I've been waiting for this to happen. I thought we might dodge the sickness bullet for a few more weeks - but no. No, apparently our time is now.

I've got all three kids home sick from school, and I've got that horrible congested feeling - the one where it feels like my nose is going to blow entirely off my face? Yeah.

I was fine yesterday afternoon. By 7 o'clock yesterday night, I was frantically swilling Airborne and willing myself to stay healthy. My body didn't listen, though. Not surprising, considering no one around here listens to me. Big bunch of rebels. Pissing me off. Shoot.

I'm going to curl up with my kids and be a waste of space for the day. Hopefully we'll be back to normal tomorrow.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 31, 2006 9:37 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

Back when my three children resembled nothing so much as a pack of squiming puppies, I announced to the universe that I would put them in preschool for a mere six months before kindergarten.

My thinking at the time was pretty self-centered. I could teach them whatever they would learn about sharing and putting things away and being poilte and sitting quietly for storytime. I could totally teach all that, plus reading and writing and math of all sorts. Preschool, to my mind, was for kids without siblings, or kids who would be in childcare anyway. It was a blatent attempt by some mothers to push their child out of the nest for a few hours so that they could get manicures and have chichi lunches with friends.

Oh, I disapproved. Strongly. Someone should have slapped my judgemental smirk off of my face.

My oldest attended six months of preschool. My middle child attended six months of preschool. My youngest is going to be attending preschool, two and a half hours a day, three days a week for two years. TWO YEARS. And I'm fixin' to get me some chichi lunches and manicures, along with a few moments of peace a couple of times a week.

Not that any of my friends have time for chichi lunches. And manicures? Well. It's not going to happen. But when I was staring at the calendar this summer, realizing that I had two full years before my youngest will be old enough for kindergarten, and I've got all sorts of ambitious plans for writing, 99% of which currently wasn't taking place until after the last kid dropped at night, that social interaction and exposure to common germs sounded pretty freakin' awesome.

Anyway, on the appointed morning, I got her dressed up in a cute little dress and big girl panties - a tricky move on my part, because the little darling isn't exactly 100% down with the PT. She's good most of the time, but...

We had a big conversation about using the potty, and washing hands, and not picking noses, and playing nice, and suddenly we were in front of the building. We parked, and as I held her hand and started towards the building, she skipped and hopped excitedly beside me, tiny hand squeezing mine with every bounce.

"Mommy, I'm so excited!" She squealed this phrase over and over as we made our way up to the door. We stepped though, where I realized that we know about three-quarters of her class already. Most of them are younger siblings of my older kids' friends, so it felt like Old Home Week at the preschool.

My daughter immediately found the toy cash register and began to organize her new classmates into a line so that she could ring them up.

I stepped back and watched as she melted into her new little social scene, and smiled at some questions from her teachers. When it became obvious that she was fine, I bent down to give her a kiss, and she whispered "Love you, Mommy!"

I grinned all the way out to the car, hit on some firemen, did the Target thing, and then it was time for pickup.

When I looked through the plate glass window into the classroom, I saw my big girl sucking her thumb and pulling her ear. She looked like she was processing a boatload of new information behind those eyes. She presented me with a still-wet painting of a red apple, and gave me a big kiss. I asked, "how's my big girl?" She smiled up and me, and stuck her thumb into her mouth after declaring, "I'm ready to be a baby now."

We walked out to the car, our joined hands swinging as we walked.

I questioned her about their activities. "What did you have for snack?"

"Oh! We had juice and crack."

"Juice and CRACK?"

"Crack, you know, crackers?"

I didn't realize that's what kids were calling Ritz these days. I'm so out of it.

After a quick lunch, we marched off to school to pick up the other kids. She ran. An entire mile. She flat out ran it, so fast that I had to break into a trot to keep up with her. Maybe they really did give them crack. Or maybe it wasn't juice - it was "juice" of some performance enhancing sort.

She never napped, despite my biggest hopes. And although she managed to stay dry at school, she finished the day with a big poop in her panties.

Tomorrow, we do it all over again. She can't wait. And neither can I.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 29, 2006 9:06 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (16)

Today was my youngest child's first day of preschool. I'll give the recap on that later.

See, I left her at the school, and went out to the van, where I sat for a good minute, torn about what to do. I could go home and clean house. I could go home and exercise. I could grocery shop.

I did what I usually do when I'm seized with indecision, and headed to Target.

On my way there, I spotted a big firetruck. It was one of those trucks with the driver in the little compartment in the back. As I pulled along side, I leaned way up onto my steering wheel, peering up and pointing. "Look! A Firetruck! See the driver! Wave at him! Wave at him!"

I accidentally leaned on the horn, and was awarded with grins and waves from all the firemen on the truck.

