Thanksgiving Recap: Quick Shots

Here are the highlights.

TWO TURKEYS (!!) lovingly crafted by the Turkey Nazi Master, Carl.

(only some stuffing with chestnuts and raisins, so as not to scare off those seeking the utmost in stuffing tradition). For those not in the know, it is best to vacate all areas occupied by the Turkey Master while turkey is in progress. Those choosing to disregard this warning in effort to give stuffing advice or offer basting assistance imperil life and limb. It is best to simply clear out and let the magic happen.

My totally freakin-cool pumpkin apple soup with chives and bananas on the side (inspired by a friend at Friends Thanksgiving) served IN A PUMPKIN (inspired by Alton Brown). I am so fancy.

My new niece, Ava. Also, my take-the-picture-now face. I was holding the mask aside and holding my breath so I didn't steam my cough germs down onto the baby's perfect non-diseased-riddled face. Despite my purple-puffy eye circles, I am quite blissful at this moment. November has been an exhausting month-exhausting, delightful, and endlessly amazing.

The first snow of the year!

Apparently, Ava made her great entrance at the precise moment that the snow started to fall.

Wendy insisted on going outside and licking flakes out of the air for as long as I could park my preggo hipposaurus butt on the cold front step.


Also pictured: the Great Dark Blur. Commonly known as Duke the Un-Photographable. He was enchanted by the snow as well. Later, he was enchanted by the random turkey and stuffing scraps dropped surreptitiously near his nose by guests. It was a good holiday for Dog, too.

A Lesson in Cultural Mores

Or, What Happens When I Send Carl off to the Celtic Faire in a Sexy Kilt with a Cute Kid

Wendy: There was a nice lady there. She had a husband but then they had a fight and I told her that she could come home and play at our house-I have a great idea!! What if Daddy had two wifes?

Me: *laughing*

Wendy: Mom, fights with husbands are not funny. So, okay, I think she should come and be Daddy's other wife, because she was nice and looking for some new friends, and she was nice.

Me: Yeah, that might be fun. Does she clean bathrooms?

Wendy: She let us use her bathroom in her apartment.

Me: Really. Her apartment.

Carl: Her hotel room. We were only there for a minute to use the bathroom!

Wendy: SO, Daddy told her about you are his girlfriend and you live at our house. And then she decided that maybe she didn't want any new friends today, and she had to go.

Carl: I'm kind of insulted too. Like, just because I have a girlfriend, I'm not even worth talking to anymore? I don't have anything to offer, as a person? She totally objectified me.

Me: *bland stare*

Wendy: She can't have Daddy, cause you already have him, right? That's silly, because if she wants new friends, she could share him. Wanna see my sheep magnet I made? This other girl was really nice and helped me make it....

How to be Charmed by Your Overbearing Overlord

Me: You need to try to sleep now.
Wendy: Make my animals a nest.
Me: *piles up the stuffies around her in a comfy nest of teddy bear love* Okay, I made your nest. Now will you try to sleep?
Wendy: I have a secret.
Me: What is it?
Wendy: Come closer.
Me: Okay...
Wendy: (whispering) I don't make deals with whiny peasants.

(Must discontinue daily viewings of Emperor's New Groove.)

Inundated.

My nephew Eddie has been in town for a few weeks (with my sister in tow), and my mom and I are doing the time-share thing that we usually do when they are around, shuttling them back and forth between our houses and whatnot.

My sister and I are both pregnant, both irritable, and both of us have a lot of stuff on our minds right now. This adds up to an atmosphere that requires many theraputic episodes of True Blood and root beer floats.

Plus, Wendy and Eddie are treating Jaimie and I to front-row seats on a preview of the rest of our lives with more than one kid. Holy. Crap. We are so screwed.

It's not all bad, really. In between the screeching of little voices arguing and the pitter-pounding of little feet hammering down the hallways and the daily exploding of our brains, there is sweetness.

