On Strike (Until Mama Goes Nutso)

The Tyrant in her Throne

On Saturday night Ribh unveiled the Tortured Baby Bird Screech of Epic Proportions of AGONY and woke Hubby and me with a start at 4:23 am. She proceeded to flail, weep, gnash her teeth (what there are of 'em), and thrash about wildly, while steadfastly refusing to either a) go to sleep or b) nurse.

That's right folks: It's a NURSING STRIKE!

A nursing strike is an interesting little "phase" in which babies can no longer stand the declining conditions in their difficult work day and protest by constructing tiny placards which read: NO MORE BOOB UNTIL I GET MY OWN REMOTE CONTROL (and I mean a REAL one dammit!) and SEE HOW YOU LIKE ENGORGEMENT, YOU INCESSANT SNOT WIPER (MY NOSE IS MY OWN BID'NESS), and STOP TRYING TO FEED ME THAT HEALTHY CRAP WOMAN, I SEE YOU EATING FUDGE IN THE PANTRY!

Actually, the babies will METAPHORICALLY construct said placards because frankly, their actions (or inactions boobwise) read louder than words. Ribh indicated quite emphatically at 5:00 am that she was NOT HAPPY and my SHOVING MY BOOB IN HER MOUTH was not helping matters. So, we got up and went to the living room to watched cartoons and HGTV until 8:00 am when everyone else got up.

Last night, the protest continued. This time, it began with a blood curdling screech at 1:27 am which I was able to quell (sans nursing, of course! I might have had ACID MILK for all she was interested) by sleeping propped up against the headboard and pat-patting for 15 minutes. But the moment I shifted positions, she reiterated her position against Mamas Who Suck and Cannot Hold Perfectly Still while Traumatizing Their Spines and followed by reciting her position paper (quite loudly) contending that HER mama particularly sucks and should quit thrusting her acidy boob into her mouth because her teeth hurt and she is sick of wearing hand me down clothes. Then she threw up and blew a giant goob of snot into my hair.

We went to the living room again and continued our negotiations in 30 to 45 minute intervals, during which I would drift off to sleep and would awaken spasmodically as she realized she had forgotten to mention that she wants more Baby Einstein Videos and less Dr. Phil in the afternoon and that she would like to be back inside my uterus where nobody bothered her with demands for sign language communication and patty cake.

Hubby replaced me at the negotiation sofa at 6:40 am when he got up to get The Boy ready for school and he must have managed to bridge the communication gap much better in his negotiotiations, (although I shudder to think what he may have promised her to elicit such a response) because when he brought her to me in bed at 8:00, she relented and nursed and slept for two whole hours without screaming or kicking me in the kidneys even once.

Please pray for a speedy resolution or send a skilled arbitrator. Sleep deprivation is stripping me of even my most rudimentary skills and I am likely to recite from The Aristocrats when I go on my job interview later this week or begin grocery shopping in my underwear. Help!

Good Night, Sleep Tight

My Quinlan is growing up oh so quickly. My little Peapod is now chattering away non-stop, dressing and undressing herself ad naseum (to the tune of piles of clothing littering every room in the house. Seriously! Make it stop! She's not even three yet!). And her busiest enterprise of all: mothering every possible "baby" she can find.

She specializes in shepherding Ribh around the house and helping her baby sister achieve levels of mischief heretofor unattained by 12-month-olds. Recently they emptied a plant onto the living room floor and then flooded the delightfully filthy remains with water for the purpose of

A) Science Experiment : to see if plant particles would continue to thrive if water (which likely came from the toilet) was added
B) Creative Expression: a la performance art (for Mama to enjoy).

This creative expression included mud rubbed into Ribh's hair aboriginal style and dirt art on Dr. P's expensive bachelor wide screen TV and precious speakers. (Psst. Don't tell P. He doesn't know about that. I cleaned it up. He'd freak.) I didn't take a photo because while I was thinking about it I threw the girls in the tub and then the phone rang and then the girls wanted OUT and Gabe wanted IN and then I just cleaned it all up really fast while all three kids ran around nude and the phone rang some more.

But Quin's "sleeping babies tableaus" abound. Here is a photographic sampling. Trust me when I assure you that this a mere smattering of the myriad baby beds which crop up on every possible surface all day long.


Quin at "work", putting a few "babies" to bed with a purloined washcloth and dishtowel.

Dora rests with a dirty dishtowel and a bit of "night reading" in the form of "The God Particle", a book about Quantum Physics.

Two Polly Pockets sleep next to a Happy Family Mama doll and her counterpart, Happy Family Daddy, is doing the Brokeback Mountain thang with Storm Shadow of GI Joe fame (Don't Ask, Don't Tell says Joe) around the corner of the communal bed.



