You Are Now Entering a Thomas-Free Zone

We did it. We sold the train table. Some craigslisters came and took away the table, all the track, and a mountain of little engines. And gave us actual money!

I have been trying to convince Chelsea to let the train table go for a while now. She was using it primarily as a holding area for Strawberry Shortcake toys and any other random stuff cluttering up her room. The tracks and many, many trains never saw the light of day unless a little boy came over to the house and pulled them out.

It was time.

She resisted, but I finally got her to let me stash all the Thomas stuff in the garage to see if she would notice its absence. It was not missed. By any of us.

And so, Chelsea's Thomas phase has officially ended. We were so proud of ourselves to have a daughter who wasn't obsessed with princesses, who adored Thomas and all things Sodor-related.

And now? That Thomas has been abandoned? I am sad to admit that I can name all of the Disney princesses, Disney fairies, and all of Strawberry Shortcakes berry, berry sweet friends. *sigh*

So I guess there'll be no more tricking someone into washing her hands with fancy blue soap.

Or building elaborate, if unstable, train birthday cakes.

Or giggling over someone being named Tom.

Thomas, you were fun while you lasted. I hope our forgotten engines become some other little child's new favorite things.
---

Aw, yeah! Science Edumacation!

Jeremy is a rockstar, in case you didn't already know.

He had his Chemical Ecology class write songs and make videos. Here are my two favorites. The rest are on his YouTube channel, if you're inspired.





PS This is my 200th post! If you're reading this, leave me a comment already!
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Open Gym!

Fridays have always been a good day for us. Of course we're always excited for the weekend, to have Jeremy home all day and go on family adventures. We used to have our weekly playgroup in Massachusetts on Fridays, which meant Friday was MY favorite day of the week. And now that we're away from our playgroup, we have a new Friday routine.

Friday is Open Gym day.

Chelsea was taking gymnastics classes at our local Y, and it was always a pain in my everything to keep Savannah a) entertained, and b) off of the gymnastics equipment. I did a quick calculation and figured out it would be cheaper to bring them both to Open Gym every week than for just Chelsea to contunue her class.

So she quit and our Friday tradition began.

Since we're there every week, everyone knows us. We have friends we've met there who have become friends outside of Open Gym. We know all the coaches, which ones are strict, which ones are lazy. But, until today, we had no pictures of us at Open Gym.

Every once in a while, a grandma or dad is able to tag along with their kid(s) and they always take pictures. I realized that despite all the time we spend there, we didn't have a single picture.

So I finally took some pictures. And some videos. Please to enjoy.

Eff Eye Vee Eee!

Five. Chelsea turned FIVE.

I am in shock. How did this happen? How is it possible that I'm the mother of a person who has been on the planet for five years?

Robot voice: Does. not. compute.

She decided to have a Strawberry Shortcake birthday party, at home. And I am nothing if I'm not good with a theme.

We started with decor. I found some cheap-o Strawberry Shortcake wall clings, and Jeremy went a little nuts with the pink and green streamers. I also blew up some red balloons, Sharpied a bunch of black specks on them, and taped green crepe paper to the top for a stem and hung them in little bunches. (I know, I have too much free time, right?)

I made some cute accessories: all the little girls got colorful headbands and freckles to turn them into Berry Bitty City girls and the boys became the Pie Men with colored bandanas and mustaches.

Raspberry Torte with a couple of her Pie Men.

Then we had the strawberry food: bagels with strawberry cream cheese, strawberry sodas, berry lemonade for the kids, the most addictive strawberry wafer sticks, and (of course) actual strawberries.

Had to have some strawberry-themed games: Pin the Strawberry in the Basket (only cheaters were able to get anywhere NEAR the basket), Strawberry Race (which was an egg race but with less chance of broken yolk), and a homemade Strawberry-shaped pinata.

We also had a little coloring station with Strawberry Shortcake Coloring pages and a cookie decorating table with strawberry-shaped sugar cookies to cover with icing and sprinkles. Props to Albertson's for the free sugar cookie dough. Holla!

We ate strawberry cupcakes and I practically force-fed the children strawberry ice cream. Several of the kids actually turned down the ice cream because they were full. Huh? Too full for ICE CREAM? What is THAT?

Finally, we sent them home with a goody bag (goody hat, actually, thanks Target dollar bin!) full of strawberry-flavored snacks, many of which were freaky finds from my local Asian grocery store. Awesome. If you haven't had strawberry Pocky, you need to go get some. Like now.

Oh, I may have also scented the house with a strawberry shortcake candle and swapped out our usual hand soap for strawberry body wash. 'Cause I'm kooky like that.

It was so, so fun.

And I can't wait to pay someone else to host Savannah's birthday party.
---

Tea with Cinderella

Chelsea was invited to see a performance of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas today (pictures coming soon! Thanks, Grandma!). I decided that since Chelsea was going on a special adventure, Savannah should do something special, too.

And boy howdy, did I pick a winner (if I do say so myself).

Savannah went to her first tea party. With Cinderella.



Her little mind... it was blown.

The dozen or do little girls in attendance dressed up in princess dresses first. Can you guess what Savannah chose? (Hint: see the Halloween post. Or just scroll down to the pictures.)

Then they had their hair and make-up done. Savannah still doesn't have much hair to work with, so her hair-do consisted of a swirl of hairspray topped off with a generous sprinkling of gliiter, topped with a sparkly crown.The make-up was glittery lip gloss and sparkly hearts or stars applied to the cheeks.



