Y oh Y

Anyone who thinks that the differences between boys and girls are taught rather than innate obviously has no boys. If you only have girls, you cannot fathom the extreme differences that come with a child sporting the y chromosome. Believe me, I have both and I am a true believer that gender differences are there at birth. My son eats everything, is loud, rambunctious and stubborn as anything. It does not matter one whit what kind of toys he has handy, he will throw it, beat it against something else or attempt to drive it around on the floor. His idea of affection involves full-body contact, rough hugs and full-on slobbery lip-locks. He delights in spitting things out, spitting in general and complete hands-on exploration of all the food groups- just before he throws it on the floor and stomps in it. He prefers male company over female, loud toys over quiet ones and outdoors over indoors every time. To him, grabbing something with both hands and seeing if it can be pulled apart is being gentle. Sharing his food with you means shoving a fist-full of it into the back of your throat and often excitement over something will overcome him and he just can't help, but hit it (much like an overly exuberant pat on the back). He is without a doubt one of the most charming, loving and sweet-natured children I have ever encountered, but you can't take him out in public much until he gets impulse and volume control.

On the other hand, my girls were quieter, could touch things gently with one finger and were a delight in public. Aside from a few squabbles and some hair pulling they were kind and gentle with each other and they tended to stay closer, not wander off as much and could be brought to tears with a stern word. My girls were not perfect, but they were much easier toddlers. Of course, I am told that girls are easier toddlers and harder teenagers while boys are just the opposite. I'm not there yet, so I can't really say, but Alex is in the dishwasher at the moment pulling out all the dirty dishes and running from my husband while my daughter is begging him to spit out her sidewalk chalk- so I'm hoping there's truth to it.

Happy Halloween

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. The leaves are changing colors, the air is crisp and the sky is that perfect blue that only autumn brings. Everywhere you look, kids are picking out pumpkins, begging for early candy and shrieking in feigned fear at the spooky decorations. I have an amazing animated Halloween village complete with spooky music and sound effects that my children will spend hours watching as the tiny mummies pop up out of the coffin and the ghosts swirl past miniature lighted windows. They spend days deciding what they want to dress up as and talk at length about how much candy they will collect this year. We decorate the house inside and out, adding freshly carved jack o' lanterns, bat shaped window clings and our enormous fake furry tarantula affectionately known as Hairy. It is truly a time to be a child again and I love to spend October weekends drinking in the Halloween hubbub, touring haunted houses, strolling through the local Halloween festivals and watching late-night slasher movies with my husband. Halloween is a time for the imagination to run wild with every full moon and rustle of leaves. A time for ghosts and goblins to roam the streets and a time for the impossible to come to life safely for one exciting night. So enjoy celebrating your children, enjoy being a kid again and happy Halloween to all!

Pregnancy Hormones Strike Again

I get really angry during early pregnancy. For some reason, the heightened levels of progesterone transform me from a sweet Mrs. Jeckyll to a ready-to-rumble Mrs. Hyde. And I know it's not just in my head because I have had a psycho moment every pregnancy before I got a positive test. And this time was no different. Enter scene on a beautiful autumn afternoon. My husband and I are doing yard work because suddenly the leaves in the yard are making me nuts. Our next door neighbors who are perpetually tidy come over yet again to complain about our tree. It has some branches that hang over into their yard and is "getting leaves all over the yard" ummmm, hello? They call it Fall for a reason... Anyway, my normal handling of the situation would involve something along the lines of apologizing (even though it was here when we moved in) and assuring them that I'd have it taken care of when we had available funds. Instead they got a raving lunatic that loudly commented that they could cut the f&*%ing tree down if they couldn't stand leaves that much and promptly marched across the street to see about borrowing an axe. The guy who lives there took one look at my wild eyes and calmly asked if he could cut whatever it was for me instead. I swear my husband was in the background waving his arms and mouthing "Don't give her an axe!!"...to this day, I'm really not certain just what would have occurred if he had, but either way we'd have a felled tree and possibly a newspaper headline. As it was, we finished the yardwork, left the tree intact to be handled by professionals oddly, my suggestion of burning it down was met with resistance, go figure? and finished off the evening with a major argument about changing the bag in the trashcan. Thank goodness this pregnancy rage only lasts a few days since I soon realize something's really off and end up with a positive pregnancy test. That little diagnostic tool ends up being worth it's weight in gold as it makes me put every future impulse through the "crazy hormones filter" and I tend to take a couple deep breaths and chalk it all up to the hormones. Maybe EPT should come out with a PMS test too? So now our situation stands thus: we still have the freakin' tree until someone returns my calls for an estimate, I am seeing the advantage of privacy fencing and our neighbors are no longer speaking to us. Oh well, at least they won't come complaining about the leaves in their yard anymore.

