of the better moves from that. Feel free to chime in over there and egg me on. I've got breakdance fever, too, and I'm fixin' to try belly dance and... oh, just get over there and give me some sugar.

Not only that, but we're doing a little freestyle haiku action (no, I don't know what that means, either.) Head on over, and add your haiku - I'm giving away actual prizes!

Click here, and go, go go!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 18, 2006 9:31 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (2)

My oldest has developed a white patch on the back of her right thigh. I have no idea when it appeared exactly. Sometime after swimming lessons began in May, she had it, and it lingers there still. It's not scary looking - just a place where there is no pigment.

After hemming and hawing for a few weeks, I decided to take her in to the doctor to have it checked out. I figured they'd look at it, say "Huh." like I did, and tell me to keep an eye on it. Probably a birth mark of some sort. Maybe.

A few more weeks went by, and then my husband spurred me to action. I made an appointment, feeling slightly sheepish. Had I gone in right when we first noticed it, it would have been more efficient. Now, months later, with no change to the spot, I felt like a bad mother.

I did a little internet self-diagnosis of the whole white patch thing, and came up with this. Oh great. I put it from my mind, but strangely couldn't get Beat It out of my head for the rest of the afternoon.

Dr. Hot, our long-suffering pediatrician is on a vacation, so we booked an appointment with his associate. When I surfaced from my morning email check, I realized there was no way on earth we were going to make it to the office in time. My oldest was refusing to allow me to brush her hair, my youngest refused to keep underpants on, and my son was laller laller lallering in circles from the back of the house to the front and back again.

I slammed the last of my coffee, called the office, secured a later appointment time, and went on about my morning. Doo dee doo dee doo. Suddenly, I looked at the clock. I had 45 minutes to get three kids showered, dressed and across town, with a stop for gas on the way.

I revved my engine and pealed out in the kitchen. Gathering giggling chidlren as I went, I burned rubber to the shower, and threw all three kids into a lukewarm shower with a bottle of baby shampoo and a stern warning to clean, not play.

I grabbed some towels and did a few donuts in the hall before returning to the bathroom to pull my should-be-clean kids out and dry them off. I opened the shower door to find that the kids had blocked off the drain, and were standing in four inches of soapy water. The entire shampoo bottle was empty. They had not used it on their heads.

I grabbed my husband's cheapo all-in-one and shampooed them a little rougher than strictly necessary. Once they had finished sobbing from the soap! stinging! in my eyes! Mommy! Nooooo!! I dragged them out, and wrapped them in towels. I parked the two youngest on the couch and began to grab clean clothes for my oldest.

Spongebob! You do not know the anger I feel, Spongebob. I left YOU in charge of the two little kids. And you did not hold their attention. You let them slip away, out the door. I banish you, Spongebob. Just...go.

See, I was in the bathroom, brushing and fussing over my oldest, humming a little Michael Jackson, and although I managed to get my oldest ready, my two little piggies slipped out the front door into an honest to goodness mud patch, and they were merrily coating themselves with dirt when I marched out to the couch bearing outfits for them.

Aaaaargh! This is not okay. THIS IS NOT OKAY WITH ME.

I threw them back in the shower, and got the layer of filth off, and then roughly toweled them off and dressed them in world record time. In the process of getting them into the shower, I splattered my son's last clean pair of shorts with mud, so I pulled out a slightly too small pair and pushed him out the door toward the van.

15 minutes. We had fifteen minutes to get gas, and get to the appointment. We could do it! We could!

After an uneventful gas stop, we arrived at the doctor's office with five minutes to spare. As I was unloading the kids, I noticed that my son had chosen to wear his knee-length riding boots with his short-shorts. Cute!

Did I mention that my son cut his own hair, just one chunk, right to the scalp, right in the front? So, so cute!

My youngest actually looked cute enough, if you ignored the fact that she decided to scream the entire way into the office.

The visit was mercifully short and on time - the doctor reassured me that it didn't seem like this, and told me to keep an eye on it. I was relieved that she didn't freak out and demand a biopsy or something.

Nevertheless, I was tempted to moonwalk out of there.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 17, 2006 9:33 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (19)

You know, I always assumed that that thing about the youngest child being spoiled was bunk. I mean, clearly, as a superior parent, with limitless patience and clear boundaries, I would be able to guide all my children to greatness with nary a pitstop in bratsville. My youngest would be no exception.