The actual tea party was perhaps the most surprising part. The crazy people who planned this thing put actual china tea cups and saucers out. For preschoolers! I was sure that Savannah would break hers and that she wouldn't be alone. But all of the little princesses were so polite and careful. It was, frankly, shocking.



After stories, games, and dancing they each took a picture with Cinderella.



Chelsea was pretty jealous and it's not hard to understand why. But I was also feeling the envy a bit. When can I get together with a bunch of girls, have my hair all twirled up, have someone make me look pretty, and be waited on for a while?

One of the other moms there knew the answer: Spa Day. And I'm long overdue. Glitter lipgloss, please.

---

Bowling. With Preschoolers.

Is pretty dang ridiculous. Although they look pretty happy about it, don't you think?



My apologies in advance for the sideways video, but I have to post this.

And in the event that you can't watch the video, here's a still that captures the idea.

---

Giving Thanks

I am thankful for children who did NOT wake me up seventeen hundred times last night.

I am thankful for living in a safe and quiet neighborhood.

I am thankful for a sunny, cloudless Thanksgiving day.

I am thankful to live close enough to our families to be with them today.

I am thankful that Jeremy replaced all the episodes of Thomas and SuperWhy on my iPod with actual music (even if it was mostly rap).

I am thankful that there was just enough battery power left on the iPod to last for my 2.9 mile super-slow run.

I am thankful for Jeremy keeping the girls busy so I didn't have to push them in the jog stroller on said run.

And last, but never least, I'm thankful for my local 24-hour CVS: great deals, empty aisles, friendly cashier, and stocked shelves! Suck it, Black Friday!

Happy Thanksgiving!
---

The Most Worstest Mother in the Ever

I am a horrible, horrible mother.

And I am being punished for my horribleness with tag-team extreme sleep deprivation.

What was my mothering crime? What warranted such hideous and horrendous punishment?

Allowing my children to cuddle in bed with me when they wake up at way-too-dark in the morning.

Last night, in addition to being horrible, I was also just plain stupid: couldn't fall asleep at a reasonable bedtime, so I stayed up late watching crappy TV. Climbed into bed around midnight.

Silly Mommy! Midnight is for college students!

First wake up was 12:45am. Chelsea. Wants to cuddle with me because her leg hurts. I zombie-walk her back to bed. Five minutes later, she's back, crying now because she can't sleep on her own. I give her medicine for her leg and whisper-yell at her to stay in bed. Five minutes later, she's back AGAIN because of course she is. The medicine is not working, she says. Now I have steam coming out of my ears and I threaten her within an inch of her life that if she does not stay in bed SANTA WILL NOT COME.

I finally get back into my bed, wide awake in my fury.

Next thing I know, it's 2am. Savannah needs her blankets fixed. I zombie over to her room, do a quick adjustment of covers, and try to leave. She begins to scream at me to stay. I pull out the big guns: "The DOCTOR says you have to go to sleep on your own. Mommy can't stay."

And dammit if it doesn't work! More cries of 'tay! Peese, Mommy! 'tay!

Now I'm whisper-yelling at her, too. Threatening to close her door if she keeps yelling. I stumble back to bed and tell Jeremy that they will never let me sleep again. He tells me it's my own damn fault and that I should just let them cry it out. (Which works great for him, 'cause guess who can sleep right through both of his children crying? Hint: It's not me!)

Next wake up: 4am. Honestly, I can't even remember who it was. Maybe I dreamed it?

Next wake up that I can recall: 5am. Chelsea again. This time, she just can't go back to sleep on her own. There is no mention of the phantom leg pain. I steer her back to bed, all the while whisper-screaming at her NOT to WAKE her SISTER.

5:45am. Chelsea is back! Again! OMFG. I snatch her up, plunk her down at the kitchen table, stick a bowl of oatmeal in front of her and go back to bed.

As I'm lying there fuming and definitely NOT sleeping, I can hear Savannah start to wake up.

Fuck.

Chelsea comes to bother me in my bed yet again, and I send her to her room to play or read or I really don't care what just keep your door shut.

Now Savannah's awake. I give her the kitchen table and oatmeal treatment and she just sits at the table and whines. I add milk to the menu (which is usually her great weakness) and get more whining.

Luckily, Jeremy comes home from the gym at this point with a bag of bagels. Savannah gets to cover her face, fingers, and much of the table in cream cheese and she is finally happy.

It is awfully quiet in Chelsea's room. I go peek and she's in bed, fast asleep.

It's now 6:30am. I've gotten a worse night of sleep than most mothers of newborns. And "furious" barely covers the level of rage that I'm stewing in.

My father-in-law told me recently that when you point your finger at someone else, notice that three of your fingers are pointing back at you.

I know this bad sleep is my fault. My fault for letting my babies cuddle in bed with me. It kills me that in order to fix this behavior I have to stop doing something that doesn't feel like horrible mothering.

It feels like loving them so much that I want to hold them forever. And knowing that the time will come, too soon, when they won't want to cuddle up to their mom in the night.

---

Happy Halloween!

Quick preview of what's in store at our house tonight:

Toddler Snow White (aka No Neck Joe)

And Rasta Fairy Strawberry Shortcake

Chelsea says, "If you want to know what Fairy Strawberry Shortcake is, it's basically Strawberry Shortcake with a wand."

Happy haunting, everyone!

