And Then It Was This One's Turn

She's 9 now. And she really doesn't give a shit what her hair looks like, alright. So don't even ask her to comb it or something. She'll only sneer at you, and tell you to take the god damn picture already!

But look! She's smiling!

For those of you who were so concerned about how serious she looked on 17. mai: rest assured, she does smile.  All it takes is a pile of presents, and certain knowledge that the one she's holding is the Pokeman game she's been hinting at ever since the missing Nintendo DS resurfaced.

Her party was loud and largely uneventful.  She got 350 more kroner towards replacing the ipod she lost earlier this spring.  That makes just over 600 kroner she's saved up now--over half of the total price she needs.  I'm inclined to help her out with the rest of it, so she'll have it to listen to on the plane trip home to Salt Lake in a few weeks.  Mister is being a hard ass, though. 

Sorry, Baby Girl.  Not my fault.....this time.....

Somebody Had A Birthday Today

When I asked her who she'd like to invite to her birthday party she said, "Andreas. And my friends. But NOT the babies. I hate the babies."

"Okay. So what about Victoria?"

"Ummmm, no."

"Okay. What about Mariel?"

"She's a baby."

"Oh. I thought you liked to play with her."

"Sometimes. But she's a baby."

"Oh. Okay. Well, what about Charlotte?"

"Diaper baby."

"Who do you play with at barnehage Missy?"

"Andreas. And sometimes Victoria and Mariel."

"But you don't want them to come to your birthday party?"

"Just Andreas."

"But....."

"I don't like babies, Mom."

"But...."

In the end, we (or rather, I) decided not to bother with a party. We had this conversation at least a dozen different times over the past month. Sometimes she wanted Victoria but not Mariel. Sometimes she wanted Mariel but only grudgingly allowed for Victoria. Andreas was the only constant; I wasn't about to throw a party just for Missy and Andreas.

I know weird when my own flesh and blood trips gaily upon it. And this is it. I mean, I know for a fact that Missy likes, or at least plays happily with these girls everyday. Yet, somehow they're not her 'friends'. Her 'friends' are the older girls who toted her around like a designer handbag last year. The ones who moved on to 1st grade. I'm not sure how they would have felt about being invited to a 'baby' birthday party. I'm not sure how they felt about it last year. They came, but they hardly seemed to enjoy themselves. Missy's party last year was a bit of a flop, and I wasn't exacly keen to try again this year, especially with her being so cagey about the guest list. So we (or rather, I) simply didn't.

She didn't seem to mind over much. It was a busy day. She got to open her presents first thing this morning. Then she went to barnehage where they ate the chocolate cake and cookies that I slaved over all day yesterday. This afternoon was the opening of Elder Miss's art show (more on that tomorrow) so we were in town all afternoon and evening. Farmor came, both for the art show and Missy's birthday. We went out for pizza. She got ice cream after dinner. Then she came home and had a temper tantrum because it was way past bedtime and I wouldn't let her stay up to play with her new toys.

We may yet have to deal with her wrath over being denied a party. Sunday is Elder Miss's birthday, and she's got a big bbq bash planned. When Missy is confronted with all of EM's friends showing up at the house in their pretty party frocks, she may yet go, "Hey, wait just a God Damn minute here!...."

Seriously, Little Miss, it doesn't mean I love you any less. I just can't fucking figure you out!

Happy Birthday, Lovie!

So Sunday was the very day of all Norwegian days.

I went back and had a look at what I had to say about 17. Mai last year, just to sort of review how much you all (as my devoted and faithful readers family) should already know about it, and/or what I'd need to add to explain the following few pictures.

Turns out, I had quite a bit to say about ye ol' 17. Mai last year.

None of it good.

Was last year a particularly bad year for me?  I mean, sheesh! 

I think the deal with me and 17. Mai is this:  I liked it a whole lot better when we were spending it in town every year.  Sure enough, I bitched and moaned back then about the hassle of getting all dressed up, and the challenge of getting into the city with all the normal roads closed, and then the headache of finding a parking place, and on and on and on.  But at least once we were in town there was enough pomp and circumstance to mark the day as an event! proper. 

But see, 17. Mai is meant to be celebrated as locally as possible.  Now that we have kids, this means that we're obliged to celebrate the day at their school.  Well--to be clear--we're not 'obliged' as in there's a law saying we absolutely have to be there.  But that's where the local community gathers.  The parent committee (the one  from which I ran so cowardly) goes to great pains to organize games and speeches and refreshments.  And it's built up so that the kids want to go there.  They want to march in the parade with their class.  They'd be disappointed if we tried to take them anywhere else.