And then it dawned on me that I was alone in the van.

Alone. Honking and waving and pointing at firemen.

Why, hello fellas! Nice truck!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 28, 2006 12:51 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (20)

I don't know what got me started tonight, but I dropped twenty bucks on cheesy songs from the 80s and 90s on iTunes. I'm alone with the kids, because my husband has his once-in-a-blue-moon Saturday poker night, so I thought we should do some dancing.

I downloaded that "I like to move it" song first. We wore that one out pretty quickly. What followed was a cascade of hilarious (to me) song choices, ending with the Bonnie Tyler classic Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Most of my friends have some sort of benchmark reference with that song. For me, it was being a dorky sixth-grader, and going to school dances and watching all of the cool kids pair up and waddle like penguins while the rest of us wallflowers stood along the edges of the multipurpose room, mouthing all the words and swaying. We'd really emote along with Bonnie's two-pack-a-day vocals, and sometimes we'd get fancy and take turns singing back up, holding our plastic, purse-sized combs for microphones.

In any case, the breakdancers would take over the dance at some point, and the entire room would be full of spectators - but those slow dances always killed me. I was jealous of the girls who got asked to dance at the time. Now, I'm glad I took the time to really work on my lipsynching. If only I would have learned to breakdance, too.

After doing fake cheers to Toni Basil's Hey Mickey and teaching my kids the chorus to Bust a Move (I know, I know) and following up with a rousing rendition of Shake It from one-hit-wonder M.C. Shy-D. I busted the kids up proper with a lipsynched rendition of the Wonder Woman theme.

Inspiration struck as the kids and I started to wear down from our dance party. I got ready to do some Bonnie Tyler singalong, when my son pulled himself up straight, and blushing, asked me if I would dance with him.

I scooped him up in my arms, and we penguined our way around the living room to the gritty strains of Total Eclipse of the Heart - the only time I've actually danced with someone to that song. He nestled his nose into my neck, and we swayed awkwardly. As the song ended (finally, geez, my arms were getting tired. SEVEN MINUTES! Heaven to a horny seventh grader. Tough for a tired mommy...) I lowered him to the floor, and we both smiled.

It was worth the wait.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 26, 2006 9:05 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (16)

Dude. It's 6:30 am, and I don't know exactly what the hell, but there is a bazillion piece mariachi band playing across the street. They arrived at 5:30, and started playing at 6:00.

They've got the horns. They've got the guitars, er, guitarras. They've got the singer(s) and um...

They're great! Really great.

But I have to say, in the history of weird neighborhood occurences, this ranks up there. I'm thinking that the husband across the street must have hired them to serenade his wife - or maybe there's some other reason.

Regardless - this is the first recorded incidence of Mariachis before Dawn.

(Hey, that sounds like a great Magic Treehouse title.)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 26, 2006 6:35 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

A few weeks back, my husband left his cellphone sitting on the counter in the kitchen. I played around with the different functions, and then randomly snapped photos of the kids. After a few shots, I thought I would have some fun, so I yanked down the v-neck on my shirt and took a few overhead cleavage shots. They were pretty straight-laced, for cleavage. Nothing improper, I assure you. Unless you are one of those types. But then again, since there was no baby involved, I guess it was fine.

"Heh," I thought to myself. "He'll find these on his phone and then..."

I wasn't sure what would happen, actually. But hey, everyone likes a little surprise boobage on the ole cellphone, right?

A month goes by. My husband informs me that he lent his cellphone to a collegue for a business trip. I giggled behind my hand, hoping that the collegue wasn't the nosy, photo-looking type. I should have spoken up, but figured that would ruin the surprise.

The phone was returned. Still nothing. This man of mine apparently doesn't use his phone ever. At all.

Two days ago, I got a phone call from my husband, sniggering like a little boy. "Hey!' he said. "Hey, these are YOUR BOOBS on my phone!"

I laughed and congratulated him on finding the photos. Finally. It came out that he had been showing the photos of the kids to the receptionist, and gave her an eyeload of my girls. I'm not entirely sure that she was the only co-worker victimized by my guerrilla breastesses.

I don't know whether to consider it a joke well played, or be embarrassed.

Actually, scratch that. It was awesome. Hah!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 23, 2006 8:35 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (24)

It must hurt to be three.

I base this upon the shrieks of displeasure that are issuing from the pint-sized person in the other room. She's been raging against The Man since dawn, and I've had about enough of it.

I'd say that someone pissed in her Wheaties, but she doesn't eat Wheaties. Or Cheerios. Or Oatmeal. Or anything that she used to eat, even if she ate it five minutes ago, she hates it now, and she hates you for bringing it to her attention.