Of course, I'm sort of an average parent, with patience that closely resembles the elastic in my maternity underpants at forty-one weeks - stretched to the point of shrieking and/or snapping. And boundaries, well, let's just say I have a talent for nurturing children who enjoy running up to the line, taking two steps back, and then leaping over.

So, there's that.

Where was I? Ah yes, spoiled children. I have them. I am raising them, in my average, muddy-boundaried, bagged-out patience manner.

My youngest, in particular, has a real bossy streak. It was cute at first, to see her chubby cheeks bunched up imperiously as she ordered us to "Leave me!" or "Listen to what I say!" But tonight, at dinner, when she threw an applesauce cup at me because I failed to open it quick enough, and then shrieked and howled like a beast from the pits of hell for the next 30 minutes, I sat at the table, chewing the same mouthful of food again and again, willing myself to feign deafness.

When I returned to her room to call a cease-fire, she was wild-haired, with twin ropes of snot hanging from her nose, eyebrows red and inflamed. From infancy, we've been able to tell a real upset by the color of her eyebrows, and from the looks of it, she was pi-is-is-issed.

I scooped her up in my arms, and spoke quietly. "You may not throw things, and you may not yell at me. Do you understand?"

She gave a quivering sigh, and put her head on my shoulder, one thumb seeking her mouth, and the other hand rubbing her ear furiously.

I repeated myself. "You may not throw things, and you may not yell at me. Do you understand?"

She popped her thumb out of her mouth and said "Um, duh, Mama."

Holy hell.

I carried her to the bathroom, where I wiped her down and helped her blow her nose. I tried again. "Do you understand why you needed a time-out?"

She furrowed her brows, and then smiled. "Mommy, did you know that baby kittens have soft fur, and I love them?"

This. This is what makes me crazy.

After her dinner, she ran in circles, laller laller lallering like a loon, taking turns jumping on the trampoline and drumming on the windowsill. Her brother and sister, equally keyed up, enacted a courtroom drama, where they implored my husband to call his witnesses, and I was treated like the insane, guilty defendant, who can't be trusted to testify. I was pronounced guilty of being a killjoy.

Now that they are all finally in their beds, I can't help but smile over the insanity of my days. Why do I find it so hard to smile when I'm in the middle of it all? The noise, the energy, the contant demands and irrational conversations... it drains the last shreds of my sanity, and leaves me holding on to routine to get me through until bedtime can be enforced. And I'm lousy with routines.

But still, even on difficult days, kissing their bowed lips as they drift off to sleep, there is always that fierce love. That desire to try harder, to laugh more, to appreciate them, just as they are.

This last week, my oldest had her first sleep-away experience at horse camp. She stayed only one night, and acted like it was no big deal. She refused to give me more than a quick kiss at drop-off, and did the whole eyerolling and huffing thing when I stole one more hug before leaving. Pickup at camp was the same story. She sulked all the way home, because I came so early (on time) to pick her up.

That night, she crept into our bed, and snuggled in close, murmuring "I love you, Mommy." I acted like it was no big deal, but as I lay there, with my leggy seven-old draped all over the bed, I wiped away a few surprise tears. And so it goes. The push and the pull. This is what makes up my days.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 16, 2006 11:14 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

This last weekend, we attending a beautiful reception in celebration of my cousin's wedding. This was the first time I've been in the same location with my mother's two sisters, and most of my cousins, for many years. We had a wonderful time catching up, and seriously, the force of all of our boisterous personalities would have knocked a bystander off of their feet. I come from outgoing stock, you see.

My children had a blast working the reception, and accepted compliments and cookies with abandon. Our trips through the buffet line resembed a conga line, with all the giggling and jockeying for position for a good spot to grab some more chicken skewers and asparagus.

After the gorgeous bride and groom had their first dance, they gathered all the single women for the bouquet toss. My sister made her way into the fray, and prepared to take out whoever got in her way. My sister is a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, so I felt for the other single women. As it was, I needn't have worried.

The bride turned her back, and the bouquet soared overhead. The scene played out in silent, slow-motion. Arms reached aloft, and spectators glanced skyward. The scrum of single woman nudged and shuffled, battle-ready in heels and skirts.

