...where I have root and the fare is liberally seasoned with pith and vinegar.
| The Digital Hausfrau ...where I have root and the fare is liberally seasoned with pith and vinegar. |
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Did you know that the rate of twins increases significantly in women who become pregnant over the age of 40? It turns out that, after a certain point, women are much more likely to release more than one egg per cycle. Also, did you know that, if you don't take your birth control pills every single day, you just might wind up pregnant? Common sense, no?
I didn't used to know all of that, but I do now.
It all started Wednesday night. Jonah threw up. No, wait. I don't think that gives you a nearly clear enough understanding of what happened. I was here, at my computer desk and, from my bedroom, I heard something like this:
cough, cough, SPLASH! cough, cough, SPLASH!!!
And with that, he'd managed to befoul my bed and all of the bedding from the dust ruffle to the mattress pad. We stripped the bed and put on the backup linens. I don't know how he missed the bed at 3 am, but at least that round involved only mopping with towels.
So, of course, good mother and responsible community member that I am, I kept him home from school on Thursday. He went about his business while I washed load after load after load. But -- here's the kicker -- he was FINE.
As were we all...for about 36 hours.
Friday night, some time around midnight, Andrew woke me with the news that Emily wasn't feeling well. The only problem with that was that being awakened alerted me to the fact that I wasn't feeling all that well, either. I remained involuntarily prone -- sympathetic, mind you, but prone -- and listened to her throw up. Repeatedly. Until it was my turn. About 2:00, we went at it in tandem on opposite sides of the plumbing wall. Eventually she got into my bed, and there we remained, more asleep than not, until about 4:00 Saturday afternoon. For the record, I am so pathetic that I got on the scale in the midst of this, and I was pleased with what I saw. Next blog topic: rejecing Weight Watchers in favor of bulimia: brilliant or maybe not such a good idea?
Sometime Saturday while we slept, Andrew took Jonah -- who by then was completely healthy -- out for something to eat. But, by late afternoon, Andrew was down for the count. I was able to walk, talk, and eat oatmeal by then so, as the more fit parent, I took the handoff. The kids refused to eat, except for some juice and cookies which, as it turned out, was just as well.
Just, As. Well.
See, by then, Jonah had an obvious cold. He was coughing. And, if you're Jonah, coughing only means one thing: STAND BACK, IT'S GOING TO BLOW. And blow it did. All over the upstairs hall. More mopping, More towels. More laundry.
I got it together to teach Sunday School, but Emily stayed home. In the afternoon, Jonah, who was onviously ill by then, took a nap. Emily, who was feeling better, came out to sell girl scout bookies (anyone need any? let me know!) and come with me to the grocery store. But it was clear she was fading. By the time we got home, she curled up on a couch. By 5:00, she was asleep. By 8:00, she was crying because she felt like she needed to throw up again.
At 3:00, an hour ago, she woke me to tell me that she finally had, in fact, thrown up again.
This time, being awakened alerted me to the fact that, while my stomach felt just fine, there was a giant pool of fluid behind my face, and that it fucking HURTS -- yeah, yeah, it's killing you, whatever.
It's snowing here today. There's going to be some kind of weather-related school excitement this morning, I'm sure. It won't affect my kids, who are surely staying home with me. The only question now is whether Andrew gets an extra 90 minutes of sleep before he escapes, or is trapped like a rat in here with the rest of us.
Last night, I was invited to not one, but two holiday parties. It was perfect. One started at 6:00 and the other at 8:00. Andrew had planned to be in New York, so I hired a sitter, and planned on going alone. I taught a cooking class yesterday, came home, got Jonah from the first of the day's babysitters, and took him to the grocery store. He did seem a little snotty, and he did fall asleep in the car on the way home, but I figured he was more or less fine and left my plans intact.
I laid my very favorite holiday outfit on the bed. True confession: it's kind of slutty-looking, but in a classy way. It's a cranberry-colored nylon knit top with embossed flowers in the fabric on top of a rich green stretch velour miniskirt. The whole thing is rounded out with fishnets (although I couldn't decide last night to go with fishnets or other hose, this being New England and all...everyone else was probably going to be wearing black pants and twin sets with pearls, tasteful gold hoops, and holiday brooches) and a pair of black boots. Simple jewelry because, you know, even a Holiday Whore doesn't want to overdo the accessories, and a little silver pocketbook that Pam gave me one year for Chanukah. Silvery eye shadow and bright red lips.
At 4:45, Jonah and I left to get the sitter. Now, it is true that he had started coughing at this point, and was proclaiming "I'm SICK!" every few seconds, but he's been saying that for a week, and it had nothing to do with his physical well-being, just with some general sense of dissatisfaction. He also says "I'm STUCK!," because, apparently, he relates to Winnie the Pooh, stuck in a honey tree or honey pot or something, so I didn't put too much stock in it.
This was a mistake.
We got the sitter and headed to McDonald's with me explaining the whole time that Jonah has a cold but he's not, you know, sick-sick. And then, sometime between the ordering part and the paying for the food part, we heard one big cough and a giant splat. And another.
And I said, "Well, I guess that's the end of this evening," and we came home.
I cleaned the car. And the car seat. And the child. I did laundry. Jonah and I watched 50 First Dates, which I rather enjoyed. We had a fire. We went to bed together.
Around 1:00 in the morning, after the next round of puke, we took a bath together.
Today, I'll be doing more laundry. The pajamas. The blankets. The sheets. Even the mattress pad.
That new industrial-sized washer and dryer that my mom and Donald very kindly sent us for Chanukah is about to see its first test. Boy, oh boy.
Oh, and did I mention that the dog ate 9.7 ounces of Scharffen Berger bittersweet chocolate yesterday afternoon, and that he was also puking last night? I heard him roaming around downstairs while Jonah and I were dealing with the 1:00 am mess? I'm kind of afraid to go down there right now.
A successful Halloween for everyone around here...we had some kids and parents over for pizza dinner, then everyone headed out for trick or treating. Jonah couldn't keep up with the big kids, so he and Andrew trick or treated alone. I stayed home and handed out candy, but I didn't go through much. It was a pretty dead year. Dead year! Get it? I'll be here all week. Enjoy the buffet.
I'm worn out. But in a good way. We all are.
My dad and his wife have been here for the past week and I figured it would be more fun for everyone if we tried that whole "vacation at home" thing that the parenting magazines are always going on about than it would be if we spent seven days hanging around the house looking at each other. Almost every day included one major fun activity.