---

Weepy McWeeperpants

Hello. My name is Heidi. And I cry at musicals.

Today I decided to clean the house. It is such a loathsome chore that I thought some music would help. We've been playing enough of the Spooky Halloween Mix that I needed something different and musicals are usually my cleaning music of choice.

I love musicals. Even the bad ones. I know the anti-Rent mafia would crap a coconut to hear it, but I love every melodramatic minute of that musical. And Wicked! And Chicago! And Evita! And what else you got?

Today's selection was Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. And I know what you're thinking: "Close Every Door to Me." Right? That's the song that makes me cry?

Nope.

Today I had to stop singing in the middle of "Go, Go, Go Joseph." Which (in case you're not a closet musical freak like me) is not a tear-jerker at all. It's more like a rousing dance number.

Donny Osmond reuniting with his family also set off the waterworks: "Your brother... It's me!"

That last line just kills me. I know it's coming. And it still kills me. I don't even have any brothers. (Self psychoanalysis: Is that why? I want to reunite with my formerly fratricidal brothers, too?)

I'm a weepy person in general, so I guess it's not surprising that musicals would make me cry, but it's not just musicals. I cry at church music. And that bothers me vastly more than the musicals because I am completely un-religious. So what's up with that? Is it just music in general that makes me cry? I don't cry at the radio. Much.

I'm not really very musical myself. Took piano lessons as a kid, didn't stick with it. Can't really sing. My iPod is full of episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine and SuperWhy instead of actual music.

Perhaps I have some unfulfilled desire to star on Broadway. But how would I ever get through the show, when I'm bursting into tears halfway through every song?

So I guess I'll just keep listening at home. And keep mopping the floor. With my tears.
---

The Many Faces of Savannah Rose

A little photographic tribute to the youngest, in honor of her upcoming half birthday.

"The Stylish Face" (to go with the pose, natch)

"The Biting Devil" (self-explanatory, yes?)

"The Gene Simmons"

"The Dance Party"

"The I Was Crying so Grandma Gave Me a Chocolate Bon Bon and Now Look How Happy I Am!"

---

It's a Good Life

I have this friend. Let's call her Grace.

Grace has a very nice life. She has a charming husband whom she loves and is in love with. She has two charming, healthy children.

She has a well-paying job that she loves and where she is able to work a less-than-full-time schedule.

Her husband owns his own business, doing what he loves, and is able to work a somewhat flexible schedule.

She and her husband recently bought a big, beautiful home in a wonderful neighborhood. They live on a cul-de-sac where their kids roam and play safely with their neighbors' children. They were able to buy their home for far less than it is worth (and much less than what many of their neighbors paid).

Grace's parents live nearby and are occasionally able to help out with the kids. Grace also has lots of other family and friends nearby.

Grace and her family live in San Diego.

Enough said. Are you ready to kill Grace with your eye-daggers of envy yet?

Her life is pretty much perfect. I'm jealous of her on a regular basis. I'm pretty sure she has more bathrooms than I have rooms.

And yet, she called me today asking me if I had to live somewhere else, where would it be? She knew that I'd lived in Los Angeles, Washington DC, Atlanta, Savannah, and Boston. (Sheesh, I get tired just thinking about all that moving.)

She and her husband are talking about leaving San Diego.

My reaction: Excuse me, wha-HUH?!

Because her life? Is seriously about as good as it gets.

But even with the two of them working, Grace and her husband are going broke living in this crazy-expensive state. Which seems to be getting more and more expensive by the minute. And THAT? I can completely relate to.

But even paying through the nose for everything from groceries to gas to the mortgage cannot deflate my excitement about living here and my bewilderment that Grace and her husband would want to leave.

Now I know, San Diego is not for everyone. But if you happen to have family in an area of the country that is so astoundingly beautiful and so eminently enjoyable year-round, like we do, and like Grace does, how do you think that moving somewhere else will be better?

We don't have a big fancy house. We don't live in a stellar neighborhood. I don't have a job that I'm passionate about, or any job for that matter.

But I have a home. A charming husband whom I love and am in love with. Two (mostly) charming, healthy children. And lots of family and friends nearby.

And we live in America's Finest Freaking City.

You couldn't drag me out of here if you tried.
---

Things to be Grateful for Today

1. Savannah went into Kids' Club at the YMCA without crying. For the first time ever. And stayed until I was done working out.

2. Free pizza for lunch.

3. Savannah ate some apple slices.

4. Chelsea likes the Little House books (so far).

5. Savannah told me she needed to poop and then pooped in the toilet instead of her diaper. Or training pants. Or panties. Hallelujah!

---

Unhappy Camper

I have tried to like camping. Really, I have.

I have camped at the beach.

I have camped in the desert.

And now I have camped in the mountains.

Can I be done trying to like camping now?

I just. don't. like it.

I want to like it. For the children. And for my husband, who really does like it. But I just don't.

I don't like the dirt. Or the bugs. Or the hikes. Or the sleeping on the ground.

I do like the stars. The campfire. The s'mores.

But we live by the beach. So we can go have a bonfire with stars and s'mores just about whenever we want, minus the dirt, and bugs, and hiking, and butt and/or hip hitting the ground all night long because your fancy air mattress is not properly inflated.

Come to think of it, we have a firepit. So we can do fire + stars + s'mores without even leaving the house!

Top that, camping.