Eternity..I mean Maternity Clothes

So now that I'm back in the gestation business I have a whole host of new material. So I think I'll start with maternity clothes. The bad news is that...well...it's maternity clothing. That pretty much isolates you from the latest fashion trends. And though some of you out there probably don't even show until you're 8 months along, only to sport an adorable little barely-there-baby-bump, I was in maternity clothes about 5 minutes after the test came back positive. So no more haute couture for me. My fashion days are over for the next 3 years (yes, it takes me almost 2 years to lose the baby weight despite a normal weight gain- even though I'm sure you left the hospital in your regular jeans that were now too big from all the weight you lost while pregnant). Anyway, cattiness aside, the good news is...everybody else looks pregnant too, hooray! The latest fashion trend seems to be babydoll tops which I would normally avoid like the plague for fear of looking pregnant, but now....if the shoe fits, wear it right? But, more bad news... maternity clothing this year is just the opposite. So while everyone else gets to wear oversized, empire-waisted babydoll tops, us moms-to-be are stuck with spandex camisoles and side-ruched tees complete with spaghetti straps and banded waists. And to think that pregnancy does a number on a woman's body image anyway, what is this!? I mean, who in their right mind wants to wear some skin-tight top that's ruched down the side and leaves nothing to the imagination? Somehow the thought of spandex stretched over a huge belly complete with inside-out navel and lines from the ultra-high waist maternity jeans just doesn't scream high fashion. And apparently I'm not the only one because I noticed that all the normal looking stuff was sold out in my size, leaving only the extra smalls for all you barely-there-baby-bump gals who can wear your regular clothing anyway. And the worst part of it all is I will be in the damn things until eternity- which is how long it will take me to lose the weight after baby #4..... Sorry for the rant folks- and tune in next time for more hormonally hyped up pregnancy rants =)

Birth Control? Yeah, Right...

My life as a woman seems to be based on some crazy hormonal cycle that runs not only month to month, but changes as I age too. Duh! you say, there's that whole biological clock thing.... but I am talking about something else, those pesky reproductive years. Phase I: Remember this? You are in college, unmarried and having fun ( if my daughters are reading this, I did not do any of this, I was a saint until I met your father). So you obsess over every late period and hormonal imbalance, praying that you're not pregnant. You put an amazing amount of effort into worrying that your birth control methods might have failed and wondering how you'd tell your family if it did. Phase II: You are older, married and can't wait for children. Now you obsess over monthly cycles, cervical mucus, body temps and ovulation predictor kits. You soon find out that your health teacher was a complete liar and wonder why you worried so much about birth control when it was obviously not as easy to get knocked up as you were led to believe.You buy pregnancy tests by the truckload and are addicted to peeing on just about any diagnostic strip that will stand still. You pray for a plus sign on every pregnancy test and plan the ways you'll tell husband and family the joyous news....then comes Phase III: You are done. Hooray! No more obsessing, no more hanging on to baby clothes and cribs "just in case" and no more throwing up, heartburn or nursing babies. You can look ahead, concentrate on your family, reconnect with your husband and your sex life has never been better. This is where it ends for most of us. But then there are always those few of us that are casually eating dinner one evening and suddenly realize that you can smell the aftershave of the gentleman 3 tables away....and no one else can. One hour and 3 trips to the pharmacy later, you are staring at 2 plus signs and a double pink line and wondering how the hell you're going to tell your husband that despite your best efforts, one more baby is on the way. It's certainly not the worst thing in the world, but it's enough to throw the best of us. So to all you ladies out there in Phase III....don't get too complacent, life will find a way.

