Chad's Incompetence

On this, the eve of the day Missy will finally have her cast removed, I offer--for your edification and general amusement--a true and accurate account of events and dialogues which took place the sunny Friday morning just over three weeks ago that the frail, fractured leg was set.

The Scene: Mid-morning, 10ish. I'm in the car with Missy and my mother, driving home from the orthopod's office. We're late getting home because, although we had had an 8 a.m. appointment, a routine x-ray taken after the cast was set revealed a fold in the wrapping which, if left, would have devastated the skin under the cast. Thus Chad--the long, salt and pepper haired, goatie welding assistant who had done the first cast--had to be re-summoned to saw it off, and start all over again. Missy hates Chad.

It has been an emotionally draining morning. I need coffee--badly. Mom is driving.

Cell phone rings. It's Grandpa Dale calling from home.

JEDA Hello?

D. Hi! How is she?

JEDA She's fine...blah, blah, blah...(recount saga of Chad's incompetence*)...Traumatized, but fine.

D. Good, good. Listen. You need to call Mister as soon as you get home. He's been calling here every 15 minutes for the past two hours. He really needs to talk to you.

JEDA Oooookay. Is everything okay? Did he say what was so urgent?

D. No. Just said he needs to talk to you. Probably worried about Missy. Wondering how the appointment went. Something like that.

JEDA Sure, yeah, okay. We're on 13th now, so we'll be home in 10 or 15 minutes.

D. Great! Bye!
Curious, think I as I hang up the phone. What on earth could be wrong? Trouble with the kitchen? Trouble with the house in general? Did my cat die? Surely if it were anything more serious he would have told Dale what was up. Very strange indeed. I'm in the middle of briefing Mom on what Dale had said when the phone rings again.

It's my dad calling from his cell.

JEDA Hello?

Dad Hi! How is she?

JEDA Fine, fine...blah, blah, blah...(again recount saga of Chad's incompetence)...Traumatized, but fine.

Dad Good, good. Listen. You need to call Mister as soon as you get home. I'm at the park with EM and Boy right now, but apparently he's been calling the house. TJ just called me to tell me that he's called two or three times. Apparently it's pretty important.

JEDA Really? Shit! And he didn't say what was wrong?

Dad I only know what TJ told me.

JEDA Hmmm. Well. Okay. We're only like 5 minutes from home now, so I'll call as soon as we get there.

Dad Righty-o, then. Bye.

Curiouser and curiouser. I'm not exactly panicking, but I'm on the verge of genuine disquiet. I tell Mom to hurry it up a bit.

As soon as we walk through the door, I hand Missy over to Grandpa Dale to admire her gregarious pink cast with orange candy cane stripe, rush straight to the phone, and dial home.

Mister (answers on 1st ring) Hello?

JEDA Hi! What's up?

Mister Where are my rain pants?

JEDA ...I'm sorry, what?

Mister WHERE. ARE. MY. RAIN PANTS?

JEDA Rain pants? That's what this is about?

Mister YES! I've got three rain jackets right here in front of me, and not a single pair of rain pants to go with them. I'm supposed to be fishing this weekend. It's pouring rain out there. I'll be soaked. Where are they?

JEDA Ummmmmmm, I really don't know. Have you looked...

Mister (rudely interrupts) I've looked everywhere!

JEDA Missy's fine, by the way.

Mister What? Oh. Yeah. How'd that go?

JEDA Fine...blah, blah, blah...(once again recount the saga of Chad's incompetence, only this time investing the story with a bit more emotion and personal anguish. Because, you know, this is my life partner I'm talking to here, and it really was kind of traumatic to see our baby hurt that badly TWICE without being able to do anything about it, and...I don't know...I guess I was just looking for a bit of comfort, or something.)

Mister (has heard nothing I've just said) It's just so frustrating. I've been searching for over two hours. I was supposed to leave an hour ago. Now I'm going to miss the ferry. I guess I'll just have to be wet all weekend.

Boo-fucking-hoo

He bitched some more. I suggested more places he could look. He pouted, and insisted that there was no point because he'd already looked everywhere and they were nowhere to be found. I asked if he was suggesting that I was dumb enough to have thrown them out with the trash when I cleared out the closets for demolition.

No.

I wondered if he were trying to accuse me of deliberately hiding their where abouts from him.

No.

I pondered the possibility of the pants miraculously having gotten up and walked out of the house of their own accord.

No.

JEDA So they must be in the house somewhere.

Mister No. I've looked everywhere!

JEDA Cuz' ya' know...sometimes...you have a tendency to just sort of glance around without actually looking under things.

Mister I'VE LOOKED EVERYWHERE!!!