For now, I think I'm all done. I'll take a year off, then try again. We went camping with some really lovely friends this time, and I was just such a Debbie Downer. I hate to ruin everyone else's trip, so I'll just stay away for a while.

Part of the problem with camping is me. But part of the problem with camping is my children, particularly Savannah. She's just too young to be fun on a camping trip. She won't sleep through the night, she pours lemonade all over me and herself, and she throws a handful of dirt into her own eyes. Maybe in a year she'll be more manageable.

Lest you think I spoiled the entire trip, here are a few pictures to prove otherwise.

Chelsea's patented "stylish pose."

Now THERE'S a happy camper.

See? I was there, too. And I even smiled!

Post-camping exhaustion. Like father, like daughter.

---

The Red Sox! In Anaheim!

While we were in Massachusetts last month we went down to Fenway to see the Sox play. Today, we drove up to Angel Stadium in Anaheim to see the Sox play. Here, for your enjoyment, are some similarities and differences.

The Same:
Talking a long drive to get to the park. (Boo!)
Finding free parking! (Yay!)
Eating hot dogs and hamburgers. (Yum!)
Standing in line on a hot-ass day with whiny children. (Double-Boo!)
Being surrounded by friends of Red Sox Nation. (WAH-HOO!)

The Different:
Today, we had tickets. So we actually made it IN TO THE PARK. Unlike at Fenway. (Yay for today!)

And here's a peek:

Who loves going to a baseball game?!

We ALL do!

Chelsea doesn't look as excited as we think she should be that she's having her picture taken with Red Sox pitcher, Clay Buchholz. Smile, child!

Does it get any better than this?

---

Massachusetts Memories

Since our camera battery crapped out early into our month in Massachusetts, most of our great adventures were not captured on film. Before my craptastic memory erases this month from my mind, I'll try to write it all down.

In no particular order...

Mom's Night Out at Salem Beer Works, Fire Pit Night at Barbara's, Twilight with the girls, playgroup at the church and Nicole's house, July 3rd with friends on Nahant, July 4th with more friends on Nahant, Marblehead Horribles Parade, afternoons at Tudor Beach, running into old friends at Flash Rd. playground, running into old colleagues and students at Clark School, Music Man in Wenham, taking the T to the aquarium and the ferry to Georges Island, playing at Balch Park, finding our old friend Heather at the Coffin School playground, cruising Shubie's and Starbucks in Marblehead.

and in Maine...

Stopping for lunch at Bagel Maineiac on the way to Bar Harbor, playing in the Village Green, doing puzzles at the Opera House cafe, sticky buns and chocolate croissants from Morning Glory, Toy Story 3 at Reel Pizza, Frozen Banana Chai smoothies in Southwest Harbor, making friends at the playground by the YMCA.

We were able to document a few of our adventures before the camera died, and afterwards with the help of friends and Jeremy's work camera.

Borrowing Ms. Esther's kayak

Playing at Patton Park

Hanging out at Acadia National Park Headquarters

Exploring the fort on Georges Island
(Chelsea insisted that I post her "stylish pose" on my "faceblog" so that other kids could learn how to do it. You're welcome.)

Posing in jammies in Maine

I missed seeing a bunch of people and we never did make it into Fenway this trip. Shoot, I guess we'll just have to visit again.

---

Travel Day Sponsored by Satan

Here's what the day looked like. This is the short version, the long version would make you cry.

Got denied from self-check in, and sent to line with a million bazillion people.

Missed 9:30am flight while standing in line with a million bazillion people.

Ended up next to people with resident alien ID cards who are trying to send two unaccompanied minors to a foreign country, with no return ticket, to a person who is not a parent. (Also? They can't speak English.) And our agent has to help their agent because this is the most impossible scenario ever.

Spent an eternity at the counter because our agent can't figure out how to get us on another flight and needs at least three different supervisors to help.

Asked agent if Jeremy could stay with her while I take kids (who are beyond losing it, have been in line over an hour) to the play area. She says yes, but play area is closed. (WTF, LOGAN?)

Got tickets for next flight... leaving at 4:30pm.

Took kids to playground at Airport T stop to avoid spending 5 hours in Logan, and all suffer heat stroke in the most disgusting heat wave in anyone's memory.

Found a water play area but Savannah refused to go in and big kids splashing made Chelsea cry.

Back to Logan, (Thank you, Air Conditioning!) go through security and I get pulled aside for special screening. Culprit? The bottle of sunscreen we bought at the heat stroke playground. (Screw you, heat wave. Why you gotta mess with me twice?)

Got on the plane and despite Jeremy and Chelsea's TVs not working (WTF, Jet Blue? Isn't that the whole point of you?) and Savannah not sleeping (WTF, Two-year-old? How is that even POSSIBLE?) we made it to San Diego....

And our luggage did not. OF COURSE IT DID NOT.

AND NEITHER DID OUR CARSEATS. (OMGWTFBBQ... *head explodes*)

I was very proud of myself all day for being very calm about the whole missing our flight and spending the day in the ridiculous heat and baby not napping thing. But the luggage and carseats not being there was more than I could handle.

So yeah. The lady in the Land o' Lost Luggage gave us some loaner carseats so at least we could leave the airport. And a couple of $30 vouchers from JetBlue. HAHAHA.

But we're home. We got our luggage and carseats yesterday. Everybody is (roughly) back on West Coast time.

I hate that after our wonderful, amazing month in New England this is our last memory from the trip.

