Merry Christmas!

I'm sure you've seen this before, but it never stops being funny!

Spontaneous Reading

Exhibit A

At home. Chelsea is examining the ornaments and presents.

Chelsea: "Mommy! This one says Heidi and Jeremy!" (points to ornament that says Heidi and Jeremy)

Me: (skeptically) "Which word says Heidi?"

Chelsea: "This one." (Points to "Heidi.")

Me: (still not convinced) "Which word says Jeremy?"

Chelsea: "THIS one." (Points to "Jeremy.")

Me: (thinking that was too easy, she must've heard me say the names when we hung the ornament and she knows which name is which because of the order they are in) "Hmm. You're right."

---

Exhibit B

At Target, in the Customer Service line. Girls are in the cart. Store employee walks up and talks to Chelsea.

Store Employee: (to Chelsea) "Hi there!"

Chelsea: (hides face and grins) "Thomas!"

Me: (turns to explain to the man that she is obsessed with Thomas and says "Thomas" even when it is not an appropriate response, but then sees that the man's name tag reads "Tom") "Chelsea, did you see the man's name tag?"

Chelsea: (keeps head down, says nothing)

Me: (distracted by Customer Service lady)

Me: (to the man) "She loves Thomas trains, so she randomly says Thomas all the time."

Man: "No, while you were talking to Customer Service she said 'Tom' to me. Twice."

---

Exhibit C

Driving to playgroup. Chelsea is staring out the window. We pass the sign that says "Now entering Ipswich."

Chelsea: "Mommy? Are we in Ipwich now?"

Me: "Did you just read the sign?"

Chelsea: "Ep." (That is Chelsea-speak for "Yep.")

---

I knew that she would eventually do this. That she would be one of those kids who would just up and start reading one day, before any kind of instruction. She is sitting on her bed right now with a mountain of library books. Within minutes of any family member coming to visit she has them reading to her. Even when she was potty-training, the bribe we used to get her to sit on the potty was reading books.

Even though I knew it would happen, I didn't expect it to happen so soon. I thought maybe, maybe at some point when she's three. Oprah famously describes how she started reading at three, why not Chelsea? But I thought it would be more like days before her fourth birthday. Not days after her third.

I don't write this to boast. Although I'm insanely proud of her, I'm hoping this doesn't come across turning this mommyblog into a mommybrag. Mostly I just want a record of what's happening with her. So that if it turns out that she really is starting to read, I'll have proof. That way, when she has her own kids and I tell her that she started reading at three and she inevitably doesn't believe me, I can say, "It's on my blog."

---

Of course with every triumph comes a challenge.

At Chelsea's 3 year check-up with her pediatrician, the doctor could barely understand her speech. She still struggles with Ls, Ys, and certain letter combos. The doc recommended a speech evaluation and since she's three we can get one through the local public schools.

I called them and they want her to come in for a preschool screening. Which is wonderful because the schools have an awesome, inexpensive preschool program which services a mix of regular education and special education students.

Ironically, my precocious little reader might qualify for this preschool as a special ed student because of her speech.

I'm glad she'll be getting help (if they determine she needs it). But I'll be sad to hear those little Chelsea-isms go.

"Is this 'ticker 'till 'ticky?"
---

Ghetto Thomas Cake Tutorial

I may have mentioned once or twice before that Chelsea is obsessed with Thomas. She decided months ago that she would only receive Thomas presents for her birthday. Whenever the suggestion came up that she might get something else, she'd say, "Wellll, maybe for Kissmas, but for my birfday I'm only gettin' Thomas peasants."

Like any totally insane mother, I decided to make her a Thomas cake. Sure, I could have made one like this. Or even like this. But no.

Because I stumbled upon THIS.

What follows is my very lame, very low-budget, very UNskilled Ghetto Thomas Cake tutorial.

Step 1: Bake a cake in a 9x13 pan. Use a cake mix because a 3-year-old will not notice if the cake is made from scratch or not. (If you live in an apartment where the oven sits on a slant, be prepared for the back of the cake to be a full inch taller than the front of the cake. Trim as needed.) Wrap in Saran and freeze.

Step 2: Cut the cake into quarters. Stack three of the quarters to form your Thomas. Save the remaining quarter for snacking building. Be sure you have a little model on hand for reference.

Step 3: Frost the layers together. Use a sharp knife to shave and cut the cake until it vaguely resembles the model. Jab a stick through it when it already starts to tip over.

Step 4: Give it a crumb coat. Use store-bought frosting because, again, the kid won't care and you don't have the patience to make homemade crusting buttercream. (Please be smarter than me. This cake is going to be mostly blue, so don't give it a white crumb coat. Make your life easier. The crumb coat should be blue.) Stick it in the fridge and hope it stays together.

Step 5: Make the face out of store-bought fondant (40% off one item at Michael's!) and black icing. Poke a stick in that, too. Set aside.

Step 6: Mix up your colors. (Another tip: Buy some red. It is impossible to make red by adding color to white. It just gets hotter and hotter pink.) (Also, I don't know why the picture is sideways or how to undo that. Halp?)

Step 7: Cover Thomas in blue frosting and then decorate with the other colors. Poke the popsicle face on there afterwards. Take a thousand pictures. Feel smug. Refrigerate cake until needed.

Step 8: At the appointed hour, add track and candles. Take some more pictures before he's demolished!

Step 9: Present Thomas cake to your beloved child and hope that you get a smile like this:

Step 10: Prepare for cannibalism.

Step 11: Have baby wipes, paper towels, napkins, and a hot bath ready to battle the (blue! and black!!!) frosting-covered face and fingers.

---

Christmas at Fenway

Dear Heidi,

Congratulations! You are invited to attend the sixth annual Christmas at Fenway this Saturday, December 13! This invitation-only event will provide those in attendance with a guaranteed opportunity to be amongst the first suckers Red Sox fans to spend an obscene amount of money on purchase 2009 select Sox game tickets.

You will also have the chance to have your child confused by photographed with Wally the Green Monster!

Your child will also be terrified delighted by Santa and Mrs. Claus!

Arrive early for your chance to be photographed with the 2004 and 2007 World Series Trophies! (Note to parents: although we may advise you to seat your baby between the trophies, you should not construe this as permission for your baby to touch the pretty, gold, shiny flags.)

As a guest of the Red Sox, you are invited to arrive at Gate D on Yawkey Way at the ass-crack of dawn 8am on December 13. The ticket sales will begin at 10am and we will make every effort to ensure that you stand in as many different lines as possible for as long as possible are able to purchase your tickets promptly.

Once you receive your tickets, please hand them to your child to pose with while praying she doesn't mangle or drop them keep them in a safe location.

Congratulations again and GO SOX!
---

DJ Y-T

Jeremy just finished teaching Invertebrate Zoology for the fall semester. When his students told him that one of their other instructors had rapped briefly in class, Jeremy was inspired to create the following masterpiece.



Yet another piece of evidence that I chose wisely.
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Diagnosis

About a year ago, I read this post by one of my favorite bloggers about her struggle with Hashimoto's thyroiditis. In the post, she included a link to a checklist of symptoms. I clicked through and found myself saying "Yes, yes, yes..." to many of the questions on the list.

I was convinced, for a few days at least, that I had some sort of thyroid issue.

But. I am easily persuaded. And, one of the symptoms? "Memory problems or having trouble thinking clearly." -from WebMD

Yesterday morning I had some blood drawn as part of my "annual" physical. Got a cryptic call from my doctor today, saying they had the results and that I should call the office.

Turns out...I have hypothyroidism. Duh!

The symptoms are pretty vague, so I can excuse myself for being unsure of my self-diagnosis. Here are a few of the joys of hypothyroidism:

1. Feeling tired, weak, or depressed.
2. Dry skin and brittle nails.
3. Not being able to stand the cold.
4. Memory problems or having trouble thinking clearly.
5. Heavy or irregular periods.

I suffer from most of these but I chalked each of them up to something else. Numbers 1 and 4? Well, that's just run-of-the-mill motherhood, isn't it?

Number 2? I thought I inherited those dry knuckles from my dad.

Number 3? It's freaking December. In New England. Isn't everyone cold?

Number 5? I'm still nursing which makes everything wacky.

You see?

