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...

Summer Highlights

Grandma takes us to Disneyland.
We love Grandma!

Minnie agrees EM chose the best (e.g. most expensive) mouse ears available.
EM loves Minnie!

Boy collapses in utter exhaustion during dinner after a long day of rides, lines, and churros.
He rallies later, but only long enough to vomit into my hands during the electric light parade.
JEDA loves Boy anyway.

Daddy stays home to make our new kitchen.
We keep in touch with webcam dates.
We love Daddy!

Did I ever mention my genuine, palm-sweating phobia of birds?
That's my youngest child about to be eaten by one badass, mother-fucker of a goose.
Vindicated much? I think so.
No one loves birds!

EM gets all her lovely hair cut off, and manages to look just as adorable without it.
Boy agrees.

Missy gets her cast off in time to enjoy a few days of swimming before it's time to go home and see our new kitchen.
We love summer!

Totally Bitchin' Rad

I spent some time last week digging through a box of my old school stuff, and came across my Jr. High School yearbooks.

What a gas! What a lark!

I suppose it's possible that I'm the only one who'll be amused by any of this, but I'm going to share a few highlights from the signature pages anyway--14 year olds are ever so witty and eloquent, how could I not pass on a few of these gems to you?

"So sad it was so rad....."

"Have a gnarly summer. Don't get frost bite (haha)......"

"Hopefully your summer is long and useful, like toilet paper."

"Let's do stuff this summa' K?"  She used summa' twice in the same message.  In my head, I hear Timmy from South Park.

There were many, many references to Crisco and sexual fantasies the significance of which I have totally forgotten.

"Your sexual fantasies were awesome!"

"Hey Crisco, tell me some more stories, your so sexy!"

 I swear to God, no idea. But I shudder to think what filth I might have been filling their minds with.

"Too bad I hated you through so much of elementary school."

It's fine. Turns out, she had good reason to hate me.

Loved this one: "You are so cute you make me sick!"
But it was slightly tempered by this on the very next page: "Stay sophistcated (haha)"

This one was lovely, from a very sweet person I wish I had spent more time with: "I hope you reach your intellectual high this summer."
But then some jackass wrote this right underneath it: "You have no scruff and I hate you." Actually, Andy, who I'm sure is a 1st counselor in the sainted Church by now, wrote vile, nasty things to me all three years. Betcha' he totally liked me.

The picture galleries were a veritable orgie of mullets (of both the male and female varieties) and 3" mall-rat bangs, but those were the days, damn it!

In the 7th grade book, I came across a picture of John Stockton looking all of about 16 years old.  I still remember the assembly he hosted. People were all a-buzz that day because we knew a Jazz player was coming to the school and everyone hoped it would be someone big like Mark Eaton or maybe even Frank Layden. Then we got there, and it turned out to be this tiny little rookie, there to talk to us about setting goals and reaching our full potential. What.Ever wee white boy.  He was nothing but heckled and ridiculed.  Who knew, eh?

For the three years, 1986-1988, I counted a total of 46 "Stay cute and cool"s or "Cool and cute"s, plus this slightly more painful version "You are like really chicky and cool! Like stay a chick! Ok?"
I'm happy to report I'm still way chicky and really cool, so like, mission totally accomplished!