Weapons of Ass Destruction

The other day I saw this cute little story about how Crayola crayons can bring peace to the world. According to said story, all we needed to do was drop "crayon bombs" and the lovely colors would mesmerize everyone into perfect harmony (I thought Coca-Cola had that monopoly?). It was a really cute story, but was apparently written by someone who has no children whatsoever. You see, in our household crayons are weapons of ass destruction- namely my children's. The second the crayon basket hits the kitchen table, all hell breaks loose and my formerly serene and well-mannered children turn into rejects from Lord of the Flies- only no pig's head, just pig-headedness oh, I just kill myself sometimes... Anyway, out comes the crayons and up on the table goes my son. Amid shrieks of "Noooooo Alex!!" and "Mooooom!!" I find my son with fistfuls of crayons, gleefully biting the pointed ends off and throwing them across the room. As I rescue him from the wrath of his sisters, who are doing their best to push him headfirst off the table in the name of freedom of expression, he begins to scream and flail- knocking papers, artwork and the remaining crayons off the table. My girls start wailing in frustration at having to pick up the crayons from the four corners of the kitchen and then start fighting among themselves over who's doing all the work. As I wrangle a toddler who's hell-bent on demolishing the artwork in the other room, I hear my girls continuing their argument- this time over who is hogging the pink, followed by "Don't copy me!", "But I need the blue right nooooow" and other such statements delivered with vehement whining. After about 15 minutes, I have had enough and come hurricane-force into the room telling everyone to stop the nonsense and clean up the crayons and anything-not-picked-up-will-be-thrown-out!!! My daughters burst into tears and begin cleaning up (sobbing all the while) and my son goes back to crying at not being allowed to fling crayons. I generally lock myself into my walk-in closet for 2 minutes of peace. So I guess crayon bombs could be effective, but maybe not so much for world peace.

Children of the Corn

Yesterday I thought we'd do something fun and different for our Saturday family outing. Something that required exercise and some time in the beautiful Autumn outdoors. So I scoured the internet until I came across the perfect thing- a corn maze. What could be cooler than the whole family wandering through a 2 1/2 mile maze of corn, complete with checkpoints, our own flag and a nifty little ticket that lets you stamp your progress as you find the stamp boxes hidden in the maze? I envisioned the girls laughing and calling out excitedly as each stamp box was found, my toddler finally free to run pell mell through the paths and my husband and I holding hands and enjoying the outdoors together.....that is not what I got.

Instead, I got Children of the Corn revisited. And let me tell you, if I had suddenly found myself being tied to a cornstalk cross and offered up to "he who walks the rows" I might have had a better time. Our beautiful autumn day turned out to be a late month scorcher. 80 degrees and sheltered by the high stalks of corn, we had no chance of a breeze. My family and I sweated through 2 1/2 miles of corn maze, dragging our flag (wave in case of emergency) behind us and taking turns dragging our toddler through the paths. And though Elisabeth actually got into the spirit of it and delightedly searched every corner for a stamp box, Abby whined because she wanted chicken nuggets and begged to wave our flag so an employee would come lead us out. My husband was just as disgruntled -if not as vocal- as we toted a howling toddler from checkpoint to checkpoint as he struggled to get down. Not to run mind you, but to disappear into the corn or to squat in the path and eat sand by the handfuls....maybe it tasted like corn? An hour later we emerged soaked and wilted, Alex red-faced and screaming, Abby still whining and Elisabeth crying because we were all too tired and hungry to pay another $20 to jump in a moonwalk for 20 minutes. Between all the whining, crying and temper tantrums I began to wonder just why we even do these outings. Then I looked at my daughters, so big already and closer to teenage than I'd like, and at my beautiful curly-haired boy who would not always cling to me so passionately, and finally at my husband who- despite me freezing him in time at 25- is beginning to show gray. And I remembered that anything worthwhile is often difficult. So I will keep dragging us all out every weekend until the kids move out or I am physically unable. We will have family time if it kills us....just maybe no more corn mazes.

Remind Me Again Why You Married Me?