But now I've got some prescription thyroid hormone waiting for me at CVS. Once it kicks in, I look forward to being alert, strong, happy, smart, warm, and THIN! (The doc also mentioned that my weight issues might also be attributed to low thyroid.)

So... yay?
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9,237,388... and One?

I don't know how I've managed to miss this one before, since over 9 million people have seen it and it's been out there for a couple of years. But it's new to me and thoroughly entertaining so here, I present to you 12 Days of A Cappella.



Thanks to WERS and their All A Cappella radio show for introducing me to this.
---

Tell the Boston Globe, Too

The Boston Globe Sunday Magazine included an article this past weekend called, "The $66.95 Family Feast." Sounds like a great idea for these troubled, troublesome times.

The author starts out with some bright ideas: shop at a local store known for good food and great prices, use ingredients in more than one dish when possible, and assume certain pantry staples.

I'm thinking: Hey! I already shop at that store! I don't mind using stuff more than once! And I have pantry staples!!!

Then I read through the rest of the directions....

"Set the pork on a cutting board, pat dry with paper towels, tie into a uniform shape with kitchen twine..."

Hmm. I'd have to get some kitchen twine. Not a big deal. Reading on...

"In a large, ovenproof Dutch oven set over medium-high heat..."

Wait. I don't have a Dutch oven. Not even a small, non-ovenproof one.

"In the bowl of a food processor, pulse 1 ¼ cups plus 2 tablespoons flour, confectioners' sugar, and a large pinch of salt to combine."

Dammit! I don't have a food processor either!

"Remove the top piece of plastic wrap and use the bottom piece to help gently drape the dough over the top of a 10- or 11-inch tart pan (with a removable bottom). "

A TART PAN?!! With a removable bottom? Who do they think I am, Martha Stewart? If I were, I wouldn't be reading an article about how to save money on a family feast!

(Ok. Calm down. Deep breaths.)

Let's say I still want to make this feast, despite my utter lack of kitchen equipment. How much might that cost?

According to my bff Amazon, it would cost just about eighty bucks to acquire all the stuff necessary to pull off this meal.

Oh, hah! That's more than the meal itself. (Kinda defeats the purpose, yes?)

Here's some more hilarity from the recipe:

"Tip: Save on sugar. You need only 1½ tablespoons, so if you don't have any in the pantry, use four of the packets stashed in your office desk to sweeten coffee."

Gee, thanks! Oh, wait. I don't have a desk. Or a job. Or money to spend at Starbucks where I might pick up a few extra packets of sugar.

And one final quote:

"Tip: Save $1.40 on soy sauce. Use three of the free packets you stashed from your last order of Chinese takeout."

Takeout? Who can afford takeout? (And if you can, how come you can't afford soy sauce?)

And really, you're urging me to save money on sugar and soy sauce while simultaneously suggesting I use $80 worth of equipment that I don't have? Wha-huh?

In the author's defense, the recipes really do sound delicious.

But I guess "The $146.95 Family Feast" just didn't have the same ring to it.
---
Many thanks to Snarky Amber at MamaPop for this post on a similar topic which inspired me to write the above.
---

Ghetto Muddy Buddies

Or "How to Make Muddy Buddies When You Do Not Have Chocolate Chips in the House and You Do Not Intend to Wait Until You Can Buy Some"

You may be familiar with Chex Muddy Buddies. My friend Cynthia calls them "White Trash." Which is probably a more appropriate (if also potentially more offensive) name because they are white and frankly, they're a bit of a mess. But they are also DELICIOUS.

So what do you do when you need some Muddy Buddies, like, RIGHT NOW, and there are no chocolate chips in your cupboard? You Google "substitute for chocolate chips" and find out that you can use cocoa, sugar, and shortening in their place.

So here's my new and totally not improved half-recipe for chipless Muddy Buddies:

Melt in microwave:
half a stick of butter
1/4 cup peanut butter

Stir in:
3T cocoa
3(heaping)T sugar
some vanilla

Pour mixture over 4-5 cups of Rice Chex in a big bowl and toss.

Dump a bunch of powdered sugar on it. Cover bowl with plastic wrap, hold on tight, and shake it like a Polaroid pictcha. (Yeah, not only do I not keep chocolate chips in the house, I also don't keep gallon size plastic bags.)

Voila! Deliciousness.

You're welcome.
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Christmas Walk Weekend

Our town has an annual event called the Christmas Walk, which is basically an elaborate ploy to lure shoppers into town. Over the course of a weekend, there are sales and raffles at the various shops and events like horse-drawn carriage rides, face painting for the kids, and holiday carolers.

And, since this is New England and coastal New England at that, Santa arrives by lobsterboat to greet the throngs of children.

We decided to skip that mob scene, and instead enjoyed the tiniest Christmas parade in the history of Christmas parades. It is actually perfect for very little kids, like ours, who have no attention spans to speak of and freeze easily outdoors after too long.

Behold, the highlights:


Now my favorite part of the Christmas Walk is filling up on all the free snacks that the shops have put out. And since we live in a ritzy, yacht-club kind of town, these aren't your usual chips and dips type snacks. Oh, no.

There were huge platters of cheese and crackers, complete with grapes and little deli slices. Plates of chocolate truffles, chocolate-dipped cookies, and stamped gourmet chocolates. Dishes of cashews, platters of brownies, cake stands covered with coconut-topped cupcakes. And lest your mouth get dry from all the delicious goodness, there was apple cider, cranberry cider, and mini water bottles. And did I mention the wine? Red wine, white wine, Prosecco, Champagne... I was actually sad that I don't like wine because there was just SO much free wine to be had! Such a waste!

And my favorite store (which under normal circumstances gives away enough free samples as to constitute lunch) had outdone themselves. They had invited a bunch of their local vendors to give away samples. So in addition to their usual spread, there was pie, ice cream, cookies, and my absolute favorite candy, Sweet Sloops.

All in all, it was a fine, fattening start to this holiday season.

**And if you read the Bee Girl story but did not yet see that it has been updated with a picture (!!!) then get back there right now and check it out already!
---

9 Months(ish)

Dear Savannah,

You learned to clap today. You do it kinda slow, with the tops of your fingers still a little bit curled over, but you are definitely clapping.

You love to stand up, all the time, as much as possible. When I try to sit you down, you keep your whole body stiff to stay standing. You can walk along a couch or table but you don't take any steps all on your own yet. When Daddy stands you up to walk to me, you just fall forward into my arms with a big grin.

Your sister cracks you up. You stare at her in the car, pop up and down in your crib when she runs in to see you after a nap, and laugh out loud when she tickles you. She used to call you Savoner or Savander. Now it's Percy or Molly. She says you are a silly engine.

You don't enjoy the baby food. You don't enjoy being fed much of anything, you want to do it yourself. You still don't have any teeth. (Although, that hasn't stopped you from biting me with your gums while I'm nursing you. Not cool, Savannah, not cool.)

You like to babble. Mostly mamamamama. Which I tell myself (and your dad) is actually Mama. Sometimes you say babababa and then crack up when I repeat it back to you.

When I carry you in the sling, you always lean forward and stare at the ground. I don't know what is so fascinating down there, my shoes?

You are, like your sister, not a great sleeper (yet). You cry at naps and in the night and although I tell myself I will be tough and let you cry, I almost never am and almost never do.

You are all cheeks. And big, bright blue eyes. And chubby, chubby rolls.

And when you are sleepy, I hold you over my shoulder and rock back and forth, singing Twinkle, Twinkle. And you put your little head down and sigh.

Love,
mamamamama

Bee Girl Story

Halloween 1993 I dressed up as the Bee Girl. You know, this Bee Girl.

There must be a picture of me in my homemade (read: stapled together) Bee Girl costume floating around somewhere, probably in the closet of my room at my parents' house, where all the Ninja Turtle stuff is stashed. But I don't have one to post, so you'll have to imaginize it. (How do I look? Cute? Ok, good.)

***EDITED TO ADD THIS:

(Many, many props to my dear friend Amy for unearthing, digitizing, and sending me this photo. You cannot fully appreciate how magical it is that she did this until you know that she moved to the east coast a full 5 years before this photo was taken. The fact that she a) had it, b) knew where to find it, c) took the time to scan it, send it... I'm in awe. Amy, you are the best!)