Do you hear that? SHE HATES IT.

She hates:

1) Anyone looking at her.
2) Anyone looking near her.
3) Anyone breathing.
4) Anyone who isn't looking at her and complimenting her.
5) Anyone who compliments her without using the pre-approved script.
6) Anyone who has a thought, unless she is the origin of that thought, and she has the graciousness to allow you to share in her brilliant idea.

Anyone who enters into the realm of hated behavior is subject to her wrath. Said wrath includes a sobbing cry like an air raid siren, assorted kicks and punches, oaths sworn to and dramatically played out and more.

"I am going to my room, and I am going to scream, and I am never coming out!" she hollers as she lurches, dramatically heaving her sobbing frame down the hall and into her room. She collapses on her bunk bed, howling. She continues for a half an hour or more as I contemplate whether a good mother would crank up the iPod or not.

I've been through the terrible threes twice already, and it doesn't phase me. Much. This child seems to have a particularly hot streak, and I have to laugh, even as I cringe against the wall of outraged noise that washes over me like a toddler tsunami.

I know when to hold 'em. I know when to fold 'em. I know when to walk away, and you better believe I know when to run.

There are days that I, too, want to rail against The Man. In fact, I find it slightly hilarious that I'm The Man. As she gets closer to four, I know that these storms will start to subside. The irrational "That! No, that! No. THAT!" fits will taper off. There is a light at the end of this tunnel. I've reached it twice before. And I can see the humor, even as I sigh and turn up the music to buffer the howling down the hall.

She's a toughie. But every time my daughter channels Clint Eastwood -

"You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya punk?"

I have to admit, I do. I do feel lucky.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 19, 2006 12:09 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (26)

Ladies and Gentlemen... school. has. started.

*insert the roar of an enthusiastic crowd*

Because I'm a slacker, I actually wrote up a morning schedule to keep us all on track. It goes a little something like this:

6:30 wake up
6:45 breakfast
7:00 get dressed
7:15 brush hair and teeth
7:25 pack lunches
7:45 walk out the door

Now, I suppose normal families don't need a freakin' schedule for these things, but I am always running late. And this way, my children, who have developed into quite the little bossy britches over the summer, can keep things moving.

Take driving, for example. My oldest is all about the speed limit. She is a stickler for The Law. I am glad, and will be sure to remind her when she is 16. Also, I'm going to stop making rules and suggestions, and just bust out some Law around here.

Anyway, back to the schedule...it totally worked this morning. Let's not declare a victory until I actually manage for a few weeks, but I'm feeling pretty darn smart right about now.

After forcing the children to pose by the tree (must check and see if Mindy did the same pose today) I loaded the smallest Circus child into the stroller and leashed the dog for the walk to school. We met up with our friends and had a great walk to the campus.

After kisses and quick photos at the classrooms, (I had to surpress the urge to high five the teachers) I did some wild spinning and laller lallering around the campus. Then I lined up all the other parents and ran back and forth while they did the wave. I popped into the multi-purpose room to look at the sobbing kindergarten parents and see if I could conjure a similar emotion. Nope! And then I finished with some Riverdancing in the parking lot.

So, yeah... another school year has begun, and I'm pretty excited. For the kids, of course. It's all about the kids.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 16, 2006 9:39 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (27)

So, this morning, I was enjoying a little me time on the toilet. I had just seated myself when the door burst open, revealing my wild-haired three-year-old. She ignored my request that she turn around and march her little hiney back out to the living room, and began peppering me with questions.

"Whatcha doin' Mama?"
"Want me to help?"
"I'm a big girl! I'm six! You want me to get you some toilet paper?"

I sat there, sort of hunched up, hoping to just finish my bidness quietly and without conversation. It was not to be.

"Hey, Mommy! Take these cotton swabs and put one in each ear and then let go! See! They are like little antennas?"

And so it was that I found myself sitting on the toilet at 7:45 am with a Q-Tip dangling from each ear, with a toddler trying to peer between my clenched knees to see if I already made peeps and poops.

I waved her off, and she busied her with digging under the sink. She unearthed a wall hook in the shape of a butterfly. She held it cupped in her tiny hands, and lifted it skyward like an offering.

"This is a rare and special butterfly! It was given to me by my grandmother. She got it from her grandmother. It is rare and a treasure. It is a TREASURE. Look, mommy. The rare butterfly!"

This is total b.s. by the way. Nice story, kid.

Still on her knees, she sort-of scooted herself over until she was right next to the toilet. She raised her hands again, butterfly cradled in her palms. As she lifted it towards my face, she opened her mouth and made a sound like a high pitched "aaaaaaaaaaah"

Not a scream aaaaah. No, she was doing the unveiling of the holy relic singing aaaaaah.

