April 15, 2005

She's Dancing Like She's Never Danced Before

You know that scene in Flashdance - the one where she's doing the frantic running in place while sweating profusely and shaking her head around? Wearing legwarmers? Looking all glisten-y and sexy?That's totally me this week. I'm a Maniac! (You're welcome for getting that song stuck in your brain.)

I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to adapt to the schedule that I'll be following for the next couple of months. Oh, who am I kidding? It's going to be like this for the next 16 years.

I knew it was a matter of time. I sat back smugly with my toddlers and watched my friends with school aged kids rush out of the house for drop off in the morning, manage to squeeze in 15 errands while keeping tabs on friends and relatives via cellular phone as they dashed about town in their SUVs. I shook my head as they fit my entire week's agenda into four hours, then managed to add a few sports or piano lessons into the mix. I was exhausted just thinking about it. I swore I would find a way to simplify, so that I could continue on with my smugness.

Remember, I'm a lazy, lazy woman. I like a slow start to my day. I loathe the notion of 'tardy' and I prefer my day to run on "maybe, if I feel like it" as opposed to "look smart, get here on time and bring five forms of ID, your checkbook and other random but apparently important documents."

Go ahead, scoff. I am pathetic, but nevertheless, it is a HUGE effort for me to get out the door on time to get my daughter to kindergarten most days. Add in a preschool drop off, swimming lessons for my youngest (where I have to *shudder* get in the pool, too) preschool pickup, kindergarten pickup and then swimming lessons for my oldest two, along with assorted jaunts to Target and 500 loads of laundry... for a chaotic brained, world champion ass sitter like myself, this daily schedule of places to be, things to do - GAH!

Okay, 95% of the stuff I do with the kids takes place within a mile of my house. Seriously. The elementary school is a mile north, the preschool and swim center are in the same complex, one mile east. I can, and often do, walk to these places, which is great, because I did manage to schedule our drop-off/pick-up times to allow for walking. So, like, in theory, I have no complaints.

But I'm me, and that means there is always room for complaints. Hah! I haven't even had time to blog about my adventures this week. And there was comedy gold scattered throughout.

My oldest lost her fourth tooth, and the tooth fairy actually remembered, so as to avoid a five am bait and switch. In my naivetee, I assumed that you lose a tooth, gain a tooth. She's lost four, and the space has been filled with two. Where will the other two go? I can hear my budget groaning over the orthodontics in our future.

My son had his pre-kindergarten physical and shots. I had to ask a dingus question and in my infinite maturity struggled for a good minute to not say 'boner' or 'stiffy' or 'sporting wood', finally settling on 'erection' which I blurted out and then half-snickered. Luckily my son was in the middle of a 30 minute long monologue about trains or something, so he didn't hear me being an ass while trying to ask a technical question.

Ooh! Hot tip! We believe in full disclosure when it comes to getting shots etc. I told my son the night before that he would be getting shots, so he wouldn't be surprised. At breakfast, my oldest regaled us with tales of how painful her shots had been, and how she had cried for an hour, and how the pain lasted for days, and she was sure she was going to die. My son took this under advisement, but he knows his sister's flair for the dramatic, and took a more moderate approach.

"Mom, is it going to hurt?"

"Yeah, for just a minute. It feels like a pinch."

"Oh, okay."

Off we went. I had read that to help kids manage the pain/stress of shots, you can have them buzz like a bee. So when it was our time, he hopped up on the table, and began to buzzbuzzbuzzbuzz. He flinched once, but never cried through three injections, and actually thanked the injection nurse. It worked. Weird, but effective.

My youngest decided that since her brother was calm and in control, she would have to carry the Circus mantle, and threw several epic tantrums. These included throwing herself on the floor screaming, trying to rip up books in the waiting room, going stiff when I tried to strap her into the stroller, and my favorite, the disappearing armpit trick while I was trying to lift her limp, shrieking body off the exam room floor. I puffy heart two year olds. Yes, I do.

Speaking of this youngest child of mine, she's becoming very physical. She has learned that screeching doesn't work, so she will try to push, pull or steamroll her way to getting what she wants. If I am making dinner, she will wedge herself between my legs and the counter and start shoving in an attempt to move me to the fridge to get her a drink.

OMG. I just typed "shart" which the hubs has gleefully adopted into his vocabulary, oh thank you Ben Stiller.

Ahem.

She will grab her siblings by the back of their shirts and force them to the ground. She frequently initiates wrestling matches, with a glint in her eye that scares me a bit.

We've decided that my oldest, with her exacting nature, will be an engineer. My son, a professor who loves him some long drawn out lecturing. And my youngest? Ultimate fighter, baby. No doubt.

I've got to get some laundry done, so that we have clean socks to wear to the rescheduled birthday bash tomorrow. We opted to hold it at an indoor inflatable jumpy place. We're going to feed 'em cake and juice and then turn 'em loose to jump until they puke or get a concussion. Whee!

Now, you must excuse me. I have to get my legwarmers out of the dryer and get ready to resume my frantic dancing.

Posted by Jenny at 08:43 AM | Comments (11) | TrackBack

March 13, 2005

Woomba!

Late last night, I received an email from a friend insisting that I watch Saturday Night Live. She claimed they had a funny skit on my vacuum - the ever popular Roomba.

I laughed so hard that I woke my husband up, and couldn't stop snorting for at least an hour. Thanks, Terry!

Posted by Jenny at 06:25 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

March 09, 2005

Nine Thirty-Three

Okay, actually 9:34.

I just finished singing my wee monsters to sleep, with my should-be-patented medley of classic lullabies and television theme songs. Actually, the two oldest kids went down fairly easily, one or two bungled songs into my vocal stylings. My youngest rested in my arms, her legs clinging, butt wiggling, thumb in her mouth, pointer finger from that same hand jammed in a nostril, and her other hand clamped on my earlobe.

I suspect that if I let go of her, she would dangle from my ear.

I'm not going to blame my lyrical indiscretions on the wine I'm drinking from a stemless vessel - what do you call the short drinking glasses? The tall ones are high-ball glasses right? Could the shorter ones be low-balls? I AM going to blame my apparent NDS* on the wine, at least tonight. The kids normally get the blame.

*NDS - the ever popular Noun Deficiency Syndrome - where one stumbles over and over while trying to remember the name of "you know, that thing. The thing, you know, that thing that does, I mean, goes like this? The thing. Stop giving me that look. You totally know what I'm talking about."

Drinking a burly red from a low-ball is nice. Plenty of room for the swirling and sniffing.

Anyhoo - after the "Cheers" theme put my two oldest under, I started in on my youngest's traditional lullabies. She let me get a verse into "What a Wonderful World" before she started chiming in on every third word or so, popping her thumb back in her mouth for noisy sucking in between her outbursts. She got really excited and extra vocal for "I Will" and I knew I would have to shift to unfamiliar territory to get her to settle down.

When the theme from Wonder Woman failed to work, I ended up lulling her to sleep with a dirge-like rendition of America the Beautiful.

As I laid her down in her tiny little bed and kissed her puckered lips, she sighed. I tucked the blankets around her, smoothed the covers over the other two kids, and stood in the hallway for a moment to listen to the sounds of their breathing. This is one of those things you never believe you will do, before you are a parent.

You can't have any idea, until you've slept with one eye open, and a hand resting lightly on a child's chest, sure that one moment of inattention will bring calamity. The sound of my loud, mouth breathing, slumbering children brings a sense of accomplishment to my heart, along with a shot of irrational fear. I'm long past believing that my vigilance is the only thing that keeps their hearts beating, but the sense of power and sheer helplessness that was passed to me at the time of their birth keeps me supersticious.

Monday, I applied artificial nail tips in an effort to stop my incessant nail biting. I've got 8 tips still on, but the usefulness of the two nekkid fingers is taunting me. "Don't glue plastic back on us...no, no...why don't you free our brothers and sisters...you can't function with princess hands..." Frankly, I'm shocked how long they've lasted. I'll give it one more go, and replace the victims of repeated collisions, but I don't see any way that I'm going to keep them on, unless I cease all activity. I'm just a clutz.

Okay, well. I've polished off my glass of wine, and the hubs has sauntered in from a poker game with 900 boxes of girl scout cookies. Yes, that will be GREAT for my healthy eating plan.

I'm such an ungrateful woman.

Posted by Jenny at 09:31 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack

March 02, 2005

Help!

Somebody get inside my head and tell Blondie to take a hike, or at least switch to another song...The Tide Is High is making me crazy.

Thanks.

Posted by Jenny at 09:38 AM | Comments (9) | TrackBack

February 08, 2005

Like, Profound

Picture if you will, a woman. She is pouting as she types out her third blog entry of the day. She is pouting because...the first two entries went the way of the Dodo, clubbed into extinction.

The first clubbing came courtesy of the dog, whose zealous attempts to gain lap real estate resulted in swatting the power cord out of the wall.

The second came from perfectly aimed ball, which ricocheted off the keyboard and deleted a masterpiece of self-pitying nonsense.