I was a freshman at UCLA and working in the promotions department of our campus radio station. Working in promo meant that I had to help construct and paint a hideous, lumpy brown dinosaur for the homecoming parade, which fell on Halloween weekend. (Why a dinosaur? I certainly don't know now and I think I didn't even know then. One of those college mysteries. Was our homecoming theme The Flintstones? It seems unlikely. But I digress.)

Being in promo also meant that I had to walk in the parade, with the hideous float, handing out whatever promotional crap we had to give away. In some sort of cosmic coincidence, the promo items I had to distribute were cassette tapes (I know! 1993, remember?) of Blind Melon's No Rain, which was the song that had the Bee Girl in the video.

The parade starts. I am walking along and people literally start losing their minds. "Oh my God! It's the Bee Girl!" Then they realize I am giving free shit away and they REALLY start losing their minds: "BEE GIRL! OVER HERE, BEEEEE GIIIIIRRRLL!!!"

Several people wanted to have their picture taken with me, which was very flattering and also slightly confusing. I mean, they knew that I wasn't the actual Bee Girl, right? She's like a ten-year-old kid? I tried to ignore that little conundrum and just enjoy the glow of temporary celebrity.

Later in the night, I had an interview scheduled for some other volunteer position in a campus organization. I know, I was a busy little bee. (HAH! See that? I was the Bee Girl and I was busy? LIKE A BEE!?)

My interrogator, I mean, interviewer must have made up his questions in advance because the final query was: Pick one item of your clothing and explain how it defines you. Someone else in the room stood up in my defense, "Dude, she's in a costume!" But I managed to pull something out of my ass by relating myself to my shoes (nice, sturdy, straight-laced normal shoes). And really, anyone who shows up at a job interview in a Bee Girl costume should have to take whatever they dish out, yes?

Did I get the job? Yes, but I didn't keep it.

Did I stay with campus radio? Sadly, no. I love me some free stickers and T-shirts and CDs as much as the next kid, but promo is just not me.

Do I wish like all get-out that I still had that damn Bee Girl costume stashed away somewhere, too?

Wouldn't you?

PS Thanks to Jason and his post on MamaPop for inspiring this post.
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Connectors and Mavens and Salesmen, Oh My

I'm reading Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point, it's about how thoughts, products, and actions can spread like epidemics.

One of his theories about how this happens is that certain people are more socially connected (Gladwell calls them Connectors), others are more market savvy (Mavens), and others are better able to persuade people (Salesmen).

To assess your level of social connection, Gladwell provides in his book a list of surnames picked at random from the phone book. You read the list and count up how many people you know with any of the names on the list.

I knew 11. Out of 250.

Strike one for me as a Connector.

I didn't hold out much hope of being a Maven. Although I'm very interested in getting good deals, I think most of that has to do with our current personal and national financial situation and not something innate within me.

Strike two.

And I don't even pretend to think I might be a Salesmen. Strike three, I'm out.

So, who cares if I don't fall into any of these three groups. By Gladwell's definition, these people are exceptional and rare. It should be no surprise that I am simply ordinary.

I think the interesting thing about these three types (and what makes me sad that I'm not one of them) is that they are people who are intensely interested in other people. The Connectors simply like more people and like to meet people more than most of us do. The Mavens are driven not so much by bargain-hunting as they are by a desire to help people. And the most successful Salesmen are those who genuinely empathize with and love their customers.

On paper, it would seem that I should have a vast social network. I've attended 4 universities and, through my husband, am affiliated with 3 more. I've lived in 6 different cities, in 4 different states. I've worked in at least 3 different industries.

In real life, I meet people easily, especially now that I have kids. I enjoy meeting people, hell, I will randomly talk to strangers. My mom has commented when she's with me that it's a skill not everyone has.

So how did I still only score an 11?

I think I lose track of people too easily. I think I'm often too self-absorbed to fully pay attention to other people. I think I'm more interested in talking than listening. (Ouch.)

I'm wondering if being a Connector, or a Maven, or even a Salesman is something you can learn. I don't think it is. I think it's simply something you ARE.

I think the Connectors, Mavens, and Salesmen of the world are more curious and more energetic and happier than the average person. And I want to be all of those things. But I'm not. And I don't think I ever will be.

Maybe I just haven't read far enough in the book yet. I'll let you know.
---

Top 3 Reasons Not to Finish Your Kid's Leftover Spaghetti

3: It is cold.

2: It'll go right to your hips.

1: Halfway through the first bite, you will remember that during dinner your kid got too big of a spoonful in her mouth, started to gag and had to spit a nasty, half-chewed up bite of food back out onto her plate. And now that bite is in your mouth. And you will have to do the same.
---

3am Conversation

J: If you could get a tattoo, what would it be?

H: I don't want a tattoo.

J: But if you could...

H: But I don't want one.

J: But if you could want one...

H: I don't know what I would want because I don't want one.

J: If I got a tattoo, I would get a knife.

H: (laughs) A machete!

J: A butter knife.

H: (laughs more)

J: 'Cause I'm smooth like that... and I have small teeth.

H: You don't have small teeth! I just have large teeth. Your teeth are normal.

J: And I'm flat.

H: (laughing) And you're (laughing almost too hard to say it) dull!

J: (laughing) Did you just say "dull?"

H: (laughing inappropriately hard for 3am) Yeah!
---

Timeline of a Long Night

7pm Put baby to bed. Drink Polar Diet Dry Orange Soda. Ahhhh.

8:30pm Put big girl to bed, amid MUCH protest. ("I don't know how to sleep! I'm not tired! My poo poo is coming! I'm so hungry, my legs are hungry!")

9:15pm Big girl finally asleep. (Or at least, quiet.)

9:30pm Dreamfeed baby, nurse AND bottle. Go to bed.

12:ooam Wake up to blood-curdling screams, coming from baby. Angrily stomp to baby, nurse, put her back to bed. Return to bed thinking, "How can you not even sleep for 3 hours on such a full tummy???"

4:45 Wake up to baby whimpering. Angrily try to ignore it hoping she'll fall back asleep. Husband leaves for gym.

5am Finally give in and get baby, who falls asleep on shoulder. Sit down on couch and stare at ceiling. Try unsuccessfully to sleep while baby breathes heavily into my ear.

5:30am Piercing beep every 30 seconds from unknown source. Get up, cupping hand over sleeping baby's exposed ear, to locate source of horrendous beeping.

5:35am Put baby down (who miraculously stays asleep) to pull carbon monoxide detector off the wall. Read back to determine that beeping means only that the detector needs to be replaced and not that we are all about to die in our sleep. Remove batteries. Return to bed.

5:45am Hear husband returning home from gym, showering, and bothering me by tip-toeing around and being awake at an unreasonable hour.

6am Awakened by husband: "Why did you take the batteries out of the CO2 detector?"

Me, too tired to be pissed that husband was not home to take the detector off the wall for me: "Because it was beeping."
---

What Happens When You Blog Instead of Clean

Something stinks in my kitchen and I can't figure out what or where it is. (And in case I haven't mentioned it eleventy kajillion times, my kitchen is the size of a baby's pinky fingernail, so it should be easy to locate anything in there.)

My parents were visiting for the past week and thanks to my super-tidy, forever-puttering German mother, our apartment is sparkling clean like it hasn't been since... well, since last time she was here.

And yet, it is stinky. Gah.

We took out the trash, sniffed all around the offending area, checked for renegade poopy diapers that may have come alive and jumped out of their confinement. Nothing.

Mystery stink! Be gone!

(I'm writing about it in hopes that my blog will work it's usual magic and cause whatever I write to be untrue. Stay tuned!)
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TRTLPWR Story

When I was in high school, I had a slight obsession with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I carried a TMNT lunchbox to school. (Yes, I was one of those kids.) I collected the little action figures. I knew which turtle carried which weapon. I knew the lyrics to the TV show theme song.

In my senior year, I was voted the winner of the Peter Pan Forever award, as in The One Who Will Never Grow Up. It could have had something to do with the Ninja Turtles. (Or maybe it was the fact that on the day we voted I had worn roller skates and brought my teddy bear to school resulting in my entire 3rd period English class voting for me.)

In addition to being a total dork, I was spoiled rotten. At my 18th birthday party, my parents surprised me with a new car. It was a lime green Honda Civic Del Sol. A tiny little two-seater convertible. It practically demanded vanity plates.

And what more appropriate plates for a Ninja Turtle obsessed brat driving around in a lime green convertible? TRTLPWR, of course.