Arrival night was a barbecue to send Andrew off to camp...fresh corn and tomatoes, a cake made by request, and a late bedtime for everyone.
On Saturday, we started with a trip to my favorite breakfast place, a walk along the river, and a visit to the library. Later in the day, the lake club that we joined this summer had its 50th anniversary celebration. We took my folks and Bob and Karen and their kids, piled in the car, and headed over. It was a terrific event, well planned and executed, and everyone had a great time. We spent the day with some other friends, and the kids saw a magic show and danced to a band and got their faces painted. After dinner were fireworks -- Jonah's first. It was so incredible to watch him sitting on the beach, his little face turned up and lit with colors, as he clapped and yelled "MORE!" We had taken Mary's car with us in case he needed to leave early, but the little guy held up until 10 pm without a moment's trouble. It's pretty amazing what the kids can sustain when they're having fun.
A day off the next day, more or less. Some ice cream, I think. We were beat.
Errands with Dad and Jonah on Monday. Dropping off stuff for chairty, picking up some groceries. It was a big day for Emily and her grandmother, though...the mall! New toys and books for everyone!
Tuesday night, Emily, my dad and I went with a souple of friends to a game at the local minor league baseball park. It was the first time I'd been, and I thought it was hilarious -- very Bull Durham -- until about the 4th inning. There were mascots signing autographs, little league teams racing on the field in between innings, goofy games and prizes. At one point, during a conference on the pitcher's mound, I turned to my friend and said, "Know what they're talking about? Candlesticks. They always make a good wedding present." But he looked at me kind of blankly. Then I'd had enough baseball for the decade, but there I was, listening to the young sailor in uniform sitting in front of me urge on his team and thinking about the war in Iraq, until the home team pulled it out in the bottom of the 10th. My dad loved it, though. It was his first game in years, and the first since cataract surgery last year. We sat in the third row behind the dugout, and he could see every ball and strike clearly.
The cleaning lady comes on Wednesdays, so it was necessary to clear everyone out. Time for a little road trip! The Eric Carle Museum is not too far away, and is always a good destination with the kids. It's got plenty to see, and a little craft studio, library, and film theater in addition to the galleries, so no one gets bored. I'm pretty sure that Jonah's favorite part was the gift shop. He ran in there while we were paying our admission, and spent the rest of our time there begging to return and play with the stuffed pigs. Lucky for him, he had his grandparents with him , and got to take one home. He's been dragging it through the house ever since. Truth be told, however, the whole museum trip was a ruse. The point of the excursion was to get me to the store on the corner for a homemade donut. If you ever find yourself out that way, don't miss it. It's better than the museum.
And, finally, yesterday. Inspired by our friends Cori and Josh, we made our first-ever trip to the local water park. It was a long, hot day for all of us, but the best time of the week. Emily found her courage and, by the end of the day, was ripping down four-story water slides and coming out of the pools yelping for more.
Now ask me, "Terry, where are the pictures?" And, unfortunately, I have to confess that there is not a single one. I don't know quite why I didn't manage to drop a camera in my bag or to snap a single shot. I think it was just that all of my energy was going into the planning, driving, and execution of the week. But I blew that one. Oh, well. Next year.
Wish us luck.
Tonight, Emily will host her first slumber party. We have three little girls coming to spend the night! The evening's theme is "Willy Wonka," and we'll be going out for pizza and taking them to the movies. Emily has had me make golden tickets and sent me on a quest (successfully completed) for Wonka branded candy for the goodie bags.
All in all, I'm optimistic about this adventure but, come midnight, you just never know...
In a similar vein, my grandma arrives tomorrow for five days.
You never know.
God, Emily would be furious if she knew I was going to post this. That's why she doesn't have the URL.
See, we've been having a problem with her lately. She's often fresh. Not spunky-fresh; rude-fresh. And, at only five feet tall, I have an iron-clad rule against taking any crap off of anyone shorter than I am, so it's turned into an ongiong conflict.
Yesterday, it happened again. But, this time, instead of getting mad, I took her to her room and sat with her on the bed, and had A Big Talk. You know, When you talk to me like that, it hurts my feelings, I try to do nice things for you, and I don't talk to you like that, blah, blah, blah. Clearly, she felt bad, because she started to cry and she apologized, which, around here, is pretty common lately. I could feel my eyes rolling, but I managed to stop them just as she began to speak.
Mommy, can I tell you something? It's bad. You're going to be mad. I'm going to get in trouble.
I'll try not to. You can tell me anything, blah, blah.
Go on.
Well, it's just that, sometimes, when I get mad at you, really mad, like if you say we can do something and then you say we can't, then, when I'm alone, sometimes...
She really starts bawling now. I'm waiting for her to tell me that she wishes I were dead. But no.
Sometimes, when you're not looking...I...I...I RAISE MY MIDDLE FINGER!
I managed not to burst out laughing, or to wet myself, at the image of Emily, behind her closed door, not really knowing what it means, but that it is, to her, the ultimate symbol of anger and disrespect, flipping me off. I figure it's pretty normal. We all get maddest at the people we're closest to. the ones we love the most and spend the most time with. If you're Emily; that's me. I talked about how it's ok to let anger out in private, but that she'd be in a whole heaping helping of trouble if she did that to my face, and we moved on to the next thing.
I forget what the next thing was. Dinner, probably.
Do you people know that I have a Masters degree? In fact, I have two. Thousands and thousands of dollars in tuition, room, and board live in my head. Keep that in mind as I tell you about the first hour and forty-three minutes of my day today.
I was awakened at 6:00 by a toddler in my bed, wanting to read his gorilla book. Again. Fortunately, he was willing to do it independently for a few minutes. Unfortunately, he left the bedroom door open after he entered, thus allowing the semi-continent diabetic dog to escape the confines of his den. As soon as Slick walked out of the bedroom and into the office, I sprung out of bed, hoping to catch him in time, to no avail.
By 6:41, I was sopping up a copious puddle of dog pee and preparing to do an extra load of wash today.
Around 7:20, Andrew went upstairs to change socks (he'd put on white ones in a sleepy haze, and they didn't really work with his khakis and polo shirt for work). He found Jonah, stark naked and rather proud of himself. I did it! I took off my diaper! He was cute and he was happy, and I was busy getting Emily ready for the bus, and I left him alone. Big mistake. Huge.