I am a drama queen. Oh yes, I can admit it and laugh about it. Age has matured me, though I will probably never stop speaking in hyperbole. So in light of a recently quiet household (but for how long?) I am delving for material in my past. Here's motherhood in your 20's at it's best....hope you enjoy it.

1. The time I called my husband at work, baby screaming in the background, and informed him that I had had enough and to come home immediately. He told me he'd be there just as soon as he finished up what he was working on. "Fine," I said "Your daughter will be on a blanket on the living room floor, I am leaving now." ...of course I didn't leave the baby, but you know, I had no idea car tires could smoke like that in subzero weather.

2. Angry and pregnant, I had a hormonal temper tantrum and actually kicked my foot through the lower kitchen cabinet in our rented apartment. To top it off, I swore to my husband it was a complete accident and that I'd somehow tripped. But like I said, I was pregnant so he knew better.

3. When I lost my temper over our toddler's screaming temper tantrum and told her "Here's your f*&^ng drink!" This sounds awful, but in fact, she laughed at me and then ran around saying the F word for the next 2 weeks....we swore to everyone else she was trying to say "fork."

4. And my all time favorite: My hubby and I had a home "date night" planned. I had the kids in bed early, the wine chilling and the back patio set with candles and a romantic dinner for two. When he kept working in the basement, I just stewed upstairs waiting for him to come up. Finally I grabbed my cell phone and took off in the car, fully expecting an apologetic call. It didn't come. I went to see a movie. He didn't call. I drove around at 1:00am and left some tearful message on my best friend's answering machine about how my marriage was over. And he still didn't call.

What I had failed to realize was that the cell phone was new and he didn't know the number. What I also failed to realize was that my best friend also didn't have the number. So while my husband frantically called around looking for me, my best friend was calling my out-of-state mother saying the connection was bad, but she heard me crying and something about it all being over. My mother called my house in hysterics thinking I was suicidal, but only got a busy signal and the whole thing just snowballed from there. It took me a week to calm everyone down and let's just say, I now tell my husband if I'm pissed and need to drive.

The "P" Word

What is it about potty humor? My kids can't seem to get enough of it. Every time a bodily function occurs, they collapse into giggles and spend the next 15 minutes rehashing it from every angle, pointing fingers, telling the whole family about it and sniffing the air so they can shriek about how disgusting it smelled. I'm surprised they don't pick up the phone and call Grandma..."Hey Grandma, guess what? Alex pooted!!!!!!" Even my toddler joins in, and though it looks like he's just laughing and clapping because his sisters are going ape, I know deep down it's inherent in the Y chromosome. Boys never outgrow this. I know this for a fact because my husband still thinks it's funny. Example..the night I went upstairs to say goodnight and found both girls and my husband laughing over the new nicknames he'd given them...Abbitail and Elisabutt. Yeah, well it wasn't quite so funny when my daughter went to her private Christian school the next day and told her teacher that's what she wanted to be called from now on. I don't think potty humor's a sin, but I got a conference request so fast it made my head spin...just to check how she was adjusting to kindergarten, mind you. So now that we've added our son to the family, my husband has a cohort and I have lost all hope of ridding our home of potty humor forever. I know the girls will outgrow it, or at least quell the urge to talk about it in front of boys, but for my boys I suspect it's some sort of male bonding thing. Oh well, at least it makes my job a little easier, I can squash arguments and restore harmony with a single word...poot.

Today is WHAT day?!

So here we are late for school again. This entire week my household has been like some supernatural time sink. With all the minutes that seem to vanish into thin air, we could be an episode of the X-files. I mean, I get up and have coffee at 7:05am....then I look up and it's 8:40am, the kids haven't brushed their teeth, I'm not even dressed and there's still homework to be signed and snacks to pack! My poor children have barely made to school on time all week (our school starts at 9:15am...and yes, I LOVE it). So, late again this morning: I am barking orders like a drill sergeant, Alex has destroyed his diaper in a very odoriferous way, my husband can't find clean socks, my youngest daughter is crying cause she can't find her shoes and my oldest is actually having a tantrum over the fact that her favorite jeans no longer fit (welcome to the rest of your life, honey). Yet despite tears, tantrums and tons of poop, it looks like we might just squeak in under the wire, then....oh hell,I forgot it's picture day.