I drove that little car all through college, where it's wheels were stolen and it was left on bricks. It was transported cross-country to DC and eventually driven to Atlanta. It wasn't until after Jeremy and I were married that we finally traded it in for a sensible, four-door, four passenger Civic. The newer Civic gets the job done, but it doesn't inspire memories the way the Del Sol did.

I still have the action figures. I still have the lunchbox. I still have the dozens of Ninja Turtle drawings that friends and family made for me.

Best of all, I still have the memories of those carefree days. And of course, I still have the plates.

(Thanks to Imez for inspiring this post.)
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R.I.P. Naptime

Dear Naptime,

You came into this world nearly three years ago, just as our first child was born. You overwhelmed us with your generosity, providing us countless hours of newborn sleep and myriad possibilities for photographing dream-induced smiles. You gave us respite in those terrifying early days of parenthood.

You had your fickle times, too. You became difficult to induce and to maintain. Placing pacifiers just so. Bouncing in the sling again and again just to win 45 minutes of your glory. Driving aimlessly around town with bleary eyes. Whatever the price, you were always worth it.

And as you aged, you continued to change. When you stopped visiting us three times a day, I was nervous. And when you cut your visits down to just one each afternoon, I knew my baby was growing up too fast.

And now, it seems that you have left us for good. I had worried that perhaps we'd have to skip seeing some of our other friends to keep you around, but now it appears you are determined to leave despite our best efforts.

Oh, Naptime, you've given us so much over these three years. Time to rest, eat, clean, and pee alone. Solitude. Quiet. Uninterrupted telephone conversations.

Naptime, you will be greatly missed by all who knew you.
---

Hopeful

Times are tough. I was reading a blog this morning about frugal living and the author cited another blog with a "Save $1000 in a Month" challenge. This is simply not possible for us. I'm so tired of all the Money Saving Tips!!! out there that assume I go to Starbucks everyday and I have my heater cranked up to 75 and I eat lunches at restaurants.

Here's the reality: I'm going to Starbucks today only because I'll get a free coffee after voting. I rent and therefore don't pay for my heat (although it is still not turned on). And I can't remember the last time I went out to lunch. Hell, the last time we went out to dinner, we paid with change!

More reality: The only time my girls are in new clothes is when they get them as gifts. I wear the same two pairs of shoes all year. We shop at the sketchy grocery store because it's the cheapest option around.

All of this is by choice. It was our choice that I would leave the workforce and stay home with the girls. But it still frustrates me that we are using up our modest savings just to get by.

Sure, we've gone to the occasional Red Sox game. And yes, we did go to a concert recently. Things are not as tight as they could be.

I'm trying to be grateful, I know that so many people are struggling with much worse. I was reading a book recently that included a fictionalized account of a homeless family. They were starving and living in their car. When my little girl came into the room I was reading in, I just broke down.

We don't have to worry about keeping a roof over our children's heads. We never worry about where the next meal is coming from or how to stay warm overnight in the winter.

We are so, so lucky.

Now I'm trying to figure out if there's anything I can do to help people who are truly struggling. This is where I'm starting. I'm trying to remember the positive, trying to go against my natural tendency to be a whiny, cranky, pessimist and be thankful.

And, today especially, I'm feeling pretty hopeful.
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Playgroup versus... Naptime?

For the past two weeks in a row, Chelsea has come home from our regular Friday playgroup (holla!) and refused to nap. Oh, she'll stay in her room, she'll even stay in her bed, but WIDE awake. Today, I kept her in there for 2 hours hoping and hoping she'd finally go to sleep.

Because the wages of no naptime? Worse than death.

Cranky toddler = Ruined dinner. Bathtime meltdown. Much, much wailing and gnashing of teeth (and that's just Jeremy and me).

But today? It's freaking Halloween! How can I drag a cranky, over-tired child around in costume, in the dark, to our neighbors' houses, asking for candy?!

Today, I'm hoping to solve that problem with our least favorite baby-sitter: television. I figure if she sits in front of the TV for a while, maybe she'll at least be rested enough that she won't lose it in the middle of trick-or-treating if someone, oh I don't know, looks at her.

So for today, problem (maybe?) solved. But what to do next week? And the week after that? In the battle of playgroup versus naptime, who wins? I'd HATE to miss my playgroup, sometimes that's the only adult female conversation I get all week. But the torture of missed naptime is so acute, so horrible... I just don't know.

Happy Halloween to you and here's hoping you have less of a horror show at your house than we are likely to have here!
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Ah, Poetry

I know that there is something wrong,
Said Mrs. Heidi Summers Long.
I have a headache and some zits,
Dirty hair and stinky pits.
My eyes are sore, my legs are cold.
I’m feeling super-duper old.
My nightgown has a spit-up stain,
I cannot even use my brain.
The coffee never seems to work,
My children make me go berserk.
The baby cries and screams and shouts,
The toilet paper’s running out.
The big girl stays up late, late, late.
I cannot find a tidy plate.
Baby howls when I wipe her,
My bedroom smells like poopy diaper.
Crumbs and stickers on the floor,
I really cannot take much more.
Feeling like the walking dead,
When can I go back to bed?
I have a cramp and my arm is- what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is… Friday?
G’bye, I’m off to group to play!

(Dedicated to the amazing ladies in my Friday playgroup [I wish every day were Friday!] and inspired by Shel Silverstein's Sick.)
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Rainy Tuesday Meme

Thanks, Robyn, for the meme. We're definitely having a rainy, lazy, SOCKS-like day over here and I've got nothing. So here you go! Anyone reading this (hola, imaginary readers!) feel free to play along.

1. Where is your cell phone? Shelf
2. Your significant other? Jeremy
3. Your hair? Dirty
4. Your mother? Purposeful
5. Your father? Traveler
6. Your favorite thing? Sleep
7. Your dream last night? Interrupted
8. Your favorite drink? Margarita
9. Your dream/goal? Home
10. What room you're in? Kitchen
11. Your hobby? Blogging
12. Your fear? McCain
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Stable
14. Where were you last night? Couch
15. Something that you aren't? Thin
16. Muffins? Yum
17. Wish list item? Babysitter
18. Where you grew up? Cali
19. Last thing you did? Read
20. What are you wearing? Nightgown
21. Your TV? Off
22. Your pets? None
23 Friends? Facebook
24. Life? Lucky
25. Your mood? Cranky
26. Missing someone? Traci
27. Vehicle? Civic
28. You're not wearing? Socks
29. Your favorite store? Shubie's
30. Favorite Holiday? Halloween
31. Your favorite time? Bedtime
32. Your favorite color? Green
33. When is the last time you laughed? Now
34. Last time you cried? Days
35. One place that I go to over and over: Playgroup
36. One person who emails me regularly: Mom
37. My favorite place to eat: Juanita's
38. One place I would like to go right now: Encinitas
39. One person I think will respond: Um...
40. One TV show I watch all the time: Grey's
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Two Officers and a Stray Cat

Halloween 2007, on the way to a party. Jeremy and I were part of a group dressing as Reno 911. Chelsea is dressed as Bootsie (a stray black cat we met at the playground one day). I'm pregnant with Savannah, hence the button-down shirt that doesn't button down.)
Rad photography, right? I managed to cut off Jeremy's head AND feet. You would never guess that I used to work as a professional photog, would you? (But that's another post...)
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No on Prop 8

I can't believe this is even an issue.

Prop 8 is a ballot initiative in California to change the state constitution in order to ban gay marriages. The California state constitution currently prevents the state from discriminating against anyone on the basis of their sexual orientation. That's it. Judges did not make any new laws to allow gay marriage in California. They simply pointed out that what California was doing was in violation of its own constitution.

I'm embarrassed for my home state that Prop 8 is even on the ballot. I'm so proud to be living in Massachusetts where gay marriage is legal and just NOT A BIG DEAL. If you don't believe in gay marriage, fine. Don't get one. If your church doesn't believe in them, fine. Your church needn't support them.

I am by no means an expert on this topic, I don't pretend to be. But it boggles my mind that people want to change the constitution to actively deny gay couples equal rights.

Since I can't vote in California, I'm reduced to writing about it on my blog. If anyone is reading this in California, please, when you cast your ballot for Obama (!!!) don't forget to vote no on Prop 8. Also, skip that latte this afternoon and donate the $5 to help. It's easy, go here.