Eddie, padding by as I made dinner:
"Wendy, darlin, where are you? Where aaare you sweetie? Where are you, my little sweet-potato?"

Wendy, on family:
"Eddie is my favorite cousin who is a boy. He is in my heart, so he is in my family. I love having a family to play with, don't you?"

Also, there are things like this:

Eddie: Um. Aunt Momo? Wendy startled me and made me pee on the door.

and this:

Wendy: Can you back up a bit, here? You are kind of all up in my grill.

So we are all up in each other's grill. I'm cool with it. Wendy and Eddie take hits off of each other's Danimals yogurt smoothies while Jaimie and I pass the pickle juice and are generally gross about our feelings and random desire for odd food.

Even with the added chaos, it beats sitting around doing all of that by yourself, I'll tellyouwhat.

The Sweat Far Thing

This is not a post about boob sweat.

It was going to be. Oh yeah. It was. Because, I don't know if you've heard, but it's hot this summer. I do have this miserable story about driving down to my Aunt's house last week with Wendy in my car that has no air conditioning in the middle of the afternoon in 97 degree heat. With no air conditioning. And then the 45 minute trip turned into a two hour trip because of highway construction that was apparently NOT EVEN GOING ON because it was SO EFFING HOT.

The construction workers? They were probably sitting somewhere else, in the air conditioning. Me? I was getting pregnant heat stroke and spraying my three year-old down with a spray bottle full of water (aka, Ghetto AC) so she didn't get the heat stroke.

Miserable. You will be glad to know that there was an in-ground backyard pool at the end of that hell-rainbow. After soaking our over-cooked brains for a while, Wendy paddled her kiddie tube over to me and asked why I have been calling our plastic baby puddle in our back yard a "pool;" and did I think that she was never going to find out about this blissful Eden in which the rest of the world apparently basked? Also, when could she move into Aunt Stacey's house?

Anyway, I have a story with far less boob sweat, featuring Wendy and our favorite hippie crasher, who was here for a few days.

Let me fill in the dialog here.

Marc: What's this one?

Wendy: Hippopotamus. Are hippopotamuses deliiicious?

Marc: Probably pretty good, if you could get a big enough fire going. How about this?

Wendy: Crocodile. Are crocodiles deliiicious?

Marc: Most certainly. What about this one?

Wendy: Armadildos. Are armadildos delicious?

Marc: ...... armadildos?

Wendy: Yeah. Are they deliiicious?

(I'm not sure he actually ever answered that one; there was too much laughing.)

Dearest

-Carl,
Though my prenatal vitamins do look much like your Glucosamine Chondroitin, they are not, in fact, the same. Maybe all of the folic acid and B vitamins will make you lactate or something. That would be cool. And teach you not to take random pills laying around on counters.

-Wendy,
Please stop using my hairbrush to brush the dog. Uncool.
Also, yes! The new toilet paper is "soft and wonderful just like velvet." Thank your daddy. Apparently, your bums more than just resemble each other, they are also share some sort of hereditary desire for being powdered by baby angels with hands full of marshmallow clouds and fairy laughter.

-Baby in My Belly:
Stop giving me midnight migraines. Stunts like this lead to names like Ingleborg. Fair warning.

-Carl (again),
Thank you for rubbing my neck while I cried last night and holding me til I went back to sleep. Breastfeeding together is going to be awesome!

Love,
Mo

Upon the Sudden and Glorious Whisking Away of the Three Year-Old in Honor of a Mother's Day Wish for Solitude

Alone in the house.
No demands echoing from
the walls; I miss them.


I miss them; Somehow
I must drown my wistfullness.
Haagen-Dazs; hot bath.


Bubbles. Not for me
mostly; for her-a playground.
Moms should get a turn.

I wallow-Quiet
crackling suds envelop me
book propped, wine handy.

The Novelty of Weekend Togetherness

Friday, Carl's mom and stepdad took us out to sushi.

Sushi: A delicate, thoughtful, precise dining experience full of subtlety and grace.

