Hurricane Sandy Devastation

Hurricane Sandy caused a fair amount of damage at our house, but the thing that pisses me off the most, bar none, is that it knocked the lid off the sandbox and now the sand that we worked REALLY EFFING HARD to keep clean and dry is water-logged.

You may have lost your house and car, but MY SANDBOX.

The sand is ruined, and I don't know what to do about a stupid moldy heavy-ass lump of sand.  As evidenced by the previous watery, moldy, sandbox that is still sitting RIGHT NEXT to the new sandbox.  Soon we're just going to have a line of toxic sandboxes across the backyard.

There is no sandbox insurance.

Angry Moms

So I'm being vegan right now, which basically means that I alternate between feeling super hip and like I want to kill you and make you into a hamburger and eat you.  With bacon.

That said, I may be been the teensiest bit grumpy while picking this kids up this evening.  I got Owen first, and on his own, he's pretty chill.  I mean, sometimes he'll get me with his, "Today is the first day of yesterday when it rains, right?  Right, mom?  And it's going to be Christmas next year because of my birthday and you said Lilly was a toddler now, right?  Right, mom?

I DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND THE QUESTION.  But, yes, right, just shut up or ask logical questions.

And then I picked up Sam and he introduces a level of hysteria that seems unnecessary in a sedan.

But you don't have a complete trifecta until you've added Lilly and her ear-splitting shrieks.

Sam and Owen are SO EXCITED.  I don't know about what.

"Guys?  Can you please stop shouting?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

(That's them, having devolved into purposeless screaming)

"GUYS!  Quiet down!  You're making me a little crazy!"

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH  SHE'S CRAZY!"

"SERIOUSLY STOP SCREAMING SO LOUD!"  Even while I'm doing it, the irony of screaming at people to stop screaming is not lost on me.

And then they LAUGH at me.

As much as I WANT to punch them, I can't while I'm driving.

"Guys, do NOT laugh at me when I am being serious.  It makes me furious."

"It makes you serious?" Owen asks.

"No, she said 'furious,' Sam leans over and whispers, "It's the last level of anger." 

I also just told Chris that the President's name is not Bronco Bama.

Chris and I were talking in the car today.  He is worried that Obama isn't going to win the election.

"It just that there was so much excitement four years ago," he says.  "He was such a great speaker, you know?"

"Yeah, it does feel like there hasn't been as many spine-tingling speeches this time around," I agree.

"Do you remember that speech where he was all, 'Can we do it?!  Yes we CAN!"

Um.

Actually, I think that was Bob the Builder that said that.

But I get your point.

If you know Lilly . . .

I was putting Lilly to bed last night.  Having a little chat.  I asked about her day.

"Did you have a good day, Lilly?"

"Yes.  No.  Someone was MEAN to me."

"Oh, no!  Who was mean to you?"

"AMANDA was mean to me."

"Amanda?  What happened?'

At this point Lilly gets really riled up, sits up and starts gesticulating wildly, "Her said I wasn't the BOSS!"

And then she called her a jerk.

I didn't even know she knew that word.

This girl.  Really.  She is not docile.

Just, no.

I'm not going to tell the story about the tree falling on the van because, 1) it's not over, and 2) it's not even a good story anymore.  It's just a long and convoluted tale of bad things happening and us not understand what the sam hill is going on.

Nobody cares about it anymore, and I know that because I don't even care about it anymore.

We did lose power today for a few hours and I finally got to join in with the rest of country.

I'd been feeling a little left out.

It's weird when the power is house.  I was very conscious of the fact that the power was out and I kept telling myself, "Nothing is going to work."  But that's not true, because some things DO still work.  The problem is remembering which is which.

Things that work when the power is out:
1) toothbrush
2) Kindle
3) deodorant
4) cell phone
5) hot water

Things that do NOT work when the power is out:
1) The lights
2) hairdryer
3) The light switch
4) the lights
5) even when you use the light switch

Back to reality

I was driving with Sam yesterday.

Because that's what I do these days, drive around with various people in my car.

So we're driving and Sam mentions that in 1st grade today there was a bit of a controversy regarding whether or not the Tooth Fairy was real.

"Some people think she is not real," he says.

