One More Thing I Can Check Off My To-Do List

So, I made it to the top of my mountain. And, for the record, if there had been any streams in my way, I so would have forded every last one of them.

As it was I just walked along one for a while then crossed a bridge when I came to it. But look, that was the easy part. After the bridge we started going uphill--straight uphill. And then we came down. Sweet, merciful, ringlets of Jesus.....then we came down.....

I kept stopping every two or three hundred meters to say, "That's it. I'm done. Seriously. I won't step another bloody foot down this miserable, fucking hill! I! QUIT!"

Mister just stood quietly behind me, gazing serenely out at the view. When I was done, he'd hand me the water bottle and say, "Look, you can see the cars now. Next time you give up maybe we'll be able to hear them too."

Here are a few pictures (less than expertly placed because I'm lame and can't figure out a prettier way to add mulitple images to my text).





A nice flat bit at the beginning. The trail head started at the end of this valley.





Once we got to the top, we walked along this ridge to the peak, which is off in the distance there.



This is the view of Rosendal from the peak where we had our lunch.



And finally (for a bit of perspective), here's Mister and Boy the next day on the beach, and that's Malmangernuten--the monster I climbed--in the background. I'm happy to report that Mister was limping just as badly I was around that beach. Apparently, the monster is known for eating the toes of even its most smug and vainglorious of climbers on the way down. It's a wicked steep descent even for the most seasoned of hikers.

I Could Have Just Belted Him and Sent Him To His Room, But That Would Be Too Easy

"Mom, I spilled some spaghetti."

"Oh good, Boy! That's just great. Because, you know, I spent the whole afternoon cleaning, and the floors were so spotless and shiny. And I know how none of you feel very comfortable or at ease when the house is actually clean, so it's just as well, really, that it only took 30 minutes for someone to spill something. Now everyone can just go ahead and feel right at home. Brilliant! No, seriously. That's just great!"

He stares at me blankly. Squints a bit, then chews his lip as he reexamines his mess. Clearly something does not add up. Finally he adds, "No, Mom. I mean I spilled on the floor."

Our Annual Week O' Birthdays

Over and done with. Thank God!

It was poor, poor family planning indeed that landed us with two birthdays three days apart in May. Sex in September is banned forthwith in the JEDA household for the duration of our fertile years!

There was a big party here last Monday for Missy. Tante Farmer-in-the-dell and her four brooding offspring spent Sunday night with us, thus were here for the party the following day. Farmor came. Jilly Baby and The Vibrant Ms. M were both here, families in tow. As well as Linda and her kids (I'd give Linda a clever nickname to along with all the other clever nicknames which populate my blog, except her personality somehow precludes it. Which is not to say that she isn't a lovely person and doesn't deserve a little levity in her life. It's just that, she has none. Levity, that is. Linda gives the impression of being a deeply pragmatic person who'd simply rather not fuck around with art and metaphor. Linda is Linda. Not to be confused with my Auntie Linda who has a whopping, great personality and will fuck around with just about any flight of fancy or article of whimsy I might throw at her, even if it's only to blow smoke at it and tell me to stop being such a dipshit).

Where was I?

Ah yes, Missy's party. Nice enough, I suppose, if a little hectic. My chili was divine, if I do say so myself. But a plague upon all my children who do not seem to appreciate the delectable poetry that is my Grandma Taylor's chocolate cake. Stupid children and their stupid Norwegian palates.

Moving on.

Elder Miss's 7th birthday was Thursday. She hemmed and hawed, dithered, and flip-flopped for three days over what she wanted me to make her for her birthday dinner. She went from chicken wings to spaghetti to salmon steaks and back again before finally landing on (of all things) chicken noodle soup and a spice cake. Being the really shitty mother that I am, I ignored her final request, and made grilled chicken and rice instead. She loved it...as I knew she would because I'm her mother and I know her better than she knows herself.  Chicken noodle soup..........pfft, whatever!

Her class party was Saturday afternoon at one of these monkey jungle gym type places with huge cages full of balls and slides and nets. Horrid. I was dead-set against the idea on the grounds that a) it's where she had her party last year, and b) she's just too damn old for such a place. Her rebuttal went something like a) I went to a different school and had different friends last year, and b) So-and-So had her party there just last month and we weren't too big then, and besides I rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly wanna *stomp sulk pout*.

Can't very well argue with that logic now, can I? So Monkey Jungle it was.

It turned out fine. Every last one of them was pink-cheeked and sweaty by the end of it, so I think it's safe to say they all had a good time. Though at one point, I took a round about the place just to make sure everyone was still there and still behaving themselves, and found five of them (Elder Miss included) creeping about in the 2-foot crawl space between the tops of the cages and the ceiling. After I got them all safely down and told them under no circumstances were they to go up there again EVER! I asked the girl who was supposedly supervising our party how on earth they got up there. She just shook her head, seemingly baffled, "I have no idea. Kids are awfully clever, aren't they?" Yes, but one would have hoped that the geniuses who designed these contraptions were a bit more clever, don't ya' think?



So my girls are now officially a year older. And I can go ahead and start worrying about the next big to-do item on my list. Salt Lake City here we come!

Happy Day-After-Your Birthday, Missy!

Please God make it stop calling my name!

Hope Chest

I spent several hours this morning sorting through the kids' toys. It's time. There's 7 years worth of accumulated plastic crap up there.

Most of it I put in a box marked "Salvation Army". But some of it--the nice wooden stuff, the stuff that won't age--I put in another box destined for the attic.

This year my kids will be 7, 5, and 3. Today I put a stash of toys away for my grandkids.

Jesus. What a leap of faith.

Role Play

"Oh, isn't that a splendid idea!"

"What did you just say, Boy?"

"It's such a splendid idea!" This time clapping his hands and hugging them in to his heart for added emphasis.

"Seriously, Boy. That's weird. Why are you saying that?"

"It's something I just say when I'm being a girl."

Life IS Pain, Princess. Anyone Who Tells You Otherwise Is Selling You Something.

Ah, the politics of little girlhood. It has begun. Two weekends ago the weather was gorgeous and the phone was ringing off the hook with Elder Miss's little friends wanting to play. Last weekend the weather was something significantly less than gorgeous and no one called, which was just as well really, since she was sick and feverish and weak as a runty little kitten. But she still asked, "I wonder why anybody hasn't called me."

On Sunday, Mister was playing and giggling with Missy at the kitchen table. They were apparently whispering sweet nothings in each other's ear. Elder Miss muttered from the couch, "It's not nice to whisper. Martine is always whispering in Elin's ear, and it makes me feel bad."

On Monday, for the first time since autumn, she dragged her feet at the door, begged me not to make her go to school because "Elin was my very first best friend, but Martine won't let me play with her anymore." And yet twice last week EM missed the bus home because "Martine didn't want to play with Elin anymore, and she said I should miss the bus and play with her instead. She said it would be okay."

At her parent/teacher conference a few weeks ago, her teacher warned us that the three of them--EM, Martine, and Elin--were quite the turbulent little trio, one minute thick as thieves, the next bickering little ninnies. Natural. Normal. To be expected, I guess. But Christ what a headache!

Then there is the issue of birthday parties. It's a huge class, 66 kids split into 3 smaller groups. The information we were given at the beginning of the year was, of course no one expects you to invite every kid to any given party. It's traditional--recommended even--that you invite all the girls or all the boys, depending, in your group, but please be descreet about how you hand out the invitations.

Early last week, EM came home and matter of factly stated that she saw a whole bunch of party invitations being put in backpacks, but none of them had her name on, so she guessed she wasn't invited. She did not act terribly upset about this at the time. But this morning I went into her room to hurry her along, and found her sitting in her bed with a sad, grumpy pout on her face, so I ask, "What's wrong?"

"Today's Iselin's birthday."

"Ah," say I, Iselin is one of the girls EM has recently spent time with on the weekend. "Is she having a birthday party today?"

Elder Miss shrugs, "I don't know. Why don't the party cards (she means invitations) ever have my name on them?" EM has only received 3 invitations for the entire academic year.

Because people suck, baby. And life stinks. And little girls aren't terribly nice to one another. Get used to it. Of course I don't actually say this, but I want to. I'm certainly thinking it as I put her off saying maybe she's not having a party, maybe the party is this weekend and she'll get an invitation today, maybe Iselin's mom decided to only invite the girls in her I group and since EM isn't in that group there's really nothing I can do about any of it. So quitcher' belly achin' and GET DRESSED already!