Tomorrow (hah! tomorrow!) I'll post some pics and happier memories and try to make THAT the last word on Massachusetts 2010. Because THIS? Deserves to be forgotten.
---

Pick Those Apples, Wait, Strawberries, At Connor's Farm

We made it to Massachusetts! It is very surreal being back here after being away for a year. Almost as weird as moving to San Diego after growing up there and being away for a decade. Almost.

Friends invited us to go strawberry picking at Connor's Farm. I've mentioned it here before.

Chelsea loves strawberries. Couldn't keep her basket full because she either ate them right out of the basket or ate them before she even bothered to put them in the basket.

Savannah? Not so much.


Apparently "strawberry-picking" and "bogey-picking" are interchangeable to her. She could easily keep her basket full, because she would never let any fruit pass her lips. Delicious, ripe, fresh-off-the-plant strawberries included. (Savannah = strangest kid ever.)


One thing the sisters could agree on was the sandbox, er, DIRTbox just outside the little farm store. Dirt! It's like a baby-sitter, only cheaper.

And you'll never guess who we found across the street!

Yup, Savannah's favorite! What's a llama doing out in the middle of Danvers, anyway? Oh, chillin' with his homies, the farm donkeys. You know, the usual.
---

Like, Totally, Vocabulary. Y'know?

On the scale of "Things You Don't Expect Your Preschooler to Say" these are pretty mundane.

Chelsea's not saying sh*t (like one little friend of hers recently did) or even "cruise ship!" as another one famously swore. But I guess I still need to be careful how I speak around her, lest she start sounding like, well, like me.

Here are some recent gems:

"Seriously, Mommy, seriously! We NEED to do this now!"

"Mommy, I'm not actually going to do it!"

(and in response to the question, "Why did you take your pants off outside?")

"Oh, I just randomly did it!"

Seriously, actually, and randomly.

Yep, that's seriously what I actually sound like when I randomly babble at my kids.
---

Missing the Point

Chelsea, Savannah, and I go to the weekly open gym at our YMCA. It's just 45 minutes of free play time on the gymnastics equipment. The kids love it, obviously, but I think the moms might love it more. Everyone is so busy flopping into the marshmallow pit, bouncing on the trampoline, or swinging on a giant rope, they don't have time to whine or fight. Very much. It burns up a lot of that toddler/preschooler energy, too, so there's hope for naptime as well. Win-win!

Last week, we got a little note from one of the instructors asking for our feedback about the timing of open gym during Y Camp season this summer.

I discussed the options they gave us with Chelsea, to see what she thought.

Me: The first choice is to move the start time to 8:15am, and we'd have the gym all to ourselves. Or, it could start at 8:30, and we'd have to share the gym with the kids in Gymnastics Camp for the last 15 minutes. OR, it could start the same time it does now, at 9am, and we'd share the gym the whole time. What do you think would be the best?

Chelsea: I want to go to Gymnastics Camp!
---

Workin' for a Living... Room

Becoming a new homeowner is kind of like becoming a new parent.

When you become a parent, you instantly take on dozens of other new jobs that you didn't prepare for. And that, sadly, you will not be paid for. You'll be a:

Nurse.

Chauffeur.

Nutritionist.

Teacher.

Child Psychologist.

Similarly, when you get your first house, you get a bunch of new jobs. A bunch of new, labor-intensive, Home Depot stock-raising, unpaid jobs, like:

Landscaper.

Plumber.

Spa cleaner. (If you're lucky? I think?)

Painter.

Carpenter.

Luckily for me, Jeremy got stuck with most of those jobs. Although I did punch the clock as Painter for a little while there. And we called in the big guns (aka Grandpa) for the difficult job of Electrician. I mostly got the awesomely easy job of Box Un-taper. And Children's Interior Designer. And Kitchen Organizer. Not too bad, as a whole. Guess I'll go update my resume now. Or not.
---

Dear Monday

Dear Monday, April 19, 2001:

You totally sucked.

You started out kind of exciting, with a trip to the escrow office to sign loan papers. Then, someone popped in and said, "Oh, guess what? You're closing today! And also, your loan lock expires at 5pm so you better get all your money into escrow in... say... now? kthxbye!"

And then the shizzle totally hit the fizzle.

I spent over two hours trying to get Bank of America to wire my money into my escrow account. (On a related note: Dear BofA, You also totally suck.) Two. Hours. Three times through the automated phone system. Four customer service reps. One massive pile of suckitude.

Jeremy spent what morphed into a day and a half trying to get another portion of the money wired and in the end felt as though he'd been put through Count Rugen's Machine. "I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five but I really don't know what that would do to you."

Once it was finally past 5pm and there was nothing more we could do involving financial transactions, I thought you might stop sucking a little bit.

But no.

Then you handed me a four-year-old with a raging earache. An earache so painful that it was impervious to Tylenol, mother-cuddling, and Barney DVDs. And of course, as Chelsea writhed and howled in my arms, Savannah voiced her protest as only a two-year-old can: loudly.

Monday, you are already a sucky day in general. What are your redeeming qualities, exactly? (Psssst: You don't have any.)

So what business do you have adding extreme financial anxiety and sick children to your repertoire?

None, Monday. You have none.

I'm giving you six days to clean up your act, motherflipper.

No love,
Heidi
---

Driving Miss Fussy

It's almost sundown. I'm driving along, westbound, Savannah in the backseat.

The sun is right in our eyes.