And so we go.  This is one of the ways in which I'm actually a reasonably good mother--self-sacrificing and all that.  But it doesn't mean that I can't bitch about it on my blog a bit.  Right?

My beef with the school celebration is nothing more than it all feels a little anti-climatic.  Here I am all dressed up in hose and everything, and......well......meh.  That's it.  Just, meh. 

There are cannons first thing in the morning, and a few more just after the national song.  I mentioned to Mister that there should be more cannons.  Cannons are cool.  Nothing says CELEBRATE YOUR RIGHT TO SELF-DETERMINATION! like three or four good volleys of cannon fire.  But after having just finished watching the John Adams mini-series, Mister was doubtful. "Nah," he said, "Norway didn't have to fight hard enough to deserve more cannons."

Meh.  He's right.

But the weather was good; we must always be grateful for nice weather on 17. Mai.  And I do enjoy gawking at the bunads every year.  My sainted  mother-in-law is going to make one for me, so we were looking with an extra critical eye this year as I have to pick out which one I want.

I give you a random sampling of pictures.  I was playing with the white balance on my camera.  I don't think I had it quite right, so a lot of what I took feels a little washed out to me.  And the focus was all messed up for the first half of the day.  I still like my new camera, but my God is there ever too much to have to think about!  Sometimes--don't tell Mister--but sometimes, I long for my simple point and shoot.....

 

In-house Memo

The kids have learned that there are certain times when Mommy is absolutely, positively NOT to be disturbed by anything so aggrevatingly irksome as their dulcet little voices raised in dubious need of my urgent attention.

When Mommy's on the phone, for example. Or, when Mommy has a migraine. And, most especially, when Mommy is listening to the 'Wait, Wait...' podcast while she's making dinner.

Seriously. Don't even ask. It's only going to piss her off, and cause her to reject any request or query on general principle.

EM has learned to get around this mountain by shoving little notes in my face, and flapping them under my nose until I'm forced to acknowledge them or sneeze undaintily. Tiny little missives scribbled on tiny little squares of torn paper:

"Can I have a apel?"

"Can I go to Selinas hous?"

"Wher did you put my Nintendo this time?"

Her spelling is consistently dreadful, but she gets her point across.

So how proud was I tonight when, for the very first time, Boy followed her example?

Hear that, doubting Teacher lady? Not only can Boy read, but he WRITES too! Ha! I've got the proof of it right here....

......Only....Dude.....Wait.....

What?

So here's your riddle for the weekend:

What does Boy want?

Ladies and gentlemen

....the Nintendo ....

has resurfaced.

Holy Shit!

In a closet.  In EM's room.  Hiding with Mister's fishing poles.

From its position, way the hell up top there, it is all too conceivably possible that I'm the one who put it there.

Damn.

On the other hand, EM has this habit of hiding her stuff from Missy when she sees Missy playing with it.  EM could have put it there too.

Neither one of us can remember.

Life is funny that way.

Sigh.

I'm bored with my blog.  I want a new blog.  A better blog.

This isn't it either, but it's going to have to do for now.  I spent two god-awful hours last night trying to get that picture saved in a way that I could load it onto Blogger.  Now that it's finally here, I ain't dumpin' it yet!  Is anyone else suddenly having trouble uploading pictures into Blogger?  I keep getting an error message.  I have to go through Picasa first.  Anyone else?

So we're in a bit of a low as far as spring weather goes.  Cold, windy, grey, wet.  I'm not happy about it.  Now that I'm finally done studying for that infernal norsk test and have time to take long, slow runs through the woods, it's far too cold and windy to enjoy it.  Typical. 

I think it may have affected my general mood.  Can you tell? 

That, and the conference I had with Boy's teacher yesterday.  Anyone remember the last conference I had with her?  The one where she told me he was emotionally immature, and that there was no point pushing any sort of academic agenda on him because, I don't know, he might break down in a puddle of tears in the face of 2+2=? or some such horror. 

She was happy to report that he was way over that.  He's come a long way, she said, done a lot of growing up in the past few months.  I think she may have believed herself personally responsible for this miracle of maturation.

That's unkind of me.  She does spend a large chunck of time with him everyday.  Clearly her influence is important.  Her contribution should be respected.  It's just that....GAH!....she was so fucking smug! 

I want to like her.  I keep trying to like her.  She's going to be his teacher for the next three years.  It would be advantageous to my peace of mind if could bring myself to believe that this was a good thing.  Right?