I look at my children. Elisabeth's super thick hair is wild and woolly, barely contained by her staunch efforts and absolute conviction that 2 teeny fashion barrettes are going to keep it contained- sort of like a wad of chewing gum holding back the hoover dam. Abby didn't shower last night thanks to a family wii tournament that went way past bedtime. Her normally shiny hair is oily and limp, bangs hanging in her face. She picked a black hooded t-shirt to wear today and is currently hiding her entire head under the hood. She looks like a gang member that's been hiding out all night. I look at the clock....if we leave now we'll just make it.... and then tell everyone to head upstairs where I perform some lightning fast makeovers with a curling iron, hair gel, scrunchies and scented body splash. Newly primped, we rush to school- only 10 minutes late, thank you very much. It's then I realize I forgot the prepay forms. So now I have to go into the office unshowered with mismatched sweats, slippers, no makeup and that lovely sex-the-night-before hairdo. I fill out forms with my head down while my son tries his best to follow his sisters to class and every other mom in the school comes in looking thin and fresh with full makeup and matching clothes. Ten mortifying minutes later the task is done and Alex and I head out for home. Tomorrow I'm setting a damned timer.

Pet Peeve #102

Ok, I am straying from my usual topics here and venturing forth into yet another rant on a particular pet peeve of mine.....celebrities in politics. Oh yes, I know you've seen them. They stand there in all their glory and talk about the government and how awful everyone is being to each other and how horrible America is. Then they go to their private dressing suites (that are nicer than most 5 star hotel rooms) full of fresh flowers and catered food to wait while their personal assistants arrange for their private jet to refuel. They have a limo ride home to a gourmet dinner cooked by their personal chef and then a quick 5 hour work-out in the home gym before bed. Don't get me wrong, they are most certainly entitled to the rights and liberties afforded all citizens of this country, including the perks associated with being rich and famous. Go for it! More power to you! BUT, please don't stand on your diamond-studded soapbox and think that because you are high profile you have special knowledge that the rest of us poor normals don't have. We may love your movies and follow the gossip about you, but that doesn't mean anyone thinks your opinion means any more than the homeless guy begging for nickels on the street corner. In fact, in my humble opinion, it means just a little less. So some advice to celebrities in general: have all the opinions you want, it's a free country and people fight hard every day to keep it that way for you, but when you're being interviewed-especially on foreign soil- do us all a favor, remember where the paychecks ultimately come from and stick to what you do best...reading from a script.

My Epiphany

I had an epiphany this morning. You see, we had a lousy Labor Day weekend. Our plans to go out of town fell through, our house is in the middle of being completely reorganized (my fault) so the whole upstairs is just plain depressing, I'm behind on everything and my son alternately wrecked what little was left of order in the house and pitched nonstop tantrums at the changes in his schedule. I have been overwhelmed, hormonal (thank you pms) and exhausted for the past two weeks. My husband is afraid to talk to me and the girls are quieter than usual. I keep telling myself that when the chaos passes I will be a better mom, I'll be a better wife, I won't be so cranky...enter my epiphany. This is my life. The chaos comes from a house full of children and love and laughter and mess. The dishes and laundry and bills are all just the flip side of the coin. I have been working so hard to make our home perfect, to make it something the kids will remember fondly and my husband will be proud of. I have been freaking out over cereal on the floor, juice spilled on the couch and the neverending pile of laundry. But childhood memories don't work that way. Our children won't remember that the house was always spotless, or that they always had clean clothes. They will remember that I bought them a new Easter dress every year, the ice cream dinners we had every summer, the way I let them help me cook dinner and the way I smelled. They will remember if our home was a happy place, the family walks we took to the bookstore, the times I took them swimming. They'll remember our big family holidays -the fun, not the dishes and expenses and stress. I know, I know...duh, not much of an epiphany, right? But for me I hope it is life-changing. I hope I can let go of my ideas of perfection. I hope I can stop working so hard to contain the chaos and embrace it instead. I hope I can remember that laundry doesn't end, but childhood does. And I hope I can be a calmer, happier mom that my children will remember lovingly. After all, it's not money or paint colors or clean carpets that make a home- it's family.