JEDA Fine

Mister Fine

Mutual hang-up

The next day I received the following SMS:

FOUND EXTRA RAIN PANTS AT CABIN. RAINING SO HARD AM WET ANYWAY. CAUGHT MANY FISH THOUGH. LOVE 'YA.


*I don't actually blame Chad for the bum first cast. I'm sure Chad is a perfectly kind Dead Head, and able orthopedic assistant. Clearly the fault lies entirely with the flirty nurse who was assisting the assistant. But Missy blames Chad. Plus I just like saying Chad's name. Thus we arrive at "Chad's incompetence".

Things That Make You Go "Hmmmm"

I've just discovered something interesting about MSN Spaces.

You can use all manner of obscenities in the body of your text. You can link to sites the contents of which would make even the roughest of Hell's Angels grumble with grudging approval. You can even post pictures of aroused genitalia in various acts of engagement.

But you can't say "Dip shit" in the title.

In Which The South Beach Diet Cookbook Lay Abandoned On The Kitchen Counter

One of the few advantages to living abroad is you get to play delusional mind games with your weight. Allow me to elaborate:

As you may or may not know, seeing your weight in kilos is a lot less painful than seeing it in pounds, thus making it easier to fool yourself into a false sense of security. Even if you fancy yourself one of the smarter expatriates (which I do) and you readily reckon that 1 kilo is roughly equal to 2 pounds (which it is), you can still fairly easily content yourself with the....oh....say.....70ish kilos you see on the scales, because 70 x 2 is only 140, and 140 after three kids ain't half bad. Right?

Right.

Only problem is see, that the actual conversion isn't quite so clean cut. If you want to get all technical about it, you'd have to multiply that 70 by 2.2046, and I'm here to tell you that the .2046 starts to add up.

Go ahead, do the math. I'll wait.

...........oh, alright, FINE!

You lazy bastards! It's 154.322.

70 kilos adds up to 154.3 pounds.

Not quite so good, eh? And even worse if that '70ish' you were fumbling around is actually closer to 75...ish.

See where I'm going with this?

I knew that I had put on some weight over the past year. I was uncomfortable and unhappy with that fact, but it was only 5 or 6 kilos--barely 10 pounds--easily discarded if I ever decided to really buckle down and work at it. Then I got home and stepped on my mother's scales.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

The diet started that very day. I went jogging. I skipped the potatoes at dinner. Had toast and grapefriut for breakfast the next morning. I was focused. Intent. Determined.

The next day I read the copy of The South Beach Diet my mother had kicking around and figured, "Three weeks no carbs? 10 to 20 pounds just like that? Doesn't sound so bad. I think I can manage that...."

That night at dinner I skipped both the potatoes and the breadsticks. Had ham and eggs for breakfast. Went jogging again. Focused. Intent. Determined.

I lost 5 pounds in the first 3 or 4 days.

Then there was pizza night. Followed shortly by taco night. Missy broke her leg. At one point, I really needed a beer for one reason or another. Things just lost focus, got decidedly blurry.

I remain quite faithful to the jogging. I went out and bought a pulse watch and have had a grand time tinkering around with that. Just last week I managed 5k in 35 minutes, which I realize isn't exactly competition ready, but it's a significant improvement over what I was capable of just over a month ago.

But, ya' know--Dr. Arthur Agatston and his South Beach Diet can go right ahead and kiss my carbified ass because life's just too damn short to go depriving yourself of pizza night!

57%

Good Morning America did a piece yesterday on America's attitudes toward breastfeeding. I've been fuming about it all day.  According to their poll, 57% of the American public don't believe women should have the right to breastfeed in public.

57%

And please pay particular attention to the wording of that statistic. It's not 57% don't like to see women breastfeeding in public. Or even, 57% believe women should be discrete when breastfeeding in public. No, no, no.  It says 57% believe women should not have the right to breastfeed in public.

I knew that many Americans were a bit puritanical and old fashioned on this issue, but 57%?  I had no idea!  And that they feel so strongly about it as to start restricting my rights?  Jay-sus!

They interviewed one woman on the street who said that breastfeeding was disgusting and immoral.

Immoral?  Immoral?

So, to sum up:

War in Iraq? For the greater good.

Gas guzzling SUV's? Hey, safety first....

Walmart's questionable business practices? Whatever, dude. Shit's cheap.

Universal healthcare? Fuck you, Socialist, Commie bastards! Not on my watch!

Breastfeeding? Immoral.

Obviously.

I think it might be time for me to go back to Norway now.

Proximal Tibial Fracture

It sounds like it ought to be the beginnings of some grand metaphor, doesn't it? Proximal Tibial Fracture. It could be a sad saga of regret and woe that ends with the legs (if you will) being knocked out from under a once loving relationship. Or maybe a cautionary tale of a toxic crack in the foundation of an already rocky friendship. Or, more boring, but perhaps more apropos of my actual life and leisure, a sudden derailment in the current kitchen remodel.