Now is the time to donate. Let your support be known.

Props to Looky, Daddy! for the cool poster.
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Dr. & Mrs. Evil, and Mini-Me

Halloween 2006. On our way to a party. Chelsea was 10 months old.

We were pretty rad, no? I'm totally distracted by the background: what the hell was on TV? Also, that bright shiny rectangle way up high is the license plate that is the banner for this blog, and I need to dig that baby gate around the TV out of storage 'cause Savannah wants to put her fingers in the VCR all. the. time. But forget all of that: check out our groovy costumes!

Thoughts on Alternative Education

Which of these two options would you choose for your child?

Option 1: Your child is competent in all school subjects, passes graduation requirements. Knows the dates of Lincoln's administration. Knows how to write a geometry proof. Writes a damn convincing 5-paragraph essay. Your child will only retain most of this information for a short time, but long enough to get into a good college.

Option 2: Your child lacks some specific content knowledge, but is a self-directed, motivated, thoughtful learner. S/he can read well and easily participate in sincere debates and conversations. Your child is mature, and views learning as a pleasure and a choice, not as a chore. S/he also easily gains acceptance to a good college.

Essentially, the question is this: Is it more important that your child be a good student or a good person? My opinion, in the words of a non-traditional student: "Attitude is more important than substantive learning in every way. The substantive things are trivial to acquire."*

The more I think about traditional schools, the more I'm convinced they are a waste of everyone's time. They can't even argue that they complete their most basic goal: instruction in academic content. The show "Are You Smarter than a 5th grader?" doesn't prove that adults are stupid, rather it shows how fleeting and irrelevant most of the things we "learn" in school are.

I say this as someone who is a highly trained educator with a long history of working in both public and private schools. In high school, I worked as a playground supervisor and a classroom aide. I spent over a year substitute teaching to decide whether or not to get credentialed. After getting my certificate, I worked for 5 years in private schools and completed a Master's degree in Education.

I have been reading a lot about the Sudbury Valley School which is basically a school with no curriculum. Students decide for themselves how to spend their days. They decide what, when, and how they will learn. They play a lot. They have massive amounts of freedom compared to their traditional school counterparts.

The primary objection to this type of schooling is that the students won't learn anything, they'll simply play all day. I would counter that while students seem to learn a lot in traditional schools, the content they study is largely forgotten. What students DO learn in traditional schools is how to sit down, be quiet, and follow directions. They learn that learning is not fun.

I have a nagging doubt in my mind about my indictment of traditional schools, and it is that despite their flaws, they have managed to produce thoughtful people who value learning. They produced me. And my husband. My friends Emily and Tracy. And dozens of others. They can't be all bad.

However, on walks around my neighborhood, I've seen school projects put out in the trash or recycle bin and I'm reminded of how pointless all of those activities usually are. In 6th grade, I had to stick a lightbulb on top of an empty bottle, cover it with a nylon stocking, and turn it into a pioneer-style doll for a project based on some book I don't even remember. What the hell was the point of that? I only remember it now because I was so traumatized by how horribly it turned out. Wouldn't the hours I spent working on that (and fretting over it) been better spent doing almost anything else? Perhaps playing?

I'm undecided on this issue. One some days, I decide that the only solution is for me to open a Sudbury-type school so that my own children will be able to attend one. When that idea is too scary, I decide they'll just have to go to public school, like everyone else, and they'll turn out fine. I think it will be harder to me to deal with all the nonsense (idiotic projects, mindless homework) than for them. Perhaps the real solution is somewhere in the middle: work for change in the public school system. My jury is still out.

If you are interested in this topic, please check out the Freedom to Learn blog, by psychologist Peter Gray. He is a parent of a Sudbury school student and has a lot to say about the importance of play and this model of education.

*Legacy of Trust, p.331.
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Book vs. Movie: The Beach

I recently picked up The Beach, by Alex Garland, out of a neighbor's free book box on the curb. And once I started reading it, I couldn't really put it down.

On the surface, this is a book I would never normally choose. The themes (backpacker culture, travel, Asia, drugs, insanity) are not my usual cuppa. But I always figure if a book inspired someone to make a film out of it, it can't be that bad.

And it wasn't bad, it was great. It was complicated, so much so that I wished I were back in college to have a literature professor help me understand it all and a class full of peers to discuss it with.

After finishing it, I was desperate to see the movie. I raced to the library to get there before it closed, and they didn't have it! (Shouldn't that be against library rules? If there is a movie based on a novel, the library should be required to carry that movie, no?) Don't worry, I got it at the local video store.

So, the movie. SUCKS. No, not really, but compared to the book? Well, I guess I should know better. Had I seen the movie first, maybe. Maybe I would've thought, "Hm, what an interesting movie. I should go read the book!" But it never works that way. Once I've seen the movie I cannot work up a single ounce of interest in reading the book.

I understand that changes must be made to fit a novel-length story into a couple of hours. But the changes in this movie were so egregious and unnecessary and untrue to the spirit of the book... it was just not forgivable. I was curious about the author's opinion of the movie and he's been quoted as saying, "It's shit."

I should also mention that I kind of super love Leonardo DiCaprio. I know, he looks like he's all of twelve years old, but whatever, shut up, I loooove him. So if I'm still saying the movie is bad? Well, I'm sorry Leo, but it is.

Since I don't make it to the movies nearly as often as I would like (read: never) I guess it's good thing that the books are almost* always better.

*Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men being a ginormous exception.

Have Some Hall with those Oates

I just think this is really, really funny.

Do You Like My Acid Rock?

Music! Makes the people! Come together! YEAH!

Yes, Jeremy and I saw Madonna last night. Jeremy bought the tickets for my birthday way back in May, back when we still had money in the bank, back when the stock market was still over ten thousand, remember those days? Anyway, now that we are flat broke we tried to sell our tickets but apparently everyone else in Boston (in the country?) is flat broke, too, so like ALL of the tickets to last night's show were for sale on craigslist. When we realized we would be lucky to get half the price we paid for them, we decided to go. Okay, jeez, I guess we'll go ahead and go to a major concert, in the city, without our children...if you insist. *sigh*

The show was overwhelming. I've only seen a couple of concerts of that caliber in my life. I'm not a huge Madonna fan, didn't even recognize some of her newer songs, but she puts on quite a show. The songs I recognized were Vogue, Get into the Groove, Borderline, Music, La Isla Bonita, You Must Love Me, Four Minutes, Like a Prayer, Ray of Light, and Hung Up.

Get into the Groove was the most fun: her back-up dancers were dressed like Fanny Pak, the video screens behind them were full of Keith Haring-style images, and Madonna did double-dutch during the song while the audience sang.

The strangest song was La Isla Bonita. It can only be described as a flamenco hoedown. All the dancers were dressed in Spanish-style costumes, but the song was accompanied by... an electric fiddle? And then it morphed into a gypsy sequence where... a guy playing electric accordion came out? Then they were doing what can only be described as the Hava Nagila??? Very bizarre.

The people-watching was pretty brilliant. There were lots of leggings: leggings under skirts, leopard-print leggings, and (two seats away from us!) shiny black spandex leggings, yipes! Also a handful of wanna-bes, particularly of the Like a Virgin vintage. And the gays! My god, the gays! I mean, this is Massachusetts, and we are a very gay-friendly state but I guess I didn't realize that Madonna was the new Cher. Very nice.

We had a friendly, hip, young gay couple on one side of us who knew every word of every song and on the other side a friendly, older straight couple whose teenage kids had bought them tickets. At one point, the show featured a video urging political action and McCain's picture flashed on the screen amid horrors like famine, genocide, and fascism while Obama appeared in another montage including the Dalai Lama, Martin Luther King, and Oprah (Really, Madonna? Oprah?). The large majority of the crowd went WILD for this, including the young couple to our left. The older couple, however? NOT AMUSED.

Madonna commented that she'd been warned not to say anything more about Sarah Palin and she even made a dramatic gesture of zipping her lips and throwing away the key. Then she asked, "Are all of you fuckers registered to vote?" And then told us to vote for Obama before continuing with her song.

There were a few mysteries: at one point, Madge raised her arm up over her head and flipped the bird at the wall behind her. Who was she pissed at back there? Also, she started the show with a wavy hair-do, parted down the middle and later changed into a wig that was the EXACT same hair-do... with bangs. Why, why? And the final mystery: what song did she close the show with? We left early because our free baby-sitting (thanks, Tracy!) was turning into a pumpkin at midnight.