Later at breakfast, EM says over a mouthful of Cheerios, "Elin and Martine don't like Iselin. They say mean things about her."

"Like what?"

"Mean things."

I can't get her to be more specific, probably because they say these mean things in Norwegian and she doesn't know how to translate them. So I ask, "What do you do when they say these mean things?"

"Don't know," she shrugs, which I think it's safe to say means nothing. Back-stabbing little bitch.

I'm not complaining. Nor am I terribly worried about her. I remember grade school. I remember playing this game. I remember taking turns being all the relevant characters in the drama. One day I was Martine turning one friend against another. The next day I was Iseline wondering why Elin was being such a bitch. And two days later I was EM, crying because I hadn't been invited to the party where all the cool kids would be.

It's had me thinking an awful lot about my childhood nemisis Jennifer Murray. It makes me want to find Jennifer Murray and give her a great big hug. No, actually, it makes me want to find Jennifery Murray's slightly off-color mother, Carlene, and give her a great big hug and apologize for being so mean to her baby girl.

The Horror, The Unspeakable Ghastly Horror

Doctor finds spiders in ear of boy with earache

Profanities are the only words that come to mind.

The Non Sequitur As Art

Boy, who did you play with at school today?

Andreas. But he thinks all dinosaurs are mean. But they're not. Because I know that some T rexes are nice. But not the ones with the angry eyes. They're mean. Because Axel is a little bit naughty. But I like to wear my blue socks to bed.


Boy, have you brushed your teeth yet?

Yup. Daddy helped me. But he used the green toothpaste. I like the green toothpaste. But the blue one has stars in it. Missy likes the stars. I like the stars too. But I ate oranges for lunch.


Boy, do you need to go to the bathroom before we leave?

No.

When did you last go?

Just when I was just upstairs. And I lifted up the lid. And it was soooo heavy. But I'm strong. And big. But Lightning DeQueen is a boy. Not a girl. So he's a king. Not a queen. You're a queen. But I don't like Woody.


Oh no, Boy! Look at the size of that bruise. That must have hurt. How did you do that?

But I have to poop.


Boy! For the last time, GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR PANTS!

But the sun makes my head hurt.


Boy, did you eat all your lunch today?

I did. But first I make the bread that is together into two. Then I eat all of the peanut butter. Then I make the ends in a line and I eat them too. But Andreas likes my dinosaur lunch box. Andreas is bigger than me. But he's still my friend. But Eefin is bigger than Finn because he is my cousin.

And your milk, Boy. Did you drink your milk?

No. I'm a little bit afraid crocodiles.


__________________________



Honest to God, this is why I drink.

No Gnews Is Good Gnews

Generally speaking, I don't like to spend too much time stewing over the heaping piles of moldering crap I read in the news everyday. I mean, there's only so many times you can say, "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" before you start to sound a little simple and slow on the uptake. They keep repeating themselves day after day after ever-loving day, so clearly, they're quite serious. I get that now. I accept it. I no longer allow myself to get too riled up about any of it.

Everyday, I read the headlines at CNN and The New York Times. I check a few of my favorite leftist-leaning, newsy type blogs for my daily dose of anit-Bush bile, followed by a disproportionate amount of time trolling the celebrity gossip rags for the truly griping news of the day. It's important to be informed, right enough. But knowing how the Supreme Court is positioning itself to reverse Roe v. Wade, or lamenting the lax gun laws that allowed a mentally ill student to purchase weapons that would be used in a senseless, shocking massacre doesn't get the kids fed, or the laundry folded. Alec Baldwin may be an ass, and the students at BYU may have a tougher brand of moxie than I had previously given them credit for, but EM's got homework and Missy hasn't pooped for two days, so best not to dwell on any of it too long.

And so it goes. Easy-peasy.

Until I happened upon this wee item: The Vanishing of the Bees (article).

I can't stop thinking about it. It's seriously freaking me out. I've lost sleep over the where, and the why, and the whatever could it mean of it. It's just not right. It MUST be explained! I mean !PEOPLE! They're just disappearing! Poof! Gone! So long, and thanks for all the pollen. Why?

But I read something today on one of the open threads at The Daily Kos that greatly put my mind at ease. I'd link to it directly, but I can't seem to find it again. I hope it's okay if I paraphrase here, because I don't want any of you to worry, as I have, over this perplexing and troubling apiary mystery. One wise contributor said:

They've been Raptured. We're left with the unbelievers.

Amen.

Grovel, Grovel

Cringe, Bow, Stoop, Faaallllll

So now you know. JEDA 202--I like Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, can quote from pretty much all of them at will, lip sync a mean Jesus Christ Superstar (in its entirety) when drunk, and even found stuff to like about the regrettable Aspects of Love. Not exactly something I advertise, but all too true. Judge me if you must. Whatever. Not what I came here to talk about.

* * * *

As most of you already know, due to some rather bullshit power politics and money mongering, Missy did not get accepted to pre-school at The International School of Bergen next fall. They'll tell you, "No, no. It's just because we're such a damn fine institution, and everybody wants to be us, see...record high number of applicants...record low number of students leaving. Blah, blah blah." It's all a lie. It's all about oil, and they thoroughly screwed me over just because my husband isn't one of their corporate whores.

I'm sorry. Do I sound bitter? Am I not explaining myself very clearly? Allow me to speak more plainly. The school's board of trustees recently decided that they want the student body to be comprised solely of rootless transients and gypsies children of temporarily relocated employees of large oil companies. The tuition for corporate sponsorship is more than twice that which we mere mortals in the private sector are expected to pay. So it makes sense in a greedy, world-gone-money-mad sort of way, that the school would seek out these higher fees to the exclusion of the actual citizens of the community in which the school is located.

The upshot of all of it is that, despite having been loyal to this school for the past 5 years, paid my tuition in full and on time every month; despite even, Boy being currently enrolled there for Kindergarten next year, Missy is persona non grata--wait-listed. And, in case you hadn't picked up on it, I'm pissed.

I know from my many, many conversations with the secretaries in the office that there are, in actuality, still a few places available. Rumor in the hallways has it that these places are most likely being held open for corporate sponsored students who may or may not drift in through the course of the year. Though, from what I can gather of various things the secretaries have told me, whether or not to grant one of these open spots to someone on the waiting list is up to the director's personal discretion. She may yet decide to do it, and I know that Missy is rather high up there on the waiting list--not first, apparently (though she bloody well ought to be), but close enough that she's got a shot if Madam Director is feeling generous.

To this end, in a last ditch, all too blatant, more than likely too little too-late effort to raise my seemingly sub-terranean profile at the school, I showed up at the monthly PTO meeting yesterday. Fucking hell--make that four amendments to JEDA 101! I am shameless in my desperation.

Spring fairs, family outings, collect this, organize that, bake two cakes, and don't forget to courtsey on your way out the door. I HATE COMMITEE WORK! And none of it--NONE OF IT--is going to help get Missy enrolled next year. But I have to do something.

I want to remind someone of the 7 years worth of National Geographics I donated to the library last year, but how do I bring it up?

I've considered offering to pay the entire year's tuition in one lump sum, but we can only afford to do that for Missy (or Boy, but not both), and I've been reliably cautioned that it would be unwise to remind them that this is all really about money.

So what?

I wait, is what. I'm making some calls on the possibility of getting her in somewhere else. But I'm dragging my feet. I don't want her anywhere else. I want her there--with Boy. I want what's right, and it pisses me off that I have to beg for it. But it may literally come to that.

Also--oil is evil! Seek alternative sources of energy NOW!

P.S. Jilly. Baby. No offense, eh? You know I love you even though you're one of them. Right?

.....the Mountain Lies Ahead.

Mister says I'm ready to mount this monster.

It's called Malmangernuten.

In May, as soon as the snow's off it, I'm going up.

12 years ago he told me he'd take me up there some day. I looked at him then, and laughed, "Dude, are you high? Is that some sort of threat? Is this Hell, and is that why it's so fucking cold here?"

I've changed a bit since then. I'm actually looking forward to it.

Personal Hygiene

"Mom, why do boys' voices change and girls get boobs?"

"Ah. Well EM, eh.......well let's see. It's to do with something called hormones. It's just one of the many ways boys and girls are different."