And so it was that I was presented with a rare, pretend heirloom butterfly while enthroned on the toilet with two Q-tips hanging out of my ears, to the strains of angels singing at 7:45 in the morning.

And I don't even know what to say about that.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 14, 2006 9:38 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (17)

From the moment I felt my oldest daughter quickening in my belly, I was already making plans and stockpiling favorite books and CDs to share with my kids. I had lofty notions about avoiding all televsion and movies until, say, college, but I was steadily filling a bookshelf next to the crib with classics - like Goodnight Moon - and not so classics - The Giant Jam Sandwich. Some of my fondest memories from my childhood take place on the couch, snuggled up with my mom and siblings as she read picture book after picture book. She kept them all safe, and I gleefully raided her stash of books from my childhood as I prepared for my daughter's arrival.

There is something magical about pulling my own children into my arms and cracking open the pages of a story so familiar that I can recite it from memory. The words fall from my lips effortlessly, and I watch their faces instead, reacting to the artwork, turning the pages with chubby hands and adding their own two cents on every illustration. My kids are fascinated by The Little House - like me, they pour over the simple illustrations, imagining the lives of the tiny figures, and tracing the orchards and roads with sticky fingers. Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel is another story that has captured all of our imaginations. I still want to kick mean Mr. Henry B. Swap in the shins on behalf of hard-working Mike. Pirates in the Park still gets me on the edge of my seat - who doesn't love a good pirate story starring a girl named Jenny?

Now that my oldest is seven, and starting second grade, we've finally begun to read the smaller chapter books that enthralled me as a young elementary school student. I devoured these little paperbacks, and searched the library for new series to read. The Littles still tickle my imagination, and we've just finished reading Misty, Stormy and Sea Star. We've made our way through the Happy Little Family series and have read several of the Little House on the Prairie series. I found myself as in love with Roald Dahl as I was in third grade as we read through The BFG and The Witches in one weekend. We've got my dog-eared copies of Beverly Cleary's Ramona books on the shelf.

I've written about our shared love of Trixie Belden and her crime-solving, horse-riding gang. I have put aside copies of Zilpha Keatley Snyder's The Changeling and Robert C. O'Brien's The Silver Crown, Bridge to Terabithia for the years ahead, when I feel like we're ready to tackle some darker themes.

I'm dying to find out if my kids will embrace the March sisters and make their stories their own, like my sister and I did. I'm excited when I see my kids conjuring pirate ships from walnut shells, and imagining life in rural Kentucky. I know that we are creating memories that will linger as they look into their own children's sleepy faces and whisper "Goodnight stars, goodnight air..."

The Lovely Mrs. Davis is celebrating the 37th anniversary of Sesame Street! She wants to know what books, movies, music or television shows from our childhood we are looking forward to sharing with our own children. Go check out her roundup of children's media memories!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 14, 2006 7:49 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

Because, I don't know, sometimes I just need to show how this particular acorn is directly under my tree. This is how we do it, Three Kid Circus-style.

Rocking Out to Choo Choo Soul on Vimeo

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 13, 2006 6:37 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

Three Kid Circus is the third stop on this month's MotherTalk blog tour, featuring award-winning journalist and freelance author Tracy Thompson's new book The Ghost in the House: Motherhood, Raising Children and Struggling with Depression.

I’ve never suffered from depression, either before or after having children. When I agreed to read The Ghost In The House: Motherhood, Raising Children and Struggling with Depression, I had no idea what to expect. I assumed that I would be reading a memoir, or perhaps a just the facts ma'am book about depression. When it arrived in my mailbox, I ripped open the envelope and joined my three kids out on our deck. I set up a lounge chair and kept a lazy eye on the wading pool while reading the introduction.

Depression is a subject that has come out of the closet, except when it applies to motherhood. Somehow, juxtaposing depression and motherhood - to raise the possibility that there are some things about the work of raising children that may be stressful, or even conducive to illness - seems bad manners. Motherhood is supposed to make women happy, period.

With a dolphin-like squeak, my three-year-old launched her self in my direction, splattering the open pages in my lap with grape-sized drops of water. I snapped at her. Clearly she could see that I was reading, and she didn't need to be splashing. Couldn't she just serenely sit in the wading pool with her siblings? Couldn't they just let me read in peace?

What is maternal depression? Thompson offers this definition:

It's what happens when a mother's depression reaches out to ensnare her child. It's depression exacerbated by stresses common to motherhood, and - most important- it can be transmitted from mother to child via learned behavior, environment, genetics, or any combination of the three.

Most of the women I know maintain that it is "normal." My mother is a woman of strong convictions. We’ve had many conversations over the last decade about my frustration over the rigors of child-rearing. “Those were the best years of my life,” she tells me. “I loved everything about being a mommy.”