By 7:35, he was at the top of the stairs, standing rather oddly and crying. I made a poop! I came hurrying up to investigate and found the poor guy smeared from hip to toe in his own shit, and rather disturbed by the whole thing. I got him into the bathroom, hoping to get him onto the toilet to finish, but he would have none of that, so I chose to assume that he was, in fact, done. He objected to a bath rather hysterically, but I was confident that this was one of those childhood moments in which Mama did, in fact, know what was best for him, and dumped him in the water rather unceremoniously as Emily finsihed getting herself out the door.
At 7:43, as Jonah soaked happily, I stepped into the office to drop Andrew a quick email to let him know he'd missed all the fun. And there it was. On the floor in front of the kids' desk. The rest of the poop. A big pile of it. More cleaning. More wiping. More gagging.
Like I said, not one Masters degree, but two.
Slick continues to be unwell, and to express his unwell-ness by peeing in the house. On the bright side, I was eating my guts out all day yesterday, sure that the whole insulin treatment was going to cost nearly $200/month (!!), but then it turned out that I'd calculated wrong by a factor of 10 because I am not a math whiz, so that's a little better. But the peeing in the house thing sucks, and we can't even put down newspaper for him or anything, because he can't fucking see it.
In brighter news, Mother's Day was GREAT. I stayed upstairs, blogging, but I could hear Andrew and Emily banging around and doing stuff. The best part was Andrew on the phone with my mom. Later, she told me that he was asking where to find the pancake griddle. He's reading the instructions on the package of mix while he's on the phone with her: Oh! Just add water! I guess I need a bowl, right?
Upon being called, I came down the stairs and was asked to enter the kitchen through the dining room. The doorway between them was festooned with metallic streamers and a store-bought "Welcome to the Tiki Lounge" sign. The kitchen was decorated in a tropical theme, with gift wrap substituting for a table cloth, tiki guy-shaped coasters, a blow-up palm tree on the garbage can, and a festive sun, a school of fish, a mai-tai, and the aforementioned parrot hanging from the ceiling. There were leis for everyone to wear and sunglasses as well (photo by Emily). Even Jonah seemed pleased with the transformation.
Andrew did the cooking (!!) with only a teeny bit of help from me (flipping pancakes while turning scrambled eggs into gravel was more than he could do at once). We ate happily, and then Andrew did the dishes (!!!!).
I'm pretty sure that Emily's favorite part of the day was the strawberries. Having no interest in produce, and no frame of reference for the expected price of things at the grocery store, Andrew, who knows that I love fruit, bought the biggest, most beautiful strawberries he saw. You know...the GIANT ones with long stems that cost about $3 each. We had some left over so, when I went out that afternoon (Karen and I decided to spend our Mother's Day together on a field trip to Trader Joe's, an hour away), I bought some chocolate. I came home, melted it, and put Emily to work. She did very well, and did it on her own. I fear that, from this point on, all strawberries, which used to require confectioner's sugar, are now going to require Valhrona chocolate.
That's my girl.
I don't quite know what's going on downstairs, but I do know that Andrew and Emily came home yesterday afternoon with bags of groceries and a couple of bags from iparty, and I have been instructed not to come down until summoned. I'm not even allowed to go down and make coffee, which I find fairly inhumane, but I suppose I'll get over it.
Emily is so filled with excitement that she first woke Andrew at 6:03 to get started, because "Mommy's usually up by 7:00!" This is true but, given that the dog had to pee at 3:00 and that Jonah was awake between 4:00 and 5:30, trying to convince us to play while we tried to convince him to shut the fuck up and go back to sleep, Andrew felt that we could all wait a bit to get started. Apparently, by about 7:20, she could wait no longer.
A host of interesting noises are floating up the stairs, and the snippet of dialogue I heard included the words "Ok, now the parrot."
I had a big Mother's Day Epiphany yesterday in the car. (Does everyone else get their best epiphanies in the car, in the shower, or on the pot?) Remember when I had the pneumonia? I was thinking about that as I was driving Slick home from yet another visit to the vet. I was thinking about dealing with Slick's new issue (details to follow), and Jonah's issues, and Emily's never-ending drama, and the dishes, and the laundry, and the girl scouts, and everything else, and then I was thinking about having pneumonia, and about my mom, and about mother's day. I was thinking that, for mother's day, we sent my mom flowers, but really I wanted to tell her this:
That week that I had penumonia was some of the best mothering I've ever gotten. I was so sick, as sick as I've been since I had mono, way back when. And my mom dropped everything, came up here, and assumed my responsibilities for a week. I felt like crap, but my family's life ran like a clock, and it was a great treat to have someone wiping my nose for a change. Thanks, Mom.
If someone knows where I can get me just a teensy weensy dose of that pneumonia virus again this fall, just let me know. I could use the break.
Emily just came up here asking where in the house they could find some string. Now I hear karate-type noises. Or maybe it's parrot squawking.
In other mothering news, Slick has been peeing in the house. A lot. Like 8 times in the past week. And, let me tell you, of all the jobs I handle, dog-urine-cleaner-upper is one of my least favorite. But it got to the point where something was obviously wrong, so I called the vet yesterday morning, and they got me an appointment for the afternoon. I said thanks and hung up, and my phone rang right back.
You hung up too quickly for me to tell you to bring a urine sample.
I laughed out loud and asked how on earth I was to accomplish that particular feat of daring. The receptionist suggested that I wait to take Slick out until right before it was time for the vet and that, when he squatted (he's way past lifting his leg), I stick something under him to catch the urine. So, a couple of hours later, that's just where I was, kneeling on the lawn, fucking around under my dog's johnson, catching canine urine in a ball jar normally reserved for my precious strawberry jam.
We go to the vet, me, Slick, Jonah, Jonah's stroller (i.e., child containment system), and a big bag full of apple juice (note to self: do not confuse with dog pee) and graham crackers. I hand in the urine, and we wait. Finally, the vet comes in the room, and he starts talking.
Well, things sure have changed since Slick's last blood work.
And that's when I realize that he's saying something other than "urinary tract infection." I stop him.
Let me tell you one more thing that I bet is relevant to what you're about to say. When he pees in the house, if he pees on a hard surface and I don't get to it in time and it dries overnight, in the morning, it's sticky.
He looks up from his file and smiles, and praises me for catching that. (Good dog, Terry!) He then goes on to tell me that...hold on to your hats...this is a good one...my blind, hypothyroidic dog is now also an insulin dependent diabetic. Apparently, his blood glucose level was supposed to be between 60 and 120, and his was over 450, just about past where the meter could read. Oh, and he also has a bladder infection.