She went on to tell me that she had recently run through a set of standardized tests with him.  These are brand new, she said, they never used to test first graders to track their progress.  I got the sense she thought this was a bad thing.  Anyway, she said, he did really well.  Really, really well.  She made no secret of the fact that she was surprised at how very well he actually did.  So very, very surprising, she said, given where he started.  Both his reading readiness and number recognition are way above average.

Rather than being comforted by these results, I allowed myself a moment of prickly pique (or, maybe something slightly more than a 'moment').  I've already elaborated on the glacial slowness of the early Norwegian curriculum, so I'll spare you my thoughts on the matter of continuing to speak in terms of 'reading readiness' and 'number recognition' for FIRST GRADERS.  They've be ready for two flippin' years!  Teach them something already!

Enough.

What really pissed me off about the whole thing was, again, how surprised she was.  The way she kept saying how impressive it was, and how surprising, and how simply grand that he had managed to read all her damn three letter words and count all her stupid circles and stars (all of which, by the by, he could have easily managed in September, except for the fact that he's cautious and shy and takes a good long time to warm up to a new teacher and school, so yes, in the beginning maybe he did choose to cry a bit rather than answer a simple question) only confirmed to me that I was right last fall when I predicted she had totally written him off as a lost cause.  If she had been paying more attention to him over the past five months, would she really have been so fucking surprised to find out last week that he can read?

And then, and THEN, after the bull shit test results, she went into this whole thing about his compromised language skills.  About how important it is that we (his parents, "Or, in this case," she amended, "Perhaps his father, because you can't help him much here, can you now") stress correct speech and pronounciation at home blah blah blah, because he's still very weak in this area. 

She was specifically adament about needing to work on his grasp of certain prepositional phrases, and as proof of this she produced a large drawing that he had done in class.  This too had been a sort of test about how well he could understand and follow directions.  They all had to draw exactly what the teacher told them to draw, starting with a circle or a ball in the very center of the page.  Which Boy had done.  Then lines going from the ball to the top and the bottom of the paper, then out to each side.  Done.  Then lines going out to each corner.  Which he hadn't managed exactly, but there were diagonal lines radiating out from the ball.  She looked at me pointedly and said, "He clearly does not know what a corner is."

Orrrrr, perhaps, I don't know, but just maybe he still lacks the fine-motor and hand-eye coordination to get a straight line to go diagonally ANYWHERE!  Bitch.

From there they had to draw a house, with a door and a window and a chimey with smoke, and then a tree with five apples, then a cat, and on and on and on.  Boy had done most of all of this.  Even as she was showing me the picture and explaining the cues he had been given, I could tell she began to realize that oh yeah, wait,  no, yeah.  Most of this is right.  Okay but still, see, he didn't put the chimney "on the roof".  And he missed the apples "under the tree".  Oh but look at that, he got the cat "to the left of the house".

Whatever.  The picture proves nothing to me but a short attention span.  Boy's got that in spades.  If she wants to parse spoken language skills, fine I'll grant her that he struggles with vocabulary and diction.  But he's bilingual.  That's going to be an ongoing problem.  I fucking DARE you to suggest that I should stop speaking English to him at home.  Go ahead, bitch.  Make. My. Day.

Alas.  She did not.

She did suggest that maybe it would be benficial for him to spend some time with the school's 'spesialpedagog', which is basically, you know...special ed.  I'd be all miffed and offended at this too, except, as long as it falls under the guise of helping him catch up with his language skills, it kind of makes sense to me.  And oddly, I've been hinting around this possibility (I tried hard to call in speech pathology, rather than special ed though) to EM's teachers for the past year now because her spoken language skills are just as bad, if not worse, than Boy's.  EM's teachers have never been that much bothered by it.  They say give her time, she'll catch up.

Heh, I feel so much better after having written all that.  Mister has been in Austria all week, so he wasn't home to get an ear full of my supreme indignation just after this all happened.  I hadn't realized how badly I needed to unload. 

If you made it this far, thanks for listening.  Next time I'll say something funny.  Promise.

Puddy Tat

See? She's got a little heart shaped patch of grey right on her chest. That's because she's a widdle biddy bundle of cuddles and wuvs. Oh yes she is!

Every breeder is required to assign a name to their kittens to put on the official birth certificate.  The future owner is in no way obliged to use this name.  It's purely a records thing.  Puss, for example, was offically dubbed Lucius Maximus Aurelian.  His breeder, it seems, favored such absurdly inflated Latin names for all of his kittens.  Puss, of course, was just Puss to us, but we did sometimes refer to him affectionately as Pussifus Lucifus when we wanted to pump up his ego after catching a mouse or the occasional butterfly.

This new breeder we're dealing with has a similar sort of pretention.  Apparently, she likes her gossip rags, because she names all of her kittens after celebrities of varying degrees of prestige and notoriety.  The two surviving sisters from her latest litter were summarily named Cindy Crowford and Cheena Easton (a very large [sic] in both instances).  I have no idea whether the misspelling is a deliberate part of the pretention.  Whether it's considered indelicate, or perhaps illegal to name a cat directly after a living, breathing b-lister.  Or whether she simply fucked it up (twice).  But those are the names they were given.

Cindy Crowford is the name of Little Miss Grey-Heart-On-Her-Chest.

I think Cindy is a perfectly daft name for a cat.  And I had every intension of coming up with a better, hipper, altogether more suitable sort of name once she came home to us.  Roxy, for example.  As in Roxy Hart. As in perfect for a cat with a grey heart on her chest.  No?

No.

The breeder has been forwarding pictures to us every week, and every damn picture has the name Cindy attacted to it.  At some point Elder Miss read this name, said it out loud, then asked Boy if he didn't think that Cindy was just the sweetest name ever for a cat with a grey heart on her chest.  Boy swooned, and instantly agreed that yes, actually he did in fact think Cindy was definitely the sweetest name ever for our new cat with the grey heart on her chest.

Fait accompli.

I still think Roxy would be much better but the children keep asking to see pictures of Cindy Lou Who.  And when is Cindy coming home?  And can Cindy sleep in my bed?  No, my bed!  No mine!  And so on and so forth, to the point where I think it's gone rather too far to try to unwind it all now.

Cindy it is, and ever shall be.

Cheena's new owners were smart and requested a name change right away.  Cheena was rechristened Stella, which is a pretty great name, if you ask me, and would have gone splendidly with Roxy.  But I didn't know about the grey heart on the chest until just last week.  How was I supposed to think Roxy Hart before I knew about the grey heart on her chest?

Alas.

I'm going to Rygge in June to pick up both kittens.  By happy coincidence, Stella's new owners live in Bergen too, and have graciously offered to baby-sit Cindy Lou Who Who'd Make a Much Better Roxy while we're in Salt Lake for the summer.

I can't wait to get my hands on her.  It's going to be hard not to be able to bring her home right away, but it really was very nice of these perfect strangers to offer to take care of her all summer.  It just seemed kind of cruel to uproot her from her mother and sister once, only to hand her back to her sister two weeks later, then drag her away once more two months after that.  So we worked it out this way so that she's moved as few times as possible.

That way too, I've got a whole summer to keep trying to slip Roxy in under the kid's radar.

Roxy Roxy Roxy Roxy Roxy

This One's For Uncle Mark

Last year on his blog, Uncle Mark admitted (somewhat abashedly) that he's in the habit of crawling across his lawn on his hands and knees hunting dandylions to pull out at the root. In his comments section I explained that dandylions have a revered status here in Norway as glorious harbingers of inpending summer. It's considered curmudgeonly and unkind to even consider mowing your lawn in early spring before the dandylions have gone to seed.

'Tis the season, folks.

This is a view towards our neighbor's house. Our own lawn doesn't have many wildflowers in it yet, because it's only been in for a year or two. The kids spend hours over in Mailynn's yard picking countless handfuls of løvetann (dandylion på norsk) and engkarse (the purple ones, no idea what they are på engelsk, but they go hand in hand with the løvetann, it's not uncommon to see entire fields turned all purple and spotty yellow this time of year). It can be hard to find a drinking glass in my house in early May because they're all sitting on my kitchen counter stuffed full of ragged bouquets of....well....weeds, basically.

This is the view towards our own house and yard. Mailynn (our neighbor) has always been very kind about waiting as long as possible about mowing her lawn so my kids can keep having their fun. She usually leaves the patch surrounding this fallen log to basically go to seed until mid-June or so. After my 267th bouquet of the year, I usually find myself wishing she would stop being quite so thoughtful.

This is a view of happy, rumpled children in their natural habitat. I pulled two ticks off Missy after this one sunny day of play (that last bit was for Grandma Gae, she's got a thing for ticks).

Engkarse

If there's anyone out there who knows what engkarse is in English, I'd be mighty grateful if you'd let me know. Every year the kids ask, and every year I have to say, "Hell, I don't know." It's making me look bad here, people! Help me out.

Sorry if it seems like I've pretty much given up on blogging lately.

I guess I have.  Sort of.  In a way.  For now at least.

I've been studying for this stupid Bergenstest (high-level Nowegian language test that foreigners have to pass before they can be accepted into most university/college level study programs).  I'm not loving it, but it's got to be done. 

Anyway, that's what's been eating up most of my free time lately. 

That, and Spring.  Which is too wonderful to be ignored after all that crap we call Winter.

I just had to take a minute to share this little tidbit courtesy of the children:

I recently sat down with Boy and Elder Miss to have a little history/geography lesson all about why Indians are not Indians unless they come from India, and how those whom many call Indians are actually Native Americans who were mislabled due to a rather monumental fuck up on the part of a certain seafaring Spaniard.  Or, no wait...was he Italian?  Shit, I might have led the little darlings slightly astray there, but at least I can be sure I made my point about the 'Indian' bit because right now, at this very moment, the kids are outside in the beautiful Spring sunshine playing "when cowboys attack India".  Boy is the sheriff, EM leads the elephant brigade.  It sounds as if the elephants are winning, but only because Sheriff Boy collapses into a fit of giggles every time EM mounts one of her stuffed elephants, and gallops across the lawn on it.

Attention American Passport Holders!

YOU NEED A VISA TO GET INTO BRAZIL.

I made it to Paris before anyone bothered to tell me this.

Go ahead laugh. 

It's funny.

I guess.

Maybe someday I'll even be able to laugh with you.

But not right now.

Right now I'm still just trying to breathe deeply through the embarrassment and disappointment of it all.

Back in Bergen.  Where it's cloudy and cold.  Naturally. 

I think--but I can't be certain--but pretty darn tuttin' anyway--that this is our new puddy tat: the one lying face up....

There was some sort of trouble with the delivery, and sadly, they lost three of the five kittens the kitty mama was carrying. These two were delivered via kitty cesarean just over a week ago. I thought for sure that the fact that there were only two live kittens meant that we wouldn't be getting one. But apparently some potential buyers are only interested in solid blues, and we were high enough up there on the list that we get one of them! Yey us!

The reason I'm not 100% certain that this one is ours is Mister couldn't quite remember if the breeder said "the one with the least amount of white" or "the one with the most amount of white".  He was pretty sure it was least, but...well....we'll see....

Honestly I'm not overly fussed which one it is.  I think they're both cute.

I miss Puss.  Miss him hard.  I still instinctively look for him on Boy's bed, or his favorite spot on the sofa.  And I still reflexively close the guestroom door when I've laid sweaters out on the bed to dry because he was a daft bugger, and used to insist on sleeping on my wet laundry.  I miss him most when I come home and he's not waiting for me in the entryway.  How did he always know I was on my way?

Sigh wistfully, and move on. 

New kitty!  Yey!

Speaking of moving on, people keep asking me, ever so cautiously, "So...you and EM....Is she?  Are you?  Are we friends again?"

Yes, people.  We're friends again.  Of course, one never fully forgives the careless loss of an ipod, but one does eventually take a deep breath and let it go.  I let it go pretty much as soon as I realized that she had.  It's a little silly to continue stomping about huffing, and puffing, and snipping at toes when all I get in return is a blank stare and a tired, "Geez Mom, whad I do this time?"

No futher punitive action was taken, but I have rather been enjoying refusing to let her listen to anything on my ipod.  I'm wicked petty that way.

My friend Marilyn thinks I'm an insolent bitch, and she found the perfect gift to tell me so...

Heh!

Smells quite nice actually....

See you ladies Friday night!

Avast!

I let Boy watch The Pirates of the Caribbean over the weekend. All three movies.

He's been drawing giant, homicidal krakens ever since.

One wonders where Boy imagines all those poor, dead seamen will be buried...

In Which EM Loses Her Shit, And I Lose My Cool

EM lost her ipod last night. That’s her Nintendo DS and her ipod gone within just a few weeks of each other.

I’m furious. I’m shocked and disappointed that she should be so careless. But mostly—right now—I’m just plain pissed off.

The rules were she was never to take either gadget out of the house unless we were going to Farmor’s, or Tante Hildegunn’s, or the cabin—somewhere where I could control where they were and what she was doing with them. Never to school. Never to a friend’s house. And certainly, never to a restaurant, or to art class.

They were clear rules. She understood them. She agreed to them. After she lost three Nintendo games at Mathias’s house during a sleep over, I stopped allowing exceptions to the rules—ever—and eventually she stopped asking.

I believed her at first when she told me that—no, she hadn’t taken the Nintendo anywhere, she’d just misplaced it in the house somewhere. I methodically searched for it for two weeks. I literally gutted her room. I tore apart the toy room. I emptied every drawer in the house, twice. I frisked every pocket and handbag I could find. Still no Nintendo.

Up until this morning’s tearful admission about the missing ipod I was willing to say to myself, “How strange! How very vexing!” And assume I’d stumble across the Nintendo under a pile of towels or something sometime in the very near future. I no longer believe this. After this morning, I’d be a fool to believe in such innocence anymore.

I asked several times during my search if it were possible that the Nintendo wasn’t in the house anymore, if she had perhaps taken it somewhere, and forgotten? Maybe? “Oh no, it’s here” she insisted, “It’s here. It must be here.”

Outrageous, bald-faced lies! And I have no idea how to deal with it, address it, punish it constructively, yet thoroughly enough that she finally gets it. You have to take care of your shit!

She took the ipod to her art class yesterday. When I saw it in the car—when she saw that I had seen it—she hastened to explain, “I know. I know. But I’m only going to listen to it in the car. I’m not going to take it to class with me.”

“It stays in the car!” I stressed, wagging my best mommy finger at her.

“It stays in the car,” she dutifully repeated, and I left it at that.  I gave her the bloody benefit of the doubt.

I never saw it again after that, but this morning she swore up and down with splotchy red face, and fat guilty tears streaming down her cheeks that it did, indeed, stay in the car during art class.  That it was in the pizza place after the art class that the damn thing went missing.

“WHY was it even IN the pizza place?”

“I thought I’d listen to it while we waited for the pizza.”

“I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE IT IN THE CAR!”

“I know.”

I sent her out of the house then. Pushed her out in the rain five minutes early so I didn’t start fuckidy fuck fuck fucking stupid idiotic careless thoughtless thankless little wretch-ing her right to her face.

Or maybe I should have let her hear it. Maybe then she’d finally get it. Because she needs to get it, ya’ll. I need her to understand that I’m well beyond piqued at this point. I’m a vengeful, malevolent fury.  And honey, I’m out for payback.

I must have lost things as a kid. Kids lose things. I get that. But I don’t remember ever being this careless with what you might call the pricier items among my various possessions. Then again—did I even have any high ticket toys? I had a Walkman. Everyone had a Walkman. You tell me mom—did I ever lose it? Did I ever lose anything so valuable that you wanted to thrash me senseless with a wire hanger just to teach me a much deserved lesson in the value of a hard earned dollar?

Not that I’m going to do that, of course. Aside from the legal ramifications, I’m not sure I even have a wire hanger anywhere in the house. And, let’s face it, a cheap plastic IKEA hanger just wouldn’t produce a chilling enough THWICK to get my point across.

So I’m wrestling here with legal appropriate punishments to inflict upon her. Certainly I will not be replacing the lost items. EVER. And I already made her go with her class to the China exhibit in town instead of meeting for her scheduled appointment with the orthodontist to have her retainer removed.

HA!

We discovered that little scheduling conflict early yesterday afternoon. She had said she would rather skip the field trip to get the dread retainer taken out, and I was willing to go along with that plan because I know how much she’s been looking forward to getting rid of the thing. But during this morning’s drama I had the great pleasure of sneering, “And you’re going to town today. The retainer stays!”  Much wailing and carrying-on followed this pronouncement. It was great. Very satisfying. But I’m still not convinced that she’s absorbed the full extent of my wrath.

It’s becoming increasingly clear to me that money and things, specifically, things that cost money, mean nothing to any of my children. And I’ve got to do something to fix this sorry state of affairs.

Do you think maybe it's because I don't work?  That because I get money from a machine in the wall for doing ostensibly (in their eyes) nothing, they think it's basically a limitless font from which all things endlessly flow?  Of course we've explained to them that the money comes from all the hard work daddy does, that his job is to earn the money, and my job is to take care of the house and the family.  But maybe they're just not getting it.

Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with money at all.  Maybe I'm expecting too much of them to understand and appreciate in anyway the price of the things we buy them.  Maybe I should just stop buying them things altogether.  Make them buy it all themselves with money they earn and save on their own initiative.  But is that really fair when all of their spoiled rotten friends are drowning in endless piles of things.  And how is it these spoiled rotten friends manage to keep track of all their endless piles of things but my kids manage to lose EVERYTHING?  From whence do these caring for skills come?  How are they taught?

The kids just got home from school a few minutes ago.  EM asked if I had called the pizza place to ask if they had found the ipod.  I had.  They hadn't.  We got into it again.  She started crying again, "So it's gone for ever?"

"Yeah.  Pretty much." 

Boy chimed in:  "Mom, I have two things to say to you."

"What's that Boy."

"One--I once lost something I loved.  Two--and that was my baby scorpie.  Don't be mad."

Princess Bedhead

Here's your eye candy for the day.

Do you see?  Do you see now what I mean about the wear-able sweetness?

That Great Litter Box In The Sky

So we're on the way to Jazz class tonight. All the kids are with me because Mister is "working" in Rio this week so he can't look after the little ones while I escort EM to her dance class, as per our usual arrangement.

We pass a graveyard. The same graveyard we pass every week, every day practically, sometimes twice a day. Often--is what I'm getting at. For some reason, seeing this graveyard on this particular day prompts EM to ask, "Mom, where is Puss actually buried?"

"Yeah Mom," Boy adds, instantly forgetting the loose thread he's been wrapping around his index finger, and seamlessly picking up EM's train of thought like as if they shared a brain, "Puss is dead. Dead people live in graves. Where is Puss buried?"

Damn. Damn, shit, hell, and damn. What does one say? Best to stick to the truth. Right?

"Well," I hedge, "Puss isn't actually buried anywhere. The ground was too frozen when he died to dig a hole. Wow! Lots of traffic today, hm? Hope we're not late. Did you remember to bring your water bottle?"

My clever ruse does not work.

"So where is he then?" Trust EM to refuse to let a sleeping cat lie.

"Well. I left him with the doctor. The doctor took care of him for us."

"How?"

"Ah. Well. The doctor cremated his body. He burned it up. It's how they take care of animals after they die."

"They BURNED him? In a FIRE?" Missy is horrified.

Damn. Damn, shit, hell, and damn.

"But he was already dead. Right Mom?" EM seems to be absorbing this news with sober aplomb. I can't see her face in the rearview mirror. I hope that pause before she asked that last question wasn't the choking back of mortal terror.

"Right. Of course. Cremation is just a very practical way of taking care of a dead body."

"So first they cut a hole to take Puss out. Then there was just a body, and they had to burn it, and what if his eyes went WHAAAAAH! and his skin was all GRXXXXXX! and there was smoke everywhere, and, and then....."

Trust Boy to get everyone off topic with an orgasmic explosion of cartoon-tastic nonsense that will not stop until we've arrived at our destination, and EM has literally slammed the car door in his ridiculously animated face.

That was pretty much the end of it. Or so I thought.

Later this evening, as I was tucking everyone in and kissing them all goodnight, Boy grabbed my face and held it close to his in that way he does when he really needs me to listen to him, "When I die Mom. Can I be buried? Can I live in a grave like the ghosts in Shaggy? Or do I have to be burned like Puss?"

Damn. I mean seriously. Just. Dah-um.

"Of course you can be buried, honey. It's your choice. Of course you don't have to be burned."

"Even if it's winter? Even if the ground is frozen?"

"Even so."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay then."

"Boy?"

"Yes mom?"

"Don't ever die, okay?"

"Okay mom. I promise."

Sugar And Spice

Last week was vinterferie (winter break).  None of you noticed, of course, because all of your kids were off to school, merrily not bugging you.

I survived it.  It came and went without a peep of complaint out of me.  Would I be tarnishing that accomplishment by pointing out that they all went back to school yesterday, and it's been ever so----peaceful----since?

I had some comments on Boy's rhymes.  Wanna hear the best one to come out of vinterferie?  There were several, but this one got the most play:  "How much longer must we eat everything we defeat?"  Followed by a chant:  "We must, we must, we must defeat our meat!  We must, we must, we must defeat our meat!"

He should totally be a cheerleader when he grows up.

Sometimes I find Boy so sickenly sweet that I have this overwhelming urge to decant him into a tiny crystal vile so that I can use him, like peppermint Schnapps, to spike my hot cocoa on a cold, wintery day.

Of course all my kids are chock-full of yummy, sweet goodness.  But I find their sweetness varies by degrees of usage. 

Missy's sweetness, for example, is flashy and stylish, something to be worn.  It's a vintage stole in plum velvet, wrapped around your shoulders, and shown off to all your hoity toity friends over tea and cakes. 

While EM's sweetness is far more subdued, more comfortable.  A flannel quilt, maybe, with which you curl up and fall asleep every night with a feeling of utter peace and safety. 

But Boy now--Boy, like I said, is all pungent and spicy.  Boy's sweetness must be eaten, devoured entirely.

I laugh at first-time mothers who dither and worry about having a second child, because how could they possibly love another like they love their first?  Pfft.  Of course you won't!  You can't!  It's not possible to love a liqueur the same way you love a quilt.  It is not possible to enjoy a cherished quilt the same way you enjoy an expensive wrap.  But you can and will love and enjoy them all--equally, if differently--and sometimes on different days--depending on the phase of the moon--and possibly the weather--vinterferie will have something to do with it too, but anything can be endured given enough Schnapps.

So go forth and multiply people!  Because zse babies, zsey are so sveet!

Namesta

Man am I ever in a rut.

Can't seem to pull myself out of it.

Can't even blame Bergen perma-gloam as the days grow ever longer, and the sun remembers rumors of whispers of warmth it once shared during its brighter hours.

Mister cut down seven trees around our property last weekend. It's helped with the brightness, but it still depresses me to see all those felled trunks and limbs strewn about the yard. I do not approve of the indiscriminate cutting down of trees. I don't care how much bloody evening sun they're stealing. They were here first!

Things keep dying around me. The trees. The cat. The i-pod.

My i-pod, people. My i-pod. The big one. The investment piece. The mother-fucking-ship. Dead. 80 gigs DOA.

I have no way to process this loss other than the sort of short, incoherent stuttering working its way through this post.

Alas.

Boy has taken up the fine art of the random rhyme--like the Great Vizzini only smaller, and with slightly less sense. Recent favorites: Hurry, hurry. Your pants are furry. And: If you have a vagina, you're going to China.

A bright spot in an otherwise bleak, existential storm of self-loathing.

I'm kidding. Mostly. It's not really as bad as all that. I'm still just not much in a writing mood. And this business of the i-pod crashing is truly disturbing. I'm indulging in a wee moment of melodrama. This too shall pass....

As a further excuse for not posting much lately--I've recently taken up knitting. More the fool, I. It's completly absorbed 80% of my free time these past three or four weeks. When I was in Scotland I got all cocky, thinking I knew something about knitting, seeing as I'd been doing it for more then ten days at that point. Plus, I had way mastered the art of the knit and the purl (that's all you really need, right?) So I found myself some pretty, moderately pricey, multi-colored wool, and a lacey shawl pattern. And there I thought I was good to go.

Any guesses on how it's gone with the shawl so far? First off Jilly--you totally LIED to me! I need twice as much yarn as you told me....Twice as much! First blow--the shawl has become yet another scarf. Probably a blessing in disguise, actually. Still, I really liked the look of that shawl......I like the look of the scarf in the picture, as well. Good thing I have the picture to admire, because mine isn't going to look anything at all like it. Whatever! My son is fat full 'a rhymes, yo. If she's sitting. She must be knitting. So I'm still a good person.

Maybe being 36 will make me happy, and once again full of fun, insightful anecdotes to share!

Check in next week to find out. But, don't hold your breath, 'kay?

P.S. I'm thinking my next few posts should be nothing but LOST LOST LOST all the time LOST, because GOD DAMN but how much do I love that show! The next time you see me it will be 1954 and I won't know who you are. We'll all speak Latin, and take turns braiding each other's hair into fetching frulein do's. Your nose will start bleeding, but I'll tell you not to worry because I secretly love you, and my i-pod is still working.....

I've Got Nothing To Say--Allow Me To Throw Some Pictures At You Instead

From a recent skiing trip:
Pictures are all self-explanatory, but you are required to spend two or three extra seconds admiring the one of EM and her dad.  I made her, you know--even if she does sometimes act like she likes him best.

 

From Aberdeen:
In general I liked the architecture in and around Aberdeen--kind of monochrome and blah granite, but all ornate and Victorian, so pretty enough to look at. I loved these brightly colored, mosaic tiled designs that could be seen in many of the entry ways. I don't know if they're unique to Aberdeen (didn't think to ask) but they were rather wonderful, and I found myself wanting one--immediately.

You see, sometimes I do allow myself to be photographed.  Now you know why it's not very often.  I do not feel I'm aging gracefully.  Soon the folds of skin over my eyes will sag and droop so low I'll have to pierce my eyebrows and roll my eyelids up like little roller blinds just to be able to see.