Yet, when I mentioned that I was reading The Ghost in the House, and began to describe the book, she waved away the conversation. “All mothers struggle. All mothers have stress. All mothers are depressed. They always have been, and they always will be. You just do the best that you can. There's no point in discussing it to death.”

So, polite society would rather not hear about stressed out mothers. But who is merely stressed, and who is depressed?

..."normal" is not the same thing as "healthy"... So it is with maternal depression: if it's not a huge topic, perhaps this is because many mothers simply consider its classic constellation of symptoms - chronic exhaustion and/or trouble with sleeping, dysfunctional eating patterns, low libido, anxiety, loss of pleasure in life, constant feelings of guilt, and inability to concentrate - to be "normal."

Oh. Wow.

This last spring, I visited two doctors and a therapist, looking for reasons behind my inability to keep up with daily tasks, my bursts of insomnia, and the foggy feeling that kept me from feeling truly present in my own life at times. All three professionals were in agreement: the rigors of being a mom to three young kids were at the heart of the matter. I simply needed more sleep, more exercise, more time outside of the home.

Thompson's explanation of her term motherstress paints a vivid picture of how "unrealistic cultural expectations, the demands of an increasingly complex society, the inherent difficulty of the work combined with lack of social recognition" affect our stress level. All mothers are affected by motherstress. However, for women who are prone to depression, this motherstress can create the perfect environment for a major depression.

I stood up and dragged my chair farther away from the splashing kids. After telling the kids to settle down (hah!) I buried my nose in The Ghost in the House once again.

...I'm not talking about a bad day, or even one of those bad patches every family goes through from time to time. Maternal depression is a Bad Day that comes for a visit and refuses to leave. Maternal depression can also be described as a constellation of behaviors that are a reaction to a very specific stress: the demands of children.

Thompson seamlessly weaves her own life experiences with depression with the latest research and quotes from the hundreds of surveys, letters and interviews she conducted for this book. The first half of the book not only defines maternal depression, it gives the reader a window into the families affected by this serious illness.

The popular perception of depression is that it makes people sad. Chronic irritability is a less recognized but equally common symptom, and it can escalate up to anger attacks - periods of uncontrollable, hysterical rage. Sigmund Freud's famous dictum that depression "is anger turned inward" may be true in some instances, but when it comes to maternal depression, that rarely seems the case; for depressed mothers, depression is anger turned outward - at the kids.

It was like a mirror being held up to my face. While I've never experienced an anger attack, I have experienced ongoing periods of crankiness, demands for unrealistic behavior - hello, sitting silently and not splashing in the pool, anyone? - and it brought tears to my eyes. I put the book aside and jumped into the middle of the action, getting drenched in the process.

The second half of the book presents the science behind maternal depression, and details some of the coping mechanisms that mothers employ - both the positive and negative. Thompson's writing is engaging, honest and nonjudgemental. Even as she addresses the affects of depression on children, she offers hope and insight from mothers who have recovered from maternal depression. The end result is a rich, multi-layered and ultimately hopeful look at lives affected by maternal depression.

Reading this raised some questions in my heart and mind that I have been afraid to confront. Am I a depressed mother? I am quick to jump to the conclusion that I am not. Perhaps it is merely motherstress. I closed the covers of this book with a determination to address my issues anew, for the sake of my own health, and that of my family.

The Ghost in the House: Motherhood, Raising Children and Struggling with Depression illuminates the illness behind the symptoms, and gives hope to women who have struggled silently, and to the children who are being raised with the spectre of depression in the home. This should be mandatory reading for health professionals who work with mothers, and for anyone who wants to understand maternal depression. I recommend it highly.

This is stop three on The Ghost in the House tour. To read more, visit:

Monday 8/7: MUBAR
Tuesday 8/8: Woulda Coulda Shoulda
Wednesday 8/9: Three Kid Circus - me! hi!
Thursday 8/10: ParentHacks
Friday 8/11: Sweetney
Tuesday, 8/15: Dooce interviews Tracy for AlphaMom

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 8, 2006 9:09 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

My seven-year-old was standing at the bathroom counter yesterday wearing a skirted leotard, a tiara and rollerskates. She had tied a blanket around her shoulders to finish the effect.

She pouted into the mirror and then pulled out a fake plastic lipstick. It was one of those things you get in the grocery store junk aisle, a hollow replica of bad lipstick from the '80s. Pearly!

She pretended to smooth the lipstick on, and then spun around and pointed the lipstick at me.

"Get down!" she ordered.

"Uh?" I said.

"This is a lipstick combined with a plasma cannon!" she explained.