The bouquet disappeared into a sea of hands, and suddenly there was a thump. The bouquet hit the ground. My sister leaned down and scooped it up, and then proceeded to make a victory lap around the reception, waving the flowers overhead. I questioned my cousin, who had been standing next the the downed bouquet, about the series of events that led up to my sister going all Rocky Balboa on the stairs about 'catching' the bouquet.

Apparently, my cousin, a fantastic athlete, found herself in possession of the flowers when they first entered the huddle. She said "I caught them, and then realized what that meant, so I quickly dropped them." Heh.

My sister, however, was delighted with that turn of events, and dove right down for them. Wooo!

After countless group photos, we headed home, clutching two of the bridesmaid's bouquets for my girls to enjoy.

Yesterday, my son came into the kitchen, holding one of the bouquets and looking sad.

"Mommy, why are all these flowers dying?"

"Well, they cut the flowers to make the bouquet, honey. Once you cut a flower, it dies."

"Why did they DO that? That's so horrible! They took a thing of beauty and killed it!"

"Well, um..."

"Why didn't they keep the roots on it? Why?"

I had visions of dirt smeared brides carrying bare root rose bushes down the aisle.

"Uh..."

"Mommy, this is horrible. Look at this little rosebud. It died before it even had a chance to bloom!" He burst into tears.

"Oh! Uh. Hmm. Well, you see, even if you leave the flowers on the bush, they still die. It's part of the circle of life for the plant. They flower, and then make seeds, and that makes new plants. Besides, trimming some of the flowers keeps the plants healthy. Like when you get a haircut. It's good for the plant."

He raised his hand up to his head, with a look of horror on his tear-streaked face.

"I'm never cutting my hair again!"

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 14, 2006 10:28 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (10)

Well, I was in a mighty fine funk yesterday, huh?

Not today! I'm up and raring to go. I give all the credit to finally figuring out how to download and transfer files from audible.com to my iPod. I downloaded this groovy Yoga Nidra meditation program, and got about 30 minutes into the hour before I was rendered unconcious. I'm going to try to use it nightly, and see if it can reset my brain, or convince my unconcious mind that I'm a linear thinker capable of multi-tasking, who loves to clean house and exercise.

That's sort of reaching, but you know, aim high, power of the mind, only using 1/3 of our brain, mind-body connection, yadda yadda yadda.

Where was I?

Oh! So I'm feeling much better today. Less gloomy. More energy. Which is good, because my son woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and has been throwing one tantrum after another. I'm sitting bleary-eyed in the kitchen, watching him convulse on the floor over his inability to cut a picture of Mater out of a coloring book without the paper looking like the teeth on a saw blade. He won't let me help, though. No, it's all about him doing it. Himself. Alone. Because he's a big boy. Waaaaaaaa!

I'm totally going to strap him down and make him listen to Yoga Nidra.

This is day three of my oldest's week at Horse Camp. She is so funny about it, too. She just bustles right into the center of the activities, and she knows all the kids already, and she just adores being there. My son will join her for a week, later on this summer, but I suspect he will be more reserved, and even at the end of the week, he won't know anyone's names. You add my youngest kid to the mix, and she not only knows everyone's names, but can tell you what they drive, and what they wore last week, and you have to wonder at the talent of my womb for creating diversity.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 12, 2006 7:47 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

I've going through one of my weird insomnia busy brain things right now. I stay up to all hours reading the same novels over and over, even though I have a stack of fantastic books waiting for me. I fall into fitful sleep as dawn approaches, only to wake, disgruntled, from a dream where I decided to produce a 'zine, and my husband suggested that I name it Shrew.

It is slow going, despite the busy brain. The summer is half over for my kids, and instead of waking each morning with a smile and a plan, I've got nothing. No plan. No smile.

Which isn't to say I'm unhappy right now... quite the contrary. I just seem to forget which way is up half the time, and I can't keep going in a straight line to save my life. I have spent literally hours thinking about Greek yogurt with honey, which in and of itself is understandable, because, hello - have you tasted Greek yogurt with honey? But still, I'm wasting brain power on thinking about yogurt and planning my outfits for BlogHer.

No, I don't have any idea what I'm wearing yet. See? Wasted brain power.