Happily for you, the story I have to tell today is strictly literal, so you need not suffer any further strained and pitiful attempts at literary gravitas. It's a medical thing, see. The diagnosis is my little Missy's.

It happened Sunday night. She was *cringe* jumping on a trampoline **gasp** with her *cower* brother and sister **shake head disapprovingly**. Although there were four arguably responsible adults on hand, including *bite lower lip* myself, we were all *cover face in abject humiliation* sitting on the patio--just out of sight--drinking a glass of wine **exhale, mutter "My God, what kind of mother are you?"** toasting the long awaited, official engagement of my little brother and his blushing bride-to-be **ahhhh**.

I can only assume (because I didn't actually see it, and neither Elder Miss nor Boy have been very forth coming with an accounting of their actions) that what happened was this: Missy either fell down or was purposely lying prostrate having the shit bounced out of her (as is her wont), and Elder Miss--jumping far too close, as usual--came down, both feet landing hard on Missy's shin and ankle.

I knew immediately that something was very wrong. Like most toddlers Missy has a wide repertoire of wails and howls, but I had never heard anything quite in this ear piercing, soul seering range before.

We all assumed it was her ankle that was the trouble since it was visibly bruised, scraped, and swollen by the time we fished her off the trampoline. My future sister-in-law, who is a nurse, did some poking and prodding. She moved Missy's foot this way and that, then confidently declared it a sprain. I very much wanted to believe this benign diagnosis, so we gave her some ibuprofen, put some ice on it, and commenced with the tut-tutting and shush-shushing. After an hour and 40 minutes of uninterrupted sobbing, I let the frantic mother in me take over and insisted that my dad drive us to the after hours clinic.

To their credit, no one there so much as raised an eyebrow when I explained that my 2 year old had been jumping on a trampoline with my 4 and 6 year olds, and somehow managed to hurt her foot. I was, and still am, completely mortified despite their discretion.

It wasn't until the doctor examined her whole leg that it became clear that the real problem was closer to her knee than her ankle. X-rays were taken. A diagnosis was made. Missy finally stopped crying (four hours later) when they put the splint on.

My poor dad was flabbergasted when I told him that her leg was actually broken. He had bought the tramp for the kids at the beginning of the summer, and I know he was feeling partially responsible.
The next morning, after a fairly horrible, sleepless night, Elder Miss gently petted Missy's Ace bandage and said, "I did this. And I'm very sorry." I, of course, made it clear that it was an accident and that it certainly wasn't her fault. That we, as the adults, should have been watching more closely and that we never should have allowed Missy to jump with the big kids. Elder Miss readily absorbed everything I said and hasn't mentioned it since, but it was still sweet to see her acknowledge her part in the drama that way.

Missy's current status is stable. She's more or less used to the splint now. She's clearly bored and frustrated at not being able to move around at will. But she doesn't fight it. And she's not in much pain anymore other than a few twinges now and then when it gets bumped or moved too quickly.

Life goes on

She'll get a cast put on early Firday morning. I'm told it will take 4 to 6 weeks to heal. I'm hoping against hope that the cast is off by the time we have to leave in August.

So you see, in the end it was a sad saga of regret and woe, as well as a cautionary tale, and of course, it's all very apropos of my life and leisure as having a gimpy baby means I don't have much of either. Still no workable metaphor in there, but it all makes for a pretty good story.

*actions to be preformed by me, the narrator*
**exclamations to be made by you, the reader**
***and, just in case any of you are as ignorant as me, and don't know what proximal means, I looked it up: situated near the point of origin or attachment, as of a limb or bone. So basically there's no displacement, just a tiny crack in the tibia just below her knee. The doctor explained that it's a small crack, but it's a big bone, so it hurts a lot***

Basic JEDA 101

Here's a little something that's been kicking around as a draft for quite a while now. The idea was not mine. I stole it outright from some nice lady's blog I stumbled upon late one dark, rainy night. If she, in turn, happens to stumble upon mine and be pissed at the thievery, chill already! I mean, it's kind of a compliment, right? And besides, chances are better than good you yourself stole the damn thing from someone else, who stole it from his cousin, who still it from her college roommate, who stole it from her dorky little brother, and so on and so forth back to the first blogger's first blog.

Anyway, it felt like a good exercise in introspection and self-discovery, so I thought I'd give it a try. Turned out to be a bit more onerous and taxing than I had bargained for. Glad to be done with it.

Enjoy. Hope you learn something new about me. Hope even more that you still think fondly of me when you're done.