Thank you for your time and help, and those very expensive canine antibiotics, and the super-special-must-contain-solid-golld dog food, Dr. Vet. Here's $320.
Thank you for the insulin and needles to shoot the dog up for the next week, Ms. Pharmacist. Here's $32.
I'm looking forward to returning next week and the week after so you can board my dog for the whole day and check his blood glucose levels every two hours with the current insulin dosage to determine if it needs adjusting, Dr. Vet. Here's the deed to my house.
Slick seems pretty unaware of all of this, although he has seemed really unwell for a while now. We're hopeful that getting the diabetes under control will really help him feel better.
Poor puppy.
Now bring on my goddamn eggs!
Hey, Terry, whatcha doin'?
Funny you should ask. Why, I'm just hanging around the house, waiting for Triple-A.
The Automobile Club? What for?
Well, it's like this. Andrew walked out the door to go to work, pleased that he was running a few minutes early this morning, because he had to stop and get some donuts for some meeting. Only, a minute or two later, he came clomping up the basement stairs, all flustered and asking for the keys to my car.
Turns out that yesterday, when we were all hanging out in the driveway (me labeling all of my scouts' nifty new camping equipment with our troop number; he cleaning out his car), Jonah was playing Airline Pilot in the front seat, happily investigating all of the various buttons, knobs, and dials, including the one that OPERATES THE HEADLIGHTS.
You can take it from there.
Here's the thing about parenting: from month to month, day to day, even minute to minute, the pendulum of one's experience can swing frantically from "I suck and never should have had unprotected sex" to "I am the best parent who ever drew breath! All others pale in comparison to my glory! I am SuperMom!"
I can happily report that much of my day today felt like the latter.
It started with a hike. We've been doing a lot of that lately. It's been so gorgeous out, and I've made it one of my goals for this summer to get to know some of our local trails (there are a lot of them!) better. Some of them are best left for adults, and a few are suitable for Jonah, whose stamina and stability are still in their nascent stages, but the vast majority that I've discovered so far are fine for me and for Emily. When I go alone, I'm usually plugged into my ipod (please don't mention this to the psycho who I am always sure is awaiting me out there) but, when I go with Emily, I really unplug and try to take some time to connect with her.
Today, we talked about Abraham Lincoln (very tall, freed the slaves, in order of importance of information if you are seven) and some tv show she had watched that morning. We took the red trail to the white trail, which was clearly winding its way around a big hill. And then we came to the unmarked path. We thought about it for a minute, decided we were safe within the confines of the park, and turned off the road. It was beautiful. It cut steeply up the hill and down the other side, a leafy canopy above us and a soft carpet of leaves below our feet.
When we came out, back on the other side of the white trail, Emily said "Mom, I'm so glad we took that path, even though we didn't know where it would go." I agreed, and told her that, in fact, I knew a poem about this very subject.
After dinner, thanks to our friend the Internet, I printed out the poem, and we talked it through, line by line. I read it beginning to end, and asked her to tell me the story of the poem, which she did. She told me it was about a man and a walk in the woods, and all that. Then I said, "What if I told you it's not about a hike at all?" She was confused. I read the last three lines again.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--"What if," I said, "I told you that this is about life"?
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference
Her eyes lit up. "It's like, if you have a choice, and you make the one that not everyone usually makes, it can still be good, and it can still work out fine, "she said.
I just about did a back handspring in the kitchen.
Take that, Jo Frost.
God, the things they don't tell you in Lamaze.
Because I am a good mother who believes in answering questions when they are asked, last year, when Emily asked me where babies come from, and was unsatisfied with eggs and sperm and our bodies fit together like puzzles, I answered her. Let me tell you, I was pretty pleased with myself and my frankness and my honesty and my ability to impart information in the context of my new age parenting.
All of this, however, failed me tonight, when she came downstairs to hug me before bed, wearing her fuzzy pink pj's, hair still damp from the bath, and, apropos of exactly fucking nothing, asked Mom, when a man puts his penis in a woman's vagina to make a baby, does it feel good?
I managed to kind of nod and shrug and say Good night all at the same time.
Down there, where I said today was a Flea day? Nope.
Today is a "take my son who woke me screaming at 2 am and every 4 minutes thereafter to the emergency room for 3 hours worth of waiting, 3 minutes worth of doctoring, and a prescription for Zithromax" day.
Now, apparently, not only is Jonah's eating all fucked up, but his sleeping is, too. He's decided that he no longer needs a nap. There are two problems with this theory. 1) I still need for him to take a nap, and 2) He's wrong.
Last night, he fell asleep watching tv on my bed at about 5:20. We only let him sleep for about 20 minutes but that was all he needed to fully recharge his batteries. When we put him in to bed at 8:00, he cried. Well, he didn't cry exactly; he just stood up and complained vocifierously, eventually resorting to the one thing we can't ignore: I want something to eat! This was a total lie, and we knew it, but, hoping against hope that the boy might put some, you know, food in his mouth, we got him up and took him to the kitchen, and made him a sandwich. Which he refused.
What he did not refuse was some time with his Pony On A Stick. A few months back, on a whim, at the grocery store no less, I bought the boy a pony. I know that, at some point in his life, I must have promised. Jonah, please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up and I'll buy you a pony. He loves it. When he squeezes its ear, it plays a sped up, tinny version of the William Tell Overture.
And so it came to pass that, at 10 o'clock last night, my boy made about 50 laps around the center hall of our center hall colonial, stopping each time in the kitchen to admire his reflection in the dishwasher and yell Yee ha! I'm a cowboy! before trotting off again.
All Andrew and I could do was throw up our hands and laugh.
Emily on Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday:
"Mom, don't you think that, after dinner, we should stop and think about all that Martin Luther King has done for us? I mean, think about it! If it weren't for Martin Luther King, we would have to sit in the front of the bus all the time! And sometimes it's fun to sit in the back!"
Poor Paul and Julie. A parenting milestone happened to them at my house last night, and they missed it! It went like this:
Andrew and I were talking about our schedule for the next week, and I said something about Paul and Julie coming to spend Christmas Day. From across the table, Emily, who previously had been thoroughly engrossed in her dinner said, Julie and Paul are coming?!?
Sounds innocuous enough. Until you realize that Emily got to see Charlie at the hospital last weekend and, while it was explained to her as a great honor and a privilege, it was deeply unsatisfying. Non-sibling children are not allowed in the NICU. They have to view the babies from a window. She didn't get to hold him. She didn't even get to touch him. And I did get to go into the NICU and to touch him, if only with my pointer finger, which kind of rubbed salt in her wound.