A Day in the Life of Kitty

It's morning, the girls are at school and all is quiet in the house. There is a lovely warm patch of sunlight to stretch out in and the sounds of kitty food being prepared in the next room. Then all hell breaks loose. Twenty-five pounds of shrieking toddler comes tearing around the corner, arms outstretched. Lightning-quick hands clutch at paws and tails as both cats streak into the next room in hopes of escape. But there is no escape today. They have been seen and the chase is on. With "KITTY!!" echoing through the house, the boy pursues, stout legs pumping feverishly. The cats separate. Felix makes his getaway, but Oscar is soon pinned down under the sofa. He is summarily dragged from his hiding place by the collar, claws futilely searching for purchase on the polished wood floor. He prepares for the inevitable onslaught of slobbery affection...but what is this?.....mistress has grabbed the toddler! Howling in indignation at being plucked from his prize, the child is scolded and put in time out. The hunt is over. He is delivered to the safety of the porch where the smells of tuna vittles and fresh pools of quiet sunlight await. Today promises to be a good one after all.

Thanks to My Husband

My husband has an amazing gift. With two daughters and a wife that used to act onstage, you can imagine the theatrics that often ensue. There are dramatic exits, slamming doors, tears and hormones gone wild. This weekend my eldest was in a bad mood. And when Abby is in a funk, God help us all. She is 8 going on 13 and apparently got the drama gene -BIG TIME. According to her, Saturday was the "worst day ever." Apparently the combination of forcing her to get dressed for the day, brush her teeth and eat lunch in a restaurant rated right up there with waterboarding. And the subsequent discovery of sauce on her noodles sent her into full meltdown. So there she sat- tears streaming down her face, hair hanging in the bowl of noodles (with sauce) muttering that it was the worst day ever. I have no patience for this sort of thing, but it tears my husband up. He pulls her into his lap and begins talking to her in a quiet voice, which seems to have the undesired effect of full-on waterworks complete with sobs and barnyard sounds. I wanted to sink down under the table, but he just kept rubbing her back and calmly talking to her. Pretty soon, tears are done and she's smiling again. This is a true gift he has. When Abby goes into full dramatics, he seems to effortlessly calm her. When Elisabeth starts sulking he can cajole her into laughing. He can calm me with a hug or a hand on my back- even when I'm entertaining plans to smother him in his sleep and he's the only person on the planet that can bring his mom down from the rafters. I don't know what it is that enables him to make you feel like everything will be alright no matter what, but it's a gift that we are all certainly grateful for. Thanks, Honey.

"The TALK "

Recently I had "THE TALK" with my 8 year-old daughter. I have been skirting this issue for several years now, providing answers on a need-to-know basis (as in how much of this do you really need to know right at this moment?). I thought I was doing pretty well considering I had actually made it through a pregnancy and given birth without too many questions. I thought for sure we'd be stuck when she asked how the baby would get out, but when I simply told her from where he would emerge, the resulting hysterical laughter ended any further conversation on the subject. So when the inevitable quest for information ensued, I expected the sitcom mother-daughter bonding moment to commence. Instead it was like explaining sex to Beavis and Butthead. Every mention of private parts brought on a bout of giggles, my morality talk seemed to backfire (eg. "So when I start my period I should look for a husband") and somehow she briefly thought the man disconnected tab A to insert it into slot B which required a couple of stuffed animal for visuals (sorry, Elmo). In the end she asked if daddy and I had sex, and when I answered, she said "I thought so!!" as if she had exposed some major conspiracy. So much for imparting wisdom.