1--I grew up in Salt Lake City, Utah.
2--I am annoyed by people who try to label me a mid-westerner because they don't know where Utah is.
3--I am not a Mormon. Don't believe any church registrar who tries to tell you otherwise. The baptism didn't take, a'ight? I shook that shit off. I'm free. FREE I tell you!
4--No, I doth not protest too much. I'm just sayin' is all...
5--I was a straight A student in high school.
6--In college....not so much.
7--I can't parallel park.
8--I have an androgenous name that I am not particularly fond of.
9--I'm not very pretty in pink, a fact for which I partially blame the name.
10--I read magazines from back to front.
11--I have a tendency to be overly negative
12--Overly sarcastic
13--And overly defensive.
14--But deep down inside I'm a dreamy romantic who wants nothing more than to see fairies dance by the light of a harvest moon.
15--Tacos and beer are my favorite dinner.
16--I like Joe better than Steve.
17--I envy anyone who doesn't understand the above reference.
18--I appear to be most drawn to the color green, though I wouldn't consciously call it my favorite color.
19--Sage is my favorite color of green.
20--I am a cat person.
21--I am not a people person.
22--I will never join the PTO.
23--I prefer my lattes, my bagels, and my cream cheese plain.
24--Once in college, an insufferable bitch told me that this made me a narrow-minded, unimaginative Republican.
25--The above accusation is patently untrue.
26--I tend to stay up way too late because I'm genuinely daunted by my inability to fall asleep easily.
27--I have never had as many friends as I do right now.
28--There are many, many things about me (facts 150 through 330, for example) my friends will never know.
29--Fact 331 regards the reason for my preference for Emma Woodhouse over Elizabeth Bennet.
30--I assume no one cares, so I won't be sharing that one either.
31--I believe in angels.
32--But I have shockingly little faith in God.
33--None whatsoever in religion.
34--I have a silly, school girl crush on Mark Wahlberg.
35--I'm a terrible speller.
36--I need to believe people who tell me this has nothing to do with intelligence.
37--I'm a sleep nazi--this means I'm snarky and judgemental about parents who don't let their children get the sleep they need.
38--Speaking of children, I love mine.
39--But I have very little patience for their neediness.
40--I'm a terrible housekeeper.
41--I do NOT do windows. Ever.
42--But I'm very good a stain removal.
43--Mine is a dry wit.
44--I want to see Macchu Picchu before I die.
45--My 7th grade locker combination was 7-13-9.
46--I like my handwriting though it is not particularly neat or pretty--just distinctive.
47--I'm not overly sentimental.
48--I know that my lack of sentimentality has, many times, hurt the feelings of those closest to me.
49--I feel bad about this, but I can't seem to help myself.
50--I'm extremely intolerant of stupidity--especially my own.
51--I prefer roses to daisies
52--Gold to silver
53--Folk to country.
54--Apparently, I'm a wee bit pretentious.
55--I let my children watch way too much TV.
56--I watched way too much TV myself as a child, so I'm confident they'll turn out okay anyway.
57--Mint is always a good idea......most especially Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.
58--I have never seriously contemplated suicide.
59--I have to have a pillow between my legs to sleep.
60--My favorite dreams are the ones where I discover something I thought I'd lost forever.
61--I like to psycho-analyze myself and I believe the above has something to do with my parent's divorce.
62--I'm pushing at a size 12 and it's killing me.
63--Though others pretend, I believe I actually do have it in me to write children's literature.
64--I lack the disciplin and confidence to actually try.
65--This blog is meant to be a step towards learning both.
66--I've never had a cavity.
67--I kill houseplants.
68--I crochet, quilt, and scrapbook-- but never very consistently, and none of it very well.
69--I love to crack the spine of a new book.
70--If I could relive my childhood I'd insist on ballet lessons and a second litter of kittens.
71--I loath chewing gum.
72--I avoid confrontation at all costs.
73--To this end, I have imaginary arguments in the shower with the people I'm mad at.
74--I hate zoos. 'Natural habitate' is just a fancy way to say cage, and cages are not nice.
75--I believe that vulgarity is an art that must be practiced to be perfected.
76--I have a simian line.
77--I spend far too much time online.
78--Nothing makes me happier than watching a toddler try to dance.
79--I am an expert at passive-aggressive warfare.
80--I've lived in Europe long enough that I no longer need ice in my drinks.
81--Other relics of my stay abroad: hairy pits
82--A fondness for bitter beer
83--And a somewhat relaxed attitude toward public nudity.
84--Objectively speaking, I'm 98% certain I have the cutest children on the planet. And by "cute" I mean attractive. Behaviorally, they rank barely above average.
85--In high school and college I was a closet smutty, historical fiction fan.
86--I haven't read a bodice ripper in nearly 10 years now. I kind of miss them.
87--I cheat on crosswords. But usually only to confirm the spelling of an answer I already know.
89--I've never had sex outside.
90--I'm genuinely okay with that.
91--People tend to think I'm smarter than I actually am.
92--I'm okay with that too.
93--The sego lily is Utah's state flower. Yesterday, I saw one for the first time. They're really quite lovely.
94--I have an over-active imagination that hears ghosts and sees spiders in many a shadey corner.
95--I like to eat raw potato.
96--I'm a terrible liar.
97--I think gradual self-tanning moisturizers are one of the greatest inventions of the modern age. Right up there with, you know, the internet and digital technology and shit.
98--I laugh when I'm nervous.
99--Dark chocolate, which I love, gives me a headache.
100--It took me well over a month to complete this list.
101--I find that rather pathetic.