So, then she hears that they're coming. And she figures out that it's going to be when she's away (back to New York -- this time to see the Nutcracker. It's hard to be Emily. Chyeah.)
But! But! But! Is she really disappointed to be missing them? Nooooooooooo. Being seven, and not really understanding what it means to have a baby in the NICU, she thought they'd be bringing Charlie, and that's what she was all bummed out about!
And with this, my friends were initiated into yet another aspect of parenting, even before they've brought Charlie home. Welcome, Julie and Paul, into the League of Conduits.
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear Jonah,
Happy birthday to you!
(thanks to Julie and Paul for the very fabulous balloons!)
You may recall that, last year, we took our brownies on The Big Day Hike. Along with the Mock Sleepover (everyone home at 8:30, thank you very much) that they did as kindergarteners, was preparation for this weekend -- their first camping trip. Well, camping-ish.
We took all of the girls, with all of their mothers, for an overnight at a place called Stone House, a small lodge at one of the local Girl Scout Camps. It has central heat, running water, indoor plumbing, electricity, and a kitchen. Perfect for a first foray.
My co-leader and I planned and planned and planned in advance. We had menu plans, kaper charts (scout-speak for "job wheels"), and games and crafts galore.
Arrival was Friday before dinner. The early birds made placemats while we waited. Finally, with just about everyone there, we broke into patrols (scout-speak for "squads") and started our first round of kapers. One group cooked up a feast of salad, spaghetti, and garlic bread, while another cleaned the bathroom and a third set the tables.
On the topic of the bathrooms, let me just say that they fought over the toilet brushes. That's how excited they were to do big-girl stuff.
While dinner was being cleaned up, the rest of the girls headed upstairs to do a craft. Unfortunately, 40 mph winds precluded an outdoor campfire that night. Fortunately, the Stone House comes equipped with a fireplace! We built a fire and settled in for evening games. We did group back rubs, played "Who's Your Mommy?" (guess which of these funny old pictures of 7-year olds is actually your very own mother!), and took some time for the mothers and daughters to really sit together and talk. They told each others stories and secrets and really enjoyed the opportunity to focus on each other. Some were sitting hand in hand, others forehead to forehead, some in laps. It was great.
Dessert? S'mores, of course.
Now, at this point, we thought Ok, we'll just pull out the mattresses and everyone will go to sleep! Let me just say: ha. In fact, let me say it twice: ha ha. The party was just getting started.
Bouncing on mattresses, singing, shrieking, the whole thing. It all came to a head in the bathroom about a half hour later as I was washing my face. Emily's first loose tooth, so loose that we had brought her tooth fairy pillow Just In Case, came out with a bit of blood and a whole lot of hullaballoo. Eleven girls in the bathroom, screaming and giggling and wanting to see. And then, not to be left out of the attention-getting, another little girl with a loose tooth practically YANKED IT FROM HER HEAD in order to get in on the action! So we had not one, but two little pajama-clad bunnies, bleeding and grinning, and nine litle cohorts egging them on.
Finally, two books, many warnings, and an hour or so later, we got them to sleep at about 11:00. I, of course, wearing clothes, stuffed in a sleeping bag, and plopped on a creaky cot, did not sleep a wink. By 5:00, I was up for good. At 5:40, I grabbed my book and went down to make coffee.
What time do you think the first brownie came down to say hello, and who do you think it was? If you guessed Emily at 6:05, clutching two dollars and whispering excitedly She came! Mom, the Tooth Fairy came!, you win the prize. By 6:40, they were all having a full-volume party and dancing the Macarena, much to the dismay of the bleary mommies.
Breakfast and cleanup went smoothly, and off we went on a hike. Don't they look happy?
On our way to the meadow where we'd planned to stop, the girls found the outdoor amphitheater and made the moms stop for a show.
At the meadow, we played games and had snack, then back to the Stone House for packing, lunch, and departure kapers (think more bathroom cleaning). The good news was that the weather had cleared and we had some spare time, so we had one more campfire and s'more s'mores.
It was a great trip, one of the best times I've ever had with either of my kids, and the best thing is that I think that, despite some initial reservations, some of the moms had a similar experience. Or at least it seems like no one hated it too much.
We're planning one more indoor overnight in the early spring, locally and without the moms, and then two nights at the town-wide Camporee in May. Wish us luck!
When Jonah got up from his nap, Andrew tried to put his new Thomas the Tank Engine costume, gratefully discovered in a box of hand-me-downs, on him. That went like this:
Jonah, look! Thomas! Are you ready to wear this for Halloween?
NO THOMAS! I DON'T WANT IT THOMAS! NO THOMAS!! NO NO NO NO!!!
And that was the end of Jonah, Thomas, and Halloween.
On the other hand, get a load of Hillary Duff. She sat so still and and so patiently for that makeup job. All the world is a stage, and that child wants better lighting.
Emily and I went out "spooking" tonight, and had a very excellent time. First, at home, we decorated three paper lunch bags, and printed out three copies of a poem. We filled the bags with candy and went out on spy mission.
Then we drove around the neighborhood to the homes of three friends. On each doorstep, we left the bag with a copy of the poem, which includes a request that they do the same for three friends. Then we rang the doorbell and ran away. Emily thought herself quite the Mata Hari as we watched our friends open their doors from the darkness and safety of the trusty minivan.
What do you think are the odds that she can keep her promise and keep quiet about her identity when the kids talk about this in school tomorrow?
There are two best parts about Jonah in that hat. The second-best part is that he never, ever puts it on straight, and the ears are always funny. The first-best part is that sometimes he tries to grab the flounce, but can't quite get it, and it's like he's chasing his tail.
The latest exploit of Mr. "I Did It!"? Funny you should ask.
I put him in the tub this afternoon and then, in direct defiance of everything I've ever nagged Andrew about in the bath department, I figured he was playing happily in the water, splashing about like a little seal, and I went to finish what I was doing on the computer for a few minutes.
Get you a towel!"
Just a minute, Jonah!
You get out now!
Just a minute, Jonah!
Then, oddly, perplexingly, inexplicably, I hear the bathroom door close. I get up from the desk, go to the bathroom, and open the door, asking, Honey, did you just close the door?, just in time to see a dripping little tushie climbing back into the tub!
I did it!
Great.
Very well, thanks for asking. 257 people attended, the donuts were all eaten, and a good time was had by all, even if Emily did get bitten by a baby goat.
