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.