"And boys get hairy too, don't they?"

"Yes. Yes, they do."

"But girls get hairy too, don't they?"

"Well, yes. But boys generally get more hairy than girls."

"But girls get hair down there on their pee pees, right?"

"Ahem. Yes, EM. Both boys and girls get hair there."

"But I can cut it. Right?"

"Well, yes. I suppose you can. Some girls do, I guess."

"Oh good! Because I don't want it hanging down to my knees!"

NB!

I am pleased to announce the following revisions to the curriculum vitae JEDA 101:

7--I can't parallel park. This is no longer true, for I can, and have several times now, in fact, executed flawless such parking maneuvers outside The Boy's school. Yey me!

62--I'm pushing at a size 12 and it's killing me. Also, now, false. All the long, dark winter--through pissing rain, and grueling cold--I busted my ass out there on the pavement. I shaved 4 minutes off my 5K, I added an additional 2.5 kilometers to my overall endurance. I'm back into a comfortable--roomy, even--size 10 with genuine hope of seeing a size 8 once again in my lifetime. I know you already know how much I rock, but I need you to take a moment to really feel it with me.

78--Nothing makes me happier than watching a toddler try to dance. I never much liked this entry. It was hasty filler, sentimental fluff, grossly exaggerated nonsense that, frankly doesn't ring true. There are many, many things that make me happier than watching a toddler dance. Off the top of my head--putting that toddler to bed, for example, never fails to gladden my spirit in a way that the awkward bump and swagger of her diapered derrière simply can't. However, rather than try to pin down and label the one thing which makes me happier than all other things, I wish to amend #78 entirely so that it now reads: I actually kind of like my crappy Kia.

In Which I Resist the Urge To Say, "Long Time No Blog"

For the record, I don't owe you people any excuses! It's my blog. I can abandon it when I want to.

Not that I wanted to. I've actually had things to say. Gripping things about life and the weather, and what a soulless, rancorous bitch Missy is. Really important shit, that you, as my captive, eagar audience, need to know.

But alas, other, more pressing matters got in the way. Hard to say exactly what. Honestly, I forget. But I'm sure it had something to do with that heartless, hard-headed, obstinate mule of a harpy-aping daughter of mine. That surly, uncompromising, head-strong, wilful little I'll-move-when-I-bloody-well-feel-like-it-and-not-a-second-sooner-you-spineless-impotent-old-hag wee whippersnapper with whom I've been engaging in open hostilities for the better part of a month now.

Pfft. The Terrible Two's. As if. Hard-hitting, urban warfare with sippy grenades and minion troops of Fisher Price Little People more like. I've been through this battle twice before, so I've got experience on my side. But Jesus God! She is orders of magnitude scrappier than my other two opponents! Our stand-offs bring to mind the scene in that awful King Arthur movie of a few years back, where the Stellan Skaarsgård character finally meets Arthur before the final battle and walks away muttering, "Finally, a man worth killin'." That's Missy and I. It's do-or-die. We fight to the death.

The Union Will Stand Afterall

It was my birthday Friday.

In an attempt to redress the Valentine's Rose Fiasco of a few weeks ago, Mister conjured these beauties from the dusty ruins of our once romantic past.

Red this time, for passion. There was a shiny diamond and emerald ring involved too.

Psst I think he still likes me

More Evidence That I Totally Rule

This is what my pulse watch does when I meet my exercise goals for the week.

I win!

Sure, it's never happened before. But now that I know, it's so going to happen more often.

Like a Freshly Fallen Silent Shroud of Snow

Mister decided it was high time he strapped a pair of skis on me and took me back country skiing.
I don't mean to brag or anything, but I sort of rocked it.
And God Damn! But does the world ever get pretty when you leave the cities behind.

Norwegian real estate is booming!
We're going to set Alpha Grandma up in one of these sweet cabins for her retirement.
You're Welcome, Mom. Really. It's the least we could do.

For the record--I made those tracks.
And that tiny wee speck of black on the trail behind me--that's Mister.
Eat my dust, Darling!

Deconstructing Dr. Seuss

I know I've mentioned La Dragon before. Nice girl. Enthusiastic drinker. Lives in Seattle. Look her up if you're ever in the area.

The interesting thing about us see, is that the majority of our relationship has been played out over the internet. We met in Florence in '94 where we studied with the same Junior Year Abroad program. She liked it. I did not. But we both liked the Chianti. We bonded over the Chianti.

After that year, we went back to our respective snooty New England colleges. We didn't really keep in touch. I heard about her through various mutual friends. She doubtless heard about me through similar channels. But that was about it.

I moved to Norway right after graduation. She got a job in Connecticut, I think it was. I seem to recall exchanging a few letters here and there--the old fashioned, written kind, which is sweet--but not much more. And then one day, about a year later, I got a phone call from her. She said she was moving across country to be with this guy she'd met, and she was really nervous about it, but he was swell, and her job wasn't that great anyway, and life is too short, and shit I'm probably crazy, but oh well, and by the way, how are you?

That was it. I was smitten all over again. I'm a total sucker for chicks who are willing to drop everything and run off to be with some boy. E-mail addresses were exchanged, and we started writing. Regularly. Daily, for a while there, back when neither one of us had anything better to do.

The point of all this is to say I have, stored on various hard-drives scattered about the house, seven years worth of correspondence between her and me. A handy little record of my life since moving abroad and starting a family. Last night as I was trying to move the bulk of the record off my old hard-drive onto my laptop, I came across the following account of a conversation I had with Mister four years ago. So charmed and amused was I upon rereading it, that I knew I had to resurrect it--clean it, polish it, publish it here.



The Scene: A snowy February morning. We're in the car: Mister is driving, an 18 month old Not-Quite-Yet-Elder Miss sits safely harnessed in the backseat, a moderately pregnant JEDA rides shotgun. We're on the way to a pre-natal appointment. I had just found out 3 weeks earlier that Boy's identical twin had disappeared, and having not yet felt any movement from the remaining fetus, I was visably nervous, preoccupied, and not in the mood for idle chit chat.

Mister begins out of the clear blue nowhere:

"Hey, ya' know that cat with the hat book?"

"Yeah." I'm not really paying attention, but I'm annoyed nonetheless that he got the name wrong.

"It really means something, doesn't it?"

"Waddaya mean?" I snap, not really wanting to encourage further discussion, but feeling like I need to be polite.

"Well, it's about learning to pick up after yourself. Right?"

"Sure, yeah, I guess that's the overall moral of the story." I'm feeling a little smug now because, DUH! Like obviously. How long did it take him to figure that out?

After a thoughtful pause, he adds, "And the cat--he's not really real, right? He's....like, the naughty side of kids.....bad judgement when they're left alone to look after themselves. Maybe?"

"Um, yeah," I say, trying to sound like I've already given this a lot of thought, "That's right."

"So that makes the fish the good conscience," Mister surmises, clearly pleased with his insight.

"Right," I agree, a bit more interested now, "Like Jimminy Cricket!"

"Who?"

"Never mind," I mutter, wondering how I ended up hitched to a cultural simplton who doesn't even know who Jimminy Cricket is.

We stop for a red light. EM sees a dog, "Voff, voff!!" she shouts with glee.

"A doggie!, Yes, EM Good girl!" we say in unison--except his is in Norwegian.

"And that Thing One and Thing Two," Mister probes as the light turns green. This a bit slower, like he's just thought of this now, "They're the kids. Sally and the boy."

Holy shit! I think he's on to something here! I'm totally getting into it now, "Yeah! Yeah! And that big, red, wood box.....that's sort of like Pandora's Box kind of.....and once the id is set free there's really no telling what kind of trouble it can get you into unless you listen to the voice of reason....the fish, right.......and.....and..." Clearly I've lost him, "I'm sorry, dear, you were saying?"

"Nothing." He's pouting now because I stole his thunder.

"Come on. Tell me. This is interesting. What?" Feeling ever so slightly guilty for having interrupted his train of thought.

"No. That's about it. It's just there's so many layers to it. You don't expect it at first," He says, thoughtful again, "And Green Eggs and Ham....that's about not being afraid to try new things, right?"

"Well, sort of," I conceded, my straight face back on, "But it's mostly about S&M."

"Huh?! What?!!!!" He panics, and looks back at Emma to see if she's listening. She's not.

"Kidding darling. Just a joke."

With that, we lapse back into a comfortable silence. After a minute or two he starts singing at EM. And I go back to wondering if the baby died last week or the week before.




P.S. It's wrong of me to continue to mention excessive drinking as one of La Dragon's defining characteristics. It's not. She has many other fine qualities too lofty and rare to cover within the scoop of this meager rag. And she doesn't drink....that much.

P.S.S. You could have told me I had misspelled Seuss, Nan. I mean honestly.

This Means Something. But I'm Not Sure What.

Mister managed to remember not only to come home on Valentine's Day--a significant and noteworthy occasion in its own right, but alas, a story for another day--but also to get me roses to mark the 10th anniversary of the day he proposed to me.

Yellow--the color of friendship, familiar love, and domestic happiness. Not exactly undying love and devotion, but whatever. I'll take what I can get.

This is what they looked like when I got up the next morning.

Should I be worried?

In Which Missy Engages in Independent Play

Ms. M likes to tell stories about how Sanne (age 2) likes to make her Little People talk to each other. Apparently, there's a mom with a high pitched voice and a dad with a low pitched voice, and they call each other "Darling" and tell each other to please hurry up they're late. It's all very cute and good for a laugh, but up until now I've had nothing to contribute to the hilarity, because none of my kids have ever been much for playing with by themselves.

Well, I'm happy to report that Missy now does much the same thing with her Snap n' Style Fisher Price dolls. Only the conversations go something like this:

DOLL 1: I so pretty.

DOLL 2: I pretty too.

DOLL 1: You so pretty.

DOLL 2: You pretty too.

DOLL 1: I so pretty.

DOLL 2: I pretty too.

DOLL 1: I pretty.

DOLL 2: No, I pretty.

DOLL 1: No! I pretty.

DOLL 2: NO! I PRETTY!

Scratching, biting, tearing off of clothes ensues.

Then she puts different clothes on them and starts all over again.

How proud am I?

Monkey Say, Monkey Do

If you ask Missy to please chew with her mouth closed, she'll shut her eyes, squint has hard as she can, cover her ears with her hands, and announce proudly, "I close now, Mommy! I close gooooood."

I've decided not to rate this peculiar behavior as part of her native intelligence, or lack thereof. It's her art, you see. It's an interpretive thing.

The Blahs Have a New Face

I was cursing quite the blue streak last Friday, I tell you what! Fucking Blogger shut me down without so much as a by your leave.

Error. Error. Error. Bunch of nonsense letters and a message to report the problem to Blogger support. But no link. Where the hell is Blogger support? I don't know! Don't bother me now kids, Mommy's up to her elbows in some serious computer hate here. Gunna take all day.

I eventually made my way to a discussion board where a bunch of other users were reporting exactly the same problem with the exact same string of fuckall letters. Oh, and by the way, where the hell is Blogger support?

Nevermind. Some kindly, smarty-pants blogger finally took the time to inform all us floundering rubes that the problem was the old templates had been discontinued, and all we had to do was update our template to get back online. Which I did forthwith, and everything was fine, except the new version of my old template looked stupid. So I spent another 2 hours tweaking a new one.

Dinner was a bit late Friday night. But well worth the wait. There are a few things I'd change if I could, but I don't know enough about html and css blahdyblahdyblah to figure it out. Whatever. T'wil serve.

No other news. Mister is leaving for Singapore in the morning. Going to be gone all week. Elder Miss is not leaving it up to chance this time--she's making a list of possible treasures she'd like from the Orient.

Fickle Friendship

I've had a couple of requests for the finished draft of my great treatise on friendship. But I have a confession to make. My sudden, crippling illness was not the only reason I abandoned the piece. Despite much tweaking and artful metaphor, it was shaping up to be an unwieldy, moralizing mess. Two things I avoid at all costs here at JEDA's House of Blahs, so I binned it.

It started out as a sort of reflection on these vague feelings of....I don't know...obligation?...that I feel every time I use the rice cooker that I received as a gift from the much maligned Princess Z two Christmases ago. Obligation to what I do not know because I neither asked for nor expected such an extravagant gift. Nor do I have any qualms about my part in the drama that ensued last Spring--she's the one who blocked me from her blog, and look, that shit's just petty! So fuck her. But still, it feels odd to me to have this artifact--one that I use often, and am really quite grateful to have been given--of a once vibrant, budding friendship when the friendship itself has degenerated to the point where we avoid eye contact as much as possible when we cross paths.

My reflections on that brief but turbulent relationship naturally led me to expound on the curiosities of some of my deeper, longer lived friendships. La Dragon made an appearance here, for how is it possible to have so much shared history and depth of feeling for a person with whom you only actually shared a city for 9 very brief months?

From there the whole thing really started to fall apart. I bemoaned the fact that I have no childhood friends left, only a handful of high school acquaintances with whom I maintain "Christmas Card Status", but that's about it. Ditto most of my college friends--snooty bitches. Then, after touching briefly on various bruises and scars sustained in a brief tussle with Ms. M a few months back, I ended in a varitable quagmire of existential bullshit about how nobody can ever really know anybody, and we're all ultimately alone, adrift in an unfathomable, hostile universe.

Boo hoo hoo. Then I started my period, and I feel really rather better about everything now. So best to forget it ever happened.

It's a sad fact that there is a wide streak of moody introspection running through my heart and soul. After 34 years of my mother rolling her eyes at me and telling me to knock it off already, I've learned to do my level best to keep a tight lid on it. Got my big-girl panies on, Mom! So God willing, you'll never have to see anything even remotely like the above drivel in either its synopsis or protracted form ever again.

Witty, satirical, self-deprecating--these are the qualities I aim for. Best to leave the metaphysical ruminations on the very nature and essence of human connectivity to Boy. He's much better at it than I am.

To wit--yesterday, I was treated to this monologue on the way to school:

"I love Mommy because she loves me. I love Daddy because he loves me. Missy loves me. EM loves me. And I love them when they're nice. Puss loves me. Puss is soft so I love him. I love my house because my house makes me warm. But the car? The car Mom? I don't love the car because the car can only love itself."

Too true, my darling. All too too true.

Interlude

"Mom? MOM? MOMMY!!!!!"

"Yes, Boy?"

"Life never goes away."

"Well, Boy, yes. Yes it does."

"Mom, look at me. Mom, LOOK!"

"Yes, Boy?"

"NEVER."

__________

Granted, he's had a fever for three days. But still. Kid freaks me out sometimes.

Sexy's Back

So there I was, diligently composing an emotionally charged yet insightful post about the curious nature of friendship with all of its inevitable ebbs and flows, and petty tantrums--when I was struck down by an ague.

That's right. You read right.

An ague. And not some paltry, citified, but-I'd-really-rather-not-go-to-work-today ague either.

No, I'm talking a proper, knock-you-on-your-ass, kick-you-through-the-snow-then-pin-you-over-an-open-fire-til-you-pop-and-boil kind of ague. The sort of ague that befell fey Victorian heroines when they were accidently caught out in the rain. The kind of ague that had them panting and sweating (albeit daintily) in ornate four-poster beds, while their dashing Victorian men paced dark, drafty hallways, brows furrowing, fists clinching as they finally realize their undying love for the stricken lady.

I know, right? That's exactly the kind of ague I'm talking about. That was me last weekend. Dreadful. Pitiful. Grievous. Just plain sad.

I'm mostly over it now, so don't go breaking out your mourning attire just yet. Though I fear I may yet need a good leeching to suck out the infection that seems to lingering in my sinuses.

Elder Miss has it now. She's on day two of the fever and about to do my head in with her endless demands for "more blankets, more water, more Sponge Bob!"

I'm really only here today to call your attention to a bit of a milestone. An anniversary, of sorts. Take a look at the archives. It was exactly one year ago today that I started this two-bit operation. I know, I know. It was one post followed by another one 2 months later. Whatever. Point is I DID start it, see? So......Happy Birthday to my blog. Many happy returns and all that.

Jilly, you left the rum, Love. Tell me you did that on purpose.

8 o'clock New Year's Eve I get a phone call from Jilly who had, just the day before sent her regrets via SMS:  Hogmeny just won't be hogmeny if we can't be in Scotland, so we might as well just have a quiet evening at home. Boo hoo hoo. What.Ever. Jilly Baby. Your loss.

Happily, she thought better of it.

Ring, ring"Hello?"
"Hello, JEDA?"

"Yes?"
"Well, um, I was just out to the garage to get a bottle of Coke. And well, the neighbors, you see, they're all out. And they're all dressed up. Pretty dresses. Pretty hair. Fabulous shoes. Gaity. Hilarity. Drunken revelry. And well, I was just wondering.....could we....? That is to say, would you mind terribly if.....? Can we still come?"
Luckily I had already been coached in proper Hogmeny etiquette, so I knew exactly the right thing to say:

"Sure!!! Of course!!! Yes! Come! Now! Immediately!!!"
They missed out on one hell of a dinner: king crab, tiger prawns and scallops in ginger butter sauce, baguettes, and enough white wine to drown a large cat. They showed up around 10, just in time for the real fun to start. They brought whiskey. And did I mention the rum?

I guess I really can't speak for the others, but I had a glorious time.

Did I drink too much? Yes.

Did I make an ass of myself? A little maybe, yeah.

Did my children witness my shame? Surely they were too preoccupied with the fireworks to notice...much....

Is that real champagne I see Mister opening in that picture above? Pommery, darling. Bought from the cellars, direct. And opened saber-style with my best butcher's knife. Smoooooooth.

Out with a bang

Tonight we're going to put fire crackers in it, and blow it up.

Happy New Year, everyone!!!

Ho Ho Hooooooo

So this is the kind of crap ass vagrant that passes as "Santa" in this country.

I shit you not. They call him "Nisse" here, and consider him more of a mischievious gnome than an all powerful, jovial saint. But the general idea remains the same: He sits in a little hut, crouches behind a rickety old desk, and scrawls your children's christmas wishes into a giant ledger with a greasy, feather quill. His teeth are yellowed, his fingers stained with tar. Children cringe and stutter in his presence, while eager parents hover in the wings whispering encouragement and taking blurry snapshots.

We caught him here on a coffee break. God only knows how much whiskey he jacked into that cup before he headed back on duty.

The Alpha Grandma wants credit for the picture. Mr. Alpha Grandma fervently wishes you to know that the coffee was made over an open fire in a 10 gallon cauldren and stirred with a still burning log. JEDA wants you to remain patient, keep checking in, she will get back to you as soon as humanly possible. Also--she's currently slurping the dregs out of her 4th glass of wine for the evening and already peering about the room for more...

Our Holidays are happy. How are yours?

M-5

You'll have to ask Mark what in the hell that's supposed to mean.


So we're, what? Half-way through the to-do list? That hideous, holiday hullabaloo that so effectively gets in the way of quietly enjoying the season?

Yes, about that. Let's take stock and regroup a bit, shall we?

1. Parents are here and settled. I've already made two apple pies to quiet the caged beast that is my step-father. They keep raising eyebrows and making snide remarks about the apparently vast quantities of wine I've swilled since their arrival. And yesterday, Bergen celebrated an illustrious 50 straight days of pissing rain. All tolled, those are three of the finest basic ingredients for jule tide joy you could ask for, so we're well on our way.
2. Missy's appointment with Dr. Smarty-pants did not go as smoothly as anticipated. Dude actually thinks there might be a "problem". It probably merits an entry all to itself, and I will eventually get to it, but for now the crux of the matter seems to be an alledged shortage of growth hormone. Nothing life threatening, to be sure, but we may be looking at an entire childhood and adolescence of injections to help her reach the lofty heights of, oh, I don't know, say 5'5"? 5'6" maybe?
3. Christmas Tea and Concert: equal parts tedious and sweet.
4. Ditto The Nutcracker. Glad I went, but glad it's over and done with.
5. Tree is hacked, fully decked, and patiently awaiting the massive pile of pretty packages which will eventually be tossed under it. And hey--we got a spot in the local newspaper out of the deal! So that went well. No seriously. As we were walking out towards the fields to pick our tree, we were approached by a reporter and a photographer, and asked if we would mind if they followed us along for an article they were doing about the tree farm and the tradition of cutting down your own tree. They took all sorts of pictures, interviewed Elder Miss, and subversively coerced me into picking a tree in record time. All went well though--the article was sweet (a whole page no less), and the tree is regal and gorgeous (tallest we've ever had). Toss me a comment if you're interested, and if I like you I'll forward the link to the online article. It's all in Norwegian so you won't understand a word of it, but at least you can see the pretty picture.
6. Shopping and wrapping: eh, mostly done. We have too many presents. Really. It's just obscene.

Items still on the list:

1. Gingerbread house--which by unanimous accord has become a gingerbread train this year, is baked and constructed, and will be decorated this afternoon when EM gets home from school. It's going to be adorable. Stay tuned for pictures.
2. Jilly's birthday.
3. Finalizing the menus for Friday's party, Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, then grocery shopping for said menus. This is going to be a hugely unpleasant, not to mention pricey, operation and I'm not looking forward to it. But it must be done. So do it I will--probably Thursday, with the perishable bits to follow on Saturday.
4. Big party Friday night--decorating, cleaning, cooking, baking......yeah, should probably get on that.....

For the most part, all's well here. Hope all is well there, and there, and over there as well.
The busy-ness can't be helped. The crowds can't avoided. The expense can't be spared. It's all part of the season. And honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. It helps if you don't give a shit what your parents or your grumpy husband says, and you go ahead and have that second glass of wine anyway.

Christmas is Upon Us

Get it off!!!

This is it folks. From now through the new year we get busy. Very, very busy indeed.

I offer the following list as a warning/excuse as to why there may not be much action around here over the next few weeks.

1. Parental units scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning. Frantic cleaning of harth and home to commence...like, any minute now.
2. Long awaited appointment with the smarty-pants tummy ache specialists to discuss Missy's stunted growth and frankly-more-than-the-usual amount of bloated "button" * early Wednesday morning. (It will amount to nothing--she's genetically doomed to be short and stocky like her paternal grandmother, plus she whines a lot when she has to poop. I, in my infinite wisdom correctly diagnosed her ages and ages ago, but Mister refuses to believe any but a medical professional--so off to Haukeland we go).
3. Boy's Christmas Tea and Concert later that afternoon. Cakes and sandwiches to be made.  I don't know when. Tomorrow maybe?
4. Nutcracker with Boy's class Thursday.
5. Tea (if I can schedule it) with friendly neighbor lady Friday.
6. Annual hacking down of the Christmas tree Saturday.
7. Trim it, garnish it, plug it in Sunday.
8. Shopping
9. Wrapping
10. Baking
11. Decorate another fucking gingerbread house so the kids will finally just shut the fuck up about it!
12. There will be parties and jule nonsense with Elder Miss's class next week, but I don't know what and/or when because nobody sees fit to tell me, The SCARY Foreigner, anything.
13. No doubt more shopping
14. More wrapping
15. Jilly Baby's birthday on the 21st--I think I've secured the honors of taking her out and getting her loaded because Mr. Jilly is a grumpy birthday hum-bugger.
16. Big ol' blowout of a Christmas party at my house on the 22nd (La Dragon, you are so invited if you could just get your skinny ass over here). Kids, presents, glogg, carols, cavorting, and general merriment to ensue 'round about 5-ish. It'll kill me dead, but I'm looking forward to it, nonetheless. No seriously...I am!

Is that it? Could there possibly be more?

There is. There will be.

I will try to check-in. Give you something new to look at. I know there are many of you Stateside who will be wondering how Christmas is playing out over here. I might even get a post or two out of The Alpha Grandma, with pictures and sound bytes.  You never know.

But what I'm saying is--don't hold your breath or anything. I'll get to 'ya, when I get to 'ya.

In the meantime, Happy Holidays to the lot of you! Shop in peace. Play nice in the parking lots! And for God's sake, open another bottle of wine! It's Christmas! Enjoy yourselves.

* "Button hurts, button hurts Mommy." This is what Missy says to me when her stomach hurts. I hear it often. A little too often, which is why I'm having her checked out. Mostly they'll be looking for food allergies. I took her in 2 weeks ago for blood and stool sample tests--looking for, among other things, levels of growth hormones--I will get the results of those tests at the appointment on Wednesday. But like I said--much ado about nothing.

Extended Family

Boy's preschool class has been delving into the subject of "Families" this week. His teacher asked him if he could tell her any of his family members. He thought long and hard about this before he replied, "There's Mommy, Daddy, Eefin, and me."

"Ethan?" asked his teacher, a little confused, since she knows our family well but has never heard of an Ethan before.

"No. Eefin. He's my favorite cousin. But he only lives with Grandma in America."

"Okay. Do you have any other family members? Someone else you live with?"

"No."

"Are you sure? A couple of sister's perhaps?"

After another long, thoughtful pause he answered, "Actually there's Missy, but she can't stay when Eefin comes to visit. Eefin doesn't like her."

"But who else is in your family? Don't you have an older sister?"

"No."

"Boy, I know your family and I know you have an older sister. What's her name?"

He gave her a level look and said, "It's just Eefin, and me."

It's true he does have a cousin named Ethan. But God's honest truth folks, he's never met him. He spent the entire summer looking at pictures of him on Grandma's walls. He asked every single day why he couldn't play with Eefin. He never fully understood the fact that Eefin lives far away in another city, and therefore couldn't drop by for a visit.

When I took Boy into school this morning, I noticed the hallway outside his classroom was covered with the students' drawings of their various family members, but under Boy's name there was only a list, written by his teacher, of the kin she could get him to admit to: Ethan (and in paranthesis next to it-- LIVES WITH GRANDMA GAY), Mom, Dad (then in paranthesis at the bottom-- 2 sisters).

I asked him why he hadn't done a drawing. He rolled his eyes at me and said, "M-o-o-o-mmmmm! I don't do people! Don't you remember? I can't!"

So, I spent part of this evening sweet talking him into trying to draw his family. The picture above is the result of my efforts.

Here is, I kid you not, word for word, his description of what he'd drawn, told in excited bursts as he carefully drew out each part:

"This is Eefin. He has two eyes. He's sad because he lost his teddy. Eefin has short hair because he's a boy. This is me. I'm happy because I found Eefin's teddy. IT WAS IN THE BED! I only have one arm because I'm very old, and I'm going to die soon. But Eefin will give me his teddy and I won't be scared."

An Abbreviated Cast Of Characters

It occurs to me that I spend an awful lot of time talking about Jilly Baby and The Vibrant Ms. Michelle and other sundry characters, but I've never really taken the time to introduce them.  So without further ado:

Anna Nancy La Dragon: La Dragon is a lovely girl. You'd like her. Everyone does. La Dragon is someone with whom I got drunk 7 or 12 dozen times while we were studying in Italy. She's Boy's Fairy Godmother--a title which she still struggles to completely understand. It's crystal clear to me though. What it means see, is that La Dragon is, in fact, Boy's true Godmother, but I'm not allowed to call her that because Mister has this daft notion that such titles must be reserved solely for blood family. A notion I somewhat 'get', but do not totally agree with. 

In my eyes, La Dragon is far and away the most worthy title holder. She sends him a Christmas ornament every year, and defends him unfalteringly whenever I write to say what a dip shit toddler he's being. Blood Family Member does neither of these things. Plus I never once saw Blood Family Member light a cigarette with one hand and slide the cork out of her third bottle of Chianti with the other in one seamless motion, so ya' know...it's not even a fair contest.

I don't talk much about La Dragon, but only because she lives half-way around the world, and is therefore unable to ever meet me at IKEA for cheap breakfast and power shopping. We miss La Dragon.

Jilly Baby:  Jilly, while being hilarious and generally just fun to hang with, tends a little bit toward the bossy/opinionated side. So much so, in fact, that she drives crazy princesses far, far away where we no longer have to listen to their whining and carrying on. This is actually a very good quality to have. She has two kids (Hamish 3 and Heather 6); a peculiar need to iron EVERYTHING textile; and very stong feelings against patterned tights (something we tend to butt heads on, as I kind of like them.)

The Vibrant Ms. Michelle: The most pertinent thing to say about Ms. M right now is that she's pregnant again. She's pregnant, and she's leaking pregnant hormones which are fucking with my mind and body in ways that I don't particularly appreciate--I'm talking zits, I'm talking nausea, I'm talking weirdly aching hips and back. I feel these things after a day with her, and I shouldn't. She's cursed. Depsite all this and the mood swings, Michelle is mostly cheerful and bright--one might even say...VIBRANT...and she's nice to have around because she speaks the local lingo like a fucking pro. To date, she has two kids (Sanne 2 and Mathias 6, Jamt the third is due early April); she's chronically late for everything; she always asks for tea or coffee but never drinks more than  half of it; and she's got a criminal record (which would be absolutely hysterical if it weren't partially my fault).

Apart from my children, these are the three people that occupy me most these days. I spend a lot of time writing e-mails to La Dragon. I spend a lot of time drinking coffee and bitching about crazy princesses with Michelle and Jilly. Three things I'd happily do more of if it weren't for my three children, whom I spend far too much time mothering. Oh yeah--and there's Mister, of course.  I spend some time making out with him, but we don't need to go into that here.  I'm rated R for strong language, but I haven't been cleared for light erotica yet. Maybe next year...

A Matter of Life, And One Of Death

Mister has been away on business for a few days. He came home early this evening while I was fixing dinner--snuck up behind me, scared the shit out of me, then buggered off upstairs to toss the kids around for a few minutes. They were thrilled to see him.

About 10 minutes later I called everyone down to dinner, and asked Elder Miss to set the table. As she was carefully laying out our colorful array of mismatched utensils, she was adamant that Daddy sit by Mommy tonight.

Odd, usually she insists that Daddy sit by her and only her.

Once all the glasses were filled with water and everyone's meat was cut, I sat down in my assigned seat next to Mister and started filling my own plate. Elder Miss looked over at us with an impish, greasy grin and asked, "Aren't you going to kiss?"

I looked at her. He looked at me. Her eyes danced between us, waiting.

Weird game, Miss. But I'll play.

I rolled my eyes, turned to Mister, and planted one on him.

Hsss-s-s-s-sssss. Snicker. Snicker. "You guys are in lu-uvvvvv!" she sang. Then more hissing.

Both Mister and I let it pass with out comment, and turned to Boy. We started playing the what-does-such-and-such-begin-with game (he's getting really good at it). After a few minutes of being ignored, Elder Miss couldn't stand it anymore. In a breathless, wide-eyed rush she cut in, "But know what? Today I heard a story about a mommy and a daddy--well they weren't a mommy and a daddy but they were a boy and a girl only they were grown ups--but they took all their clothes off and they KISSED! Without their clothes! And they were in love. And THEY KISSED! Totally.Naked."

"Who told you this story, EM?"

"My teacher--and after they kissed they hugged and then they had a BABY!  But...it was only an animal."

This last part was said in a deflated, disappointed tone. Like she had understood that someone had pussed out and deliberately fudged the punch line.

We didn't get into what she thought "hugged" might entail, or indeed, what any of the rest of it was supposed to mean, because suddenly Boy crowed triumphantly from the other end of the table, "Kiss starts with a k-k-k-Kicking King!!!" and the moment passed.


Also of interest today:

Elder Miss and Boy spent some time alone in her room this afternoon. I don't know what they were doing. I don't know what they were talking about. But at one point Boy came slumping out--head down, feet dragging, two fingers hooked limply in his mouth for that extra touch of pathos.

He climbed up into my lap (I had been sitting on the stairs folding clothes).  He tucked his head under my chin. I expected him to start whining to me about how EM was being mean and wouldn't let him play, and was, once again, trying to come up with a nice way of saying, "Oh for Christ's sake, Boy, grow a fucking backbone, would ya'!"

But instead he whispers, "EM told me that when I get really really old I have to die. How long 'til I'm old?"

He's been asking me this question for weeks now. How long 'til I'm old? How long 'til I'm old? He wants to be old enough to ride a skateboard, see. And he's seen a snowboard in the Toys R' Us Christmas catalogue. He understands intuitively that these are the toys of the "big" boys. He wants to be one so bad he can hardly stand it.

But today, for the first time, he seemed to sense (also intuitively) that age is as much about loss as it is about gain. Today, he was sad, not afraid, when he asked, "How long 'til I'm old?"

Caveat

The Boy's triumphal, uncut return to school yesterday was somewhat marred by--let's call her Nora--Fucking Nora, to be more precise.

Fucking Nora is a class assistant from whom I've been getting much insider information on the exact nature of the horridness that was about to ensue. Her older son had just had the same operation done a little over a month ago, so she was well within The Know.

When she saw Boy and me in the hallway she blinked twice, raised her eyebrows, and looked not even a little bit happy to see us. So I explained the situation, that upon further examination, the testicles were found to be present, if still rather high, in the scrotum so the surgery wouldn't be necessary after all.

Nora nodded sagely, wise in the ways of these cocky, know-it-all doctors, "Yes, we went through the same thing with my son. Then two years later when they still hadn't dropped any lower, they decided to do the surgery after all."

Fucking Nora!

Then I was reminded of a critical detail that I had not thought of before. The urologist at the hospital who actually put Boy on the waiting list back in February, examined him while he was standing up. She got a hold of both testicles and pulled them slowly, geeennnntly down into place. When she let them go, they bounced back up--one faster than the other. She told me then that the connective tissue attached to the left one was not long enough to allow it to drop down and stay in place which would necessitate surgery. But she thought probably the right side was fine.

The surgeon who examined Boy on Monday had him laying flat on a table. He did not attempt to pull the testicles all the way down into the sac, he only located them and assured me that they actually were in the scrotum even if it didn't look like it.

Whether or not any of this is relevant I do not know. Like I said, I didn't remember any part of it until yesterday morning. Probably I should call someone and ask. As I type it now and reread it, it's ringing all kinds of bells and whistles. I was an idiot not to have thought of it while I was standing there with the surgeon. But I didn't. And the moment passed.

I kind of like it here on the foothills of doubt, so I'm thinking I'll just let it slide for the time being. He'll be called in a year from now to be reexamined. It's not like he's going to be needing them between now and then anyway...

The Case of the Not-So Missing Nads

Or, M'Boy Has Balls!



I've been drafting this entry in my head for over a week now. Frittering away countless hours in silent composition, wasting gallons upon gallons of extra water in the shower, losing sleep, and over cooking the pasta--all in pursuit of the perfectly pitched narrative of what was sure to be The Boy's defining childhood trauma.

Alas, all for naught. What was to be the climax of my multi-chaptered tale of woe was summarily cancelled early this morning. My literary thunder all fizzled and stolen. The hapless object of pity and concern transmorgrified into a wee, red-headed Scottish lad barely three years old.

Allow me to explain--

Up until, apparently, 10 o'clock this morning, Boy's manly bits were missing--not the essential Bit, obviously, but the jewels, you know...Nowhere to be found. They were both present and accounted for at birth. But after that initial roll call, they evidently thought better of their assigned seats and retreated back into the murky depths from whence they came. The doctors at his 3, 6, and 12 month check-ups where all unable to find them despite extensive, concentrated, and (I think) unnecessarily rigorous groping.

At 13 months he was examined via ultrasound, which revealed one low in his abdomen, and the other one a bit higher, nearer his kidney. "Mostly normal," said the doctor, "But that one near the kidney may be questionable." (Questionable in the sense that it may not descend into the scrotum of its own accord. It may require surgical intervetion).

By the time he was 3 years old and they still hadn't made more than a handful of brief appearences during fevers and long baths and such, I started asking around. I cornered unsuspecting mothers in the super-market, asking "You have a boy, right? Tell me, have his bits descended? What do they look like? Do his balls swing low? Do they wobble to and fro?" I was genuinely surprised when the answer invariably turned out to be, "Well, um. Yeah, actually. They do."

So then, years pass.  Phone calls are made, appointments a met, referrals are followed through. Blah blah blah...late February of this year, I finally get him in to see a urologist at the hospital who confirms that certainly the left testicle is going to need to be surgically placed in the scrotum. Probably the right one is fine though. Don't call us. We'll call you. Then she literally washes her hands of the whole problem.

Finally, last Monday, I get a letter saying his surgery is scheduled a week from Tuesday.

Today--after much fretting, and fussing, and pawning off of extraneous offspring--I took the heretofore unmanned Boy in for his pre-op consultation. We waited for over an hour in a playroom stuffed to the gills with anxious parents, insecure children, and moldering toys of dubious sterility. Then, after a brief, albeit thorough, examination, the surgeon assured me that both testicles were very obviously already in the scrotum and surgery would be unnecessary. We were sent home forthwith.

Voilá! Instant manhood!

The upshot of the whole thing is this: Jilly Baby's Lad has, by bizarre coincidence, the exact same diagnosis, and must have been right behind Boy on the waiting list. Within maybe 30 minutes of us being sent home, the hospital was on the phone with Jilly saying there had been a cancellation, and would she like the spot? Of course she took it. And, unfortunately, his pre-op consultation (conducted late this afternoon) confirmed that the surgery would be necessary in his case. So now it's Jilly's wee lad who's fasting and resting up for the horrors that tomorrow has in store.

Of course, I'm relieved--both for myself and Boy--that we dodged the bullet on this one. I was not looking forward to any part of it. And of course I'm anxious and sympathetic for the situation that Jill has been thrust so unceremoniously into. I send out to them cyber blessings for a seamless proceedure and a smooth recovery.

But.....God dammit!!!!! It was my story first!!!!!!!!!

Oh, Mister, My Mister

Mister has been making noises lately about wanting to see my blog. Up until very recently he hasn't seemed to bother about it one way or the other. But clearly, something has piqued his interest, and now he wants to know just what it is exactly that I get up to here.

There have been questions:

"So, what? You just write stuff? And people, what? Read it and stuff?"

"Yeah. Basically."

"What do you write about?"

"Stuff."

 He audibly exhales through his nose. I graciously opt to throw him a bone, "The kids mostly."

"Me?" There is a wistful, breathy catch in his throat. I'm almost postitive he wants the answer to be yes.

But, "No."

"Oh."

"Welllll..." It seems I have one more bone in my cupboard, "There was the one time.  But you were being a dip shit about the rain pants.  Probably you wouldn't see the humor in it."

"Oh." Not the bone he was hoping for, apparently.

Time passes. Just when I think the subject has been forgotten, he says, "So how do I get to this blog of yours?"

"What do you mean?"

"What's it called?"

"You wouldn't get it."

He squints and purses his lips. He wants to be angry, but he also wants information. So I watch as he calms himself and steels his nerves against my stubborn pig-headedness. All the while he's hedging around with these pokey little questions, I'm silently debating with myself whether or not I really want him here. I've just about decided not.

"You call yourself JEDA, right?"

I'm genuinely impressed he's managed to pick up on that much, "Yes."

"What do you call the kids?"

I get distracted by this last question and I begin to think he might actually be interested in...I don't know...the tone? the voice? the identity? I've created for myself here. So I start telling him all about Elder Miss, and Boy, and how Little Miss is mostly just Missy. How I arrived at JEDA, and why I find it so liberating to write behind these anonymous monikers even though 98% of the people who read me know perfectly well who I am and what my kids answer to. And blah blah blah, maybe he really would get the joke in the title.

Then it dawns on me that all the while I've been chattering away at him, he's been pulling out, plugging in, and booting up his laptop. The clever bastard has been gleaning information for a Google search!

Jokes on him though. Ha! Google couldn't find me. Turns out JEDA is an outrageously common acronym in the business world (something about jobs-economic development and joint environmental analysis yada yada yada) as well as a fairly common word in several European languages. Seems I'm safely buried within the vast haystack of the ca. 32 700 other hits for JEDA. He gave up after just 20 minutes of searching.

Part of me kind of wishes he would keep tyring though. Make a more determined effort to hunt me down, and surprise me with a comment in the busy body gallery. If he reads carefully, he might even learn something new about me.  I'm not sure what.  But something. Tips for the perfect Christmas gift, maybe? Ipod Advice on how to be a better lover, perhaps? More breast action My unguarded and inner most thoughts regarding his manhood, even? Nice enough guy. Shame about the car though..... Oh for Chirst's sake!!! Not that manhood!!!! It's fine Pull your collective heads out of the gutter! Grab my shoes on the way out, will ya'? This is my husband, my partner, the father of my children probably we're talking about! He deserves a bit more respect than that!

Now everyone play nice, and make him feel at home. And talk me up a bit.  He's going to be mad after reading this.....

UN-dress Rehearsal

As you may or may not know, Elder Miss is fascinated by all things physiological. It started about a year ago this time with 6 billion questions about, "What would happen if we didn't have bones?" And it's progressed all the way to her most recent obsession, "What's it called when your intestines get blocked and you have pain and you have to go to the surgery place?"