So, like, no big loss. I'm not pouting anymore, because I've just glanced in the mirror and noticed it makes me look vaguely constipated. Unlike the lovely Heather B. Armstrong, it's not a look I can pull off.

I have come to the conclusion that my youngest's theme song (ala Ally McBeal - I know it was lame there towards the end, shut up) is Eddie Murphy's Party All The Time. At two o'clock in the morning, she did a very convincing 'running man' beside my bed while chanting "Wake Up. Wake Up. Wake Up." I know I should be proud.

My son NEVER. STOPS. TALKING. Remind me of this when he is a non-communicative, too cool teenager. Right now, I would actually appreciate NOT knowing every thought that crosses his wee little pea brain. Did dinosaurs really eat pie? Do I really care? Does HE? I think he just talks out of reflex.

My oldest is sick, so I kept her home from school. Queen Princess Pink Poodle Patootience lay on the couch all day, shushing everyone. The good news? We had to cancel a playdate for tomorrow afternoon - a playdate that we were sort of bamboozled into. Don't ask, because I'll get all huffy. The bad news? She's well enough to piss everyone off, but sick enough that she'll be home again tomorrow. Woo.

My two year old just removed her diaper, slapped her naked butt repeatedly and crowed "No pants on! No pants! No! Pants! On!"

When I managed to catch her and cram her legs through a pull-up, she sang "Iiiiiii've Gooooooot Neeeeeeew Pants on!" Glory be.

OMG. The dog just now ran by with the self-inflating whoopie cushion we bought on the dollar aisle at Target, emitting little poots as she chewed on it. Hah!

And that concludes the drivel for today.

Posted by Jenny at 10:49 AM | Comments (14) | TrackBack

February 07, 2005

No Pleasing Me

Let's just say that I'm difficult to live with right now. Or talk to. Or breathe around. Yeah. Don't be breathing around me.

Saturday was supposed to be a day where Big Things were being accomplished. I was supposed to test for my sixth degree black belt in Target-Fu, and I was denied. I was planning on a solo, X-Treme Costco, and again, I was denied.

Instead, I got a nap-delaying family jaunt to Costco. Can you feel the heat? See the flames? Can you smell the melting concrete from the cement-liquifying screams produced by not one, but two of my over-tired, over-stimulated, hell, just OVER children. You've heard of overlords? (Or maybe not, maybe that's just me being married to a D&D/MTG geekazoid) Anyway, my chitlins are in training.

No sampling would placate them. No offers of 'bargain' priced merchandise. My refusal to slip a 13' trampoline into the cart produced a sonic boom. Dayum, I have got to find a way to market their wicked tantruming skills.

We returned home and I settled into a pattern of nagging, complaining, nagging, complaining, and some more nagging. Bleh. After all that, I felt rather pathetic, but as it is (and yes, it IS that time, but it pleases me not to blame all this strife on my own darn hormones, so zip it, sparky) my hubs didn't have a hope of saying or doing the right thing, so he did his best "I'm part of the furniture" which riled me further.

At one point, he said "I think I will wear a jacket, because although the sun is out, it is still cold."

I took a full minute before I responded. "I can find nothing to fault in that sentence, but I needed to think on it." Then I laughed. Coldly. Muwahahahaha!

As it turns out, my oldest is sick, my son is coming down with it, my youngest is running a low fever, and I'm feeling ill, to boot. I want to scree-heee-heeeeeam.

Ooh! Or maybe eat lemon bars. Yes. Lemon bars.

Posted by Jenny at 01:45 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

January 28, 2005

The Dork Gene

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

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

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

laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller

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

"Hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hey, hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hi."

**crickets chirping**

"Hey, Mommy?"

"What?"

"Hey, Mommy?"

"Okay, what?"

"Hi, Mommy. Get it? Hi!"

laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller

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

We do a whole boneless barnyard, people.

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

Posted by Jenny at 10:59 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

January 04, 2005

Losing Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mom! Coochie is missing a front fin!"

"Nooo. Look again."

"Mom, look. The fin is gone."

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

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

Ew. And they trust me with real live children.

Posted by Jenny at 08:24 AM | Comments (16) | TrackBack

January 03, 2005

A Thought Dawns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Happy! Love!

Dr. Phil: Fat! Hate!

Me: La la la.

Dr. Phil: What is wrong with you?

Me: La la la :)

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

Posted by Jenny at 09:05 AM | Comments (12) | TrackBack

November 30, 2004

Pudding

Back in my early driving career, I would always find myself on a rural road, in a big damn hurry to get someplace where I was already five minutes past due. One of the things about living where I do - there are a hundred different backroads to the 'big' towns nearby. Ever the optimist, I would cut my departure time to the bone, and then figure I knew enough shortcuts to get me to my destination with time to spare.

Invariably, I would find myself on a rural road with no shoulders and hairpin, blind turns, following a senior citizen in a Buick, going about twenty miles per hour. I used to joke that one day I would write my autobiography, and title it "Stuck Behind A Buick Doing 20."
Life was so high-speed - late to class, late to work, paper due in the morning, only two dollars worth of gas in the car, and a test on Friday. I was always rushing, because I couldn't plan to save my life.

Not that the chicken minus head routine was a bad thing - I got a nice buzz off of the adreneline that accompanied a 100 yard dash to the timeclock. Oh, the frustration I felt cruising along BELOW THE LIMIT behind a pastel car with a broad, flaring rear. "Go! GO! I've got somewhere to be. I'm late. GO!" Lucky for those other drivers, I didn't have much rage to share with the world. I still don't.

Thinking about Lee's blogging burnout, I reflected on my own wimpy entries the last few days. In my case, it's not burnout, just life. Lee persists in calling me JehNAY ala Forrest Gump...which got me thinking about chocolates. (My stream of consciousness entries are my best work, huh?) Anyway, somehow I got to thinking about my life, and chocolate and came up with this:

No longer stuck behind a Buick, I am now slogging through chocolate pudding. Chocolate Pudding. That's right. (I know, I'm a nutbar.)

The more I thought about it, the funnier it became. So I present my compelling reasoning on Jenny's Life Is Like Slogging Through Chocolate Pudding.

By Jenny, of course.

I seem to still be in a huge hurry all the time, but at this point in my life, it's not the Buick doing me in. The kids, with their tidal pull and all the flotsam and jetsam they toss about are the scapegoats now.

Of course, it still is my fault for insufficient planning and gross overestimation of my mad departure skillz, yo. And that is where the pudding comes in.

My dad used to try to convince my younger brother to try foods by telling him they tasted "just like pudding." Stuffing, for example. My brother never fell for it, and I suspect that he isn't a huge fan of the pudding. It's a texture thing for him. Which reminds me, I need to start using that on my kids, who like the pudding just fine.

Anyway - have you ever walked through a muddy field, feeling the grip of the mud trying to suck your boots right off your feet? You find yourself digging your toes deep into the sole of your boots and high-stepping to the other side. There is always slipping, and the fear that if you slow for a minute, you'll be stuck.

Getting ready to leave the house with the kids is like that, only with chocolate pudding. There is a sweetness to it, even as it grabs your shoes and stains your pants. Like those rare moments when I was stuck behind Grandma and lifted my eyes to the surrounding orchards and rolling hills, it feels good to slow down and slog a bit.

When I am faced with missing shoes and a toddler who WILL do it herself - that chocolate aroma will sneak up on me, and help me to laugh as I notice the determined look of my baby as she struggles with her coat, or the heel of a shoe poking out of the toy box.

Actually, my house is like a giant box FILLED with pudding. It envelopes us as we move through our day. I've learned over time that thrashing and flailing leads to children who make pudding angels as I'm trying to pull them out of the goo. You have to be one with the pudding. Flowing, gliding, moving fluidly. Short, jerky movements don't work well. It's like a constantly moving ballet to keep this family flowing. A pudding ballet. Dude.

That is exactly my problem - I approach parenting like a sheep herding dog. I'm busy running around and barking and keeping the flock together and moving. I'm so busy controlling, in fact, that I lose sight of the beauty of sheep. Er, pudding. Yes. I never roll my sheep in pudding. I think. I'm so confused.

Okay, I need some hip-waders and another cup of coffee. And, like my brother, I think I've lost the Love of the Pudding.

Posted by Jenny at 08:37 AM | Comments (5)

November 24, 2004

Lying To Myself

When I bought the tub of "Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Dipped Peppermint Reception Sticks" I said to myself "These here treats would be a fun addition to the Thanksgiving spread." And they have the word "Thin" in the description. They are DIET treats.

And now, I have a wee pile of wrappers and a half empty tub of said treats. I had myself a little reception. Which is okay, because I was seriously never considering sharing these. Nope.

Posted by Jenny at 04:01 PM | Comments (8)

November 15, 2004

No Stumping My Girl

I was chatting with my almost 2 year old today (okay, I was on the toilet, and was trying to keep her from climbing on the counter) and to keep her engaged, I began to quiz her.

What does a dog say?
Oof, oof!
What does a cat say?
Wee-ow!
What does a monkey say?
Ooh-ooh-ah-ah! (with fists tucked into arm pits)
What does a bear say?
Rrrrrrr.
What does a cow say?
Moon.
What does a pig say?
Honk.
What does a pirate say?
Arrrrrg!
What does Mommy say?
Stop that!