All comment mischegas is over, by the way. Just post. I don't know what we did or undid, but just go about your business.
Mom, did you know that the lead singer of the band Kiss
has the longest tongue in the world? It's six inches long.
Hooray for the first day of school!
Here is a peek at Emily getting on the bus, despite an extreme cough requiring antibiotics and causing her to expel giant clams from her lungs every ten to twelve minutes. Nothing (nothing!) was keeping her home today.
Did I mention that Jonah has his first visit to preschool tomorrow morning?
Bill Cosby noticed it first. His parents, in acting as grandparents to his children, went through an incredible transformation. They were sweet and kind and loving. And complete strangers to him.
I am reminded of this astute observation morning after morning, as I brush Emily's hair. Now. for those of you who haven't met her in person, let me tell you that Emily has an incredible head of hair. Long or short, it is thick and luxurious. It's the kind of hair that other people envy and want to touch. It's also the kind of hair that is a mother's worst nightmare.
So, every day, after her breakfast and before she leaves the house, we have the Ritual Morning Torture Session. It begins with an ample spraying of detangler, continues with slow brushing with the biggest and most gentle paddle brush I could find, and ends with screaming and shrieking and crying.
But, worst of all, adding insult to the injury of a loving mother just trying to do her best, it ends, day after day, with Emily screaming Do it Nana Esther's Way! You're not doing it like she does!
Apparently, when my mom babysat so that Andrew and I could go to Boston, she gently and lovingly brushed Emily's hair each and every morning, employing some sort of top-secret knot-removal technique known only to her.
And, if that isn't the biggest joke ever, I don't know what is. Compare and contrast with the hair care of my youth:
No detangler, a fine-toothed comb, and uncoated rubberbands were regularly called into service to create horrific cascading fountains of hair sprouting from the top of my head. And the removal of said rubberbands? You don't want to know.
Cosby said it best: These are not the people I grew up with!, he tells his children. These are old people trying to get to heaven now.
Same idea. I am going to suffer from Female Pattern Baldness, while Emily walks around under the delusion that Mommie Dearest is actually Frederic Freaking Fekkai.
click for larger image
Jonah and I were taken to the CT shore tonight. We ate fried clams and ice cream and walked on the beach.
It was very excellent.
Secret parenting information that the books won't tell you:
You have got to hear Emily's new song. She wrote it herself, and it's gone through several revisions.
The first time that Andrew and I heard it, we were in the car. That version included references to Christmas and Kwanzaa, and to the fact that it's ok to be whatever you are, but that being a Jew is "maybe just a little bit better."
I nearly wet myself and he nearly drove off the road.
Surely, by now you all know of Dolly, who was Emily's love toy from the time she was a year old until just before she turned four. Dolly was actually a boy...a Groovy Girl Boy named Zane...but to us, he was just Dolly. And he went everywhere we did.
Dolly's look eventually turned shabby, disreputable even, with holes in his body and a patch on the seat of his overalls. His once full yarn hair got ratty and thin. He was somehow pale and grubby at once.
So, when Jonah came, I swore: No Lovies. No special toys to rule my world. Only, in the past few weeks, he has become obsessed with these two stupid plastic elephants, each about as big as a quarter. He wakes in the morning asking for them. Effants? And God help us if we don't know exactly where they are. EFFANTS! EFFANTS! EFFANTS! Finding them in the playroom is like managing to put your hand on one particular hooker in Times Square, pre-Giulani.
So I went to the toy store today and bought Jonah a stuffed elephants, and he hasn't much let go of it since I paid the bill. Take new effant!
Wish me luck.
As we speak, Jonah is in his crib, jumping up and down and screaming at the tops of his lungs because I would not allow him to take the sacred plastic elephants into bed with him for nap time. Think little tiny choking hazards and my refusal will become clear. They are standing guard from the top of the dresser, but that is, apparently, insufficient. Well, the yelling is thinning out, at least.
I can't decide how to turn a bunch of leftover grilled chicken breasts into dinner without it being total crap.
Big Swan season finale tonight, and the American Idol showdown tomorrow. i do think I'll wait to tune in until about 9:45 on Wednesday, thanks.
R.I.P., Adriana LaCerva.
Ok, enough of the nonsequiturs. Here's some meat.
What a weekend! I swear, I didn't do much more than run home to change and sleep. On Friday night, I covered strawberries in chocolate with Karen. We got the huge ones and dipped them in semi-sweet chocolate, then drizzled them with white. They were gorgeous, and I was kicking myself for not taking a picture to show you all. I am a bonehead. Next time.
I came home, finished putting everything together for the Big Brownie Day Hike, and went to bed fretting about the weather.
The morning dawned early and gray. It rained like crazy, but then seemed to calm down. One more mother called to say her daughter wouldn't be going, which left us with 9 girls and 4 adults. Just fine, that.
We got to the park and set up in a pavilion. What a lifesaver that was! It didn't rain any more, but it was a damp and chilly day, and it was nice to have a dry place to leave our things, tables to eat at, and a floor to sit on and a fireplace to burn in later in the afternoon.
The girls trickled in and, finally, it was time to set up the tents.
One of the big surprises of the day was how much they loved the tents...every time we finished an activity, they asked for more tent time! They were playing some wacky game where they were in an orphanage, I think. I don't know.
After trail mix (oh, how I love the trail mix!), it was time for relay races. One involved running to a sleeping bag, unrolling it, hopping in, saying the girl scout promise, hopping out, re-rolling the bag, and running back; the next involved putting on a lot of clothes and trying to run around. The last one put it all together...
More tent time, then a hike in the woods.
Lunch...would they deign to eat the Frito-Taco Salads that we had so lovingly diced and sliced? Shockingly, yes!
A team-building game with a ball of yarn and Sensory Exploration Stations, working on paying better attention to what we could learn through touch, smell, and sight, then, of course, more tent time before we had to take them down.
And, finally, the most exciting event of the day...they got to put their newly-learned knot-tying skills to the test. Each team tied up one leader and untied the other. First leader free got to get the other with a whipped cream pie. Judge the results for yourself.
After that, I changed my shirt, taught them taps, and sent them on their way.
I came home, hurled myself into the shower, got dressed all pretty-like, and went to a dinner party until almost midnight. Sunday school the next morning, and a trip to Target to get paper goods for the barbecue (do a little no-rain dance for me, would you?) and new clothes for Emily.
I'm still picking up, but Jonah's done crying.
I have got to get my scanner back up and running (well, I mean, I have got to get a new OSX native scanner) so I can show you all things like the card that Emily made for Andrew yesterday.