She whines: "No 'un! No 'un! No 'un!!!"

I say, mostly calmly: "Close your eyes."

Her, whinier: "No 'un! Nooooo 'unnnnnnn!!!"

Me, yellier: "Turn your head!"

Her, yellier to match: "NO 'UN!"

Me, extra yelly: "Hold up a book in front of your face!"

Her, super yelly: "NOOOOOO 'UNNNNNN!"

On and on and on.

We come to a stop light. The sun is blocked by a tree. I am ready for relief from the yelling.

Her: "Where 'un? Where 'un go? Where 'un?! WHERE 'UN GO!?"

Me, pointing: "It's behind that tree."

Her, whiny: "Where? Where 'un? Where 'un go?"

Me, driving again: "There it is."

Her, the rest of the drive home: "No 'un! ... Where 'un go? ... No 'un! ... Where 'un go? NO 'UN! WHERE 'UN GO?!!!" She whines it, cries it, yells it, tries out a gravelly-devil voice version of it. She even works on the "s" sound, "No zhun! Where jun go?"

I give up talking.

We turn the into our complex. She finally stops whining. Her eyes go wide.

Her, smiling: "BUNNY! I see it! Bunny hopping. Hopping! Hopping everywhere!"

She bounces her two chubby little fingers in the air: "Hopping! Hopping!"

Then just one finger: "One bunny. I see it. Hop away. Hopping everywhere!"

Sun? What sun?
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Warning: This Post Contains Graphic and Disturbing References to Poop. For Parental Audiences Only.

Picture this: Two cute little sisters, sitting in the tub, innocently playing with their bath toys.

Parents both in the bathroom with them, using the time to review home inspection report on the house they are trying to buy.

Older child: "Daddy, what's this?" And hands him a small, brown lump.

Mother: OH MY GOD IS THAT POOP!???!!!?!?!?!?!!!

Chaos ensues.
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I know, I know. I should count myself lucky. This is our first (and hopefully last? knock on wood/fingers crossed!) poop in the tub. And it could have been much, much worse.

At least it wasn't hot-mustard-explosion newborn poop? Right?

It was "I am two years old and hell no I don't eat any fruits or vegetables except maybe bananas if you're lucky, so I pop out mostly rabbit pellets" poop. (TMI? Sorry about that. Just keepin' it real.)

At least we have two bathrooms (for now). So we had an alternate place to wash off the poop-water covered children.

And at least I wasn't home alone. (Now I know that I wasn't just lazy, I was a genius to never give them baths when I am home alone.)

So there's that.

No photos this time. You're welcome.
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Savannese 101

A few translations, if you ever happen to be baby-sitting my youngest child:

"Webbiss" = breakfast

"Oohbiss" = goldfish (crackers)

"Eye-belly" = library

"Oy" = Chelsea (I know, this one is nuts. How you get to "Oy" from "Chelsea" is a mystery.)

"Nanna" = Savannah

"Ooh-lee-nana" = Juliana (my mom's name)

"Mamma" = Llama (she's still into them)

"My" = I (as in "MY DO DAT!")

And here's a picture of the little precious-kins on her birthday. Just because.


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Recruit

I have joined the army.

Not THE army. Not even any actual army.

I've joined... the Zumba Army.

I have become one of the hordes of women who stand in line at my local Y on Saturday morning, grasping a tiny, numbered ticket which allows me passage into a massive gym. When the doors open, we all race in, eager to claim a spot, each of which is marked with a red star.

Once the doors close, no one else is allowed inside. The room is packed to capacity. Late-comers can only peek through the tiny windows high on the gym doors, listen to the lame apologies from the employee guarding the door, and hope to arrive earlier next week. I imagine that they eventually wander off to the weight room, where they run on the treadmill sadly, in silence.

Meanwhile, the Zumba Army warms up. Our instructor stands in front, on a raised platform. She cranks up the music and starts to dance.

Seventy women follow her lead. Our hips don't lie. We're livin' la vida loca. We'll spin your head right round (when you go down, when you go down, down).

We pound the gym floor: stomp, stomp, stomp. Our hands go numb: clap, clap, clap. We hoot and holler so loud that passers-by stop to see what's going on.

We wiggle, shake, and shimmy.

We are the sweatiest, sexiest army ever.

C'mon, you know you want to join. TEN-HUT!
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My First Hip Hop Show

I thought that I had gotten Jeremy the best Christmas gift. He likes activity gifts as opposed to stuff gifts and he likes the band Sublime. I got him concert tickets to see a Sublime tribute band at the House of Blues. (Sadly, the lead singer of Sublime is dead, so a tribute band is the only way to see them now.)

I was wrong.

Jeremy's mom outdid me. She got him tickets to see Del tha Funkee Homosapien at the Belly Up. Damn.

You've never heard of Del? Of course you haven't. Think back to that old Gorillaz song: "I'm happy, feelin' glad/I got sunshine in a bag/I'm useless but not for long/The future is comin' on." He doesn't sing that part. He's the rapper who sings the rest of the song.

I thought for sure Jeremy would invite one of his guy friends, who would appreciate a hip hop show. But somehow none of them were available and at the last minute, I was in.

We were there when the doors were set to open; the show was general admission and we wanted to get a decent spot, preferably a with a seat. Once inside we watched a couple of dudes prepping for the show.