And here, Hello Kitties sleep in a bed made entirely of bread crusts.


Overheard Recently:

Quin: (eyeing up Gabe's new Robot Dinosaur, undoubtedly calculating which towel would work best to swaddle him to sleep) Gabe! Your Dinosaur is SOOO CUUUUTE!

Gabe: (scornfully and protectively) He's not CUTE Quin! He's a ROBOT! (Translation: keep your Family Bed, granola eatin' ways OFF my scary new toy!)

The Swiftest Flight

My sweet baby, my last little nursling, is ONE today.


It is so hard to see my last baby leaping from babyhood into toddlerville with such reckless abandonment. She cannot wait to walk and run and jump like her older siblings. She lurches around while clutching my one finger for support, desperate to ambulate like everyone else around her. She wants MY food, MY glass of water, MY bottle of beer. She sometimes has to be pinned down to settle down enough to nurse and finally go to sleep and other times slurps down her milk rapidly while scanning the room for her next opportunity to leap into interesting toddler projects, like flinging my things about the room and stealing her sister's dolls. She cannot bear to miss a single thing.

With your firstborn, you delight in every new accomplishment, from the first smile, the first laugh, and each physical milestone is crowed over and foisted upon every person you meet. "My baby, he sat up today! My baby, he walks!" But the last child grows too fast, too swiftly accomplishing things that once done can never be taken back.

This baby, I want to tie her feet together to keep her from walking, holding her to me forever. I wallow in the smell of her hair and neck and her lingering baby scent. I breathe in her sweet milky breath. I kiss her dippled baby hands and immensely chubby knees. I stroke her immeasurable silky cheeks and cornsilk hair. I let her fall asleep against my chest at night and do not move her sweetly sweaty weight for hours, breathing in rhythmic unity, knowing she will only allow this for such a short time yet. The effortless trust of a baby is a gift only given once and must be cherished above all gifts.

And so today, as I prepare to make her a cake and gather friends and family, I cannot help but cry a little, and hold my birthday girl a little closer, a little tighter, a little longer.

Happy Birthday Baby Bird!

What's New?

What's new here:

1. Holy Cows! I actually WON the Blogging4Books thingy! If you wanna check out the other winning entries you should go here. You should go read them. But notice who got First Place, people! (Ahem.)

2. I went to go see Brokeback Mountain this weekend. Good movie, but a wee bit uncomfortable. You know what's even more uncomfortable than watching gay cowboys simulate anal sex on the big screen? Watching anal sex simulated on the big screen with your Dad.

Your Dad who is GAY. (Ahem.)

3. You know what's maybe even more uncomfortable than watching Brokeback Mountain with your Gay Dad? Watching 40 Year Old Virgin with your Gay Dad AND your husband. And laughing and laughing while people talk about fucking, on and on and on.

Okay. That's all for now. I gotta go take a Silkwood Shower or something. I feel dirty.

To Whom It May Concern

I might as well admit it: I'm gonna suck for the next week. Or month.

Due to glorious company invading my new home.

And they really are glorious. This week brought Banana Girl and Honey Babe (who walks and talks now and is barely a babe) along with my Dad, Papa Greg. We have been running around like dervishes, sightseeing (the Georgia Aquarium again! That's three times this week! Eeek! And three exclamation marks in a row! Blogging is for alarmists!) and shopping and whatnot.

Papa Greg leaves next week but Banana and Honey Girl stay until Quin's birthday in mid-February. Then Kris will visit for a few days with her little bundle of baby love. And finally my mom, Nonny, will arrive a few days later and be here into early March. Since the computer is located in the guest bedroom, there may be limited blogging. But I will be heaven, hangin' with my Peeps! Whoo hoo!

Whale Poop and Martin Luther the King

Today, in celebration of Martin Luther King Day, we decided to go on a field trip. Since Gabe had no school and Hubby had the day off work, we got up early, packed a bulging diaper bag full of snacks and diapers and toys and headed into the a big city to go to The Georgia Aquarium.

Apparently our bright idea was shared by about every other parent in the tri state area. The Aquarium was...a Zoo (heh). Seriously though people, avoid the Georgia Aquarium during national holidays that let all the kids out of school. Ugh. This is no time to supplement your kid's education. Unless you plan to educate them on curse words and shrieking.


There were fish. A lot of 'em. And other critters, like scuba guys (and gals, let's not be sexist here).


And then we sunk Gabe and Quin in a capsule to the bottom of the deepest tank. Okay, not reea-lly.
And then Gabe petted a sting ray. And some shrimp. And a sea star (star fish thingy). And slid down a slide. And Quin climbed on garbage cans (because they wouldn't allow her on the slide because she was too young. WTF? Hello, it's a covered slide people!).