Nice. That Mommy is so much fun. I really want to hang out with Mommy, don't you? Bah.

Posted by Jenny at 05:30 PM | Comments (7)

November 11, 2004

Best Laid Plans

I was chatting on the telephone with my friend, and trying to load the dishwasher. I say trying, because I was stopping every 30 seconds to remove the 22 month old from the area. She loves to swipe silverware, and thinks it's hysterical to close the door as I'm trying to put things in. My conversation with my friend drifted to those rollicking childfree days where we didn't need dishwashers, since we were so hot and were treated to frequent meals out with handsome dates. Sigh.

Then we reminisced about our childhoods spent slaving over the dishes every evening, while our parents engaged in adult conversation and relaxation. (No, Mom, I don't think you were really relaxing. Now, anyway.)

THE INJUSTICE! My sister and I used to say that our parents had us for the sole purpose of washing their dishes every night. We complained bitterly, but you know, it was really one of our only chores, so boo-hoo little spoiled Jenny. We also used to sing at the top of our lungs while we washed, and not the blues, either. I still hum "Clementine" while I'm washing pans.

You know those "lightbulb moments" that Oprah is always talking about? Well, I had one. I thought, hey! I've got me some kids. And they love to play with water and soap. They can do the dishes! Bwahahahahahaha!

It hasn't worked out yet. I stand vigilant, and gently remind my kids that PRETTY PONIES AREN'T DISHES and SOAP STINGS EYES while I resist the urge to remove them bodily and just do it myself. My plans for indentured servitude and world domination are failing.

Holy moly! Another lightbulb moment! Maybe just having the kids stand near the sink will be enough motivation to make me WANT to do the dishes.

Have I talked about my kids and butter yet? They are all like Homer Simpson. Mmmm. Butter. Seriously. I frequently find sticks of butter with a huge bite out of them. If I am using butter in a recipe, they sit at my side and beg for a pat. Which I do not give them, because it's BUTTER. Not a stand-alone snack.

Nevertheless, they find ways to get their fix. This morning, I buttered some toast for the baby, and was chatting with my mom on the phone. I watched her slurp the melted butter off the surface of the bread, and then tear the bread into pieces and scatter them on the floor. (Yes, I could have stopped it, but it was buying me a few moments of conversation.)

I shared this snapshot of my morning with my mother, who said "Well, just call Donna in. She'll eat it." Nope. My dog will not eat toast. She will not eat 99% of dog food. She does, however like her some chow mein and lemon chicken. She also loves pizza and fried chicken. Even my DOG prefers take-out. I think there's a lightbulb moment in there somewhere.

Posted by Jenny at 08:35 AM | Comments (12)

November 08, 2004

Sales Job

"Mama - you do it!" My son looked on in abject terror as I brandished the inhaler.

"I'm trying to do it, if you'll just hold still and let me spray this crap into your face!" I am paraphrasing, but the gist should be identifiable. I might not have said "crap," for example. We struggled for another minute, the boy getting more hysterical and me getting less AP with each passing second . I think I told him I was going to strap him to the cabinet with duct tape. Again, taking the 5th on that.

In a fit of exasperation, I finally sat him on my lap so he could watch me take a rip of Qvar off the kid-sized bong with the attached face mask. He furrowed his brows and watched me intently, sure I was going to keel over and confirm his suspicions that I was trying to poison him.

Having made myself sick to my stomach (Qvar=blech!) but selling it like a pro (I'd like to thank the Academy) I resettled him on my lap and convinced him to take his puffs like a good soldier.

Parents are like the Royal Taste-testers and Court Jesters all rolled up together.

SEE Mommy in rapture over green beans!

HEAR how she does not die from taking that medicine, and in fact enjoys the cherry flavor muchly!

WITNESS the general awesomeness that is flossing!

LISTEN as she performs an epic poem about early bedtime!

LAUGH as she tries to reason with your sugar-addled brain!

You know, I would die to protect my children. I really would. But do I REALLY have to wash all the pesto sauce off the freakin' ravioli because today it is icky when yesterday it was not? Should I flog myself for being able to read minds while I am unwilling to comply with their borg-like will? Shall every new anything be preceded by a parental dress rehersal and subsequent play-by-play rehash?

I spent much of my morning at the doctor's office again, trying to get to the bottom of my little guy's hacking cough and labored breathing. Nowhere else on the planet (except maybe at my MIL's house) do I perform so much surrogate service. My son wants to see MY ears looked in, my tongue squashed, my back frozen by the stethescope, and he wants details, people. The doctor was into humoring crazy sick kids...

Oh! Get this: we are walking behind the nurse from the waiting room to the exam room, when my son suddenly starts clutching his face and crying. When I say suddenly, I mean, one second he is behind me, trotting along, and the next he is behind me, still on his feet, weeping hysterically. Apparently, he fell down, hit his forehead on the heel of my wooden soled clog - without me feeling or hearing it, and bounced back to his feet before anyone saw him fall. He had a nice divet out of his head, and the nurse and I were flabbergasted. It's like it happened on an alternate timeline.

Anyway, so I endured a check of my facial orifices, while exclaiming "whee!" and "that was tickly and fun!" Then she asked us to go get a chest x-ray. I had to draw the line at taking off my top and standing in front of the camera. The tech seemed vaguely bummed, but thankfully, we're talking about the Nudito Bandito, so he was more than happy to lose his shirt for the chance to see his bones on film.

Luckily, it's a minor infection, and with the new drugs we got on our way home, it should clear up. And who knows... one of these drugs might actually be fun! Whee!

Posted by Jenny at 06:31 PM | Comments (11)

November 05, 2004

Le Freak, C'est Chic

When the crib rail rattling started at 4:30 this morning, I burrowed a little deeper into the pillow, and scrunched my eyes up real tight like, so the husband would only have to crack open his eyes and see that I was SLEEPING REALLY DEEPLY and would go quell the uprising his ownself.

Clack-a clack-a clack-a clack-a clack-a clack-a!

The wee inmate had not started calling out names and demands. I lay still, feeling my left leg and hip go numb. Must. Not. Roll. Over. Do. NOT. Want. To. Seem. Awake.

CLACK-A CLACK-A

*crickets chirping*

BOOM!

The sound of tiny feet in footie pajamas came bustling up to my side of the bed. "Hiya!" says my girl. "I down. Wake up! Get up! Up! Up!"

When I failed to respond, she started to screech and hop up and down. My husband lifted up on one elbow, looked over my STILL TOTALLY SLEEPING (hah) form and said "Aw, Freak-out. Le Freak, c'est chic." totally deadpan. She stopped and glared at him. The important thing here is that SHE STOPPED. It was a good save.

We find ourselves frequently singing to our children in their hour of need. I guess we could quote poetry, or great literature, but we seem to revert to the truly familiar. And it stuns them to see me or the hubs launch into a manic rendition.

My oldest was beginning an epic tantrum over my lack of interest in purchasing her a trio of parakeets to torment. I launched into a very upbeat version of "Big Girls Don't Cry-yi-yi" complete with schizophrenic backing vocals and a weird dance. Now all she has to do it say "Para..." and I start pumping my arms and rotating my hips and she just stops.

Another favorite tantrum song is the chorus of "Tragedy" by the Bee Gees. It really can be a showstopper. As can Bohemian Rhapsody.

We're just a bunch of singing fools here at Three Kid Circus.

Posted by Jenny at 10:47 AM | Comments (17)

October 27, 2004

Trash Talkin'

After reading this post over at Rock Star Mommy, and this post at Finslippy, and several others, I am reminded of a commercial I saw a year or so ago.

I don't recall what this 30 second ad was promoting. I know it had something to do with the NBA. I sat in stunned silence the first time I saw it. Then I threw my head back and cackled like a lunatic. I TiVo'd it, and taped it to play for friends.

What? What was so funny? (And why was I watching NBA advertising?)

I can't find the tape to make an exact transcript. But it featured a very tame looking, administrative assistant-type woman at a photocopier. She lifted a stack of paper onto the autofeed, and wheeled around on a nearby co-worker. I've got to find that tape, because the ensuing monologue was priceless.

It included broad, chest slapping gestures and aggressive posturing, with phrases like "Why you frontin'? You best step off, dawg. I gots mad co-LATE-in' skilz." Also, something about "kick that chizz-net to the curb" and "this is my house."

I love me some trash-talking. I'm pretty mellow by nature, and rarely confrontational. If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you already know that I wear the IMPERFECT mother badge with pride. I've had the luxury of limiting social engagements to mothers and children that I want to hang out with. (I know this will come to an end now that my oldest is in school. Spare me the just you wait comments, because I KNOW and also, the parenting gods read my blog and are rubbing their hands together and dancing giddily, planning horrible playdates with judgemental people.)

Knowing this, I'm thinking it's time to craft a NBA "mad co-LATE-in skilz" type smackdown to trot out when the cold winds of disapproval and superior parenting styles cast a chill on a playdate.

"Yo! You disrespecting me? Why you frontin'? You best step off, jack, 'cause I gots mad par-ENT-al skilz, dawg. This is my house. MY HOUSE."

I still have to work in the chizz net part. Help me out, here. Feel free to riff away.

Posted by Jenny at 07:32 PM | Comments (11)

October 26, 2004

Further Proof

As if I haven't done a great job proving my ineptitude - I shlepped all three kids to our pediatrician yesterday, where they were quickly diagnosed with (duhn duhn duuuuuuuuuhn) bronchitis. All three of them. Just like that. I probably could have headed this off last week, but figured they'd just get over it. I was enjoying the mellow.

By Sunday night, we knew they were not going to 'just get over it.' So I scheduled an appointment for the oldest, and my husband planned to come home from work to cover the other two. Except that didn't happen. So I had to take all three with me to the doctor's office.

Our doctor is great. He has three boys himself, and is unphased by the Circus onslaught. We arrived 15 minutes early, and infected every toy and book in the waiting area (we gotcher germ warfare right here, baby) and used the potty three times. When we were called and followed the nurse to the exam room, my son burst out into a spontaneous rendition of the Bob the Builder theme song, with many trills and operatic extras. Good times. The other nurses looked on in amusement/horror.

Once they closed the door behind us, the kids were kept at bay for a minute with a book, but soon I was physically restraining my son from pulling the rubber reflex hammer out of the container on the desk so he could dispatch us all like a savage with a battle axe. The doctor arrived quickly, and after listening to my daughter's lungs, quickly checked the other two.

When he asked if the kids were allergic to amoxicillin, I confessed I didn't know. He was shocked that we've never had antibiotics for anything, but gave us a rundown on what to expect. Weird poop. Great.

So off to the in-building (thank goodness for that) pharmacy for albuterol and amoxicillan. While we waited for our prescription to be ready, we wandered the hallways and I caved to demands and purchased three Tootsie Roll Pops at a cost of $0.60 a piece. Highway robbery! I was secretly hoping they weren't very fresh, and would stick their mouths shut, at least until we got out of public space. Open shelves full of OTC medicines and kids who are sleep-deprived and snot-addled is a new level of Hell.

$60 bucks and two paper sacks later, we made our break for it. The entire pharmacy heaved a sigh of relief. At home, we have learned that albuterol makes for hyper kids. Because, yes. Hyper is better than hacking until vomiting. But still.

Laller, laller, bluh-a-hack-heh-choak-gag, laller.

Posted by Jenny at 12:19 PM | Comments (11)

October 21, 2004

Owning It

"This wouldn't be happening if you were a better mother."

Like most parents, I've heard some variation of this phrase, usually after I've suffered a toddler mutiny and I'm already feeling downtrodden. I get asked about my little slogan, too. Why would I want to admit that I'm an inferior parent?

Let me tell you: I'm not inferior. I'm just not perfect. And that's why I'm DELIGHTED that my favorite moms are taking back the "better mother smackdown" phrase for humorous use on each other.

Did the kids spill an entire gallon of milk on the floor? If you were a better mom...

Do your kids disagree? If you were a better mom...

Does your child refuse all food except cereal? If you were a better mom...

Baby have colic? If you were a better mom...

Hah! It's like the reclaiming of "b*tch" without the hip-hop flava.

I could go on for days and days about the mama friends I've made on the internet. In the dark, early morning hours of brand new motherhood, I turned to the internet, obsessively looking for information about baby development, nursing, and parenting techniques. It was during a fortuitous surfing session that I stumbled into a just-launched, mother-owned site that sold nursing clothes.

They only had a few dresses at the time, but I loved the owner's sass and her assertion that moms didn't have to be frumpy. Since April of 1999, I have participated in that site's discussion boards. Over the years, I have made some deep, sister-like connections, and consider these women to be kindred spirits and true friends.

The discussion board regulars could not only pick my kids out of a line up, they would know what to feed them, how to make them laugh and which stain removal product to use to clean up after them. We have celebrated births and mourned miscarriages. We have supported one another through difficult times, and have become a tightly woven posse.

The inside jokes, the familiarity, the ongoing stories that we share... it's sustained me and helped me become a skilled mother. Through our shared experiences, we have taught one another that there is no 'perfect' or 'ideal' in parenting. It's remained a safe harbor, where even the silliest questions are treated with respect and differing opinions are valued.

Several years ago, one of the regulars found a vintage bed jacket and sent it to one of our pregnant moms-to-be. Now each subsequent birth has been celebrated with a photo in the bed jacket, with a tiara. Before the jacket is passed on, mama and baby's name and date are written inside. Several of our number have already worn the jacket twice!

Anyway, I got off on a tangent here. I loves me some internet parents. We know how to keep it real.

Posted by Jenny at 07:30 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

October 16, 2004

Rebels In Pretty Princessland

I watched the action from behind my video camera. The footage positively percolates, a direct result of the quaking caused by my suppressed mirth. That first ballet recital was a doozy. My daughter was dressed in her pink leotard,tights and shoes, with her black ballet skirt, and fresh ribbons in her hair. With a group of eight three year olds and one instructor, you shouldn’t have high expectations. Yet, all the parents sat on the edge of their chairs, beaming at their little darlings. My little darling stood front and center, one hand on her hip, the other buried in her nose.

As the music started, all the girls except one pranced about the room on the heels of Miss Sharon. Mine galloped on all fours, whinnying like a stallion and tossing her ponytail. The antics continued throughout the thirty minutes, and left me hiccupping with tears in my eyes. My mother, who had sat with a stiff upper lip throughout the proceedings, waited until the kids were buckled into their car seats before she let fly.

“You have got to teach her that pretty princesses don’t act like that.” My mom gave me the Raised Eyebrow of All Seriousness.

“I’m not raising her to be a pretty princess.” I shot back, with my best cheeky grin.

“Well, if she doesn’t learn these things, she will struggle her whole life,” she intoned, with a disapproving glare. “I guess I’ll just have to teach her myself.”

We’ve gone many rounds in this argument over the years. Since the sonogram revealed girlie bits, I made plans for my future daughter. She would be funny and intelligent. She would have a sharp wit and a can-do attitude. Naturally, she would be beautiful, but all compliments and other observations about my daughter would NOT indicate that her beauty is the measure of her character.

I spoke of these expectations at length, with anyone who I feared would focus on the “Pretty Princess” ideal. I was a warrior for feminist infant rights. She would not be forced to wear scratchy lace. She would be encouraged to find her own voice, and show us who she was.

My mother sighed frequently. “You’re going to be in for a rude shock. She’s going to be a girlie girl and you won’t have any say over it. All little girls want to be feminine and pretty. You’ll see.”

I decided that she could be right. I had spent my childhood dreaming of princes and horse-drawn carriages. Oh, no. Wait. That was my older sister. At a year, I earned the nickname “Grub-fingers” for laying waste to my entire face using only saliva and an Oreo. At five, I wanted to own a bakery. I planned on having a few kids and a big candy dish on my future coffee table. I had a doll named Dozer, who got her hair rubbed off from my aggressive attempts to uncover artifacts in the yard using her head as a digging implement. I suspect that Mommy Brain has blocked all of this out of my mother’s memories.

My big girl enters kindergarten this year, and my youngest, also a daughter, is nearly two. The years have been full of exasperating moments that made me rant with frustration at the nerve of my girl, only to spend a half hour on the phone, proudly recounting the nerve of my girl.

I find humor in her candidness. Her honest appraisal of the world at large can be exhausting. While I was pregnant, she was fascinated with my bulging silhouette. I shared a shower with her, and got one of the biggest laughs of my life when she spontaneously composed and performed a song called “Big Fat Butt, Big Fat Belly.” She sees beauty in places where our eyes have learned not to linger.

This bluntness can be shocking, as well. We rented Walt Disney’s Cinderella on a rainy afternoon. The kids seemed to enjoy it. After dinner, during the bedtime toy roundup, I said, “Cinderella was always cheerful about helping her family, even when she didn’t want to.” My daughter squared her jaw and growled, “I’m not Cinderella.” Duly noted.

Although many of my not-so-girly tendencies have appeared in my daughter, there have been many surprises. She really likes coordinated outfits. She loves pretty things. She sparkles and purses her lips in delight when we play ‘fine ladies’ during a tea party. Then again, she also adores dinosaurs and spends hours growling and thrashing around with her brother and sister. She has a love of high drama, favoring disaster themes. “Mommy! The storm is coming! Get under the table!”

When I was a teenager, my mom issued a curse: “I hope you have three kids exactly like you!” Fate has a funny way of twisting things. Instead of getting three kids just like me, my oldest is almost an exact duplicate of my mom.

Which leads me to speculate: My mom was raised to be a wife and mother. Her mother was raised with the same goal. They were taught that the worth of a woman is her physical beauty, the spring in her husband’s step, the cleanliness of her laundry, the frugality of her budget, and the obedience of her children. To admit dissatisfaction in these womanly endeavors was a mark of shame in the suburbs of my mother’s youth. To admit failure was unthinkable. Pour me a drink. I’m never going to meet those standards.

My mother came of age during the late 1960s. She attended a high school where girls weren’t allowed to wear pants, and a third of the male graduates in her class died in Vietnam. Like most of her friends, she married six months after graduation, and started a family a short time later. My parents never were hippies. They had bills to pay and children to rear. Still, they were in their early 20s and quite groovy, judging from the photos.

The volatile world for women in the 1970s had a big impact on my mom. Despite her traditional upbringing, she instilled independence and ambition in her own daughters. We were encouraged to achieve. Our dreams were nourished, even when they failed. My sister and I joke about the schizophrenic nature of my mom’s advice. “Go out there and conquer the world! But first, put on fresh lipstick and straighten your hair before your husband comes home!” She manages a cross between a feminist and a traditional housewife from the Depression era.

In my daughter, I see all of the wild streaks that lie dormant in my mom’s soul. All the squelched desires and stunted dreams, all the unladylike impulses that Mom was forced to reject for fear of being a rebel will be embraced by my daughter. The little girl who warbled at the top of her lungs on the hilltop to her mother’s chagrin will sing again. With exuberance and good humor, my girl brings new life to the little girl that learned too early how a “Pretty Princess” behaves.

When my mom threatens to teach my daughter about proper behavior, I rarely get my back up anymore. It clearly didn’t affect me all that much. I think she enjoys having “spunky grandkid” stories to tell. I no longer forbid people to tell my daughter she is beautiful. She always answers, “I know,” in a matter of fact tone. Perhaps Grandma serving up some humble pie would be beneficial.

My baby daughter is already a rebel. She is tiny, and precocious, with a sense of humor that never fails to hit the mark. She issues orders with authority, refusing to allow her limited vocabulary to stand in her way. As the youngest of three siblings, she’s been jostled, hassled and thoroughly schooled by her older sister and brother. She works her feminine wiles with a shrewd mind and innate toughness. When she falls, she announces, “I fine.” This child will not be denied.

Is there any truth to my mom’s belief that trouble lies ahead for a girl who doesn’t embrace her accepted place? Perhaps. That is why I am committed to raising renegades. These children inspire me to learn more, demand more, be more. I am still the axis around which my children revolve, but as time passes, their orbits are elongating. They fly by, glowing under my mother-love beams, and shoot off again into the unknown.

My daughter, age five, has unshakeable confidence. She knows her own mind. Thinking ahead to the next few years gives me the vapors. What malevolent influences will she encounter? Will she be swept up in Barbie Envy? Will her queenly demeanor make her unpopular? I feel the gentle push of her will, letting me know that she is ready to go forth and make waves. My deepest desire finds my daughter, thirty years old, with confidence built from years of wonderful experiences, a woman knows her own mind and rolls her eyes when I insist that she wanted nothing more than to be a Pretty Princess.

Posted by Jenny at 07:42 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack

October 13, 2004

Setting A Good Example

I forgot to wear my sash and tiara, but believe me when I say that I went forth and represented Mothers Everywhere like a true ambassador.

First, I picked up my oldest at kindergarten. I had showered and primped to moderate cuteness. Both the little'uns are sick, but I dressed them in *gasp* coordinated outfits and made sure they were shiny, adorable Representative Children of An Exceptional Mother. Like, they even had shoes on for a change.

The occasion? We were heading to Target. Wahoo! I had to buy some plastic containers so I could pack away more of the toys in the garage.

You know, I used to read about the Puritans, and felt so, so sad for those children. It used to rend my heart to hear about how they passed their entire childhoods with a single doll, or a toy carved from a solid block of wood by a skilled relative. How unstimulating. How tragic. How...wait a minute! How brilliant! How happy I would be to never pick up another Lego disaster area! I can keep these kids busy embroidering and making candles. Yes! Take THAT, Leapfrog. Oh, wait. I don't know how to do either of those things. Hmm. Arming my children with sharp instruments and hot wax sounds like a mutiny waiting to happen. Forget I even mentioned this.

Back to the Target trip. So, we pick up the big girl, and off we go! Kids are fed and rested. I'm looking cute. We arrive, and disembark from the van with delighted exclamations. Whee! Target! I fetch a cart, and all three children clamber aboard. The baby in the front seat, the two big kids in the basket. And we're off!

As I lean down to stow my purse on the bottom, I notice I have two long, green trails of snot down one pants leg. A baby wipe is furiously applied, and now I have a giant wet spot and white lint balls, but no snot. I adjust my head to a regal tilt, and march through the double doors towards Rubbermaid Mecca.

"Mommy, can I get a Pretty Pony?"

"No, we're not here for toys, honey. La la la!"

"Mommy, can I get..."

"No toys, sweetiepie. La la la."

"Mooooom! I want..."

"Nope nope nope. La-di-la-di-laaaaaa!"

I was kind of like Dr. Evil meets Snow White. I was creeping myself out. "Zip it! Tralalalalala!"

I need some serious containers. Although I flirted with the idea of putting both big kids out of the cart, they were both "so tiiiii-yerd" that I had to get creative. Why my creativity didn't extend to fetching one of the multi-child carts of ginormous proportions I do not remember.

Four nested containers would fit on the bottom of the cart. I needed four more. I made both big kids stand in the cart, stood four nested containers on their end and wedged them into the narrow side of the basket. Both my cracker-assed kids could wedge into the container, with their feet extended out under the baby's seat in the front. It was like a canopy. They were well pleased. A stack of lids was wedged upright behind the baby's seat, and we headed for the register.

There was much giggling and wiggling. The youngest took it upon herself to greet each and every person we passed. "Hey-yo! Hey-yo!" She had already ripped her ponytail elastic out, leaving her hair standing out in wild waves like a lion's main. A green snot bubble was expelled and noticed after it had begun to be wiped on a pudgy arm. The two in the basket were saying "Mommy, if we're bad, do we have to stay in this box?" and "Mommy, why are you going to take away all our toys?"

In the aisle next to us stood a darling pregnant woman and her obviously delighted husband. They cooed to her belly, and had a cart full of baby goodies. As we passed out of the aisle on our way out of the store, our carts were neck and neck. My children were making fart noises on the side of the plastic containers. Their faces went from content to alarm in a hilarious few seconds that I wish I had a camera to capture.

As we reached our respective vehicles, I said, "Congratulations!" and the Mom gave me a smile and wave, and then hurried into her car.

She'll remember me in a few years, and laugh.

Posted by Jenny at 05:37 PM | Comments (10) | TrackBack

October 06, 2004

Birthday Sparkles

I was born at 8:23am, 32 years ago. Happy Birthday to me! And to my mom as well, who endured a 45 minute drive and 12 hours of unmedicated labor, in addition to the 9 months of carrying me. Being born before 9 am is why, I fear, I am NOT a morning person.

My sister is exactly 18 months older than me, and my birthday is her half-birthday. We have always celebrated together. We are like Ernie and Bert, down to the head shapes. Opposite, but entwined.

From my earliest birthday memories, there is one constant: my mom always asks to see if I have "birthday sparkles." I never felt particularly sparkly, but she always maintains that the sparkles are there. I like the whole concept of birthday sparkles.

Since my mom is in Hawaii, I decided to take matters into my own hands before bed last night. Right before bed, I liberally coated myself with Caramel. When I stumbled to the bathroom this morning, I caught a glimpse of myself, and Voila! I'm a sparkly birthday princess! And I smell goooood. And my son keeps licking my arm. Heh!

I like waking up sparkly. This, combined with my friend wonder chicken's advice to always brush your teeth first thing, since it's hard to be mean with a minty-fresh mouth... these seem like good things to build a day on.

Join me in celebrating my Birthday Month! Thank your mama for bringing you into the world. Have an extra dessert. Laugh. A lot. And, for pete's sake...be minty-fresh and sparkly!

Posted by Jenny at 08:30 AM | Comments (17) | TrackBack

October 03, 2004

I Coulda Been A Contendah

I haven't been a joy to be around lately. I've been short with my family and hiding from my friends. Sometimes the sleep deprivation and other more, uh, womanly factors line up like a one-two punch, leaving me wandering around like a broke-down back alley brawler: two black eyes, a broken nose and lots of anger about all the things that are keeping me out of the big time.

My big time goals are mundane, and attainable. I have been hanging out by the corner store, shadow-boxing and singing my sad song to passersby. What am I looking for? Encouragement? A sympathetic nod? Tough love?

I know I have to get back in the gym and work. The house won't clean itself. Meals must be shopped for and prepared. The kids will create their own society and laws a la Lord of the Flies if I am not an active, interested parent. My husband will lavish his time and attention on the computer if I continue to scowl.

I hate the knowing, when my mind and body still have to accomplish the doing.

Hee! I'm trying to be all serious and metaphorical, and my washing machine just went nuts with an unbalanced load. The banging! And the shimmying! And me, frantic, trying to reach the knob before the behemouth rips itself out of the wall and snaps the hinges off the closet door in the process. Even my *&^#@&* washer wants to get away.

It's a sign. Nothing to say here that can't wait.

Posted by Jenny at 11:50 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

September 27, 2004

Restless Jenny Recounts Her Day

I don't know what is going on... my whole family was squirrelly today. Lots of twitching and spastic flailing, leading to a whole lot of nothing in the productivity department.

A few days ago, I ran out of my makeup base - which of course sends a come-on-down signal to the acne fairy. Hello!?! I'm days away from my 32nd birthday and while I'd love to recapture my 16 year old verve, spots were NEVER a good look for me. I'm also retaining enough water that I could fling myself onto a burning building and save the day. It's like a bad Wonder Twins episode. Add to this vision of loveliness the fact that I've been too harried to buy my good shampoo and have been using my husband's all-in-one, rendering my tresses lifeless and dull.

Nevertheless, having rock-solid self-esteem and a bent towards procrastination, I prepared to go fetch my kindergartner at the appointed hour wearing purple yoga style sweatpants and a t-shirt, finished off by my ratty Target sneakers and barrette holding my limp bangs off of my face. I looked like holy hell, but figured I could at least excuse my lack of cuteness by arriving on foot. You know, like this was my workout look. Hah!

The stroller had a flat tire when we went to leave, and despite repeated attempts to fill the tire, it became apparent that we would be taking the van. During this repair interlude, my son took it upon himself to climb to the highest peak of the swingset, where he sang Baa Baa Black Sheep at the top of his lungs. I was able to coax him down with the promise of an Oreo.

I grabbed the baby and the dog, and loaded kit and kaboodle into the van. We arrived, were able to retrieve the big girl quickly, fetch her bike and load back into the van. We left, my daughter bubbling over with enthusiastic descriptions about Johnny Appleseed and Baby Beluga. We rounded the final corner to our house, and there was my mom in her SUV, waving.

She toodle-loo'd at me, and said "Can I come play?" This was really bad. I've been slacking on my housework. And despite playing catch up this weekend, I'm far from company ready. In fact, I should get my heinie off the computer and go clean. Right now. But I'm bad like that. Panic was shooting through every fiber of my being. My mom is a professional real estate stager. She makes homes look like model homes for a living. I didn't want to expose her to the chaos that has overtaken my home after several days of funkitude.

We entered into quick negotiations and decided on ice cream. Since the ice cream parlor is located in the shopping mall, I figured I could Clinique and perhaps replace my ratty shoes, since Grandma would be there to help out.

Normally, taking the kids to the mall is a hair-raising event, executed at a sprint with kids on lockdown in strollers and slings and a minimum of horsing around. Grandma apparently took her cue from my hair, weighed down with crappy all-in-one conditioners, because there was to be no hair-raising, nor any sprinting. She loves to show off the kids, and to let them have 'fun' by wandering free of restraints.

In the royal snit/state of fashion disaster I was in, I developed an eye-tick watching my 22 month old toddle into the path of other shoppers, causing them to lurch around her at the last minute while shooting the evil eye at me. I'm just sour to the core today, because they really had a wonderful time, and I'm sure I was imagining the dirty looks, because really, everyone was busy looking adoringly at my children and their young and cute grandmother.

After a refreshing, sugary treat, the children were primed and ready to take advantage of Grandma's good graces. I Cliniqued while Grandma took the kids up and down the escalator. I wandered the purses and shoes while Grandma took them to the bathroom. Hobo bags are in. After a brief questioning - "Jenny, did you know your son is wearing underpants with ballet slippers on them?" I had to 'fess up that he had soiled the last clean pair of boy pants and I had to improvise, while reassuring her that I'm not trying to raise a cross-dresser.

We let the kids play at the toy store. All three were excited but mannerly, and we made it out of there without spending a dime. Hooray for Grandma! I also got new sneakers, which will clash horribly with my purple pants. But, as I'm thinking on this, purple is really close to pink, and I can't do pink sweats. I have issues, I know. So maybe I need to get some new workout pants too. And a hobo bag. And a poncho. And a housekeeper.

Once we made it home, I was treated to a five hour long bad pun and knock knock joke extravaganza from my five and a half year old. She's got a real dorky streak. She comes by it honestly, what with her parents and all. My son napped, and woke up feeling extra energetic. In fact, he spent close to an hour bounding up and down on the mini-trampoline, kicking himself in the butt and saying "Look Mommy! I'm a pain in my own butt!" Over and over.

The wee one followed me around as I aimlessly loaded the dishwasher and folded laundry. She is in the rapid acquisition phase of language learning, and she speaks with a rising tone, so every word sounds like a question. It's adorable, and I try my best to keep my head in the game, but I was just weary. My slackitude netted me sharp pokes in the thigh from the baby when I failed to parrot the word she was schooling me on. I've got a bunch of pinpoint-sized bruises on my leg as proof of my wandering mind.

We read and logged our books for the evening, packed lunches for tomorrow, chose outfits, ate dinner, did the baths, played with daddy, brushed teeth, even got to bed at a decent hour. I think I will blame this restlessness on the weather.

Oh! That's the other funny thing my daughter said: she said that I'm Deciduous. She must have overheard me talking about needing to mulch my entire wardrobe and start fresh with some Fall Colors. Hee!

Posted by Jenny at 08:18 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

September 24, 2004

The Light! It Burns!

First of all, I have to thank the adorable CCP for my first ever fan snailmail: a pack of "Mofo" gum. You can't see it in this photo, but the box also features really hilarious hand gestures with accompanying phrases like "When yo' chillin' with the bee-yatches, get yo' mofo groove on and put a cap in that dawg breath." I'm speechless. It's, like, perfect for me! Heeeeeee! Also included was a very sweet note that made my day! You're a doll! Mwah!

I'm going to have to keep this short and sweet (like me) today (I know, everyone is all, "good, because she just goes ON and ON") because I got myself a hangover. That's right, folks - fed the kids grilled cheese with baby carrots for dinner, put them to bed, curled up on the couch with a small glass of Chateau St. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and a grilled cheese of my own to watch Survivor. (It was a grilled swiss on rye, toasted with a touch of olive oil, which I feel compelled to mention. Just don't want you to think I'm pairing Kraft American singles, margarine and Wonderbread with my moderately priced wine. 'Cause I am CLASSY and all.)

This morning: Hangover. Hangover City. I'm like, shocked. I'm an even cheaper date than before. Sheesh. So I'm drinking tons of water and wearing sunglasses. To type on my computer. Let's all say it together: CLASSY.

Posted by Jenny at 09:21 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

September 20, 2004

A Moment To Myself

This morning, the hubs took my oldest to Kindergarten, allowing me to wallow in
the luxury of not rushing out before eight o'clock. My four year old son started
swimming lessons today, but not until ten, so I was able to move at a sedate
pace while getting ready. At nine-thirty, I walked by the mirror in the hall
where we place our keys. Mine? Not there. Again. This is a subject worthy of its
own lengthy rant. I quickly surveyed the most likely locations for the missing
keys. No. No. No no no no. Looks like we are walking to the pool. It's a mile,
no biggie. I have time to get there, so I load the baby and the boy in the
stroller and head out. Our heatwave has ended, and in its place, the air was
tinged with a crispness that made me want to take big strides and breathe deep.
Oh, and wear tweed. But that is another subject worthy of its own entry. My son
spent the entire 20 minutes of our walk asking questions. "Are we going to
Grandma's? Are we lost? Where is the egg-plant? Are we going to school? Are you
going to hop like a bunny?" Gah. We get to the pool, unload, boy swims, baby
squirms on my lap and yells "WIM! WIM!" and flails herself toward to edge of the
pool. At the end of the lesson, we dry him off and dress him warmly, then start
the walk back home. Miraculously, both kids fall asleep within a minute or two.
Then it was just me and my thoughts. Okay, granted there was some sort of
motorcycle rally going on, and the street I was walking down was full of
traffic, but I saw the sun shining and heard the creek babbling and the trees
rustling and even with the noise from the surrounding cars and businesses, it
was just ME. And I was THINKING. About STUFF. About a year ago, I had a dream
that I had taken up oil painting. I was pretty good too. But in my dream, my
three children kept snatching my canvases and smearing them, and try as I may, I
could never get away. A startling moment in that dream found me curled in the
fetal position while my children pummelled me, literally knocking the urge for
creativity right out of me. I woke in a cold sweat, but had to laugh. I have
always been a creative person, but lately I just can't get started. Not even a
little. I have come to the conclusion that if I want any vestiges of creativity
of my OWN making, I am going to have to fight for it. Being a parent makes for
an interesting dilemma. I nurture my family, but allow myself to wither. There
is no easy answer, either. Someone is always going to think you're a martyr or
selfish. Or both.

Posted by Jenny at 11:13 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

September 15, 2004

And So, It Begins.

I was all worried about the care and keeping of a kindergartener. I was certain
to be the most disorganized, least fashionable mother. As usual, I was worrying
about the wrong things. We get there on time. We even walk the whole way. In 90+
degree heat. And I don't complain. I have yet to forget about a lunch, or to
neglect to return forms. (I know, it's only been three weeks, go easy on me,
eh?) I'm good like that. But then, wham. I peel open the My Pretty Pony backpack
today and there it is. FALL 2004 FUNDRAISER! YOUR KID WINS PRIZES THAT ARE A
BUNCH OF WORTHLESS JUNK IF SHE SELLS A BOATLOAD OF OVERPRICED CRAP TO YOUR
FRIENDS, FAMILY AND EVEN PERFECT STRANGERS! Start stalking your neighbors! Now.
NOW! I hate fundraising. I did appreciate the note that "Children should be
accompanied by a parent when selling door-to-door. Children should not knock on
the doors of unfamiliar homes after dark." Can't I just write a check to the
PTA? Would that speak ill of my school spirit? And then, the school photo day.
You can select the basic package, against a 'slate' background, or for ONLY $2
more, you can 'upgrade' to Arctic, Freedom, Sky, Purple Passion or Fall Colors.
I'm thinking I'll dress her like an Eskimo and go with Artic, but then, I'm open
for suggestions. They also suggest adding "soft-focus" for an additional $3.
Because your elementary student needs a warmer, softer finish. What? Save the
Cybil Sheppard lighting for the acne prone teens, okay? And THEN, I get a call
saying my son's preschool has been moved to the center across town. This throws
off my whole plan of walking my son to his school. I'm irritated. Now I have to
either hustle to find him a new class, nearby, or I keep him home until January.
Not the end of the world, but still. I was beginning to look forward to having
an hour or two with just the baby. But, the good news is: my oldest loves her
school, and I'm delighted, too. Now, if I can just weasel out of selling
door-to-door, and land on the perfect outfit to go with a Purple Passion
background...

Posted by Jenny at 06:21 PM | Comments (0)

July 27, 2004

Just like a real toddler

I'll admit it freely. I am a potty training wuss. My youngest is 19 months.
She's been carrying around the bjorn potty for a month. She's watched the Once
Upon a Potty video a zillion times. You would think that I would have learned
after the first two kids. The Potty video instructs kids NOT to empty the potty
onto their head. My wunderkinds take this as a challenge. Someone once told me
that kids under a certain age don't hear the word 'no' and 'don't'. You say
Don't jump on the couch! They hear "Jump on the couch! (WAHOO!) Seems to be
true in my house. Okay, back to potty training. Today we took a victory lap at
Target, in celebration of our successful trip to the DMV. That's right. I'm a
briber. Thing number 700 on the pre-kids list of THINGS I WILL NEVER DO. I
suggest to all newly pregnant women that they keep one of these lists. It's
great comedy a few years down the road. The oldest wanted a Pretty Pony. My
son wanted something in a Brachidactyl. I know my dinos, and there is no such
thing. But whatever. My youngest is the only one of my kids to have any
interest in baby dolls. She loves to be a little mother. Actually, now that I
think about it, she loves to bring the dolls to me for me to give them gok-gok
(her word for nursing.) I rock them and pat them while she beams at me. Maybe
she thinks it's funny to watch me play with dolls. Hmmm... We cruised the doll
aisle, and I saw a likely winner. The Potty Training Doll by Fisher Price.
She's made from that groovy vanilla smelling vinyl and comes with her own dolly
sized potty. Aha! We can act it out and praise the dolly! What a fabulous
learning tool! On the way home from Target, the baby fell asleep. The two big
kids abandoned their new toys for the chance to make the doll pee. After force
feeding the doll and filling the potty a few times, I took it away and dried off
the floor and cushions where they had been playing. When the baby woke up, we
showed her the doll, explained that she used the big girl potty and gave her the
sippy cup to feed her 'baby'. Four hours later, and I'm still finding wet spots.
The doll, rather than sedately using her potty, has been piddling all over the
house. Yo! Fisher Price! Let's fit this thing with a microchip that only
releases the water when her plastic butt is firmly planted on the potty, eh?
How hard could it be to do that? My potty training aids have once again
abandoned me in my hour of need. Instead of a helpful tool to show my toddler
the joys of using the big girl potty, I've gained another kid with bladder
control issues. It's so realistic I could scream. That's it. I'm inventing the
Potty Lock Electronic Peeing Doll. I'll be rich. Can't you just see it in the
Right Start or Sensational Beginnings catalog?

Posted by Jenny at 07:33 PM | Comments (0)

July 26, 2004

Somebody slap me

It has dawned on me that most mothers feel slightly crazy. A random sampling of
'blogs had me in stitches... Almost every mother included the actual word
"crazy" in their summary. Now, why is that? You'd think that there was a mental
health epidemic. Are we a bunch of drama queens and martyrs? Are we truly
imbalanced enough to earn the C-word? In my case, yes. I had a discussion with
the hubs the other day. We were comparing notes on how our lives have changed
since the birth of our children. Hubs: Still works in same field. Still drives
same car. Still has same friends. Still plays video games and has poker night.
Still makes plans based on himself. Me: Totally new 'job'. Now driving
mini-van. Whole roster of new friendships, largely based on kids who play
nicely with mine. Rarely a moment to myself, let alone escapist fun with
friends. All plans are contingent on naps, tantrums, laundry status and other
obligations. Hmmm. I'm not saying my life has been affected more than his. Oh,
wait. Yes. Yes I am. Am I resentful? Sometimes. I whine to friends that "I
used to be fun. I never said 'no' or left the house in the same clothes I've
been wearing all week before I had children." I regularly answer the question
"How are you?" with "I'm crazed." Do people want to hear this? I don't think
so. So, if we are all nuts, what does it? Lack of sleep? Probably not,
because I used to stay up all night dancing and drinking, with no need to
proclaim myself crazy. Responsibility? Probably closer to the root, but many
of us manage jobs, homes, schedules without the C-word. Did motherhood transform
me from a normal, linear thinking woman into a mess? Actually, no. I was all
over the road before (see drinking/dancing above) and although I worked, I was
never an exemplary employee. I'm a lousy housekeeper, and a world class
procrastinator. What motherhood did was bring a renewed sense of purpose to the
daily grind. I do these things for my family. Is my family grateful? Like
most services, you don't know how good you have it until it's gone. I only hear
about it when I drop the ball. I'm sure they appreciate the work I do behind
the scenes. I don't want to be the mom who actually feels the need to say "you
don't have any idea how hard I work for you, you ungrateful little wretches." I
wish I liked to do laundry. I wish there was great fulfillment in putting a
meal on the table. I try to do these things with love. I just don't FEEL the
love. It is still a chore. My latest panic is the start of Kindergarten. I
have a month to acclimate myself. For the first time in six years, I will have
to be somewhere each morning at 8 am. And back again at 1:30. I get to do this
with my partners in procrastination, who don't like to eat breakfast until 10
am, who prefer being nudists to all forms of clothing... and add to that the
insider tip from a friend that THE MOMS CHECK EACH OTHER OUT TO SEE IF YOU ARE
TOGETHER OR NOT. What? I'm going to be judged? My inner diva says *let them
judge* but the outer mommy says *I am going to affect my children's social
status if I show up in a flannel shirt and sweatpants.* Somebody slap me. I'm
over-thinking this. See, more proof that I am, indeed, crazy.

Posted by Jenny at 07:15 AM | Comments (0)

July 25, 2004

Green Eyed Monster

Its been over 5 years now that I've been a mother. Well, just over 6 if you
count the pregnant part, too. So, 6 years that I have had a constant, adoring
audience. This is generally good for my ego, but there are times that you would
love to take a pee in private. While I was dropping my oldest off for preschool
last Wednesday, there were several other gleeful moms comparing notes on what
they would be doing for the 2 1/2 hours that their children were in class. They
were all apparently kid-free: one was going for a massage, another was meeting
her husband for a late lunch, a third was off for a workout and manicure at the
gym. I kissed my oldest good-bye on the cheek, since she decided it's not cool
to kiss on the lips in front of your friends. That was a rough one. She
waffles on it, usually kisses me hello on the lips, but my heart made a noise
like a shattering glass when she made that proclamation the first time. One of
the kid-free moms turned around and smiled at me. I was standing there with a
sleeping 18 month old in the sling, who is looking angelic and drooling all over
me, and holding the hand of a limp as a noodle 4 year old, who has collapsed
under protest when I refused to purchase Cheetos from the vending machine in the
lobby. The KF mom said, kindly "No break for you, eh?" She meant it well, and I
took it in the spirit intended. I'm positive that her child in preschool is her
youngest, and she's been exactly where I am now. But, ooooh, I was so JEALOUS!
I can't envision the day where I leave my baby at school for a few hours and
have both the time and the money to pamper myself. I want to simultaneously be
there RIGHT NOW and to have the day never come. We made it out to the car after
I caved and bought some cheetos. I saw those other moms jumping into their
minivans and SUVs, off for a grown-up afternoon. We went to Target and cruised
around for an hour. It was fun for all three of us. When it comes down to it,
I don't want to rush away from these baby years. I know they grow up so fast
that you can get whiplash trying to watch. There are moms out there who manage
to take time for themselves on a frequent basis. I haven't mastered that.
Anyway, I suspect that midway through a massage, I'd be missing my babies. Or
I'd be asleep. Hah! I could arrange to do these things, too. But I am really
happy to go to Target with the little kids, too. My day will come. I hope that
I will be able to embrace it.

Posted by Jenny at 08:23 AM | Comments (0)

July 22, 2004

A family memory for the ages

I've been working very diligently to reform my lazy eating habits, and to regain a daily exercise habit after this most recent bout of illness. It's been going well. I'm back to 99% of normal, and have completed my workouts and eaten my veggies and drank my water and even remembered my vitamin.

I'm a night person, and I have tremendous difficulty getting to sleep before midnight. In the last months of my pregnancy with my youngest, I was so swollen and exhausted by the end of the day that my sole activity for the evening consisted of watching the entire lineup of FoodTV programming. My kids fell asleep nightly to the dulcet tones of Emeril shouting about pork fat and bamming. I learned more about people who collect weird food memorabilia and the manufacturers of all manner of packaged foods than any one person should ever know.

Since the birth of my daughter, I rarely watch. I don't know. Three kids who don't eat much (they aren't picky, they just seem to exist on two bites of whatever) and a husband who considers boxed mac and cheese with hot dogs cut up in it gourmet eating made me question whether I needed to watch anymore. Last night, I lay in my bed
trying to drift off. I turned on the Food Network, and watched Alton Brown make homemade donuts. It was like someone flipped a switch in my brain. I would impress my children with homemade donuts. I envisioned them kissing me with sticky lips, and basking in the glory of super-cool mommyness. I would wake at 5 and start the dough, and allow them to help me cut out the rounds. We would gather around the table and ice them together. It would be a family memory for the ages.

I leaped from the bed to the computer and downloaded the recipe. My
husband grunted something about it being 11 pm and why the *%$&)(*! am I printing something. No, no. I will not endure a party pooper. I am on my way to June Cleaver perfection. I make a mental note to wear my pearls, as I drift off to dreamland.

Morning arrives, and as I make my way to the kitchen, I notice that it is 6:30, and I've somehow missed my tee time at the Kitchen-Aid. Never mind. I fix the recipe to the side of the fridge with a flourish, pour myself a cup of coffee, and begin to gather ingredients. Part of what I love about cooking shows is the fact that all of the ingredients are usually pre-measured, in darling little glass ramekins, and the chef just merrily tosses them together. The other thing I love is the dirty dishes that get tucked under the
counter. It has long been my contention that I have all the makings of a master chef, but I need a busboy, dish washer and a couple of sous-chefs to prepare my ingredients and mop my brow.

I get a good handful of flour on the floor, but manage to get everything in the mixer and turn it on. Yes! We're back on
track. Take THAT Krispy Kreme! I transfer the dough to an oiled bowl to rise, and tuck it in the oven with the light on. I then proceed to the living room, and break up a fight over who had the anteater first. Then I get a round of sippy cups, and announce my delightful plans to the children. The baby wanders off to remove every VHS tape from the drawers of our entertainment center. The other two are excited and ready.

"Let's cut them out now, Mommy! Can I do the rolling pin, Mommy? Why can't we do it NOW, Mommy? Can I taste the dough, Mommy?" Oh, man. Sous-chefs aren't supposed to give orders or make silly requests. I shake my head a bit to clear it, and then take the kids to the kitchen to show them how the dough is not doubled yet. They are sure it would be just fine.

Quick, diversionary tactics! Let's get our rolling surface ready and sprinkled with flour. What was I thinking? 5 seconds later, EVERY
surface in the kitchen has a fine layer of white powder, including me and the kids, who are beaming with delight. I clearly am winning points, but it's taking every ounce of strength for me to not order them out of the kitchen in a rage of indignation.

I get a rag and clean off hands and faces, and mercifully, I have used quick yeast. Lo and behold, it has risen.

After punching down and rolling out the dough, I find myself micro-managing the cutting of the circles. "No! Close together! No! Like this! I'll show you again..." Aaaaaah! I didn't picture this degree of frustration last night. But the donuts, and the adoration of my kids will be worth it. While the donuts are rising for a second
time, I get the oil ready and station the children on chairs across the kitchen island where they can see but are in no danger from splattering oil. Sensing the lack of danger, they abandon me to fry up the donuts, while they engage in a game that involves lots of yelling and pretend falling.

I field a phone call, and manage to cook the first three donuts with no mishaps. Yes! I knew I could do this! The next three cook in like 15 seconds, so I adjust the heat down a bit. My 18 month old wanders into the line of fire, so I scoop her up and rush her back to the safety of the living room. Shoot! The next three are really really crisp.

The phone rings, and I drop my donut turning fork. I have been using the handle to lift them out, so naturally when I reach down to pick up the fork, I burn my hand. I stick my throbbing hand into the sink and turn on the cold water. I am now adding dough and retrieving cooked donuts with a slotted spoon, all with my non-dominant hand.

In another moment of brilliance, I airmail a donut hole into the pot, and am rewarded with a searing pain on my OTHER hand. Great. Two hands in the sink, 4 donuts in the pot, a toddler on the final approach and my mother on my answering machine saying "Are you there? Are you there? Pick up the phone. Pick it up. Pick. It. Up."

For the record, the donuts were very good, but I decided to eliminate the frosting step because of the mess I already had to contend with, and because my hands were stinging. The kids didn't seem to care. They ate them, even the extra crispy ones. They think I'm cool, but I suspect it was because I was *so funny* hooting and jumping around with my burned hands, covered with flour.

I'm thinking this is some sort of sign that I should stick with healthy food and leave the donuts to Krispy Kreme from now on.

Posted by Jenny at 03:13 PM | Comments (0)

July 19, 2004

Back in the saddle again...

We woke to overcast skies this morning... Surprisingly all three kids slept like
rocks last night. We all seem to rest well when the fog rolls in. It will burn
off in an hour or so. I like it. Despite my lingering congestion, I'm
determined to get back on my exercise routine. I've been doing some basic
freeweight exercises for months, and recently added a mini-trampoline for
variety. It hasn't done much for my weight, but stamina-wise and strength-wise
I'm impressed. Even better, summer preschool begins today after a month-long
hiatus. Mercy. I know, I know, I feel blessed to have intelligent, active,
opinionated children. I feel blessed to be able to be an at-home parent to
them. But my 5 year old is DRIVING ME NUTS. I suspect there is some truth to
what my mom has always said: Kids are wired to drive you crazy at the times
when they need you to let them grow. Or maybe it was let them go.
Whatever. I'm ready for kindergarten, which starts August 30th. I know she's
ready. I'm also sure I'll mark the change in our lives with a few tears and
some sentimental musings. How did these 5 years pass so quickly? It seems like
a cliche' but it does bewilder me. The fact is; my 5 year old is capable of
expressing thoughts like "I don't want to buy any products from companies where
the people who work there have little girls that they are supporting because
then those parents will buy them Pretty Ponies and I want to have all the Pretty
Ponies so let's only buy stuff from companies that only have little boys at
home, okay?" I think we need to work on less TV. My son will be 4 soon, and
I'm thinking about enrolling him in preschool this fall. He's ready, I think,
but I can't get him reliable on the potty training. Oh, how I hate potty
training. I can give them all the reasons in the world that they can and should
use the toilet, but it seems he doesn't care if he 'has an accident' and my
patience is wearing thin. If it was a control issue, or a rebellion issue or
something quantifiable, at least I would feel there was an angle to attack. But
how do you convince a kid that pooping al fresco is not okay, even if you *like*
the feel of air on your hiney. Oh, it's so gross! I've explained about germs,
ranted about civilized folk, swooned, made him pick it up each time... Oooh,
maybe we need to stop watching Animal Planet. Voila'! An angle! Steve Irwin,
thy name is mud! Ahahahaha Anyhoo, it's Monday, and I have laundry to tackle,
lunch to make and pack and have yet to get in a good session of hair tossing :)
Onward and upwards!

Posted by Jenny at 09:47 AM | Comments (0)

July 14, 2004

I need a bigger breadmaker

8:45 am on a Wednesday, and I've been listening to tantrums over my apparent
lack of foresight for going on three hours. My almost 4 year old son has decided
that he WILL have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And he WILL have it NOW.
In our family, this is not an unusual breakfast, and I'd be delighted to oblige,
but we've got no bread. What? No bread? A mother of three kids, five and under
who allowed her family bread stash to lapse? Oh, the guilt. Actually, I bought a
darling, wee little breadmaker that makes a darling, wee little loaf in *just 45
minutes* in an attempt to provide my family with fresh, hot, healthy bread. Let
me tell you, *just 45 minutes* is a freakin' eternity when SOMEONE wants a PB&J
at 5 am. And darling, wee little loafs have no place in a family of 5. I'm not a
morning person, so the act of stumbling out to the coffee pot is a herculean
task. Measuring precise amounts of wet and dry ingredients with bleary eyes and
a wailing toddler face down on the floor, while hissing "sssh! sshhhh! you're
going to wake your sisters!" through clenched teeth is an unpleasant way to
start the day.

Posted by Jenny at 08:43 AM | Comments (0)