The first was a young guy, in baggy pants and a bright red oversized shirt. He fiddled around with the equipment and the mics till he was satisfied. The other guy looked like a heavier, younger, blacker version of Mr. Rogers. Buttoned-up green cardigan over tight black jeans. He did his prep and hid again backstage.

Next thing we know, the younger guy comes out on a skateboard. And starts skating around the floor. In front of the stage, there's a big open area which is usually full of fans, but it was still empty. So he used it as his own personal skate park. He even set up a chair to olly over.

Should I have been impressed?

All I kept thinking was: If you're ready to go, why don't you start the show already? Instead of killing time on your skateboard?

FINALLY, the show began. Our young skateboarder was the opening act. He called himself Bukue One. (Pronounced "BooKoo" like a mispronunciation of beaucoup. Wha-huh?)

He did his set and mostly I remember it was really loud. He had his own "DJ" in the back. I put that in quotes because his "DJ" was a nicely dressed young woman, who looked like an employee of the club. But she stood on a raised platform behind him, wearing ginormous headphones, sort of bobbing along to the beat, in front of a table with a bunch of equipment on it.

Now here's the funny part. Despite his "DJ" in the back, Bukue controlled the show from what appeared to be an iPod in his pocket. He would turn the backing tracks on and off. Occasionally, to make her look like she had some purpose, he would tell her "Turn it up" and she would slightly nudge one of the control dials. It was ridiculous.

Ding! Round 2.

Out comes Mr. Rogers. No phony "DJ" for this guy. He's got his own separate equipment off to the side and he does it all himself.

First song: He raps, furiously fast, to Mozart's Rondo alla Turca (listen to a snippet here if you, like me, are not a classical music geek).

It. Was. Glorious.

I looked at Jeremy with my eyes bugging out of my head and yelled, "I think this is my new favorite guy!"

Oh, also? My new favorite guy's name? Busdriver. How rad is that?

So I'm salivating over the Busdriver, and he's the craziest rapper ever. He stands in one spot, and repeatedly bows, bending at the waist and popping back up again, while he's rapping. One hand holding the mic, the other wildly gesticulating to match his feverishly fast rapping.

But every song is the same. Furious, loud, unintelligible rapping. Accompanied by nonstop bowing and gesturing. And poof! The novelty was gone. And so was the incongruous classical music which had made it all so bizarre and fun. Oh well.

Busdriver's finally out. And we're waiting, waiting, waiting for Del.

He finally comes out to start his set at maybe 11:30pm? I was beyond tired at this point and not really able to care much about poor (rich) Del.

I'd heard his music before, of course, but hadn't seen him. I pictured him as tall, lanky, unusual looking, with offbeat clothes.

He looked like a straight-up gangsta. And he was Seacrest-size extra-small.

The thug look was more surprising than his height (or lack of it, badda bing!) because his music is decidedly non-gangsta. But what do I know?

He wore a dark track suit with big ol' tennis shoes. Covered with a hoodie AND a leather jacket. with the requisite baseball cap, pulled low. He had a matching little hype-man who followed him around. And guess who Del's DJ was? Why, none other than Bukue One! Hello again, Mr. Skateboarder.

Del's set was the shortest of the three, which was odd and maybe disappointing to the super fans, but not to me, I was ready for my beddie.

White girl OUT!
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Camping! AGAIN.

After our less-than-stellar January camping adventure at the beach, we looked eastward for round 2. A couple of weeks later (yeah, I know I'm way behind, sorry 'bout that), we hit Borrego Springs, out in the desert. The real desert, not just the normal it-doesn't-rain-here-in-San-Diego desert.

Here are the lessons learned:

1. If the pack 'n play fits in the tent, put that mother-flipper in there. (BIG props to our friend Becca for this genius idea.)

2. If you plan to take small children on a 3 mile hike, be prepared to carry one or both of them for 2.5+ miles.

3. If you turn your regular backpack around to the front, it will make a decent impromptu baby carrier during aforementioned long-ass hike.

4. Children who go on long-ass super hikes, even if they are carried most of the way, go to bed early and sleep really freaking well.

5. Don't try to start a fire with wet firewood. Trust me on this. Just... don't.

6. In the absence of television, a 4 year old will thoroughly enjoy the nature center documentary movie.

7. Mommy sleeps much better on an inflatable mattress in the bed of a truck than in the tent with the children.

8. If you're going to sleep on an inflatable mattress in the bed of a truck, in January, in the desert, wear a hat. And an L.L. Bean winter jacket with a hood. And gloves. And two pairs of pants. And Ugg boots. And maybe have an extra blanket or two inside your sleeping bag.

9. Remember that cute little stream? The one that you walked past in the morning? Where the children took off their shoes and dipped their little toesies in? Yeah, that's all dried up an hour later. Did you forget this is the desert?

10. Charge the camera battery before you leave. Or all you'll have to remember two days of camping by are a handful of pictures. Like this.

Good morning! It's gonna go from freezing cold to blazing hot in about 3... 2...

Here's an early portion of the long-ass super hike before everyone got all cranky and hungry and fall-asleep on Daddy's shoulders-y.

Aw! We managed to get one shot of all four of us. Success!

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Camping. In January.

Whose idea was this, anyway?

January is FREEZING.

Jeremy has been determined for years to get us to be a camping family. He took Chelsea out camping in Massachusetts (in walking distance from his lab) and she was immediately convinced.

He has been trying (mostly unsuccessfully) for years to turn me into a nature-lover. I'm just not in love with nature. I like to look at it. Isn't that enough?