Unless it is served buffet style. There is something really, really wrong about shoveling a whole plate heaped with complicated, hand-rolled sushi into your gob in under seven minutes, and then going back for seconds. And thirds. And fourths, especially if those fourths contain little squares of cake spread with green tea cheesecake stuff. OH MY GOD THAT WAS GOOD.

By "really really wrong," I of course mean "TAKE ME HERE ON MY BIRTHDAY FOREVER."

Wendy mastered eating sticky rice with chopsticks. Also, watermelon with chopsticks. She is a delicate flower. Full of subtlety. Grace.

Saturday, Carl suggested that we finally take my sewing machine down to King of Prussia to the Vac n Sew where I get it serviced, like I've been talking about for three or four years. I abashedly explained to the older gentleman repair guy that my bobbin casing was broken, which had thrown off the timing of the machinery, and the whole needle-end was packed with thread and fabric lint, and that the machine hadn't been serviced in....I don't know....three or four years? "I ride this baby kind of hard." I expected reprimands (like those that I expect when I bring my Ford Exploder in to the shop when it is again exploding through no fault of my own); but he just said, "Cool. That's good. Better than letting it rust and die in the attic."

So...cool. After dropping the machine off, I dragged Carl and Wendy to Trader Joe's, where we purchased a few items to improve our tree-hugging, wind power-loving, granola munching cred. The guy at the cash register had an insane mohawk. Wendy gave him the kind of skeptical look that said, "have you made your point? Great. Now get a real haircut, Zippy." Carl and I tried to show her that guys with mohawks who work in hippie stores are cool by talking to him like he wasn't sporting a ridiculous head, but she was less than impressed. In fact, I think she was embarrassed by us.

Dear Wendy,

WELCOME TO THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

No hippie is complete without blue chips, hummus, and herbal dietary supplements. Our dietary supplements of choice? Ginko and Spirolina. According to Wikipedia, the health benefits of Ginko and Spirolina are ENDLESS.

Carl: "Three layer hummus? What is the green layer?"

Mo: "I didn't really read the fine print. They had me at Three Layer Hummus."

(it turns out that it is Zesty Cilantro! SCORE!)

We celebrated our acquisitions with supreme nachos at the Mexican place down the strip from Joe's.

Sunday (yesterday), we hung out at home. It rained all day. We snuggled on the couch, watched Wall-E, and made cookies.

In celebration of life being good, and our weekend not being the pit of unfulfilled expectations that it usually is, here is a picture of Wendy in a poncho:

Cheers!

The Darling Buds of April

Finally! Flowers! Leaves! Grass and other growing things that are greeeen!! (Sorry, all of you CO people, still with the snowing.)

We can finally go to the park! I don't have to tell Wendy that it's too cold or rainy or muddy or generally crappy out to go! I suppose I'd better shave my legs....

Or, I suppose I should have shaved my legs before I took Wendy to the park the other day. Before I had that delightful conversation with a hot park dad, only to realize after he walked away that my fuzzy ankles were fully visible, poking out from the bottom of my pants the entire time we were talking and having torrid eye sex.

Damn. For about five seconds there, I thought I was a hot park mom. Instead, I am a crazed, unkempt park vagrant, milling around the picnic benches and creeping out the other parents. Hot Park Dad will go home to his Hot Wife and tell her about the weird lady with the eye twitch who was talking to him, but he doesn't remember what she said, because he couldn't stop looking at her furry troll ankles.

Meh. That's probably what I deserve. (HI HON! LOVE YOU!)

*********************

Wendy is addicted to our swing. Now that the mud has dried up, we are out there two or three times a day. BTW, this is so not a posed picture. It is totally legit. Just Wendy and I having a geeky, entirely authentic moment of Springtime happiness:

Okay, actually, my mom was trying to get a shot of me pushing her on the swing, and this picture happened after I tired of her directions to "stand in the middle" and "move over" and "swing her slower so I can get you both in the shot!"