My Son the Super Villain

My son is a genius. I know that all mothers think their children are exceptional, but I promise you, I am not just seeing him through rose-colored mommy glasses. He really is a genius. Unfortunately his particular brand of genius seems to be more of the mischief and mayhem kind. Besides the usual toddler talents of scaling furniture like a mountain goat, screaming louder than a foghorn, instant repetition of any swear word you say and eating the inedible, he has also mastered all things child-proof. He can work the drawer latches, turn doorknobs covered in those plastic covers (that really only deter adults I'm convinced) and open any childproof medication cap. In addition, he has figured out that if he puts the end of the toilet paper into the toilet and flushes, it sucks the paper off the roll and that if he plugs the sink and runs the water full-on he can flood the bathroom floor. He has singlehandedly crashed both of our computers through a combination of keystrokes and mouse clicks. He also loves dismantling my cordless floor sweepers, even pulling over a chair to access the tool caddy in the upper cabinet for tools. And no, he doesn't go so far as to get the correct tool out and use it, but he does understand the link. The day my 20 month old actually figures out how to get the screwdriver and use it correctly is the day I give up and move into a padded cell until he's 5. I don't know how this genius will manifest later, but I'm betting on super-villain.

When Hamsters Fly

Nothing says "family time" like flying hamsters. Hold on, don't get your panties in a twist. No animals were harmed in the making of this family memory. I am talking about this crazy online game called "flight of the hamsters." It's hysterical! You get this little team of cartoon hamsters complete with goggles that you launch through the air in hopes of going the distance- all to the tune of Flight of the Valkyries. Silly? absolutely. Fun? Oh yeah! I got one of my hamsters (named Chubby by the kids) launched, hit a springboard and catapulted by a rocket while my girls jumped and danced, giggling hysterically. When he ended up in space I thought they'd wet themselves. And when he came back down arms and legs windmilling, cratered into the ground and held up his little hamster sign reading "132ft" I think my oldest actually did.
When my husband heard the commotion, he joined in too. Being the genius of all things computer, he managed to get his hamster via springboards, rockets, fans and hamster balls to a gold-medal distance of over 200ft. I don't know how long we played this game, but everybody went to bed late and the giggling didn't subside for another couple hours as key plays were revisited and the identities of said hamsters were hashed out. I hope we didn't wake the kids.

Little Mismatched

Every morning this week has been a fashion nightmare. I don't mean anything as mundane as outdated clothing or too many choices. My younger daughter loves bright, garish clothing and I'm convinced will grow up to be either a premier fashion designer or a circus clown. I have nothing against either of these professions as long as she's happy, but I would prefer her to grasp a few basic fashion concepts such as "pick your clothes from the closet, not the hamper" or "magenta plaids and hunter green stripes do not go together in any known universe." Yet we again found ourselves in the before school battle over why a shirt with bright purple and green hearts doesn't match pants that are covered in hot pink horizontal stripes. In the the resulting tears and tantrums I don't even mention the fact that the pants now hit her above the ankle and the shirt is wrinkled and smelly from wearing it 2 days ago. I know, I know she's only six, but it's hard to send her off to face a classroom full of other kids wearing the fashion equivalent of a bullseye. So I am stuck between letting her be the exuberant and colorful ray of sunshine that is Elisabeth, and protecting that same special quality from the damage of an unkind word. I know there are lessons to be learned from such childhood hardships, but in the end I had her change into matching pants. I'd rather she keep that inner light whole a while longer.

Cat Poop and Paperclips

I swear my 20 month old son is going to kill me. Somehow in the last few months my sweet baby boy has morphed into a walking vacuum with microscopic vision that's stuck in "search and devour" mode. He can (and does) find the smallest, grossest possible things I have managed to overlook in my constant cleaning sprees and eats them. To date he has eaten dead flies, dirt, hand sanitizer, coffee grounds, hair, popcorn seeds, a paperclip and his crowning achievement- cat poop. I kid you not, my son actually ate an old piece of cat poop still covered in litter. I'm sure you can imagine the call to the pediatrician. Once the laughter on the other end subsided, I was informed to check his stools now for worms. Worms!!???? I mean, I know there are worse things in life than to find worms in your child's diaper (cancer, nuclear war, my daughters dating, etc) but...I mean...worms. So far we're in the clear, but the day I do find worms in his poop is the day my son will kill me.