EXTRA CREDIT

102--You forgot lazy, ugly, and disrespectful.
103--Shut up, bitch! Go fix me a turkey pot pie.
104--I pity anyone who doesn't understand the above reference.

Jinx

I wish to take a moment to address a minor miracle that has occurred in the past week since we arrived in SLC. But first, a little background for those few of my rapt audience who may not be aware of the full magnitude of the situation. Also, for the sake of posterity, lest I ever forget the horror.

The crux of the matter is this: The Boy has leaky pipes. Very, very leaky, often 5 pants a day, pipes that have been the bane of my existence for nigh on a year now.

On August 3rd of last year, just shy of his 3rd birthday, I embarked upon a cold-turkey potty training regimen that rocked his little world right to its tender core. He wasn't ready. However, I had little choice but to plow forward as he was set to start a pre-school program that required its students to be out of diapers. Deposits had been paid, school clothes had been bought, the time had come anyway--he was going to start school, goddammit!

The first two and a half months were the worst. He was sent home daily with 3 or 4 bags of soiled clothing. I had meeting after meeting with his teachers who eventually backed down from their threats of expulsion after I made it clear just how loudly and publicly I'd complain if they didn't shut the fuck up and just deal with it. Turns out I had excellent grounds for my hard-assedness as none of the literature or by-laws for the pre-school said anything anywhere about a zero tolerance policy towards accidents. Plus I had some inside information about ongoing behavioral and toileting troubles that several other students were having, and I was fully prepared to use it. Why they were singling out my barely 3 year old son's inability to stay dry as freakishly abnormal, I do not know. But it pissed me off, stressed me out, and (I blush to admit) embarrassed me every single day.

Sometime in October he stopped shitting his pants, and life became marginally more bearable. I don't know how or why, but one day he decided that poop was vile and belonged in the toilet. Thereafter, he started taking care of it on his own without any prompting or urging from me or his teachers. Not so the urine.

The number of bags coming home to me went from 3 or 4 soiled and wet ones, to 1 or 2 just wet ones, but this pattern went on unaltered for months on end. It wasn't until after Christmas that he'd manage the odd perfect day at school. But then he'd invariably piss through 6 pairs of pants the following day when he was home with me.

I cannot even begin to calculate the number of hours I've spent over the past 10 months dithering and worrying, justifying and speculating, arguing and rationalizing with Mister and friends the why's and wherefore's of his stubborn refusal to even try to stay dry. He clearly knew what needed to be done, because he was able to pull it off on the odd day or two. Back in January, there was even a near fortnight where he stayed dry, but then he had a bad day and it all went to hell all over again.
Whether it was physiological, psycological, or just plain laziness, none of it ever made any sense to me. And I had long since resigned myself to another 3 or 4 years of this bullshit.

Then--maybe 3 or 4 weeks ago, he started peeing standing up. I guess he had had enough of just watching the big boys at school pee this way, and he decided he had to have a go at it himself. I'd further speculate that his first attempt was successful, because folks, it made all the difference in the world.

Mind you, he still had his fair share of accidents. Mostly in the evenings when he was tired or busy playing with his sisters. But for the first time I saw signs of embarrassment and remorse at having wet himself or the floor. For the first time he seemed eager to get to the toilet on his own to try this new trick of his. For the first time in months, I had real hope.

And now for the miracle. Since we got here....not one.....not one single drop of pee anywhere but the toilet. No damp undies. No piles of wet clothes kicked furtively under the bed so I wouldn't find them and scold him. No puddles around the toilet because he couldn't get his pants down in time (this type of accident, by the way, I'm okay with, and fully expect to see again....I'm just sayin', it hasn't happened yet...)