Andrew came home from school early, having gotten violently ill, and went straight to bed. When Emily got off the bus, she was very worried about him (specifically, she was concerned that he had made it to the bathroom and not puked on the floor like many of her ill classmates apparently do), but she was given strict instructions to leave him alone. So she made him a get well card.
Here is the text, with all spelling and punctuation left intact:
Dear My Pour Sick dad,So you shouldn't fret too much about Andrew, let me just tell you that, after a two-hour nap, he awoke feeling fine, conducted a long training session with the guys who will be taking over his job at Bryn Mawr, and went out to Chili's for dinner. It was remarkable.I'm veary sad your sick. Your very specil. Where did you throw up? I'm glad I'm not SICK! Get well soon.
Love, Emily
A better mother probably would have put a stop to this. Not me. I was too busy laughing.
When I was a kid, I had a book called Fortunately which I was surprised and pleased to discover this morning is still in print. It goes something like "Unfortunately, someone pushed me out of the plane. Fortunately, I had a parachute. Unfortunately, it didn't open. Fortunately, there was a haystack below me." Like that. It's written by the same bizarro author of the beloved Arm in Arm.
Anyway, in that spirit...
Unfortunately, we are on our second day of rain here. Fortunately, I have no where to go and all the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.
Fortunately, my son has started saying "Mommy," as opposed to "Ma-ee," the previous iteration. Unfortunately, he has gone in 48 hours from not saying it at all to saying it 1,496 times a day, generally meaning "I am uncomfortable or somehow displeased with my general circumstances, and I need you to figure out what's wrong and solve my problem RIGHT THIS SECOND."
Unfortunately, it frays my nerves just a tad, but fortunately the bottle of wine that a friend left here the other night is eminently drinkable.
For the record, this entry is NOT to placate my deranged mother. I would have done it anyway.
Yesterday, my brownie troop had its first cookie booth. When you do this, in addition to the regular door-to-door sales, you get an opportunity to hang out in front of the grocery store and harangue the customers into buying cookies. But, basically, not too much haranguing is required. As I put it to the mothers who were there yesterday:
"If you can see that sign and these girls and walk by without a getting a box of cookies, I pretty much think that your heart is just so cold and broken that a box of cookies isn't going to fix what's wrong with you anyway."
Want to hear about how I put my foot in my mouth for a change yesterday? I know how you all hate missing out on that. Anyway, we're sitting there at our card table, which is right next to the handicapped spot. This car pulls into the spot -- an older hatchback with a youngish and clearly in-shape male driver (it was t-shirt only weather yesterday for the optimistic among us). I turned to the other mother at the table and said, "If he's handicapped, I'm a size 2." She laughed, and we agreed that it was Grandma's parking tag and that the gods would have their revenge on him.
Then he got out of the car. Him and muscular torso and his two shrivelled legs with their inward pointing feet that he kind of dragged painfully to get into the grocery store.
I am totally going to hell.
I'm hosting book club tonight, and serving refreshments with a Valentine's theme. Look for pictures of my handiwork later tonight.
After making the icing this morning, I gave Jonah his first taste of the joy that is beater-licking. Well, spatula-licking, but you get it. Is he cute, or what? I wanted to kiss that blob of frosting right off his little nose, but he's a bit snurfly today and I was afraid that it had been accented with boogers at that point.
No comments about the state of my pantry, thankyouverymuch.
Last night at dinner, as we all complained again about having to get up in the morning while it was still dark outside, Emily asked "Why does school start in September, so close to Winter?" (At least it wasn't more about the sperm and the eggs, thankyougod.)
Ever happy to share with my daughter what knowledge I actually possess, I offered a very simple and age-appropriate explanation about America's history as an agrarian society (throwing in a snipe at factory farming along the way), and about how the traditional school schedule was based on the needs of those early families, and about how, although we've become an industrialized nation, we've never moved away from that agrarian calendar model.
Her response?
"Did you know that once Hannah went up in an airplane, not the kind like you use to go to Florida, but a different kind that just goes around to look at stuff, and that she went over the school?
Take note: life with a six-year-old is not much more than an ongoing series of non sequiturs.
'Tis a rare night indeed when Emily spends the entire night in her own bed. Some nights, she comes and talks to us, some nights she wants to get in our bed (the result depends on just how tired we are at the moment of the request, and how low our corresponding level of resistance is), and some nights she just moves from her room to the guest room.
Now the thing you need to know is this: her bed is a twin, with a regular mattress topped with a fluffy featherbed kind of thing, 220-thread count sheets, and a foam pillow. It's perfectly adequate for a person of her status and stature. On the other hand, the guest bed is outfitted for adults.
So, anyway, this morning, when I woke her in the guest bed, I asked her why she was there again, anyway. She told me a whole story about monsters and dreams and crying and how it's better in the guest room, because there's more room for sleeping in the bed.
Apparently, for a six-year-old JAP in Training, a queen-sized pillow-top mattress, 450-thread count linens, and a pile of feather pillows are akin to wolfbane. Go figure.
Yesterday, with the best of intentions, I got up in the morning and put on a pair of lycra-based workout pants, a sports bra, and a t-shirt. I didn't actually end up exercising, but I'm sure I burned a couple of hundred calories just by meaning to, right?
Anyway, later in the day, Emily looked at me in all that lycra and asked if I was making another baby.
You'll all be pleased and relieved that I've decided not to actually kill her, but it does seem that it's time to get serious about dropping those 6 pounds I've put on since April, huh?
"So," I said to my Sunday school class," I was at a party at my friend Kelly's recently, and the cool thing was that she has a new stereo and it plays records, so people brought their records, and we listened to them, and it was fun. Do you guys know what records are?"
"Yes," said sweet little Adam. "They were what people had instead of cd's in the olden days."
The olden days?!? F for Adam!
I think he thinks I used to get to school on a horse and carve my lessons in stone when I got there.
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Jonah,
Happy birthday to you!
It was a warm night...so warm that I spent most of the evening sitting on the porch and greeting the trick-or-treaters. There were so many trick or treaters, in fact, that I had to go across the street to my neighbor Karen and get more candy at about 7:15!
Emily went as Ariel and got, by her count, "72 pieces of candy!"
Jonah wore the same dalmatian suit that Emily wore when she was 2. Well, most of it. He didn't like the hat too much.