After looking at this picture some more, I have decided that I definitely need a haircut. I don't think I've had one since October. Of 2008.

****************

After several long conversations about Springtime and rain and flowers, Wendy demanded that we plant something. We picked out some seed packets and planted them in random places about two weeks ago, and the sprouts are just beginning to poke up out of the dirt.

As far as she is concerned, this is a very cool experiment in horticulture. We are both hoping for massive bushes of color to erupt from our various planting locations. I like the flower box idea, because I can move them around. One week, my front steps can have a flower 'fro. The next week? Flowers over by Duke's fenced-in area. You know, because it is important to beautify the poo yard.

This may be the extent of our gardening this year. Maybe some more herbs. I love me an herb garden. Our oregano has begun to emerge, already, which is awesome. Wendy likes to go out and grab handfuls of the stuff, eat a few leaves, and put the rest away to dry "for meatballs." She is totally going to be the next Food Network Star. I promise.

You have probably noticed that I really don't have a point to this post, except to share my exuberance for being able to wear tank tops and go outside again.

Yay SPRING!

Oh, Right. I Blog. With Pictures.

It has been a while. Isn't it good to know that I didn't die by way of freak icicle accident? Although, there was this:

and this:

You have already read all of the blogging that you need to read about snow. One thing I will add to this: Ow, ow, my back- and other snow-shoveling-muscles. Ow. We have a lot of driveway, and we do not own a snow blower. We also can't afford to pay someone to come plow....so, ow.

Even for someone in great shape, shoveling is one of those surprise activities that will hurt you. And I'm not in great shape. I have been trying to keep up with some yoga practice, but it's hard when you have a little kid in the house.

Three year-olds, come with time limits. Over every activity, there is actually a hovering stopwatch counting down the seconds that you are allowed to enjoy productivity. I crack open my laptop, and it starts...tick tick...check email, respond to students....tick, tick...check job sites, pay a bill...tick...post Carl's Craigslist ad....tick tick tick...write cov-

"MOMMY"

...write cover-

"MOMMY, I'm Tinkerbell and you're Queen Clarion. You have to give me the moonstone and then you can be Terrence and follow me to the island with the treasure."

-cover let-

"Mommy get up now. Follow me to the treasure. FOLLOW ME TO THE TREASURE RIGHT NOW. OR MAYBE YOU CAN BE THE OLD HAG AND I CAN BE SNOW WHITE. MOMMY MOMMY I want juice. No, warm hot chocolate milk. Lets go to the kitchen so I can pick my choice."

What was I doing? Facebook? Email? OH. Cover letter. Note to self: tomorrow, lead with cover letter.

I am glad that there are things to do like Saturday morning yoga with Steph, followed by self-satisfied post-yoga muffins and croissants. Getting away for a few hours a week to tutor has so far been great for feeling like a smart person with something to offer humanity again (and not much else), but it is good to do yoga-type things too. Things just for me.

Blogging is also one of these things...but do you see the clock? It has giant red numbers, and it's ticking loudly. It will probably take me three different runs at my laptop before I actually finish this entry.

*******************************************************************

I am spending a lot of time oscillating between two states of being. Some days are spent slack-jawed on the couch staring at the TV and hanging with Wendy, my mind as blank as the view from my back window.

Other days involve working diligently, doing laundry and cleaning and cutting fabric and sewing and sketching and knitting....

On Saturday, as I blasted music from my sewing room and danced around with Wendy, brandishing pieces of my latest creative endeavor, Carl paused, looked up from his endless poking of the coal stove, and asked, "Is it possible that you are bipolar?"

"Anything is possible." (hop, shuffle, skip)

"Not that I mind. I mean, I'm along for the ride. It might be nice to know, that's all."

*******************************************************************

We are currently juggling the uphill battle to find someone who will give us a home loan with the prospect of finding somewhere else to rent or buy by May, should we not be able to secure said loan for the house we are currently living in. This is a very schizophrenic set of exercises. Requires yoga-master flexibility in the emotional department. And a good working relationship with Google.