As the title of this rather lengthy entry suggests, I realize I may be crowing a bit too soon on this one. After all, we have been here before. Hell, it hasn't even been a full week yet. But somehow, this feels like the real deal. I've even seen him get up from playing with his trucks saying, "I have to pee," and scurry off to the toilet. And today, he got off the trampoline because he had to pee. Two months ago he wouldn't even have bothered to acknowledge the sensation of a full bladder, let alone taken steps to relieve it.

It took 10 months, but by George, I think he's got it!

Summer Starts Now

There were moments of awfulness. Two moments each of kindness and cooperation. Many, many moments of exasperation. Finally, in the end, there was nothing left but exhaustion.

We did not meet the Duke of Notkickingseats, as I expected, but we did have the pleasure of flying with the Countess and the High Priestess of Coldcabincrew. So that was a special treat.

Fucking bitches--seriously--to look at them you'd think that a smile would interfer with the navigational equipment or something. I don't care how many times Missy pushed the attendent call button, a little levity would make everyone's trip a little easier. No?

Anyway, we're here. We're whole. We're still pooped, but we're already having a fine time.

I must say, though, that the weather has been a bit of a shocker. When we boarded the plane over yonder it was a brisk 50 degrees and wet. Today in SLC was toasty warm in the upper 80's--not exactly sweltering, I know, but quite a shock to the system if you're neither used to nor particularly fond of such heat.

The kids are a little wilted by the abrupt change. Boy is crabby and refuses to eat. Missy keeps pulling at the sweaty curls at the nape of her neck and whining, "Drrr-tee. Drrr-tee." While climbing into a blistering hot car after a quick trip to Walmart to stock up on flip-flops and tank tops, Elder Miss, always my serene little stoic, merely remarked, "Fwww--it's quite hot in America, isn't it Mom?"

Yes lovies, it's finally summer.

A Request

If, tomorrow, you should per chance find yourself traveling your nation's airways, and you happen upon a mother traveling alone with three small children, please, I beg of you, think only the kindest of thoughts.

You'll know her when you see her. She'll be the one with stringy unkempt hair, grimly clinched jaw, and khaki cargo pants stained at both knees with what must be apple juice. She's sure to have a dazed, hallowness about her eyes as if she's spent the night watching air crash documentaries; reckoning and re-reckoning her own limbs divided by the total number, mass, and area of offspring, and imagining the worst.

Her children will shuffle limply in a tight arc around her. Wilted with fatigue, yet jittery with the bustle of modern jet propulsion, they'll communicate in a series of low, churning grunts and whines that will manage to be indecipherable yet lyrically eloquant at the same time. Their mother will be doing her best to ignore them entirely. You should do the same.

Yes. If you should happen upon this poor, haggard woman and her strange, keening brood, please spare them your impatience, your exasperation, and your churlish discontent. Rather, smile benignly and let them pass. They mean you no harm.

And alas, weary traveller, if you've been forsaken by the beneficence of St. Christopher, and you find yourself seated in front of this little family----

Hey look buddy, they're going to kick the seats. She's 6. She's 2. He's 4. And I'm holding it together with silly puddy right now, so that's just the way it's gonna be. Now I suggest you turn your evil-eye towards terrorism because I have nothing more to say to your sorry ass. Good day, Sir!

Kill Me Now

I just finished what was left of the birthday cake.

I do not deserve to live.

Also, I have a headache. And I have to drag 3 children across an ocean and two continents on Thursday. Alone.

It's not to be bourne, I tell you. It's simply not to be bourne.....

Two Years Ago Today

Right at this very moment.....

I was in labor with Missy the Younger. Early stages of it, mind you. Mostly hot and nauseous and panicking as my body started to remember the pain of real contractions, but things were on their way to happening and I remember it being a bit of a tussle to get any of the midwives to pay me any heed when I told them, "Yes, I know I've laid utterly stalled in this curséd bed all day long, but I'm telling you I'm in labor now, goddammit, and when my body decides to go into labor it does not fuck around. I will be pushing now, thank you very much."

We had her party this afternoon. And a very merry party it was.

Chaos reigned supreme upstairs and the kids--all 13 of them--tore the place all to hell. The carpet in Elder Miss's room will never be the same thanks to a rather unfortunate gift of something called Window Crayons. Three rolls of toilet paper were ultimately sacrificed to the cause of fun. And puddles of punch have been sopped up from every nook and cranny imaginable.

Clearly there was a conspicuous lack of adult supervision, but happily there were no fatalities. Clever children.

Personally, I had a great time. And I'd like to say, without getting too sappy and sentimental, that I'm very grateful for the friends I have found this past year. They helped make what might have been a very dull, obiligatory event into a truly fun and joyful memory.

Lift Me

Living in a country with a state religion definitely has its advantages. Turns out you get actual bank holidays for such obscure biblical events as Ascension and Pentacost. Yesterday was Ascension Day.