See, now that would be handy. When it hits the market, remember you heard it here first.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 8, 2006 9:19 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

School for my older two starts on the 16th, and I'm just about beside myself with indecision about how to feel.

I'm dreading the early wake-up and chaotic mornings. I'm looking forward to the relative peace. I'm dreading the homework, the lunches to pack, the fundraisers. I'm looking forward to the chance to have a few moments of solitude. It goes a little something like this:

Busy! Busy busy busy busy!

aaaaaaah.
*crickets chirping*

Busy! Busy busy busy busy!

See, my 3 1/2 year old is going to start preschool this year. Three mornings a week, for 2 1/2 hours.

I am so excited I just piddled.

This is the first time in 8 years that I will have a regular break from childrearing activities. I've never used a sitter, never had a mother's helper, left the kids overnight only in cases of giving birth (doesn't count) or for a rare weekend away with friends. My husband and I haven't ever vacationed alone since they arrived.

See! Piddling again!

This is all well and good, but a few days ago, we got the schedule for the preschool, and it noted that they had changed their sessions. 3 year olds must have a parent attend their session, and it only lasted 45 minutes.

THE HELL?

I tried to work my brain around it. Well, she has two more years before kindergarten. No need to rush her out the door. I can hang in there until January. We can just do some play classes, music, dance, that sort of thing.

Oh, I put on a brave face, but my inner voice was saying (*^*&%*&@^(*)*@^&*&*!!!!! about the whole thing.

And then I read the pamphlet again, and I was mistaken. They still have the regular session, and I can enroll my daughter.

Insert a big whooshing sigh of relief right here. I feel like there should be an actual end to this story, but I think I covered it. The end.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 7, 2006 4:07 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

From time to time, I am offered the opportunity to try out a product. I usually turn these down, because frankly, I'm pretty lousy at reviewing products. I've decided that in the future, I'll avoid accepting anything unless it truly grabs my interest, because I'd rather focus my writing on more important things. Like ME.

But, in the interest of fairness to the good folks who shared their products with me, I'm going to take the next couple of Sundays to knock out some reviews. Because, in all honesty, I liked this stuff, and I'm just not all that clever at finding a way to weave it into my writing without having sound like a product plug. Which it is.

Let's just say I have NO future in advertising. Gah, enough stalling.

Drumroll, please:

Anywhere? ANYWHERE?

A while back, I received a box in the mail from the good people at Clorox. Perhaps they know that I'm the mother of three grubby little monsters. Perhaps because they've heard tell about my housekeeping skills and they realized that I would be all about germ destruction, In any case, they offered me the chance to test out the new Clorox Anywhere Hard Surface daily sanitizing spray. I pulled it out of the box, and put it on the counter and walked away.

See, I have a thing about harsh smells. The smell of most cleaners makes me sick, and I couldn't imagine that this would be any different. The back of the bottle promised "No harsh fumes" - so I tenatively squirted some on the counter.

And...nothing. No smell. Nada.

Ooooooh.

I glanced at the back of the bottle again. "Gentle enough to use around kids, pets and food."

I stuck my head out the door. "Kids! Come here for a minute!"

Visions of spraying the germ-carrying little monkeys down several times a day flew through my brain. I envisioned a haz-mat tent with misting sprays. After the winter we just had, with the pneumonia and infected sinuses and all, I was all "This! This is the answer to my prayers!"

I cradled the bottle in my arms, and then raised it aloft, while turning in a circle. Birds sang, and a sunbeam illuminated my twirling dance. I lowered it to my hip, and practiced my quick-draw move.

With a heaving sigh, I mouthed "thank you" to the heavens and took aim at my mystified children.

My finger twitched on the trigger. As I sighted along the top of the nozzle, my eyes drifted back to the logo.

Oh man. HARD SURFACE. My childen, although I could argue successfully that they are indeed hard-headed, are not hard surfaces. I stopped short of spraying them outright, and settled instead for gleefully spraying every surface in my home.

Good times.

Guess What "D" Stands For?

The folks over at Aquafresh have launched a campaign to help parents get kids into healthy bedtime habits, and they are enlisting the help of Dr. Seuss, Marlee Matlin and Dr. Laura Jana to do it. The ABC's of a Fun, Healthy Bedtime campaign allows kids who purchase (or, okay, their parents who purchase) two Aquafresh Dr. Seuss products to receive a Dr. Seuss book free by mail. Not only that, Aquafresh will donate 10,000 Healthy Bedtime Kits, containing toothpaste, a toothbrush and a Dr. Seuss book to First Book.

In their promotional handout, they are promoting an ABC routine where A = Aquafresh, B = Books and C= Covers. The goal is to have kids brush teeth, read a few books and then to sleep.