So despite today's ringing ears, over-tired children, and empty bank account it was a great night. And I'll probably spend the rest of the week randomly saying, "Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock."
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Red Sox (Indoctrin)Nation

Happy family, on the way into the game!

This is where we sat. Think we are high enough? (Look, that's Jacoby balancing on Chelsea's knuckle. Can we just put him in a pocket and take him home with us? Please?)

Savannah's first Sox game. (She was actually much happier than she looks.)

How to keep a toddler happy at the game: cotton candy bigger than her head!

Mission accomplished. Superfan status complete.

Littlest Consumer

At 8am:

Chelsea: "Mommy, what is open?"

Me: "Um, Starbucks is open. And 7-11."

Chelsea: "We should go to Starbucks!"

Me: "No, honey, we're not going to Starbucks this morning. We're going to the playground a little later to meet some friends."

Chelsea: "We should go to Starbucks while we're waiting!"
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Some Thoughts on the 2nd Debate

Does McCain think I'm stupid?

Last night, he kept retelling the same anecdotes he told in the first debate, he even repeated himself on back-to-back questions. He mentioned his associations with Feingold and Lieberman twice in a row. Umm, yeah, I just heard that. He also repeated his Reagan & O'Neill anecdote twice in last night's debate. Does he think I am a dummy and need things beaten into my head? Or (an even greater concern) does he not have enough to say that he needs to resort to repeating himself?

McCain also provocatively said that Social Security is easy to fix... but didn't say how! Instead of repeating his tired anecdotes, he should have talked about that. (A quick search of McCain's official site resulted no matches for "social security"... how is that possible?)

I also felt like he was brown-nosing a bit. He kept stressing that Americans are the best, the smartest, the most innovative, the most hard-working. Ok. You love your country. That's a good thing. But again, don't beat me to death with it. He sounded insincere, pandering, and desperate.

Overall, I thought McCain looked very old and stiff (which leads me to frightening thoughts about possible President Palin) and I felt that if the Town Hall Meeting is his preferred style of debate, he should've done a lot better.

(Quick share: If, like me, you have concerns about McCain, or if you're undecided or leaning towards him, please take a look at this recent article from Rolling Stone.)

Obama struck me as smart. I liked that he criticized President Bush's call for Americans to go shopping in the wake of 9/11. In the same vein, his stand-out quote for me was when he said, "Americans are hungry for a call to service." Unlike McCain, he was able to give a specific answer to the question about what Americans might need to sacrifice given the current economic situation and our commitments overseas. He said Americans should look at their energy consumption. To me, this is a double win. First, he is correct that in times of war, it's appropriate that not only military families are making sacrifices for the country. Second, a reduction in energy consumption also impacts the environment and begins to address our dependence on foreign oil.

Obama was also guilty of repeating some pet phrases; he reused the machete versus scalpel metaphor to compare McCain's federal spending freeze to his own strategy for cutting spending. Despite that, I felt that he did a better job of answering the questions that were asked and not sounding like a broken record.

When Obama spoke about the feeling in this country after 9/11, he made me really hopeful. I do believe that Obama will be the next President, and I hope he can rekindle those feelings of community and national pride that we all had in those days and channel them toward a better future. I hope he was serious about a call to service. I think we're ready.

What did YOU think?
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Mother's Naptime Rant, in Three Acts

Act 1
Mobility is so overrated. Now that Savannah can sort of get around on her own, she's even harder to get to sleep than before. Lately when I put her down, she immediately backs up into a sitting position and cries. I know she'll eventually lie down and sleep. Today I went in to check on her and she's standing up hanging on to the top of the crib rail and wailing. I lie her back down. She sits back up. I leave. Go back in to check on her again? Now she's on her knees trying to recreate her performance from earlier. I give up.

Act 2
How is it possible that BOTH children are head-noddingly sleepy in the car at 12:30pm and I have to shout songs at them to keep them awake on the way home... yet they are still wide awake at 1:30pm after lying (or sitting, standing, or kneeling) in their beds for half an hour?

Act 3
Why, why, WHY does the gardening service that comes to our apartment building to mow our ridiculously small stretch of grass with the loudest riding mower on Earth have to come every week DURING NAPTIME? (Not that my children are sleeping or anything...).

Fin
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The Turtle Song

Chelsea and I have a nightly bedtime ritual. After bath, jammies, and stories, I always sing her the Turtle Song. It goes like this:

I had a little turtle
His name was Tiny Tim
He went into the bathtub
To see if he could swim
He drank up all the water
He ate up all the soap
He went to see the doctor
With a bubble in his throat.

I first sang it to her a long time ago, back when she was still sleeping in her crib, back when I was searching for something, anything, to keep her from crying when she went down for a nap or for bedtime. One day, I sang this song, and she didn't cry. And just like that, it became our routine.

As she got older, she wanted to take over singing the song entirely by herself ("I do it myseff!") but her versions were so long and rambling and I never knew when they were over, so instead we made a compromise: I sing it, but she sings the last word of each line.

Lately, however, she's turned the song into a MadLibs-like exercise in ridiculousness. Here's how it usually goes:

I had a little THOMAS!
His name was THOMAS WHOMAS!
He went into the PERCY!
To see if he could PERCY!
He drank up all the PERCY!
He ate up all the PERCY!
He went to see the PERCY!
With a PERCY IN HIS EDWARD!

Sometimes I ask her if she wants to hear a different song. My mom is able to put her to bed with an out-of-season rendition of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and my husband manages to put her to bed with no songs at all. But with me, it's always the Turtle Song. Or, I guess I should say, the Thomas Song. Although, isn't every song at my house the Thomas song these days?
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This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as an entry for a contest sponsored by Bush’s Beans.
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Sarah Palin Drinking Game

1. Every time she says "ya" (as in, "I hear ya!"), take a drink.

2. Every time she drops a "g" (as in, "I'm talkin' to the people!"), take a drink.

3. Every time she says "nuke-u-lar" instead of nuclear, take a drink.

4. Every time she overtly dodges a question, take a drink.

5. Every time she gives a rambling, incoherent answer more reminiscent of shoddy high school debate than of executive-level politics, take a drink.

Bonus Round: If she gets elected, hie thee hence to your local packie with your last few dollars, 'cause you're gonna need A LOT of liquor.
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Change Night: The Verdict

Apparently, Monday night is NOT a hot choice for a night out. (What? You didn't know? Me, neither!)

After leaving our children in the care of 5 or so overwhelmed YMCA ladies, we joyously strolled to our local Indian restaurant to see this sign on the door: Closed Mondays.

Jeremy suggested Thai, so we walked the few blocks to the local Thai place, and... dark interior, empty tables. We turned around before we got close enough to read the Closed sign.

What the?

We finally ended up at a little local New Englandy place that was just fine. (Frankly, we were so happy to be alone and carry on an uninterrupted conversation we probably could've been sitting in a Dumpster and been pleased about it.)

On the way back we passed a nice Italian place, CLOSED, and our favorite coffee house, CLOSED.

Jeez! I know we live in the 'burbs, but c'mon! You can't be bothered to be open in the evening on a weeknight???

Ok, I guess after a busy weekend the restaurant workers need a night off, too. Go ahead and take Monday. Maybe those YMCA ladies can give me a different night of the week to work with next time.
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Change Night!

Or, actually, Date Night! Woohoo!

We don't go on dates anymore, not really. We go on them so rarely that our nights out are more like major events than dates. The last night we got out was in May. Right now, there are Halloween costumes at Target. So it's been a while.

First off, we can't afford the baby-sitting to have frequent date nights. And even if we could, then we couldn't afford to go anywhere.

Now, I know there are solutions to this. We have at least two sets of lovely, trustworthy neighbors who are eager to do a baby-sitting swap. And if we get out, we don't need to do anything expensive, just to go sit and watch the ocean without the kids would be a treat. But that requires me getting off my lazy butt and actually planning something. With other people.

Recently, another solution fell into our laps. Our local YMCA is offering a night of baby-sitting, at the Y, for $5 per kid... for two and a half hours! And no age requirements! Ten bucks for the both of them? Now THAT I can afford.

But how to pay for our date? Hmmm....