I just don't like the feeling I have right now. I feel scattered, incomplete, like I'm not present, even though I am deeply entrenched. I keep glancing up from my yogurt musings, noticing that hours have passed and I've moved things around in my house, and folded laundry. It's the same feeling I get sometimes when I'm driving with a carload of loud kids - I remember point A, and I remember point B, but I don't remember anything of the drive. It freaks me out.

I want to sleep at night, and eat some damn yogurt already, and forget about the outfits for a while, and I just want to smile until my face hurts. I want to smile and grin and smile, because if I can't think in a linear fashion, I might as well have a sense of humor about it.

Somebody snap me out of this.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 11, 2006 4:32 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

So, I surfed on into Jenn Satterwhite's ClubMom blog today, and laughed like a loon over this. Enjoy!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 11, 2006 1:52 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (1)

I've started and stopped about 20 entries in the last week. I seem to be suffering from some sort of writer's block. Maybe it's the new computer I'm typing on... it feels weird to my fingers.

Maybe it's the swirl of activity that had me out of the house for hours at a stretch the last four days.

Maybe I just don't have anything important to say.

Nevertheless, I had plenty to say a few weeks ago, when I was honored to be included in a fantastic panel on the Mommyblogging phenomenon at the Berkeley CyberSalon. They made a podcast of our conversation available here:

http://andrewkeen.typepad.com/aftertv/2006/07/cybersalon_momm.html

It was an amazing opportunity to sit alongside moderator Sylvia Paull, Grace Davis (State of Grace); Joan Blades (momsrising.org); Mary Tsao ( Mom Writes); and Lisa Brewer Canter (lisa.blogs.it) and delve into some of questions surrounding mommyblogging.

Have a listen!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 11, 2006 10:12 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (0)

My youngest is sitting on my lap, repeatedly smacking me on the arm. Whack. Whack.

"Ow!" I say.

"You don't say 'ow' Mommy."

"What do I say?"

"You say thank you!"

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 6, 2006 11:38 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

My three-and-a-half-year-old child is potty training herself. I always dreamed it would happen this way, and I'm probably jinxing myself, but she has made three peeps and one giant poop on the toilet, by herself, with no prompting.

No bribes. No stickers. No countless stories and making pretend "pssss" noises with her mouth to fake me out. Nor running the water. No mommy demonstrations (thank goodness.) No input from me at all. She just went on in there and did her bidness and then proudly showed me the results in the bowl, before wishing them a good day, and a safe trip to the sea, and sending them on their way with a flourish.

This could be it. I could be done with diapers. After eight long, continuous years, I could be living in a diaper-free zone.

I'm going to have a big glass of wine (hah! I typed whine right there.) and anticipate - I have seen my future, and it doesn't include wiping anyone's butt. At least not in a literal sense. For at least a few years.

Ooh, I'm all tingly! Tears are burning in my eyes and I'm lacking the words to share how much this means. This is so...so...

AWESOME! I'm not free yet, but the diaper days are waning and I'm already preparing my victory speech.

Holy hell, I think I might have just delivered it here.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 3, 2006 8:08 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (23)

Gah - this vacation recap is taking forever to write. Hang in there, I'm going to blast the rest of the vacation out in two entries or less. This is one of those times when I'm trying to make up for the fact that I don't scrapbook.

So, where were we... Ah yes. Monday morning. The Hurricane. Riiiiiight.

Before bed on Sunday, we made plans to attack the Animal Kingdom park in the morning. We parked the rental van and started to walk into the park, when the skies opened up. We were drenched before we cleared the gate. Nice. Rather than complain about it, I figured this rain would pass as rapidly as the day before. We would dry off eventually. Right? RIGHT?

*insert sounds of Florida Weather Gods laughing*

Rain, rain, mofo rain. We brought plastic ponchos for the kids, but ended up buying the Disney ponchos for myself, my sister and my husband. Now, we were soaked to the skin, with tennis shoes full of water, but we were sealed in plastic, presumably to keep us moist, since dry wasn't going to be happening. Heh.

The Animal Kingdom park was beautiful, and we enjoyed the lush greenery and themed landscaping as we made our way into the park.

Knowing that my son would love "Dinoland USA" - we headed there first.

Holy Dinosaur Mecca. As the skies continued to dump buckets of rain, we split up and my husband and I took the boy-boy on Dinosaur. We all enjoyed it. Well, at least my husband and I enjoyed it. My son kept his eyes tightly shut the entire ride. After the ride, we hooked back up with my sister and the girls, and switched.