Don't you just love a day when everything kind of meshes? Emily had a play date yesterday, and the plan was to get her friend and go home to decorate pumpkins. But it was almost 70 degrees out, and I couldn't bear to waste the day. So, off to the farm stand we went.
Did I ever tell you all about the best present I ever got Emily? Cost about $50 bucks total, which is not an inconsiderable amount of money but, compared to what weve spent on some junk that she barely sniffed at, it's not so bad.
Anyway, one day I made my way to Michael's, the craft supply homeland, and I bought a big plastic storage tub. Then I filled it with what around here are known as "glueables"...you know, feathers, pompoms, pipe cleaners, googly eyes, foam shapes, etc. I got some glitter glue, some magnet tape, some papier maché boxes...all kinds of stuff.
This stuff keeps her busy for hours. Hours. You're bored? Go get the craft box and make a birthday card for Papa!
Just a little something for those of you with small people on your lists to keep in mind as the holidays approach.
Remember when Emily called the babysitter "stupid"? Part of her punishment was to write a letter of apology. When she showed it to me on Sunday, it was all I could do not to come running up here to scan it right then and there.
A big expensive prize (well, really just the glory) to the best caption for this picture. After you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine, and then we can all decide together.
For the first time in about 72 hours, Jonah and I have nowhere to bo, no one to meet, and nothing to do but clean the house and maybe bake. It is a lazy day around here*.
Jonah slept until 10:30, and I only bathed him because he asked me to. Well, and he was starting to smell a little fun-kay.
*note the glazed stare at the Teletubbies.
One of the best things about living where I live is the proximity of several farms. In season, I never buy corn, tomatoes, basil, squash, or apples at the grocery store. I try to get out to the dairy once a week for our milk and eggs.
Our favorite farm is just around the corner. Why is it our favorite? Because, in addition to produce and plants, they also sell their own ice cream. I find it hard to let a beautiful end-of-season day like yesterday go by without taking the kids for a visit.
Yesterday, Jonah's favorite part was getting schlepped (guess who was the schlepper) around the stands in a Radio Flyer wagon. The cuteness factor was pretty much off the charts.
Relievedly, we'll be returning to our regularly scheduled fluff and trivia around here today.
It was a bad injury night around here yesterday. First Jonah got hit in the head with the refrigerator door (don't ask). Then he pushed himself away from the dinner table with his feet and flipped his entire chair onto its back. Emily fell off something or other in the family room, precipitating much drama.
Finally, in an attempt to give me a hug, Jonah smacked me in the mouth with the back of his head, giving me a great big fat lip.
The worst part is that it's on the side of my face that's already crooked from when Andrew broke my nose with the laudry basket. I am completely lopsided. At least my big boob is on the other side. That's good, I guess.
Somehow, when I wasn't paying attention, time got the better of me again and, this morning, Emily headed off to first grade.
To say that she was excited would be an understatement (she told me that, even though she didn't want to say it out loud at the bus stop, in her head, she was thinking "School Rocks!" as I took that picture.). She was up last night at 11, 12:30 (fully dressed in her school clothes, no less!), and 5 and 6 am. When I woke her at 7, she pretty much bounced out of bed.
Today, she's pretty happy about the whole thing. We'll see how she feels tomorrow.
Wow. It's been a non-stop stream of visitors here for the past four days and, this morning, it's off to California for me, Emily, and Jonah. One mom, two kids, a giant backpack, and a portable dvd player for 9 hours and 3,000 miles. Wish me luck.
Meanwhile, I got up this morning to find Emily sound asleep in the clothes that I had laid out for her to wear on the trip. Apparently, she got up and dressed some time in the middle of the night, belt and all.
She's ready to go!
It was, as always, a busy bath time tonight.
I swear, bathing Jonah is like bathing a baby seal.
A friend, who might prefer to remain anonymous for now, is very freshly pregnant.
I thought I'd offer her a visual lesson on what's coming her way:
My friend Shlomit is here visiting for the weekend with her husband and kids. We thought it would be great fun to take the kids strawberry picking this morning, before it got too hot out.
We thought wrong.
Emily mostly whined. "It's too hot out here...this is boring...how long until we go home...I can't find any berries..." Until, finally, she put her hands on her hips and screamed from the end of her row "I want you to take me home THIS MINUTE!" We'll be talking about that later, you can be sure.
Clearly the inheritor of his father's shitty attitude about fruit picking as fun excursion genes, Jonah simply spent his time making it clear that he thought the entire endeavor just plain sucked.
I, on the other hand, was perfectly happy stuffing ripe sun-warmed berries into my mouth.
Next year, I'm hiring a sitter and leaving them home.
What a perfect summer day we've had here!
It started yesterday at around 5 pm, when Emily's very best friend Kathryn arrived for a sleepover. We had quesadillas for dinner and, after Jonah went to bed, the girls watched some dreadful movie about a toaster and had ice cream sandwiches as a special treat. They got into bed at 10:00. The final No More Talking warning came at about 11:15, after I had already gone to bed!
This late night extravaganza didn't slow them a bit this morning...they were both up watching cartoons by 8:00! Jonah joined them soon after, and they did their thing while I did mine.
We were headed toward the playground, but the weather got hinky, so we were off to pancake brunch. Then, miraculously, the rain stopped, so we took a detour to the classic car show. I took them trhough the lot and taught them everything I knew:
* The Corvette is the coolest car ever (editor's note: don't miss the interactive feature on that link);and* The assembly line that made this 1931 Model A is what made it possible for everyone in America to own a car;
* You are lucky girls indeed to be invited to sit in this 1932 Rolls Royce Phantom Coupe;
* This truck was built in 1912...that's even older than Bubby! It's a horseless carriage...just like in the American Girl book we read last week.After some face painting (held out like the proverbial carrot on a stick), we went out for the originally intended pancakes and eggs, home for a nap (Jonah) and another bad movie (Emily and Kathryn), this time about a monkey, and then back out again!
We met Kathryn's family at a local lake club for picnic dinner, swimming, playing in the sand, climbing on the slides, etc.
Whew! Both kids sure seemed ready for bed by the time we got home.
And now, let me tell you, after shaking the sand out of everything, washing the dishes, sorting the laundry, putting away the bug spray, wiping the bird poop off my beach bag, and offering thanks to the universe for the Holy Bean that will be awaiting me in the morning, I am, too.
Things that are fun to do with sand, if you are 19 months old:
Walk on it.
Sit in it.
Dig it.
Squeeze it.
Eat it.
"Mom! Come here! It's really funny! I put makeup on the baby!"
Check this out:
