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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