She wants to be a doctor. She's asked several times, "What are all the schools I have to go to before I can be a doctor?" She's not even a little bit daunted when I tell her she'll be at least as old as I am before she'll be a fully documented MD.

Given all that enthusiasm, I must admit, I'm a little surprised that she hasn't gotten to the, "Where do babies come from?" bomb-shell yet.

Not to worry though. I've been practicing. What with The Vibrant Ms. M being knocked up and starting to show it, I figure EM can't be too far away from the realization that such a thing as a baby must have some point of origin. And I plan to be better prepared than Michelle who fed her poor deluded son some bullshit line about God and angels and true love, or whatever.....pfft!

So here's my speech:

"Well EM, inside the mommy's bodies there are tiny little eggs. And inside the daddy's bodies there are tiny little things called sperm. And when the daddy puts the sperm inside the mommy's body, the egg and the sperm join together to make a baby."

I suppose it's too much to hope that she will be content with that answer and not progress to the next logical question, "How?" Or worse, "Why?" Getting into the mechanics of genital engagement with a 6 year old seems somehow...gratuitous.  But I fear I may have to. So here's what I was thinking:

"Well EM, the egg lives in the mommy's vagina. And the sperm lives in the daddy's penis. And when the mommy and daddy love each other very much they can put these things together to make a baby. Now run along, dear. Mommy has to make dinner."

I realize that answer may be a little misleading, but keep in mind, the aim here is to get her to shut up and go back to the TV and Sponge Bob where she belongs. "These things" is both redundant and ambiguous. It will force her to go away, mull it over, and hopefully come to her own, wildly misguided conclusions. That's okay, right? I mean she's in the public school system. Surely the punks she socializes with will fill in all the gaps. That's what they're there for, right?

Actually, now that I think about it, after all this stressing and worrying over exactly the right tone and wording, she probably really will learn everything she needs to know about reproduction from her friend who grew up on the horse farm up the neighboring valley.

And I won't be able to use my carefully prepared speech on Boy either. He'll remain blissfully ignorant until 13 or so when his biology teacher will do my job for me. He'll come home jittery and pale, refusing to eat the milk and homemade cookies I've lovingly set out for him. And I, being the thoughtful, tuned-in mother that I am, will ask, "Honey, you look troubled, what's wrong?" In a frantic rush he'll confess to me the graphic horrors with which his teacher has filled his pure, modest little mind, and in the end he'll ask, "Is it true, Mom? Do I really have to...to t-t-t-touch them?" And I, in my gentlest, most reassuring of voices will answer, "Well dear, the breasts are optional, but I highly recommend it."

No. It will be Missy--ever fiesty, ever contrary--Little Miss who will confide to me over her Cheerios one morning, "So-and-so's big brother showed me his penis the other day. I didn't know what to do, so I slapped it twice and hocked a logie on it. What should I have done?"

That will be the day I swallow my unprepared, unrehearsed tongue and die.

The Price of Fun

Turns out, it was my idea.

Hey, let's go to my mother-in-law's cabin for a weekend, I said. Maybe even a long weekend, I added. What a lark that would be. What a gas!

Of course, when I made the suggestion the sun was shining, there was an over abundance of fresh air, and all the kids were off playing somewhere far far away so the noise they're capable of was not immediately apparent.

At times of such good will one simply does not do the math. One does not think it through.

It wasn't until last Wednesday when I started to calculate the amount of food (or more specifically--alcohol) that would be necessary to sustain three families for three days in the very back of beyond that the full horror of the situation began to manifest itself in my mind's eye.

Allow me to summarize my thought process: 6 adults, 7 children, 1 toilet. FUCK!

I admit it, I wasn't looking forward to it. The week before we were to leave, all the kids started getting sick and I thought--yey, must cancel! Then they all recovered, but the rain was terrible and I thought--phew, must cancel! Then it was Friday and I'll be God damned if it didn't clear up, and I thought--fucking snakes on a fucking plane, must start packing.

The stress and pandemonium involved with getting to that first ferry was, honestly, the worst part of the whole trip. Once that was over with, and Jilly Baby had got her damn ipod and had made it safely on the ferry as well, I started to relax. By the time we were on the mountain and I was watching the very same Jilly dragging her posh roller luggage over the soggy, muddy, half kilometer walk (which I bloody well DID tell her about) to the cabin, I was positively giddy with the hilarity of it all.

I got drunk Friday night. Was more hung-over than I've been in years all day Saturday. Michelle's pregnant hormones got the better of her Sunday, and a silent battle of egos was waged all day Monday as a result. Hard to say who won, but it doesn't matter because we kissed and made up today, and life is good again.

In between those low points we cooked, we hiked, we laughed, we made fun of our lazy ass men who did nothing but fish and swill beer. And a good time was had by all. I'd do it all again. Someday...later...next year...maybe...you know, if the kids aren't sick...and the weather cooperates...

At Least She Has Her Health

Elder Miss has been sick since early Sunday morning: moderate fever, seemingly debilatating headache, and "stingy" sore throat.

Naturally, I kept her home from school.

Yesterday, around 1 p.m., I shut her in her room for a little nap. I had my doubts as to whether she'd actually sleep, but at least the TV was off and she was out of my hair--hopefully long enough for a shower and a cup of tea. Alas, about an hour later, I heard some tell-tale thumping and rustling coming from the general direction of her room.  It would seem my all too brief interlude was coming to an end.

Sure enough, she soon opened her door, walked fully dressed into the living room (first time she'd been in street clothes since Saturday night), and announced, "Mom, I'm very sorry but I pee'd on the floor. I felt it, and couldn't even stop it. But I think I'm feeling better!"

And so she was.

Cough Into The Uncomfortable Silence

Here's a list of topics I've recently considered writing about, but ultimately rejected for one reason or another:

1. My son's growing fascination with his foreskin
2. The swanky, faux suede chair I've ordered in burnt sienna for the living room--delivery date: Thanksgiving-ish, because it's just that damn hard to make a decent chair these days
3. Bush's incompetence
4. Some steamy fan fiction involving a three-way between myself, Jon Stewart, and Stephen Colbert
5. A 4th child, because my friend Michelle is all fertile and shit
6. Nursing school
7. The identity of the anonymous commenter who insinuated that I might be actually a very nice mother (I blush.....)

Interesting and worthy topics all, but...meh.

I'd rather sink my teeth into something I'm sure my rapt readership really wants to hear. Plus also, some comments would be nice (insert cheeky emoticom here).

Toof

Elder Miss....or, Elder Miff, as she'd be calling herthelf at the moment....finally lost her second front tooth this afternoon. It quite literally just fell out of her head and onto the pavement.

She was full of questions tonight. I fear she may be cottoning on to the folly of the tooth fairy myth. Where does the tooth fairy come from? Why does she want our teeth? What does she do with all of them? Does she ever give them back? Is there only one fairy? Or does everyone have their own? Why do I have to be asleep before she comes? What if the tooth is too heavy? How does she get in? When does she sleep? Blah, blah, blah, blah.

Sleep, my darling. Just go to sleep and believe.

From The Sublime To The Absurd

*Heard recently in the car, on the way to school:

Mom?

Yes, Boy?

Do all little boys have hearts?

Yes, Boy. All boys have hearts.

But my heart hurts a little more than other boys' hearts, right?

It's possible you have to know The Boy personally, have first hand knowledge of what a tender-hearted, sissified, little lover he is to fully appreciate the beauty of that moment.


*And, from Elder Miss, budding fashionista, while watching the Glenn Close edition of 102 Dalmations for the first time:

I don't know why they're being so mean to her. Her cloths are GORgeous!

I blame Bratz. I really do.

Business As Usual

The trip home was one of those proverbial 'doozies' you're always hearing so much about. The whole luquid bomb thing really got under my skin. Wound me up tight like a coil, and the unwinding has been somewhat unpleasant. Three migraines in as many weeks. What's up with that? My shoulder seized up. Plus a sinus thing.

Eh, bitch bitch bitch.

Believe it or not, I didn't come here to bitch.

Just wanted to reopen shop. Let you all know I'm home, safe and sound.  And maybe brag a little on my new kitchen.  All done now, and all dreamy.  Though there were some scary, uncertain moments in the middle there...