The words here are falling a little flat, but I'm sure you can imagine our situation. Four years of building a place into a home for our family (six years, for Carl), and we might have to walk away from it because no one will give us a loan. Because the housing market is in crisis. Because no one will give me a job. Because it's just not in the cards. I don't know.

No, I do not think I am mentally ill. Just facing down one of those crossroads in life, with what feels like my hands tied behind my back.

On the up side, I have a daughter who puts together outfits like this:

You can't really tell by the picture, but there are sparkly shoes involved. That's good for some daily levity, even if she swings from my legs when I try to strike a warrior one, or drapes herself over my back when I attempt a nice relaxing pigeon pose.

Actually, sometimes, she does it with me. She can pull off a nice tree pose.

OK, I think I've rambled enough. Also, the big red timer has been going off for at least seven minutes. Wendy Her Highness Princess Cinderella requires a slice of cheese (NOT SWISS).

Cheer For All

I sit here at 1:20 on Christmas Eve afternoon in smugness. I am done (DONE!) all of my Christmas crud.

The smugness is made more smug, because as I type, Carl is out doing his yearly tour of the lower circles of the Inferno-Target, the Big W-Mart, etc.-having been informed on Tuesday that yes, sweetheart, there is a Santa Clause, and Christmas Eve is two days from now. P.S.: You are Santa Clause.

Christmas has actually been nice and low-stress for me this year, having no money with which to shop. (OOOH! More silver lining to unemployment! Score!) (By the way, I may have an interview for an office job on Monday! *knocks on wood*)

Fun tricks to play on yourself when you are poor:

Horde gift cards from last Christmas all year, and buy Christmas presents with them this year! I am good at hording gift cards. So, thank you, all you past family selves who didn't know what to get me last year. You made shopping possible this year. My mom even gave me our family gift card early this year. I bought some home stuff for us that I wanted, wrapped it, and put it under the tree from her and my step dad. Nice, right? COOL TRICKS!

And then there is the handmade stuff. I can't tell you about most of it, because some of the recipients own computers and will probably be idly dicking around on them tonight. (HI STEPH! HI JAIMIE!) Back in November, my mom suggested to me that she might want a cabled beret/tam (there was an argument about which was which and if they were in fact the same thing) in cream. So I found a pattern and knitted. And knitted. And knitted until I was cross-eyed and arthritic. She does not own a computer, so I can show you:

Because of this hat, I didn't get to knit Carl the fingerless gloves that he would like, but that's okay, because we promised that we wouldn't buy each other anything this year, and knitting something would be like cheating via a loophole. Dirty. Underhanded. Low. (One fingerless glove may just show up in his stocking yet. We still have twelve hours before Christmas is actually here.)

Since Erin is busy being newly 16, and Carl is busy with his annual pre-Christmas Igottaworkgottaworknow freak-out, Wendy and I have been busy providing cheer. Hanging stockings. Stringing lights. Baking cookies, wrapping presents, decorating the tree. This is okay by me. Last year, I was a haggard school teacher strung out on coffee and working-mom turmoil. Last year, all I wanted to do on Christmas Eve was to drown myself in a large vodka and pomegranate 7up. And I did. This year? This year, I have time to help Wendy hang ornaments at her eye-level and then laugh my ass off at my bottom-heavy tree.

This year, there is cheer. I am actually enjoying my Christmas. So SUCK IT, shit economy! SUCK IT, job/lackofjob stress! I don't need you! I got to spend time making this filmstrip of Wendy and snow and stuff with grainy pictures from my cell phone! My digital camera is dead and requires expensive batteries!



Merry Whatnot, everybody. I hope it is awesome, and full of many happily enjoyed cocktails. (My choice this year: nog. Spiked with less bitter tears of frustration and more whiskey and joy.)

HalloWeendy

Get it? Cause it was Halloween and her name is Wendy? Hallo-Weendy?? HAHA-okay, no.