Jeremy randomly decided over the weekend to roll up all the dimes and nickels we've been collecting in an old mug. (It's a relic of my teaching days. It says, "Teachers Change the World!" Get it? CHANGE. Haha, I'm hilarious, I know. Also? Does it really need to be said that you should NEVER give a teacher anything that is teacher-themed? Or has an apple on it? Or an A+? STOP IT ALREADY.)

So, he rolls up all the change. There are no quarters because we use those for laundry and he left all the pennies because, pennies? Who has time to roll pennies? And the final total, (insert trumpet fanfare) was twenty-six bucks!

Jeremy: We can go have a $26 dinner!

Me: We have a $5 coupon to the Indian place! We can have a $31 dinner!!!

Jeremy: But we still have to pay $10 for baby-sitting.

Me: Ok... a $21 dinner? Yeah, we can get a $21 dinner.

And Change Night was born!
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At Home vs. At the Zoo

Top 5 Reasons I'd Rather Live at the Zoo:

5. At the Zoo, the animals stay IN their enclosures.
At my home, the baby (who cannot even crawl yet!) pulls herself up on the crib rails, ready to vault over the side at any moment. This is the same crib that her big sister "graduated" from at age 2... only because I found her in mid-escape one day, hanging precariously over the side.

4. At the Zoo, the keepers lock the animals up at night and go home. To sleep.
Sleep! Glorious sleep! What I wouldn't give for one night of uninterrupted sleep!

3. At the Zoo, people pay good money to come see the animals.
Last time I checked, I had to pay someone else $12 an hour to come to my place and watch the two little people.

2. At the Zoo, you throw the food to the animals and they gladly eat it up.
Yesterday, I had baby oatmeal spit back at me. On my shirt. And face. My older daughter recently cried when I made her a PB&J because she wanted a liverwurst sandwich. Wha-huh?

And the Number One reason I'd rather live at the Zoo....

1. At the Zoo, they have churros.
I love those things!
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This post inspired by the Parent Bloggers Network and the launch of iKnow Animals, Letters & Sounds
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The Road Ahead

As of this morning, I am 28 pounds lighter than I was when I came home from the hospital with Savannah. Since I ruined my knees running in the early weeks of her life, I have achieved this weight loss chiefly through changes in my diet. Basically, I just eat less. It has not been easy, and I'm extremely proud of myself. Today I fit into some old pants that I can't remember wearing since before I was pregnant with Chelsea.

According to the BMI calculators, I have moved from the "obese" category into merely "overweight." Which is good. Progress is good. But I still have another 26 pounds to go before I move into the "normal weight" range. And the weight that is my target for the top end of that range is one I have not seen on the scale since college.

As excited as I am about my progress this far, I'm overwhelmed by the thought that I'm only half-way there.

So far, it has helped me to think in small steps: with my weight in the 160s, my goal is to get to 159, and so forth. So instead of thinking about losing 26 pounds, I'm just thinking about the few pounds that will change that second number on the scale.

I don't know how to end this post since there's really no big "take home message" or snappy joke I can make. So, yay me for getting this far, but woe is me for still having a ways to go.
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Why I am Going Straight to Hell

On a recent walk, I passed one of the many local churches in our small town. The notice board outside read, "Sunday Sermon 10am. Nursery care provided. Coffee Hour 11am."

My first thought? They want to watch my children for an hour? Then give me coffee and snacks?! And I get to just sit quietly?!!?! I AM SO THERE.

Now I am admittedly not a religious person, so it would be truly ridiculous of me to join this church out of my desire for free baby-sitting and treats. But what if I joined a less churchy church? Like our local Unitarian-Universalist congregation? The UUs accept and respect a wide range of beliefs, up to and including atheism. But do they offer nursery care and snacks? Yes, my friends, yes they do.

In all seriousness, I have been thinking about joining our local UU church partly for the reasons I wrote about here. I'm hesitant to get involved knowing that we're moving in less than a year, but I would like the opportunity to meet like-minded people and to have a space to explore my core values and beliefs.

And the free baby-sitting? Well, that doesn't hurt either.
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My First Meme!

I don't even really know what a "meme" is, but I do know that this nice lady did it, and then she told this nice lady to do it, and then she said anyone who reads her blog (that's me!) should do it, so here you go. The topic is Six Unremarkable Things About Me:

1. I wear two pairs of shoes the whole year: black, Reef flip flops all summer and black snow boots all winter. Very gross (same shoes all the time) and very boooooring. Also? Very cheap. My shoe size changed so much after two babies that none of my old shoes fit and I'm too cheap to buy new ones. Hence, two shoes all year. Nice.

2. I cannot be trusted around cookie dough. (Does that really need any more explanation?)

3. I cry easily. Especially watching movies and movie previews.

4. I have a hard time asking for help. Even when I clearly need it. Yesterday, I fell down and twisted my ankle trying to carry Savannah's stroller (with her in it) down a flight of stairs in a store. The owner came over saying, "Just give a shout, I can help you." Yeah, I know.

5. I don't like Starbucks coffee at Starbucks but I like it fine at my mother-in-law's house. Really. She buys their beans and brews it at home and it's fine. But when they brew it... ew.

6. I have a theory about Soap Opera Time. (It is either super-fast [someone's child goes from baby to teenager in a couple of years] or super slow [the same conversation lasts a week].) (Should number 6 have been: "I use too many parentheses?")

Totally unremarkable, yes?
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Jane of All Trades

One of the women whose blogs I read regularly recently wrote about her frequent, bizarre obsessions and asked readers to comment. It turns out that she is not alone. At all.

I currently have a mountain of knitting needles and half-used skeins of yarn mocking me from my bedroom closet, tackle boxes full of beads and beading supplies piling up in our storage area, and a broken sewing machine surrounded by scraps of fabric collecting dust in the hall closet.

I did (finally) manage to donate all of my unused scrapbooking supplies, stuff I'd bought for a hobby I never even began.

I think my problem goes a tad farther than crafting. I am also a serial foreign language student. In school, I studied Spanish, German, French, and Italian. "Wow!" you're thinking, "she's so poly-lingual!" But I'm not. I studied each of them just far enough so that I'm not fluent in any of them. Muy, sehr, tres, and molto USELESS.

I've also noticed about myself that lately every book I read becomes my new obsession, my new crusade. I read E.D. Hirsch's The Schools We Need and promptly set about trying to find a Core Knowledge school to target for my next teaching job. Then, I read Alfie Kohn's response to Hirsch's book and quickly flung myself from the Core Knowledge bandwagon.

When I read Quantum Wellness, I decided I needed to become vegan. I swung from doing a low-carb diet to an almost entirely vegan diet nearly overnight. Now I'm back to my previous omnivore diet (which also has a little bit of Special K diet thrown in for good measure).

I've always felt that I was a very self-assured person, strong in my opinions. One way to view all this obsessiveness is that I'm choosing books based on my strong interest, so it's not surprising that something already intriguing to me would become even more so after reading an expert's take.

But I am a worrier. So my way of looking at it is: what is wrong with me that I am so easily swayed by the views of others? That I jump from one obsession to the next, and the next? It also makes me question my commitment to my current obsessions since (judging by past experience) they could go the way of the dodo any minute now.

Some would say this is the curse of the modern housewife/mother: she's too educated to simply sit around, cook, clean, and tend babies. She needs something intellectual, something challenging, something beyond her daily domestic duties in order to feel like a success. Is that what's going on with me? I really don't know. I'll let you know after I find a book about it. (Or maybe I should just go read Twlight. Again.)
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Her Thieving Ways

We have eleventy kajillion toys in our tiny apartment. Despite the fact that we actively refrain from buying toys and we have vastly fewer than some of our friends with larger living spaces, we still have far more than any child could need.

And all but about five of them are Chelsea's.

Savannah's few playthings are the gifts she was given as a newborn and the very few toys that are for such small babies that Chelsea forgot they were once hers. Like a teether.

So last Saturday while I was at the Swap Shed (a give and take section of our town dump), I picked up one little book for Savannah: Raffi's Baby Beluga. (It is her song, after all.)

Chelsea had appropriated it and memorized it by Tuesday.

Later in the week, we were out for an evening stroll. Savannah was just chilling and Chelsea was talking to herself nonstop (as usual). Jeremy and I took the opportunity to (gasp!) have an adult conversation. In which one of us talks and the other one listens. Without interruption!