Every year Mister and I have this absorbing debate as to whether it's the ascension of Christ or Mary we're celebrating. Every year we quickly conclude it must be Christ, as who but Dan Brown and his ilk really give a damn about Mary anyway. And every year Mister ends the conversation by asking, "Now was this before or after He went to Mexico?"

After, surely....?

Coming up on our annual weekend o' birthday parties, so it's going to be a busy one for us. Wish I could say I'm looking forward to it.

Everyone wish my lovely ladies a happy, happy birthday. Elder Miss wants Bratz Genie Magic lipstick, and Missy the Younger fervently wishes her diaper rash away. Now close your eyes and blow.......

Phase I

As any half-way decent carpenter worth his salt will tell you, the first part of any remodeling project is demolition. Actually no--I tell a lie. Surely a good carpenter would, at this point, clear his throat and gently remind me that before the demolition the site must be cleared. But we are not in the habit of employing good carpenters, are we? This is Mister and his father we're talking about, and these are fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants kinds of builders. Fuck protocal. Let's get the job DONE! We're talking about the man who carved a hole in the ceiling directly over the computer without bothering to move the thing or even cover it with a sheet, just because, well, the roof was on and by Christ he needed to get upstairs!. Whatever. It's really not the point. The point is, I got to do a little demolition yesterday. And it was fun.

While I was strickly forbidden from slamming any holes in the walls just yet, it was nonetheless very absorbing and empowering work. I even got to use my swank, girly tools with the pink handles that my mother sent me for my birthday. How cool am I?

Actually--ahem--not very. All I managed was to disassemble three cheapy, free-standing, IKEA-esque wardrobes that were standing in the way of the real work. And while Michelle has laid claim to the smaller of the three, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel I should point out that the bottom of the middle drawer is warped and dogdey from wet raingear having been stuffed in it at some point in its life, the doors are misaligned and slighty askew cuz' it's so damn cheap, and the rod was held in place by duct tape and electrical wire (I forget why). So there. Can't say I didn't warn you. Not my fault you only occasionally take the time to read me......

Rain has been forecast for the entire week, so it seems that I will be hostessing a birthday party in the midst of our demolition. We were hoping we'd get a nice day for Missy's birthday so we could have a picnic at the lake--roast some hotdogs and marshmallows, maybe a little scavanger hunt for the kids--such a nice idea once again foiled by shitty weather. Not to worry. The kids really don't give a damn about the mess, and the parents have been warned to disregard the worst of the clutter; simply step over the more trifling bits. It'll be fine. Fun maybe. And this new plan comes with the added advantage of extra hands to move the piano out of the construction zone.

Northern Lights

We're getting to the part in the Nordic program where the light is really starting to adversely affect my sleep. It's just after 6 a.m. and the bloody sun is way the hell up and all like "Hey look at me! Sunny day! Sunny day! Woo hoo!"

Sun or no sun (as is often the case) it's been full on daylight for hours and hours now. The birds start in around quarter to 4. And basically I'm tired enough to kill something right now. But no-oooooo, it's spring and everything's lovely and green, and a front porch full of bird corpses so early in the morning would probably disturb the children. 'Course, I could blame it on the cat.....

Elder Miss climbed in bed with me yesterday morning, put her arms around me, and said, "You're getting nice again," After a big kiss on the cheek, she added, "I love you when you're nice."
Pfft--so much for unconditional love!

Turns out I have to be nice to get the cuddles?!!! Goddam fickle chidren!

Historical Footnote

So I've been hemming and hawing over the past few days, wondering what to write about next.
In the meantime, I've been poking around other folks' spaces doing some reading, some mocking, some what-the-fucking.....as you do.

Now, I know I'm not the hippest, trendiest skirt in the closet. Two years ago this time I wouldn't have had a clue what a blog was or where to find one if asked. I became sort of vaguelly aware of their existence during the 2004 election cycle, but it was months and months before I realized a blog could be anything more than a political bashing ground. I entered the wider world of mommy and infertility blogs maybe 6 months ago by following links from the various discussion boards I hang out on.

Anyway, my general assumption has been that this whole blog thing is a relatively new phenomenon, and yet a lot of these blogs I've been visiting through MSN have archives that go back 3, 4, even 5 years! And now I realize it's all been said, and done, and covered about a thousand times before.
So, once again, I find myself in the position of unoriginal hack, plodding down the well trod path of younger, hipper hacks who had the good sense to jump on the bandwagon long before I ever knew it existed. This depresses me. I wanted to have something interesting and fresh to add to the discussion.

Before I go continue my sulk, I'd like to offer this little history lesson for...well, ahem, anyone who might be interested...coughJillycoughcough...