Just here to pass the cuteness on to you, the customers.




We trucked the kid over to our babysitter's neighborhood, where there is prime, small-child friendly trick-or-treating territory. We got rained on a bit, but Wendy worked pretty hard, and we came back with a decent haul. You know, for an almost-3 year-old.

She had a great time, and so did we. I should add here that I managed to psychologically scar my child this season (what? again? when will I learn?) by way of Halloween-themed library books. My mistake was letting Wendy make age-inappropriate decisions for herself. Now she is afraid of "pretend floating eyeballs" and "mad wolves in the walls, not happy wolves," and won't stop talking about them.

*note to future self: REMEMBER THIS GUILTY FEELING. Also, remember the crying. No matter how mature she seems, when she wants to pierce something or drop out of school to be an artist, or go riding off to the shore with Taylor the tattooed senior, remember the crying.*

Happy November, everyone!

Conversation With an Almost-3

Mo: Put the camera down.
Wendy: Is it yours?
Mo: It's Erin's. You didn't ask. Put it down right now.
Wendy: Did she say no?
Mo: You didn't ask. She did not say yes.
Wendy: But, did she say no?
Mo: OHFORTHELOVEOFGOD put it down! Right now!

Wendy: ...But she didn't say no...?

Yes, you vertically challenged little smart-mouth. Technically, she did not say no. Ever hear of "the answer's always no until you ask??" Or, even better, "I'm your mom and I legally own you?"

Zoikes.

Saturday Snapshot

After day of torching villages and terrorizing the countryside, Baby Dragon curls into her nest and sleeps soundly. She is lulled by the gentle rumbling emanating from Daddy Dragon's snout, and by dreams of tomorrow's conquests.

Bribes, Booze and a Dirty Bathtub

Y'all want to hear about my three-stage program for potty training?
Yes. You do. I can tell by the beads of sweat that are forming along your quivering top lip. Those are excitement beads.

Okay, my peeps. Here goes:

1. Buy $4 three-pack of "beautiful" princess panties at Wal-Mart.
"Oh my god. That's such a good idea. No one wants to poop in their special panties." ~My Mom

2. Stop applying diapers to butt.
"I think she's pooping. Are you pooping? Are you sure? Can I check? Hon, I think she's pooping!" ~Carl, every time Wendy gets a far-away look in her eyes.

3. Clean up messes until she gets the point.
"Yup. Right in the tub."
"At least it wasn't on the carpet."
"Well, let me tell you about the living room..."

I should add a step 4 here:
4. Toast your-erm..her brilliant accomplishment. With beer. Or wine. Or whatever is on hand.

After a few weeks of ever-decreasing diaper usage and, yes, a few poos on the floor, Wendy has gone on the potty for two straight days without incident. In addition to Sleeping Beauty panties, I have also bribed her with Popsicles. And Tinkerbell snacks. Yeah, I bribe my kid for good behavior. What? I also feed her boxed macaroni and cheese. Child Protective Services awaits your call.

I know this particular brand of potty-training would not work with other kids, or, for that matter, other parents. I guess you could call this child-led parenting, because Wendy just seems ready for it, and therefor, so am I. I would, however, have to mix in a large measure of blase attitude toward it all ("meh. it'll happen when it happens.") and above all, willingness to clean up puddles of pee without taking it personally.

To take care of stage 4, I happen to have on hand about three ounces of Patron. In celebration of Potty Training, I have invented the Green Tea-quila Fizz! In whatever proportions seem right at the time:

Ice
Tequila
Orange Juice
Green Tea Ginger Ale

It isn't really green. But it's damn refreshing. As refreshing as being glad, for once, that my rug is already crap and needs replaced, like, five years ago. CHEERS, EVERYONE!

You're Gonna Love My Nuts

Me: Let me brush your hair.

Wendy: NO!

Me: Let me brush your hair please. It has knots in it.

Wendy: I have to go tell the squirrels NO NO NO!

Me: What?

Wendy: The squirrels dropped the nuts in my hair and that wasn't very nice! I have to tell them NO NO NO!

Me: Holy crap. That is a problem.

Wendy: Don't say holy crap to the squirrels, mommy. Say feckin jeeze.

And that's when my trucker mouth really began to bite me in the ass with gusto....

Net Worth of Summer Vacation

This is a PRE VACATION entry that did not post. So I am posting it now, on August 20th.

In Culture:
-I began reading Audrey Nefeneger's The Time Traveler's Wife last Tuesday at three in the morning, and finished reading it around noon last Friday. I have already said this to her, but I'd like to thank Steph for lending this to me. It monopolized my whole week (I missed out on a lot of sleep and socializing to read this book) and destroyed me emotionally. And now I find out that there is going to be a movie!! Win.
-I also read three terrible Anita Blake vampire hunter novels. Bad writing. Drained many brain cells. Loss.
-I became addicted to True Blood. Also drained many brain cells, but the writing is much better. Delightful waste of time. Win.
Speaking of movies, Harry Potter. Need I say more? WIN.
Cultural score: net 2

On the job front:
-I have applied to the seven English teacher jobs that are available within a 20 mile radius and do not involve flack jackets and the city. I have heard back from one of them for an interview. Win.
-This interview will take place in the middle of my vacation. I must drive five hours back from the other side of PA for a twenty minute interview. Loss.
Job score: net 0

Home and Garden:
-The mortgage company is going to give us a mortgage! This should be a Win, right? No.
The owner of the house that we have lived in for five years has decided that he is not going to honor the part of the contract where he said that he would sell us the house. We are talking to a lawyer. Motherfucking Fuckballs. Loss.
-The...um...tomatoes are tomatoing? Win.
-Ooh, I have a good one. Wendy and I have had an amazing month of us-time. We go to the park, we play in the baby pool, we hang out in the yard. It has been awesome. Have you ever wondered how long you have to pretend to be something before you actually become that thing? You hope that at some point, all the pins will fall in and everything will click. You hope that the fleeting moments of beauty that you know this thing can be will actually gel into a whole solid truth that you can really get your arms around. Okay, the you in this scenario is really me, and despite all of the stress of the house situation and the job situation and every other situation going on around here, this past month has been a revelation built of dandelions and butterfly-print bathing suits.
Home score: net 3 (+1 for tomatoes and +2 for truth and beauty.)

Summer Vacation net score: Stocks are up 5.
BUY BUY BUY!

I'm off to Pennsic now. (like five minutes ago, actually) I am planning to take a few minutes to blog via cell phone. Ta for now, all!

Growing Up in the Park on a Friday

Wendy helps Carl hold the worm and the pole, and touches the fish before he releases it back into the reservoir. She explains to me, “Daddy is catching the big BIG fish when they bite the worms, and they live in the water under the duckalings.” She understands his interests, and respects his prowess as a talented sportsman. He knew it would be this way, and tries not to explode with pride as he holds her small hand under his.

We take a walk to the "slide and the troll bridge" and let him have some solitude. She climbs on the rocks lining the path, placing her rainbow sandals carefully as she stretches her long legs from foothold to foothold. I am grateful for the giant, firmly planted feet particular to the women of my family.

Pacing laps around the playground equipment, I glance in the direction of the moms chatting at the picnic table. They are wearing curiously matched blue sport-polo shirts and black shorts. (I know they arrived separately. Is there a league? A league of park moms? Is Friday blue polo day?) Their perky-playful ponytailed heads turn casually toward the children, but remain unconcerned with the velocity at which the small bodies travel over the high structures. I look down at my hands. They are nervously hovering behind Wendy as she clomps up the stairs. They stay, twitching half-mast around my chest, ready to catch her should she for no reason fling herself through the gap in the railing.

Oh god. Am I the paranoid overbearing mom? The brims of matching blue baseball hats bob at me. Yes, they say; you will spoon-feed her every drop of life until she doesn’t know how to feed herself. She will be afraid to drive alone or dance in front of people or go to gay bars or try Indian food. She is going to move back in with you after college and settle for a middle-management retail job because you never let her go down the slide by herself.

No. This is Wendy we are talking about. I’m two and I dress my own self Wendy. I can squirt my own toothpaste Wendy. Wendy who will shake the chocolate milk myself OH FOR GOD’S SAKE. I am not smothering her. I couldn’t possibly. She is very independent, but she’s not even three yet, you crazy matching meddlers. She does need me to hold her hand, whether she wants me to or not.

Still. I back away, my feet shuffling through the wood chips a few steps at a time. Wendy heads toward the ladder, and I hurry forward, but do not make it before she has scaled the rungs and is running across the wobbly-bridge. Oh. She can do that.

I perch myself on the sideline bench. I watch her strong hands climbing, I listen to her telling the other kids stories, and I slowly ease back. I let my toes relax from clenched-ballet pose to flat and chill. I can do this. I’ll just wait here, until she needs me again.

Couch Wars

Again, the couch:house ratio is out of balance. Last weekend, we scored a giant Ikea job that will not fit in Steph and Ryan’s apartment, and put it in our living room. As is our practice, we have retained the old couch-i.e., shoved it in the Christmas tree corner of our living room-while we bond with the new couch. The new relationship with the younger, prettier model might work out. In that event, we will have the old couch as a fall-back. While we deal with our commitment issues, we have two couches in our living room. The new(er) one in the picture is the discontinued Ekescog model, as we discovered online. It turns out that I could have just looked at one of the slipcover tags, instead of fruitlessly combing through Ikea’s annoying website for an hour. Dur. (Also, do you like the My-Size Barbie legs poking out, Wicked-Witch style? Me too.)

Couch time is usually family time. Carl and I attempt to watch grown-up TV, and Wendy wedges herself between us and demands Dora or Max & Ruby every thirty seconds. We think that making screeching noises, planting her head in my armpit and lodging her big toe between Carl’s ribs provides her with a sense of security. It reminds her of the baby-hood she spent in our bed.

The periodical double-couch situation provides the novel option for both adults to lie like broccoli at the same time while watching The Daily Show. In theory, one of us will get a whole couch to ourselves. A beautiful whole five minutes, baby-toe free!

For the proprietor of The Toes, this set-up precipitates an ultimate conundrum: which parent can I monopolize most effectively? Can I do both at the same time? How can I effectively streamline my attention-gleaning strategies to maximize cuddle-time while disallowing cross-cuddling, thereby assuring my genetic dominance over this genetic pool?

Wendy: Daddy, read it again.
Daddy: I want to go over and cuddle Mommy.
Wendy: Actually, I want to cuddle Mommy.
Mommy: You can cuddle Mommy too.
Wendy: But I want Daddy to stay on that other sofa.
Mommy: Mommy wants both of you to cuddle me.
Wendy: Only Wendy.
Daddy: That's not fair.
Mommy: What if I cuddle Daddy over there?
Wendy: That's my Daddy, not your Daddy.
Mommy: True. Also Irrelevant.
Wendy: Daddy is my best friend.
Daddy: Wow. That’s nice.
Mommy: Don’t let her play with your emotions. That’s how she gets you.
Daddy: But-can’t we all just cuddle on the big couch?
Wendy: *flings body across Mommy* NOOOOOOOOO! I DON’T LIKE DADDY!! ONLY MOMMY!!
Mommy: It wouldn’t hurt so bad if you steeled yourself against her wiles.

Living with a two year-old is kind of like having a jealous sibling. If you and your sibling were both under five and negotiated territory deals with third world country war lords.

Any Requests?

"Mommy, tell me the story when Wendy wakes up in the dark and there's a monster and Mommy and Daddy and Erin fight the monster in the butt. Tell that story."

This story ends with a very embarrassing trip to the Monster Emergency Room.