This is brilliant. I've been pawing through this, looking for the magic part where the kids agree that after brushing, after books, they will meekly go to sleep.

See, in our house, we brush. We read. And then we tuck them under the covers. And then they have to pee. Okay. Back to the covers. Then they are hungry. And thirsty. And have to pee again. And want to listen to music. No, not that music. How about another book? Oh, I should brush my teeth again.

They really like the taste of the Aquafresh, it seems. Or maybe they just don't get it that bedtime is nigh.

Perhaps I could conk them over the head with the Dr. Seuss book and then they would lie still and proceed directly to sleep. Perhaps I need to swaddle them with the covers. Or perhaps they mean "duck and cover" - I should hide myself until all demands are exhausted and they put themselves to sleep.

In fact, I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of letter D. What do you suppose D stands for?

1) Downtime?
2) Drinking?
3) Disco Dancing?

If you guessed Dr. Seuss, you would be wrong. Very, very wrong.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 6, 2006 9:07 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

We're a mere two weeks away from the start of school, and my oldest is tearing at the bit to return to socializing with her friends. We've had a few random playdates, but we've mostly been hanging out as a family. There is good and bad to this, of course. I feel like my children have become better friends from all the togetherness.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. The kids will tell you that they can't wait to get back to their school friends.

Ahem.

My oldest has been on my case about calling her friends. I allow it, if we aren't running out the door to go somewhere, and it isn't too early or too late. It cracks me up, because she'll call just to tell someone about this thought she had the other day, about unicorns. Or about a commercial she saw, and thought was funny. Or about how she dreamed she was a fairy princess. It seems really random, but the more I overhear it, it seems like she really puts some planning into these conversations.

The other day, she wanted to call a friend moments before we were leaving to go to the park. I told her she could call when we got home. She was't happy, but agreed to come along without a fight.

Once we arrived at the park, I spread a blanket out on the grass and turned the kids loose to play on the equipment. They flittered back and forth between the blanket and the sand, chattering and sharing little explosions of joy as they played. I held down the fort on the blanket, and watched with lazy eyes as a pair of hummingbirds shot overhead and circled a tree. They came and went several times, and I suspect there was a nest. I called my oldest, my animal lover, over to watch with me.

We attempted to catch them on camera, but failed. From another corner of the sky came a giant dragonfly. It soared past on blue-green wings. We grabbed at the camera again, and aimed it skyward, hoping to catch this giant bug in flight. No luck.

My daughter pulled out a sheet of paper and some crayons. "Tell you what," she started. "I'm going to draw a giant dragonfly, and then we'll cut it out, and you can hold it up to the sky, and no one will be able to tell the difference."

Ah, her first hoax. I'm so proud.

So she drew and cut and I held aloft and we snapped pictures and agreed that if it wasn't for my pesky hand and arm in the shot, no one would be the wiser. I haven't introduced her to photoshop just yet. Heh.

After we finished creating our illusion of dragonfly, I shooed her off the blanket to play. She ran two steps from me and spun around, smiling. "Now I have something magical to tell my friend when I call her today."

I smiled back, thinking: Now I have something magical to blog about today.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 3, 2006 8:39 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

The BlogHer '06 recap is coming, we swear. Thanks for your patience. - the management

I've written about my love for children's music. I know that there are a lot of parents out there who prefer to introduce their children to their own favorites, bypassing any albums written specifically for children. I am just a sucker for catchy melodies, simple lyrics with a simple message, and the expectation that you will be singing along, probably off-key.

My own childhood memories are peppered with family sing-alongs in the car to campfire favorites and classic American folk music. We listened to the Sesame Street album and the hokey holiday favorites on vinyl. Peter, Paul and Mommy remains one of my favorite albums.

My own kids love "their" music - from the lullabies I play while they were still in the womb, to the latest thing on Noggin or The Disney Channel, they absorb it. From Hi-5 to Raffi, Laurie Berkner to Dan Zanes, Themes from children's television and classics from old movies - we've listened to it all.

The latest obsession is Disney's Choo Choo Soul - featuring a woman named Genevieve. She sings. On a train. With big hoop earrings. It's insanely catchy, and I'm walking around the house going "Chugga chugga pisssssh chugga chugga aaaaah." Trust me. Go watch this and see if you can avoid the tractor beam.

Another favorite soundtrack of my day are the great music videos from the Jack's Big Music Show on Noggin.com. They just load up, one after another, and the kids dance and sing along in the kitchen while I load the dishes in the dishwasher.

I'd like to pretend that we are just listening to all this stuff for the kids - OH! For The Kids and For The Kids, Too are both fantastic kids' albums. And I hear that Meredith Brooks is putting out a children's album, too. I'm putting that one on my must-have list.