At one point, the skies opened up so fiercely that we couldn't see across the street. We huddled in a giftshop doorway, and sniveled about the weather. I felt like I could just brazen it out, but the kids were cold and wet and cranky.

Right there, in the wet, windy doorway, I came face to face with the lousy parenting job I've been doing all along, because my son had a howling, terrible tantrum because I wouldn't buy him every souvenir he had his heart set on. He wanted all the dinos. All of them. The whole damn store's worth. And I wasn't buying.

I was okay for the first few minutes. I held tough. "No," I said, firmly. "No, no. no." He howled and gnashed his teeth and threw himself around. "Let's get some lunch, okay?"

More wailing and dire declarations from my kid. Gah. I stood there, mortified, and then decided we needed to go home and see if we could get him down for a nap. MInd you we had purchased two large dinosaurs for the child from the gift shop - these were NOT ENOUGH. He pulled his crap all the way home, wailing and going limp, and in general being a spoiled brat.

See, we're totally at fault for this - although in recent months we've tried to knock it off, there is rarely a target trip that doesn't end with a trip to the dollar aisle for a little goody for each kid. No trip to the grocery store without a little junky toy from the end-aisle. Rather than be standup, responsible parents, my husband and I tend to cave, or just flat out spoil our kids. This has got to change, judging from the hellcat response my son displays when you tell him no. Granted, my kid wasn't the only one in total meltdown, and he was coming down with a cold, but still.

Mommy and Daddy need to stop with the spoiling. And that means more saying no. And already, every other word is no. I will have a one word vocabulary for a few months! (I know that getting tough means that I've got a long six-months or so, but eventually, they will get it. Right? Right?)

Face to face with my own horrid parenting, I was relieved to be leaving the park. We had only spent about three hours at Animal Kingdom - and we vowed to return another day to experience more than Dinosaur Mecca. We headed home for lunch and naps- then my sister took charge.

See, as children, when we vacationed somewhere like Disneyland, it was a rare, and precious holiday. My parents would plan out our route around the park to make sure that we saw everything we could see, and got the whole experience. And on the last day, right before leaving the park for the final time, my parents would allow us each to select one special souvenir. Genetically, I should have this skill, but from The Lazy or whatever, my husband and I tend to toodle around the park, seeing whatever grabs our eye and not really making a plan. Combine that with my son's love of shopping and you have a recipe for Not Getting Very Far.

I'll admit the weather had thown me off my game, but my sister was ready to see something other than the inside of giftshops. We headed back the The Magic Kingdom for the evening. The rain came off and on, but for the most part, it was a beautiful evening.

We attacked the park from the left, hitting every ride as we went. My sister was awesome in her ability to keep the show on the road. You can get away with the toodling approach with toddlers, but when it comes to school-aged kids, which I currently have (who knew?) you better have an agenda. My sister mapped out our path around the park, made notes of must-see and maybes, and we saw everything and more. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. Just look at her - wouldn't YOU follow her agenda?

I seriously don't know why we love the round and round and up and down rides so much, but we rode more of these things than anything else. And I whooped and wheeee'd the whole time. So much excitement. In a circle. I need to get out more, I think.

We took the kids on a twilight Jungle Cruise. Our boat driver person spoke in a clearly rote monotone, but the kids howled at her jokes. Let's remember that my kids can't tell a joke to save their own lives, so maybe it's a kindred thing. Look how much fun they are having:

They were mezermized by the 'animals' and the 'waterfall' and even the 'savages.'

Despite being soaked to the skin for most of the day, my son couldn't resist running away from the spitting tikis. He got nailed every time.

The little kids and my husband caught the parade, while my sister, oldest daughter and I tackled Splash Mountain and Big Thunder Mountain a few times - with less than a five minute wait to get on - we couldn't pass up the chance for quick thrills.

We headed into a restaurant to grab a bite to eat, and my youngest did her Stager grandma proud by rearranging every chair in the place, creating a more open floor plan and inviting feel.

After a few scowls from the other patrons, we opted to eat outside on the patio. As we finished our dinner, the skies lit up with the evening fireworks. With all the rain and tantrums and lack of plan, the theme park experience has been kind of 'off' for me this time. Standing there with my mouth agape, with my arms around my two daughters, watching the fireworks, I finally felt like we were at Disney World.