Then, (although I was very dutifully listening to my husband) I couldn't help but notice what Chelsea was singing:

"Baby Percy
In the deep brown tracks,
Drive so wild and you drive so free,
Sky above and the tracks below,
You're just a little green train on the go.

Percy Wuh-Wercy,
Oh, Percy Wuh-Wercy
Is your tracks warm?
Is your Thomas home?
With you, so happy."

That's right. Not only did she steal her sister's only book, she commandeered the song AND TURNED IT INTO A TRAIN SONG. As if we didn't have enough Thomas in our lives.
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Toddler Morning Workout

Before 9am, Chelsea has:
-heard a story,
-played with baby bottles,
-climbed into baby sister's exersaucer,
-gotten stuck in baby sister's exersaucer,
-"helped" me blow-dry my hair,
-played with make-up,
-"read" three books,
-tripped and fallen,
-played with baby ABC toy,
-traveled around the house on play car,
-rubbed lotion on her arms,
-played with her jack-in-the-box,
-tried on shoes,
-tried on hats,
-tried on mittens,
-discarded shoes, hats, and mittens,
-played with bubble wrap,
-"read" a magazine, and
-pulled all the cushions off the couch.

Whew. I'm exhausted just looking at that list.
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California Girls

Just another typical day in sunny Southern California...

Yeah, I'm in the swing, but I'm not going to be happy about it.

I'm in the swing, too, and I don't think I like it either.

Oh wait! I do like it! Look at me! I like it!

Just kidding... I LOVE IT!!!

Aaaand, I'll just go climb this tree.

Why Jeremy Needs a Blog

We went to a local fair recently and there was a moonbounce. Two bucks to wear your child out. So worth it!

I was sitting in the shade with Savannah, so Jeremy walked over with Chelsea and watched her jump. At first, she was the bruiser: a big kid jumping super high among a bevy of littler toddlers. But after a little bit, some older kids came in and the attendant started to give Jeremy the stink eye, letting him know he should get her out of there already. Two dollars will only buy you so much jumping time, mister!

So Jeremy says, "Chelsea! You can do 5 more jumps, and then it's time to go." (She requires this kind of transition and will lose her mind entirely without it.)

So Chelsea does the first of her last five jumps... way up high into the stratosphere of the moonbounce and lands squarely on her head, twisting her neck in a way that makes all the other parents watching gasp.

Jeremy is running to the entrance to get her out. She's in a heap, crying.

She gets up, still crying, takes another jump and says, "Two."

And another, "Three."

Jeremy: "Chelsea! You don't HAVE TO do five more jumps!"
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Blogging vs. Napping

Napping wins. (Are you really that surprised?)

My super-amazing, sleeping-through-the-night infant has morphed into a normal (gasp!) waking-up-in-the-night baby. Which means I've morphed into a grumbly, cranky, sleep-deprived mommy monster. Grrrr.

Sadly, I'm also slow to fall asleep in general (what? the sound of my husband snoring is supposed to lull me off to dreamland?) and lately, when I do wake up in the night, I have trouble turning my brain back off again.

So instead of blogging during naptime, I've been napping.

There is really no point to this post other than to say I'm sorry to my poor neglected little blog. Hopefully I'll get some cute pics from our California trip soon and then I'll at least have something cute to post (Mom: I'm looking at you!).

Edited to add: Thanks for the pics, Mom!

Toddler Time Telling

Chelsea: I 'ike to go to bed at ten o'clock!

Me: Really? Is that early or late?

Her: (after a puzzled pause) Early.

Me: What time do you wake up?

Her: Three o'clock.

Me: And what time is your nap?

Her: Seven o'clock.

Me: Well what time do you wake up from your nap?

Her: Thirty o'clock!

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California... Knows How to Party

We made it! We're home for a week or so to visit the family in sunny San Diego.

And it only took a 2:45am wake-up, a flight cancellation, a seating mix-up, one diaper blow-out, a raging bout of toddler diarrhea, one puddle-jumper, and a partridge in a pear tree to get here.

Chelsea did about 83,000 activities within the first 5 minutes of arriving at her Oma's house. Reading? Of course. Puzzles? Yep. Snacks? Well, duh. Trampoline. Swimming. Going to the park. Check, check, and check. Layering a drawer full of necklaces around a stuffed dog's neck...all this and more. I think she'll be ready to go back home in an hour or so.

Savannah is wowing everyone with her winning smile and cheerful demeanor, even earning us compliments (compliments!!!) from strangers on the plane for her excellent travel skills. Way to go, baby girl!

We're ready for a week of sun, Mexican food, and free baby-sitting. I love California!

Karma: You Are a First-Class Bitch

Sequence of events since I wrote (on this very blog!) how lucky I am:

1. I get sick. The next day. With a fever and chills... and two small, hyperactive, not-napping-at-the-same-time children to watch all day.

2. I miss my playgroup's monthly Mom's Night Out (see event #1).

3. As soon as I get better, both girls get sick.

4. Jeremy leaves for a work-trip for two days. While the girls are still sick.

5. Our first day home together Savannah barfs on me twice, poops on me once, and pees on her only clean bath towel. Chelsea has a poop accident while out on a walk and we leave her favorite hat behind in our rush to clean up (cue much toddler wailing and gnashing of teeth).

Not so lucky me. C'mon, Karma. Throw me a freakin' bone.
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Lemonheads Story

Today as I was driving along I saw something fluttering in the road. It looked like money and there was no one around chasing after it. I flipped a quick u-turn, pulled over, and got out of the car to pick it up. It was a twenty! Woohoo! I looked around to make sure no one was walking down the street checking their pockets and then I stashed that baby in the side pocket of the diaper bag and happily drove myself home.

It was this little stroke of luck that has inspired me to tell a story that illustrates the fact that I am perhaps the luckiest person alive.

In high school, I used to go to raves, those all-night, illegal dance parties, often held in a warehouse or out in the middle of the desert. I considered myself straight edge (no drugs or alcohol) so I didn't partake in the whole X scene. I just liked the music and liked to dance and stay out late. Often, the parties required you to go to one location to pay for entrance and then they would give you directions to the location of the rave. (So secret! So stealthy!)

One night, towards the end of my senior year, I went to a rave where I was given a plastic wrist band (like a hospital bracelet) to show that I had paid to get in. In the days after the rave, I left it on as a "I'm-so-cool-I-go-to-raves" bracelet. The following weekend, a girlfriend and I went to go see The Lemonheads playing at the Hard Rock Cafe. (Yes, this was the 90s. So?)

While waiting in line, we spent our time filling out dozens of entry forms for a contest sponsored by the radio station that was hosting the show. I put my own name in over and over, then I put in all my friends, my mom, my dad, anyone I could think of. At one point, my pen ran out of ink so I went up to the lady guarding the door to ask to borrow a pen. When she handed it to me, she took one look at my rave bracelet and said, "You have a VIP bracelet? You can go ahead and go in for the sound check, if you want." Luckily, I was quick on my feet, so I said, "My girlfriend is in line with me, but she didn't get a bracelet." She told me to go get her, and when I did she slapped a wrist band on her too and in we went. After watching the sound check and the entire show, we were ushered into the backstage area where I remember thinking Evan Dando was a jerk because he was ragging on the bag o' swag that the Hard Rock had bestowed on him. Did I mention that we didn't have to pay to get in? Oh, and we found out later that it was an 18 and over show, so we shouldn't have even gotten in the door.

Pretty lucky, huh? Oh, just wait.

Two days later my mom gets a call: "You're one of 91 people to have a chance to win a new Camaro!" Of those 91, only 5 got a key to try in the Camaro's door. And of those 5... only my mom's key worked. (I can still picture her hands shaking as she put the key in the lock.) We drove that sucker around for a few weeks before selling it for some cold hard cashola. The doors were so heavy they would knock you down if you didn't open them all the way. And if you just barely grazed the accelerator you would slam back into the seat like a fighter pilot.

I kept wearing that bracelet all the way through my high school graduation. If you look closely, you can see it in the pictures from the ceremony. And walking next to me (in our assigned-by-the-school order) is this dude who I barely knew who has the SAME EXACT BRACELET. Who is this mysterious dude? Oh, that would be my husband.


(Can you see it? Above Jeremy's watch?)

Told ya I was lucky.
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