The other favorite right now is Sandra Boyton's Dog Train book and CD. That right there is some great, great stuff. Seriously, get your kids a copy of that one, and you'll find yourself nodding along with lyrics such as

"I need a nap, I just can't take any more..." and the ever popular "No, no, no, I don't want to, no, no. Leave me alone."

It is so spot on and hilarious, and performed by some great artists. Sweetney, Mina must have this.

And I apologize to all of you who will now be chugga chugga aaaahing with me.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 2, 2006 8:43 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (23)

See, they don't eat, poop or bite. I can totally get behind these kind of pets.

Indeed. The box tells us:

"Watch me scu rry across the floor inside my rolling exercise ball."

Seriously, they weren't kidding when they put "The Carefree & Playful Pet" up there on the label.

They warn about the choking hazard - which is great. But they failed to mention the danger to get the hamusuta stuck in your hair.

When I saw a couple of these in some tourist trap store on San Francisco's Pier 39 yesterday, I had to pick a couple of them up for my kids. See, we've had sort of a bad track record with hamsters. So when the last of the royal line of Lauck hamsters died this spring, we just put the cage in the garage and ended a mercifully short chapter in rodent ownership. I've been over it for months. The kids never really let go, however, and will occasionally hound me for another small pet.

"We have a dog, you guys. Go pet Donna." You see how good I am at redirecting?

"But Donna doesn't want to sit in a the laundry basket with blankets on her, Mommy."

Let's pause for a moment, while I try to figure out whether it is good parenting to insist that the children tuck me into the laundry basket with blankets and a few snackies. If they handed me the remote, it could be a little retreat. A little day spa in my own living room.

Ahem.

So, yes. Fake, battery powered hamsters. Or, hamusutas. Whatever. They even come with their own plastic ball!

This morning, I popped the guts out of the hamster shell, and installed the batteries. Once the guts were replaced, I flipped the switch and watched the little, rubber-tires turn on the bottom. Once I got it inside the ball, it rambled around the living room while I fixed up the twin, and soon the kids were watching delightedly while the two fake hamsters did their thing.

Seriously, this was the best gift ever. I'm an awesome mother.

Two seconds later:

Clang, crash.

"Aaaaaargh!"

"Mine!"

"Mom!"

"Waaaaaah!"

Click, click, click, click, click.

I marched in there and found my son had taken one hamster from its ball, and had turned it loose on his Matchbox Car track. It was wedged in the ferris wheel contraption, it's furry ass blocking the wheel from turning, wheels spinning furiously above the track.

I dislodged it, and returned it to the ball. My son took it out again, and put it on the floor, where it zoomed under the couch and got stuck again.

"Okay, keep these little **&%$$#@##!!!!!! hamsters in the balls, so they don't get stuck, okay?"

Moments later, they were fighting over possession. I know, I should have bought three, but come on. At ten bucks a pop, and with my kids' flair for destruction, I figured twenty bucks was all I was willing to spend. Then again, I spent at least a hundred for the cage and food and toys and actual hamsters for these same kids, so really, my bad.

When I finally left the room, both hamsters were out of the balls, and being held by my three-year-old. I turned them off, and left her to play.

"Aaaaaiiiiieeeeee!" I looked up to see her rounding the corner, open mouth howling and eyes squinched up in pain as the hamsters apparently were trying to eat her head. She had turned them on so they seemed more realistic (Duh, Mommy) and then decided to snuggle and kiss on them, and the wheels grabbed a strand of hair on each side of her head.

She was standing there with a twitching hamster attached to each side of her brow, with a good six inches of hair tangled around the axels on her happy rodent pals' underbellies. This is the kid who cannot stand to have her hair brushed. She's extremely tender-headed, so this was a nightmare scenario. Leave it to me to buy the scary, child-eating carefree and playful fake pets, huh?

I managed to calm the spinning wheels and disentangle her locks from the wheels before it ripped her hair out by the roots, with much howling and reassurances. I showed her what happened, and put the hamsters back in their balls.

This exact sequence of event happened three times today. Hamsters stuck in ferris wheel. Returned to balls. Stuck under couch. Returned to balls. Stuck in hair. Returned to balls.

I just...wow. I just don't know if I should laugh or cry. Or go lay down in the laundry basket.

a quickr pickr post

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 1, 2006 11:12 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

BlogHer, BlogHer, BlogHer... how I love thee.

I'm attacking my suitcase and take-away goodies with a machete, downloading photos and trying to gather both my wits and my thoughts to share in a coherent manner. But first, another tylenol, and another cup of tea.

The recap will be up tonight.

And in other news... 16 days until school starts.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%August 1, 2006 11:35 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)