"Really?"

"But I know she is because you got a call from her that one time she couldn't come because she ran out of quarters."

"Um.  Okay." I said.

This is making me uncomfortable.  I'm not really sure why we tell out kids these stories, but I don't want Sam to be the kid in high school that's like, "No, man, I'm serious, she has a cell phone and everything."  I don't want to set him up for ridicule.

Because he WILL believe you.  This kid will believe ANYTHING you tell him.  His cousin knows that well.  I don't want him to believe me now and carry that far longer than other children because he's already a little behind the curve in maturity.  And that's aside from any personal misgivings about how grown-ups mess with kids and reality.

"So that's how I know she's real.  Because you said she was and she called you.  Right?"

Pause

Pause

"Unless you're lying.'

Ouch.  Why's it gotta be "lying?"  How 'bout we just call it Parent-Led Imagination?

But I couldn't do it anymore and I confessed.  I said the tooth fairy was not real, and I just said that she called because I thought it was a nice story and it was a nice thing to pretend about.

He sat quietly for a minute.  "It's okay that you lied," he finally announced.

Thanks.

"But now I'm wondering about Santa Claus."

I just turned the radio up and pretended I couldn't hear him.

Race - in the mind of a child

I was on the computer yesterday and Sam happened to see an Obama ad on screen.

"Wait," he says, surprised.  "Is that Obama?"

"Yeeees."  I answer.

"That's a real picture?  That's really what he looks like?"

"Yes."  I don't like where this is going.

"Wow.  I didn't know he looked like that."

"Like what?"  crap crap crap crap.

"Well . . . I just . . . I just thought his head was more oval."

Oh.  Well.  That's weird.  But at least it's not racist!

And Lilly?  Well, she got her first princess doll about a month ago.  She LUBS her princess doll.  She lubs her so, so much and she is so, so sweet.  She carries her around and demands you put the dolls god-forsaken plastic shoes back on her stupid plastic feet over and over and over again.  And then you get to brush her hair.

"Oh no!  A tangle!" Lilly says, "Better brush it out!"

This being all fun and games and imagination, as my daughter of the pin-straight hair has never been subjected to a hair brush in her life.

Anyway, about a week ago, Lilly came up to me and said, "I LUB my white doll!"

ACK!  You can't SAY that!  Where did she even come up with that?!  Where did she HEAR such a thing?! This is terrible!  Where did we go wrong?!

Oh.  Hang on.  She means SNOW white.  It's the Snow White Princess doll.

Well.  That's okay then.

But seriously, how about a different nickname?

What? I just really like free things.

I do have a job.

 And woo-hoo for that, you know, with the economy and all.

But it maybe isn't my favorite job

Silver lining there, though, is that I really appreciate the heck out of my weekends.

But I have noticed that my definition of a "good" weekend is a little different than it used to be.

I'm sitting here on a Sunday night, lounging in the warm glow of floors swept, and a million loads of laundry done and folded and put away, and 25 little tupperwares of lunch foods assembled, and an apple crisp baked and 3 children bathed and stuff like that.

I think that shift happened around the same time I started getting excited about things like free flu shots and underpants for Christmas.

I love Chris, regardless of the number of eyeballs he has

Also, let me be clear.  I am aware that I look horrific in hundreds, probably thousands, of photos.  But I think he looks surprisingly attractive, even with his teeny eyeballs, whereas I just look horrific just by dint of looking like myself.

Besides, he does clean up well:

Horrifically awesome

Sam is out of school so I've got all three kids home with me today.  

Let's just say that, if I were to suddenly become a stay-at-home parent, it would take me a hot minute to get the hang of it.  

Lilly's wandering around with a poop in her pants, there are dishes and banana peels all over the place, and the boys are doing something quietly in their room, i.e., something I will have to yell about soon.  

It was a great day, mostly.  All weather should be like September.  We went out to breakfast, to the library and the Children's Museum.  So it was a lot of fun, but now I have a terrible headache, and I feel vaguely nauseous.

I had a list of things I wanted to do today, but I guess they are now filed under "Happen, Not Gonna."  

I did not pull out the fall wardrobes, I did not figure out dinner, I did not do arts and crafts with the kids and I did not give Lilly a bath even though I DID let her play in the sandbox for a REALLY long time.

Still, it was the kind of day that makes me sort of hope I get fired someday.  

Well, maybe laid off would be better? 

Anyway, I do wish I was one of those people who, money be damned, stayed with their kids until said children go off to school.  Unfortunately, I have no confidence in my home-making abilities in general, and my capacity for frugality in specific.  

By the way, I did take a break in there to go change Lilly's diaper.  I do have some standards, you know.  

I think I'll become a professional photographer

We use Picasa to sort and store our pictures on the computer.  They recently updated to include the option to sort by people.  It took a while to train it who was who (No, Lilly and Jessica J. are not the same person, nope), but now we have folders for each of our favorite people.

By the way, it turns out we have 29 favorite people.

It's also an interesting gauge of how much time we spend with each other.  Like, we REALLY need to hang out with Elise more.  

I thought it might show the decreasing attention we paid to our children, so I compared their numbers.  We have 1100 pictures of Sam, 800 pictures of Owen, and 600 pictures of Lilly.  So then I thought, "Oh, that's so funny that we have so many more pictures of our first."  But then I was like, "Well, wait, that's possibly a spurious correlation because Sam's been alive more years than Owen who has been alive more years than Lilly."  So at least there is no physical proof that we love any one of our children the most.

Anyhow, the one thing I did definitely learn was that all of our pictures are crap.

I apologize world.  I don't know why my kids have food on their faces an apparent 98% of the time.  You'd think I'd notice something like that.  Especially as I zoom in.

And if their faces happen to be clean, then the camera is out of focus, or the flash is too bright or MY GOD THAT ROOM IS A MESS.

Also, perhaps Chris is in the picture with them.




I mean, he is a good looking man, no?  It's a shame what happened to his left eye, though.

Sleep is sooooo good

One caveat to my "pull back your focus" technique?

It does not work when you are tired.

Which is why everything feels sooooo awful when you are tired.

Sam only slept for three or four hours last night.  Which means I slept for only three or four minutes.  And today everything was so terrible.

It's okay for today.  But if someone else joins the no-sleeping club tonight, I will spontaneously combust tomorrow.

At least I don't have to worry about tigers

Somebody I used to know texted me recently.  And while it was a pleasant text, it stirred up all kinds of memories and feelings of hurt and pain and misunderstandings and really kind of unpleasant things.

Also, boy it is not fun being solely responsible for all errands that require driving.

And work?  My tenuous position there as line leader?  Which gives me a million problems but precious few tools with which to solve them?

BAH.

I try not to get too caught up.  Too engulfed in negativity.  Be grateful for what I have and focus on the important things in life.

But work FEELS important.  My relationships with other people FEEL important.  Sitting on my butt FEELS awesome.

So here's what I do.

I picture an early homosapien.  (Spell-check just tried to correct that to homophobia.  Context, man.  This is not that blog post!)  This homosapien is striding across a hot and dusty landscape.  Worried about a tiger, or something.  And I think, that person probably thought that tiger was a big deal.  Probably really, really cared about that tiger.  But now, a million years (5 million years?  5000 years?  A lot of years.  I don't understand much about evolution and that THAT'S NOT THE POINT EITHER) later, nobody cares.  Nobody even knows.  That person got eaten by that tiger.  Or didn't.  It was all so inconsequential in the larger scheme of things.

I pull back my focus, and realize, so is all of my crap.  In a million years, nobody will care.

So I might as well chill out.

Fire-y passion of a thousand suns

I don't have a lot of anger.  I don't think I'm repressing it.  I think I'm just too busy with guilt and fear and regret and embarrassment.

But holy crap do I want to kill people who are turning left in front of me.  Without a turn signal.  Where there are two optional lanes.  And I chose this lane.  After carefully verifying no turn signal.  Then the light changes, and the car in front of me doesn't go, but scoots a little and, "oh, hey, I should go ahead and turn on my turn signal.  I mean, I wasn't turning before, I was waiting at a light, so obvi I wouldn't have my turn signal on at that point."

And there I am.  Sitting.  As all the people in the right lane go WHIZZING past.

You are soooooo lucky I can't cause people pain with my brain powers because MAN would you have a hell of a UTI.    

That burning you feel?  It is like the burning I feel as I sit through an entire light waiting for you to turn instead of being somewhere on time.

But I would probably regret it later.

Every Parenting Magazine Ever

I get Parents Magazine and Parenting Magazine and Your Young Child Magazine and Working Mother Magazine - and I enjoy getting these magazines.

Maybe not as much as US weekly, but still good.

Every month I read these articles as if they are actually going to fix my life.  But they don't.

And here's what I'm finally noticing.

They are all the same 4 articles.  Over and over again.

1) How to Make a Fast/Cheap/Nutritious Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner.

This article will provide brilliant recipes for PBJ/PBJ/PBJ.  Cut your sandwiches with a cookie cutter!  

2) The Scary Thing That Could Kill/Maim/Irrevocably Harm Your Child.

This article will helpfully inform you about a new disease or potential injury that you hadn't known to uselessly worry about.  Seriously.  Last month it was Strep causing Bipolar disorder, this month it was a kid who strangled himself on his mom's purse straps.  THANKS!  I wasn't worried about my purse killing my child before.  Thank god you told me so I can remove all straps from my life.

3) RELAX!

Go to a spa!  Get a babysitter!  Loosen up!  Stop worrying so much!

4) But For God's Sake, be a Better Parent!

Never leave your child unattended!  You are definitely not buckling your kid in the car correctly!  Your life is too easy, you should be trying harder!  Babysitters are mostly serial killers!  You are doing it wrong!  

Let's just go for gold in mediocrity.

If I've learned one thing from watching the Olympics so far it's that I don't ever want one of my kids to be there.

I mean, Jiminey Christmas, how stressful does all that look?  I can barely watch and I don't know any of these people from Adam.  

Don't get me wrong.  The Olympics are awesome and I sure do appreciate that they work so hard to entertain me for two weeks once every four years.  That's super nice of them.  But watching them actually just makes me kind of sad.

Best case scenario is that they win.  But then it's still over, you know?  They still probably have to cope with what what happens to their life after the goal they've been striving toward for their entire lives is just . . . over.  And what if they fail?  Their life was kind of a waste, no?

Heartbreaking!

Let's never experience that.

Plus, let's be honest, those events are of no practical use.  This is not a life skill they are practicing.  You could make anything an Olympic sport and there would be somebody who'd be hella good at it.  But we're not talking things like the "Dinner-making-for-five-people" event (They also have a 2 person and 10 person event).  This is stuff like, "Wow, you sure did jump really far."  In ten years, who are you impressing with that besides 4-year-olds?  In real life nobody cares about far-jumping except little kids.  You can't get a job with that!

Do you hear the way these athletes talk about their families, though?  "I couldn't have done this without my mom."  "My dad drove me to the gym every morning at 4:00am."  "My family moved to Ypsilanti for my training."  "We sold our house to pay for my coach."  Really?  None of that sounds like fun to me.  And that's even assuming they would go and win or something.  You know damn well that most of these kids don't even make the Olympic team.  Then you are just a homeless family in Ypsilanti with a kid who is pretty good at the pommel horse.

So I've decided I'm just going to stifle any sparks of greatness my kids might show.  Just go read a book.

How gracious!

I got home from work tonight and Lilly was in bed.  I walk upstairs to see her and see her perk up as I walk in the room.

"Oh, mama!  I so glad you here!  This," she pauses as she grandly sweeps her arm, "my room!"

I am aware.

You miss ONE dinner, and all of a sudden, it's like you don't even live here anymore.

Here's my card. You look like you need it.

I was thinking yesterday that, like it or not, I'm a little bit trapped in my job right now.  The job market for research people has collapsed as grant funding has slowed to a trickle.  And that's okay.  My job is not horrific.  There are many worse jobs.

But then I was reading a book last night, and it occurred to me that maybe I just need to switch careers.

I'm gonna be a writer!

Stop.  That's ridiculous.  I don't have that kind of self-discipline.

No, I was reading a book, and a situation occurred and then the two characters were having a fight about it and I was thinking, "they are going about this all wrong."  The guy in the book was very wrong, but the girl was approaching it at a completely pathetic angle.  And it happens to me all the time!  In books, movies, even when friends are recounting their fights.  I'm not saying I could win every fight (because sometimes you're just wrong.  Or partly wrong), but I could at least keep everybody on topic.

I think people should hire me as a "fight coach."

Um.  On second thought, seeing that all written out, I think that title might give the wrong impression.  Let's call it a "discussion coach."  Because, let's be real, I'm not going to win a fight.  And if all you want to do is yell at people, I'm not going to be much help there, either.  And I'll do what I can to help you, but my contract stipulates you can't win against crazy, and you might as well not try.  

So here's the plan:  you would call me up and tell me about the situation that's irking you.  For a modest fee, I'd tell you if you were right, or mostly right, or a little right, or completely wrong.  Then, if you want to pursue the matter, I'd tell you what your talking points are.  I think a lot of the time people are upset, but they  have a hard time pin-pointing exactly what about a situation is bothering them.  I can do that!  If you want to purchase the whole package, I'll even go and have the discussion for you - provided you can show proof that your opponent isn't crazy or violent.

In the meantime, do you think it would be weird to write to the author with a revised manuscript where her characters have a "discussion" that isn't ridiculous?

Little pitchers and all that

The teacher approached me as I picked up the boys today.  She asked, quietly, if Chris was alright.

She said the boys had told her that Chris had had a seizure.

It's funny, because, if you had asked me (and some of you did) I would have said that the boys didn't really seem to be registering what was going on.  They didn't seem bothered, and they weren't talking about it.  Probably because, unlike Lilly, they didn't see it happen.

Poor Lilly.  Walking around all, "My Daddy is, alright?"  "My Daddy, had a seizure?"  "My Daddy, fell down?"

But even she has been talking about it less, so I was surprised that the boys had brought it up at school.

"Yeah," the teacher says, "they were saying that he can't drive for a while and that was upsetting . . ."

Awwww.  Poor boys.  They are so much more aware than I knew.

". . . because now they can't ride in the van with the DVD player."

In good times and in bad . . .

A couple of weeks ago Chris and the kids and I all went to a casual outdoor party.  It was nice.  Ish.  We didn't know many people there and while they all seemed nice, they also all seemed like they all knew each other and we still felt awkward.

So we're sitting around, trying our best to make conversation, because we're grown-ups and all that.  The boys are standing around looking suspicious, but Chris and I are trying to look approachable.

We do manage to get involved in a conversation.  I don't remember exactly.  Probably about kids or babies or something.  That's really all we talk about.

And I was saying something and I drooled on myself.  Hardcore.  A big, giant drool.  But, you know, I wiped it off all casual and I thought to myself, "Yeah, probably no one noticed that."

But when we were walking home though, Chris turned to me and said, "Yeah, so you drooled on yourself a little back there.  What happened?  It looked like you were having a stroke or something."

Thank god I know I can count on him to be honest with me.  And to laugh at me when everyone else was politely ignoring me.

Sweet retribution though, because Chris had a seizure this past weekend.

Let me tell you, that's a lot more noteworthy than drooling.  In fact, it INCLUDES drooling.  

He's okay now.  But believe me, first thing driving home, I was like, "Yeah, so you had a seizure a little bit back there."

Speaking of cake

Had some birthday cake today.  It was good.  I like cake.

It reminded me about how I didn't understand that saying "You can't have your cake and eat it, too" for the LONGEST time.

It made no sense to me.

Isn't it, in fact, totally necessary to have your cake before you eat it?  Is it not a requirement to HAVE some cake before you put it in your mouth?  It's ridiculous! How can you eat cake you don't have?

I did eventually figure it out, and by figure it out, I mean I asked my mom. But she explained it and now we are all on the same page.

But, seriously, wouldn't it have made a lot more sense to just say, "You can't save your cake and eat it too!"

You will like this post or else.

Had a conversation this weekend about the time I told Chris that if he didn't want to get married he had to move out of my house and whether that was an "Ultimatum."

I don't like the term,or at least as it is applied to women who have the audacity to think they have a say in their future rather than just waiting around until the man they love either proposes or they die.

We were in the country with no smart phones working so we were left searching our own brains for a definition, which we though was something like, "you have to do this or else."

But isn't that just, like, life?  Isn't that just every choice you make?

You will buy this cake OR YOU WILL HAVE NO CAKE.

You will do some work OR YOU WILL HAVE NO JOB.

You will do some laundry OR YOU WILL HAVE NO PANTS.

Life is just full of choices, but nobody gets all mad when women make choices.  I think men just get mad when they have to do shit, like put on pants and buy cake.

Also, I looked the the definition of ultimatum - turns out it is more of a "final choice, bad consequences, negotiations hence-forth over" kind of thing.  So I guess I kind of did give him an ultimatum.  But I think I used a kind voice and gentle words.

Take home lesson?  Never have a discussion without a smart phone around.  
 

Frontal lobes are important

You know what separates humans from apes?  Adults from children?  People who have damage to their frontal lobes from people who do not have damage to their frontal lobes?

That's right, frontal lobes.

Which is instrumental in predicting and anticipating the consequences of our actions.

And you know, I'm am human, and I am an adult, and, to my knowledge, my frontal lobe is largely intact.

But I still get sooo surprised when things don't turn out the way I expected.

I just dust-busted a bunch a flies.

I KNOW, great idea, right?

But now I'm horrified that there are all these flies crawling around the clear dust-reservoir of the dust-buster.

Did I think the wind tunnel was going to kill them?  

Whatever.  It's going to be like my own little Hunger Games for flies in there.  With a couple of ants thrown in for variety.  Also hopefully without the part where they revolt and reclaim their culture.

Snakes on the ground

I had to staff an event for work last weekend at the Indians baseball game.  Because it was going to be a long event, Chris agreed to bring the boys and hang out at the game while I worked.

Driving there, he spotted (and snagged), "Like, the fourth best possible parking spot."

This should not imply to anyone that the spot was actually convenient to our destination.

So set out on our journey with heavy boxes and trailing children and it's very hot and super crowded and we've been walking forever.  Chris is in a ZONE.  A leading-the-way, I-WILL-find-you, ZONE.

We get off the elevator that means we are almost there, but it is still crowded and the boxes are still heavy and the children are still trailing.  And in the lobby right in front of the door, I see that someone has left two GIANT stuffed snakes.

Except, no, not stuffed.  Moving.  Real, live, moving, capable-of-eating-a-toddler sized snakes.  Giant Pythons (actual name) from the zoo.

And you know, I wasn't scared of them.  I wasn't scared for my kids.  My first, instant, flash-of-insight thought, was:

"STOP CHRIS FAST NOW OR HE WILL SQUISH THE SNAKES."

Because we all know that Chris would never notice something as inconsequential as two Giant Pythons (one's an albino!) on the ground, right?

Shut Up.

Sam's teacher asked to "talk" to me "for a few minutes" when I was picking the boys up today.

I don't know for sure what my face looked like, but I hope it didn't reflect my strong urge to punch her in the face and run away before she could say some BULLSHIT about MY WONDERFUL SON.

I didn't even know which kid she was talking about yet.  And it was hard for me to start formulating my argument about how WRONG she was since I didn't know what the problem was yet.

So apparently Sam is struggling to handle his frustration in a productive manner at school.

I know!  That's some kind of WRONG BULLCRAP, am I right?  No?  I'm not right?  She's right?  Well.  Whatever.

I still don't want to see her stupid not-knowing-my-kid face talking about my kid like she KNOWS him.

It is almost physically painful to listen to someone who doesn't love your child talk about said child's faults.  Especially without bopping them in the face.

Full disclosure though, Sam can be really irritating.

Electronics and boys and the next 20 years of my life

Ever since he was little and would throw a fit when he had to stop coloring, I've known that Sam sometimes struggles with transitions.

Now take the word "struggles" and multiply it by a million and you have a glimmer of understanding that you can't multiple words, people.

These days, our biggest problem is peeling him forcibly off of the computer.  I always said I wouldn't let the kids have a video game system in the house, and I've held firm on that despite whining.

From Chris.

But then Chris just went and showed the kids they could play games on the computer!  Which it turns out is actually awesome when you want them to be quiet for a while.

But every once in a while I look up from laundry or dishes or reading a magazine on the couch and I realize I should probably, you know, parent for a minute.  So I force Sam and Owen to stop playing This Very Instant even when Owen tells me they have to "compwete dis wevel."

Dude.  If you can't even SAY, "complete this level," you probably shouldn't be completing that level.

When I planned parenthood I believed strongly that I would be a master of providing warnings because I HATED drive-by parenting.

But guys, US Weekly doesn't read itself.


So there is an epic battle with a lot of repeated "I don't WANT to get off the computer!"s and scowl-y eyes and whatnot, and then, five minutes later, he's just noodling around the backyard.  


And I want to yell, "SEE.  I TOLD YOU SO."


But since playing nicely, unlike playing on the computer, is an easily disturbed activity, I leave it alone.        

I'm a runner

So I've been running a bit in the past few months.

Well, technically it might be a heavy shamble, but the point is I put on my running pants and get all sweaty and red in the face. And while it may not be elegant, I'm sure not meandering.

I do walk in the beginning, and then again at the end to "cool down" (because I got tired), but the rest of it is definitely me heaving my body up the street in a bouncy way.

I deliberately choose to go running back in neighborhoods, on paths that avoid any major streets, because I don't want people judging me.

"I think that lady might have a heart attack if she doesn't stop soon."

"Why would somebody that big go jogging? Just eat another snack and get a scooter and call it done."

"Call 911! Somebody must be chasing that fat girl!"

Anyhow, because odds are that if you go outside people will see you, I've run into more than a few of my neighbors.

Some encounters have gone well, like when our rich neighbors were walking and saw me right at the beginning of my run so I probably didn't look like I was going to die.

A few neighbors have seen me head out, starting with my warm-up walk. They all say something about me going "out on a walk." I think it's weird that people would think I would put on running shoes, work out pants and an iPod just to go on a little walk all by myself. But whatever, because at least I still look reasonable (if a little fanatical about my walkies).

But last night, it happened. I ran into an acquaintance while I was on my cool down walk. This is bad because A) I look a sunburned tomato, and B) now that I'm walking the whole encounter is going to take longer.

And don't you know, this chick actually thought I'd just been out for a walk.

Dude, how far did she think I walked? I was impressively red and sweaty.  Like, "do you need CPR?" kind of red and sweaty.

I'm not sure whether I'm more worried that she can't tell the difference between my normal me and my red-sweaty-me, or that she thinks I got my ass kicked that bad by a neighborhood stroll.

Maybe I'm not lazy. Maybe the kids just aren't funny anymore.

Update: Even a year later, the kids are still crazy.  No need to change the name of this blog.  Unless you want to get technical and point out that they aren't babies anymore.  Which, come on.  Nobody likes a nit-picker.  (By the way, have you ever thought about that term at all?  Nit-picking?  OF COURSE nobody would like a nit-picker.  Gross!)  And I'm going to just say that they were crazy when they were babies and call it good.

Anyhow.

We moved Lilly to a toddler bed about a month ago.  And then to a toddler bed mattress on the floor because we decided to class up the joint.  Or else we did it because she is Ridiculous with a capital R.  Seriously, whatever she's been going through for the past few months (we're hoping it is called "Being Two" and not "Becoming Lilly") is no fun at all.

Night time is a nightmare.  She gets all hysterical about being left alone, the door being closed, the light being off, and all kinds of other stuff.  Recently, when she was trying to convince me not to leave, she looked up at me with her big brown eyes and said she was scared.

"Scared of what, Lilly?"

"I scared of the OWL."

"Lilly, owls are nothing to be scared of.  They can't hurt you.  Unless you are a field mouse, in which case watch the heck out." (I didn't actually say that last part.  I've learned though experience that kids don't find me funny.)

"Oh."  She paused.  "I scared of a MONSTER!"

"There's no such thing as monsters, babe.  Don't worry about them.  I've checked your whole room and no monsters."

She got all shifty-eyed, thinking of her next move, and then she clasped her hands together, as if in prayer and said, with a tremor in her voice:

"There is a BAT in my room."

"OH MY GOD Seriously?!  You have bats in your room?!  When?!  That's TERRIFYING, man."