He finally got serious, asked for and received a tent for Christmas and booked us two camping trips.

In January.

Yes, this is southern California, so it's not like there's snow on the ground, but it is still pretty darn cold outside. At night. IN A TENT.

I'm trying to be a good sport and go along with this whole "camping family" thing for the sake of the children. So let me be positive for a minute.

The girls loved being outdoors. They played in the dirt with rocks and sticks and were as happy as dirty little children can be. They loved climbing in a tree. Here, look:

We sat around a cozy bonfire. We consumed many s'mores. Jeremy put the leftover chocolate from the s'mores in pancakes he made the next morning. We got to wake up at the beach. My parents, Jeremy's mom, and a couple of friends came and hung out with us. I got to chill with my Dad by the fire.


But.

We had to play musical beds with Savannah all night long. And when "camping" at the beach actually means "lying in a tent and not sleeping" at the beach, I am SO not down with that. Here's the tent where I did all of my not-sleeping. (Nice view, though, eh?)



In addition to the lack of sleep and lack of warmth, there was the lack of bathrooms with dry floors. (Ask me how I changed Chelsea's pants when she peed in her undies in a bathroom where we could not stand shoe-less on the floor. It was super fun.)

And did I mention it was cold?

This upcoming weekend, we're going camping again. Out in the desert. For two nights. And I'm... hopeful.

I'm hoping Savannah will figure out that the tent is for sleeping. I'm hoping Chelsea won't pee in her pants. I'm hoping we don't freeze our wimpy San Diegan butts off.

But mostly I'm hoping Grandma and Grandpa come with us. And bring coffee.
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T.M.S.S

We are suffering from a new disease. A very first-world disease, but a disease nonetheless.

It is called TMSS: Too Much Stuff Syndrome.

(Or, as I like to call it privately in my head, "Too Much Shit Syndrome.")

We aren't hoarders. We regularly donate bags and boxes of our still usable (but no longer used by us) stuff to local charities. We are cheap and on a tight budget.

And yet we're drowning in a mountain of stuff.

Is it the tiny apartment? Do we actually have a normal amount of stuff but cramming it all into a tiny pad makes it appear like so much more?

Is it that we have no garage? So we can't stash things that normal people would put away? Like, say, those two boxes of Christmas decorations?

Or is it the children?

We were excited about all the stuff that comes along with having a baby: the stroller, the highchair, the Pack n Play, changing table, the Diaper Genie even! Even when Chelsea outgrew all of that stuff, we hung on to it, anticipating having Savannah. So now we have all that baby stuff, plus some toddler stuff, and the big kid stuff.

And lots and lots and lots of toys.

I think the toys are really what drives me the most insane. I have a place for everything, but rarely is everything in its place. This morning, I wanted to vacuum the carpet in Chelsea's room, but her floor was like a collage of LEGOs, puzzle pieces, fake plastic food, and Little Einsteins figurines.

When I get really upset, and Chelsea refuses to help me clean it up, I always threaten to just throw it all away.

My realization that we were suffering from TMSS came into sharp focus recently when we visited a house that was for sale. The owners had two small children, the same age as ours. But they had nowhere near the amount of toys and kids' stuff that we have.

They DID have a garage. (Maybe they shoved it all in there?) And a yard. Two things we are sorely lacking.

And perhaps their kids don't stay home? Since I stay home with the girls, our place needs to do triple duty: home, daycare, and preschool. Make that quintuple duty: it's also our garage and yard.

I'm grateful to have this problem. The problem of having too much.

Now riddle me this: how can I donate a large portion of a four-year-old's toys without said four-year-old losing her ever-loving mind?

That is a true problem.
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A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

I was listening to a movie review on the radio the other day, and the reviewer said he grades each movie after he sees it. So when it's time to compile a top ten list for the year-end review, it's already done.

I thought that was a great idea. Although, I'm not a movie critic. And I probably don't even go to the movies ten times in a year.

So maybe not.

But then I thought I could do the same for books. Or at least write down what I thought of them, maybe in a little notebook?

Then I remembered that I have a blog.

Today I finished reading "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" by Betty Smith. I picked it up yesterday from the library. It was (obviously) a fast read. And good.

It's a coming-of-age story of a poor girl in the early 1900s. After reading it, I found that it's considered a classic and a popular choice for school reading lists.

I needed a dose of perspective and this book gave me that. We are by no means poor and it is good to be reminded of that fact.

The book made me cry in many places, although I am weepy and prone to crying at the slightest provocation, so perhaps that doesn't say much.

It also made me laugh out loud. There's one episode in the book where a drunkard father takes three children on a disastrous boat ride. I was crying again, but from laughter.

It's hard to grade this book. I really enjoyed it and I would highly recommend it, but I wouldn't want to read it again and again.

Final grade: A minus.
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Love, Unexpected

Over the weekend, we went to a cousin's birthday party and Chelsea made a new friend. They were very cute playing together and inseparable throughout the party. We talked about having play dates in the future and the girls were excited about that.

As we were saying our goodbyes, I steered Chelsea over to her friend to say goodbye:

I said, "Say goodbye to your friend."

Chelsea yelled out "BYE!!!"

Then I said, "Is there something you want to say to her?" (I thought she'd say, I had fun playing with you! Or, Let's have a play date sometime! But instead...)

Chelsea said to her little friend: "I love you!"

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