Rantings of a Real Woman

Did I mention I'm fat? Oh yeah. I am a size 16 with a healthy appetite and great muscle tone. But apparently (according to popular media, anyway) I am just a few pounds shy of being harpooned on sight. Forget the fact that I carried three children to term and have zero hips (so I looked normal from behind and like I was carrying twins from the side), forget that I have caloric needs above 1200 since I am running a household and caring for the above mentioned children, forget the fact that I am a normal woman with curves and breasts that wants to actually eat the cookies I bake with my kids in those rare Kodak family moments carved out of the everyday chaos. I am not an 80lb anorexic waif with the body of a 12 year-old boy and a penchant for masking all that makes me feminine with androgynous jeans and cologne that swings both ways. I have plenty of padding exactly where it counts and I don't sweat the padding that isn't. But I AM sick of social engagements where all these beautiful women who are living full, productive lives are constantly berating and depriving themselves because they can't shop in the junior's department. They're better than that, every last one of them. And so am I. Take that Vanity Fair.

Confessions of a New Englander in Texas

As a transplanted New Englander, I have found a lot to love in Texas. I love the big open sky, the breathtaking sunsets, the fact that not once, during the entire winter, did I have to put fifteen layers of clothing on the kids just to walk to the car. And I would probably be burned at the stake for this (well, only in Salem), but I love the central A/C! My hair doesn't frizz and I can actually sleep at night. Yep, I have embraced my Texas home, gotten a deep tan and spent more time outside than I have since childhood. Then last week my utopia shattered. It wasn't the tornado that hit a mile from our house, or even a week straight of triple digit temperatures that caused me to become this hollow-eyed parody of the newly-born Texan I'd become. No, it was a visit from the Texas Striped Bark Scorpion. Just typing the name makes me want to search under my chair and start rattling things in the bathroom.
Now don't get me wrong, I knew there were scorpions in Texas before we moved here. I had even seen a few under glass in the Boston Aquarium. They looked a little weird, but seemed docile enough. I took the necessary precautions- hired an exterminator as soon as we moved in, plugged weepholes, sealed around exterior doors and religiously shook out our shoes before putting them on. All safe and sound right? And then last week, I am innocently bathing my daughters, flip over the bathroom scales to clean up some water and there he is in all his three-inch glory. Mr. Striped Bark Scorpion in the flesh, huddled to the floor, tail over the head and ready for business...less than a foot from my face.
I was calm, I was rock-solid, I was cool as ice as I made the first strike. I squeaked and gingerly brushed at it with my hand towel. The scorpion employed confusion tactics and did something totally unpredictable. He dropped his tail and made a mad dash for the walk-in closet, no doubt intending to drop on my head later in a surprise ambush. With a war cry resounding in my head (ok maybe it was a few shrieks out loud, but who's writing this?) I valiantly took off my sandal and beat him to a smear on the ceramic tile. The victory won, I calmly retreated to the adjacent bedroom and had a complete nervous breakdown. I am ashamed to say the quiet hysterics worried even my stalwart husband who bravely went into the bathroom to clean up the remains. He emerged a moment later with the corpse (while I shrieked and made a panicked attempt to escape it in it's Kleenex death shroud) and merely said, Hillary 1, scorpion zero.
Despite our exterminators' best efforts we have sighted and killed eight more in the last few days, including one in our bed and another on the ceiling above my daughter's crib. No one has slept much the last few nights, my constant paranoia causing me to turn on all the lights several times a night to check our sheets, walls and bedcovers for sneaky scorpions trying to kill us in our sleep. The latest casualty being our hamster who escaped her cage, climbed up on our bed in the middle of the night and....nevermind, as I told the girls, she fell in love and ran off to get married.
Having discovered a website on organic scorpion control I have now barricaded our beds with glue boards, electronic pest reppellents and talcum powder and armed myself with a blacklight. My husband has handled this with his usual aplomb -though he has balked at the idea of getting a chicken, which I understand are amazingly adept at searching out and eating scorpions. Just recently though he asked me if I'd like to go back to Boston to visit for a couple of weeks. The scorpions must be getting to the poor guy.

NOTE: This is actually something I wrote several years ago while living in TX. It was my site's first post so there would be something to read here until I got a bit more prolific. It's old, but absolutely true! Thank heavens we now live elsewhere and are scorpion-free.