We made our way out of the park, exhausted but happy. Surely the skies would be clear the next day. Surely.

Ah yes, another plastic wrapped memory, of another kid asleep in the stroller. Hey, at least he's not having a fit, right?

Tuesday looked promising - the skies were clear, the temperature in the 90s as we pulled into the parking lot of the Disney MGM park. The security guards cheerfully informed us that this was the most crowded the park had been in weeks. Great! We love hearing that!

We had a big talk with all three kids about no shopping and no gimme gimme behavior, and then we pushed our way into the park. We were already in a state of confusion, so we grabbed the first Fast Passes we came across (For the Indiana Jones Stunt Show) and kept wandering down the path. Ah! Star Tours! Excellent!

My sister, husband and two older kids got in line, while I collapsed into a chair on a patio with the sleeping three-year-old.

Goddamn rain. Five minutes after they left to get on the ride, the skies clouded over and I barely got a poncho on and another one over the stroller before all hell broke loose.

The water was ankle deep in spots, and I decided to slosh over to the exit of the ride with everyone else's ponchos. There were quite a few of us waiting for Star Tours riders, and we all looked longingly at the one guy who was smart enough to be holding a beer under the brim of his sodden goofy hat. We were bidding on the beer when the skies cleared just as suddenly as they had clouded. I was soaked, the stroller with the sleeping kid in it was covered in puddles, and my son had to get off the ride by walking through a ding-dang gift shop.

Woe! WOE!

Mercifully, the fast pass time had arrived. We made our way back to the theatre, and took our seats. My son had handled the gift shop well, but was declaring himself unhappy. I tried the whole "fake it until you make it" happy routine with him, and he responded by laying his head down in my lap and sawing logs through the entire show. Poor kid was spiking a fever of about 101 degrees at that point.

You can see that I'd totally given up on makeup at that point. And brushing my hair. Lovely.

The Indiana Jones show was entertaining, and left me pondering why I don't have a stunt double. I really should have one. Just think of the practical applications!

My three-year-old, refreshed from her nappy-poo and overstimulated from the Stunt Show, decided to take matters into her own hands and get us over to Playhouse Disney.

We paused for a brief photo under the giant Mickey hat. Is Mickey giving us the finger?

My son was awake, but still feeling lousy, so we decided to eat a good lunch before attempting any more fun. Heh.
We had a great lunch at The Brown Derby. The kids loved the light pager, and passed a very peaceful 15 minutes wedged into an armchair in the lobby.

We all ate well. It was a great break from the usual hamburgers and chicken strips.

Playhouse Disney Live rocked the kids' socks off. Do you see the smile on my sick, tired, cranky son? He loved it.

Meeting Jo-jo and June was the highlight of the day for my little starstruck girl.

We were standing in line, and she could barely contain her excitement. She kept hugging herself and saying "Hi, June! Hi, June!"

When we joined the line, the character was Quincy - he left on a break, and when June stepped out of the trailer, I thought my girl would burst from joy.

This. This is a mother's worst nightmare.

I couldn't keep my eyes on the kids, and they kept scolding the parents who tried to stick with their kids through the tunnels and slides and OH MY GOD it was seizure-inducing loud and freaky in there. I seriously was freaking out the whole time. Look into my eyes and see the crazy!

The kids, however, enjoyed the giant bug.

When I couldn't take the Shrunken Ant Farm of Doom anymore, I herded the kids out into the backlot streets of the park. Oh, they didn't like that. No, not one bit. Welcome to Tantrum City. I'm apparently the mayor. I was convinced that the kids were truly getting sick at this point, because they were all completely irrational and wailing like a bunch of drama-kings and queens. Mercy. We made a break for the gate, and headed home in time for dinner.

Back at home, we enjoyed swimming and a quiet dinner, before turning in early. We were all feeling pretty drained.

a quickr pickr post

I have to say that I did like what I saw of the Disney-MGM park - it had intriguing things around every corner. It seems to me that they took the E-ticket rides from Disneyland and California Adventure and spread them out to the four parks at Disney World. We were moving at such a slow pace, and with people who don't enjoy thrill rides, that it was impossible to see everything that the parks had to offer, yet we really didn't feel like we missed out on much.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%July 3, 2006 1:41 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)