Norway never declared its independence from Denmark. Denmark lost its sovereignty over Norway as result of the Napoleonic wars. 17. Mai marks the day in 1814 that a constitution was signed establishing an independent union with Sweden. The union was later dissolved in 1905 when Norway finally achieved full independence.

Also, Elder Miss wants to know why mirrors have to copy us.

Spawn

Day four of The Great Spider Hatch 2006.

Tuesday morning (day one) I woke up to find the ceiling in the basement covered with hundreds of tiny baby spiders. Spiders, spiders, everywhere spiders.

It's okay. It's fine. It's happened before.

I gaped, slack-jawed at their prodigious numbers. I marvelled briefly at the evolutionary triumph of such large scale breeding. Then I vacuumed the little bastards up and went about my day with the itchy, heebie-jeebies crawling up my back.

Woke up Wednesday morning to the same sight. Again Thursday. And yet again today, albeit in significanly smaller numbers--hardly even a hundred to hoover this morning.

I must admit, it's beginning to feel a little like an arachno-conspiracy is unfolding in my basement. I'm having visions of digitally animated spider generals marshalling their infant troops for yet another doomed onslaught. "Once more into the breech dear spidies...."

Boy cries and whines when he sees one hanging in his path.

Missy nonchalantly pinches them between her fingers, holds them out for inspection, and says, "Ew, ick."

Then she goes looking for another one.

Immigration

So I went to the police station today to get my visa stamped in my new passport (something that should have been done two years ago when I actually got my new passport...but whatever...not really the point).

When we (Michelle and I) arrived, the queue stood at number 86. Ours was number 130. Clearly we were looking at a long wait. And wait we did. And we waited. And then we waited some more. All tolled we stood around probably 90 minutes, maybe more. When we finally got our turn at the window, we explained what we needed, the woman said, "Fine," shoved our pictures and passports in a little Ziploc, and said, "Come back Friday to pick them up."

Over and done with in all of 30 seconds.

The efficiency is rather astounding, no?

90 minutes of foreplay. 30 seconds of wham-bam-thank you Ma'am.

Inexplicable, inscrutable, absurd.

For those of you who know the chorus, sing it with me.....FUCKING SOCIALISTS!!!!

Though I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. As Mister oh so reasonably points out to me-- bureaucracy is bureaucracy all over the world. You can't beat it so why bitch about it. Which is his way of saying, "I tire of your story, now pass the Parmesan."

Random

Dull day. Sunny. Hot.

Lovely, but dull.

Drawings for the new kitchen have been tweaked to within an inch of perfection. Tomorrow I'm picking up Mister after I drop the kids off at school so we can order the tile. I've reserved the monkey jungle for EM's the birthday party. Called and requested a new code card for my internet bank to replace the one Missy turned into confetti. I've also managed to contact a human at the police station to see what I have to do to get a visa stamp in my new passport--turns out to be a surprisingly uncomplicated process and will be taken care of Wednesday.

Busy little bee, ain't I?

I leave you with this gem of a question from Elder Miss while I was tucking her in tonight: "Why is my voice white and your voice yellow?"

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggedy Jig

The children pined for me. The house is in ruins. I spent more than I should have. And I'm still vaguely queasy from the remains of a vodka hang-over.

By all accounts, a splendid weekend. Give or take a few travel delays and an afternoon of pissing rain.

In the ever appropriate words of Jane Austin....."Much was said. Much was ate. And all went well." I'm sure I'm guilty of over-using that quote, but I'm lazy you see, and it so perfectly sums up so many occasions. I simply can't be arsed (thank you Jill) to come up with anything more original.

So much for that brief interlude. Now it's back to work. The new kitchen is ordered, but not signed for. I'm only about a third through the process of packing up the old kitchen and living room. The tiles absolutely must be ordered early this week. Also must remember to reserve the monkey gym for Elder Miss's birthday party.

I'm sure there's more. But it makes my palms sweat to think about it too hard right now. So we'll concentrate on the above todo list first.

See Ya', Wouldn't Wanna Be 'Ya

Leaving for Newcastle this evening for a girlie weekend away with Michelle and Jilly. Looking forward to it. Mister has decided to stay home with the kids rather than run home to his sainted mother for the weekend. I'm feeling inexplicably smug and happy about this fact. It will mark the first time he's been fully alone with the three darlings for more than an evening.  Thus his first real glimpse into the endless stream of whining and triviality that is my life. I rather doubt the lesson will make much of an impression on him--he's hopelessly dense to such nuance--but I have my fingers crossed for a tantrum or four, scrapped knees, lost lovies, and maybe a wee bout of diarrhea...all at once...just to give him a bit of a challenge.