And then there was this really really huge tank (it can hold the volume of 25 olympic swimming pools) with more fish and whale sharks.

Even Ribh thought that was pretty astounding. She crawled around. And nursed. So that was cool.

And we pointed at stuff and said, "Hey, look at that big fish!" and "Kids, look at how the whale just pooped!" (I couldn't let a whole post slip by without mention of poop. 'Cause whales poop too. Really.)

And then we drove home and all the kids fell asleep in the car. We wanted to sleep too, but alas, MLK day isn't for sissies and the kids ALL woke up the second we entered the driveway and had no use for further sleeping.

And then the Aquarium called me to tell me I'd lost my wallet there. So, I'm going back tomorrow apparently. Wheee!

Saturday Morning Live

This morning, after the kids dragged us out of bed at 7:00am, we set them up in the kitchen with bowls of sugary cereal (it's ORGANIC though!) and cartoons a'blaring and crawled back in bed to see if we could eke out a few more minutes of hibernation.

Within 15 minutes Gabe discovered our dark and silent hiding place and crawled into Hubby's side of the bed.

"Papa! Where's Mama?"

"She went to the store."

"What store?"

"A store you wouldn't want to go to."

"WHAT store?"

"The Poop Store."

(giggling) "Ewwwww!"

Silence reigns for a full 30 seconds. Peace.

"Papa! Let's watch some football. Do you want to watch football with me?"

"You want to watch football? I like watching football with you."

"Yeah. But I think we should watch a few cartoons first. Just like, ten cartoons."

They not only won't let us sleep, but they are forcing cartoons on us. Who's running this zoo?

King of All Media

Forget Howard Stern. Gabe is The King of All Media.

He can control all of the electronic equipment in the house better than most of his babysitters.

He is so techno-savvy that he seized my camera in the car last week and took a film series I believe he would have titled: "My chronicle of My Sisters Watching Baby Einstein" in which there was a frame by frame accounting for each new scene on the TV interspersed with shots of his sisters in their respective car seats. I didn't even know he did this. (Bad Mama.) Here are a few highlights. I've deleted the shots of the TV screen. Sorry. (You're not missing much. Yellow car. Candle. Kinetic device. Overwrought children leaping about.)




He is a modern genius boy, but that doesn't stop him from enjoying Shark Boy and Lava Girl 3-D old school style with the 3-D glasses and all on a regular basis. (Seen here with Mom.)


And tonight, while waiting for his dinner, he chose to watch a TiVOed performance by U2 and cranked the volume WAAY up without any prompting. He's too smart for his own good. Except he thinks U2's guitarist is called "The Hedge".

The Way We Were

Blogging For Books has issued this challenge: Write about your "Ex". Here is my entry:

We all have significant ex-relationships, ex-friends, former existences which haunt our lives and thrill us with their memories in unexpected times and places. These relationships and experiences are no longer ongoing and cannot be changed or re-lived. They are OVER and yet they still have the power to inspire us and to even intrude in our current pursuits of not only a better and more inspiring life but a nice, normal, stable existence. (At least that's what I'm going for usually. Well, maybe not normal, but stable, yes.)

The most meaningful Ex in my life, the former relationship that constantly intrudes on my current relationship, is my "ex-life", BEFORE CHILDREN.

It is both frightening and maddening the way the past can linger and taunt you with its "grass is greener" nostalgia. The Ghost of My Life Before Children is constantly clamoring to remind me of HOW GREAT IT WAS when my life was mine and mine alone. The BC Ghost fills my memory with taunting images of sleeping in every weekend and not wearing clothes smeared with peanut butter and jelly.

If I were to listen to the BC Ghost, I would be convinced that not only was I 30 pounds lighter before squeezing out my three offspring, but I had shinier hair, whiter teeth, a sharper wit, and less gas. The BC Ghost REALLY likes to wax nostalgic about the convenience of my former life. According to BCG, my life was all about last minute vacations in which I could lie on a chaise lounge while cabana boys brought margaritas, shopping sessions that lasted for days and produced clothes that ALL FLATTERED MY FIGURE, and a romantic life that would make Casanova (not the Heath Ledger one) envious.

Another issue with the BC Ghost, is that Hubby has his own BC Ghost and the two of them conspire together at times to leave us both certain, that not only was life better and more convenient BC, but that our spouse is conspiring to compound the pitiful effects.

For example, my BC Ghost tells me that "back in the day" on the weekend, Hubby would have helped me clean the house and fold laundry (just one load for our tiny family) and then we would snuggle on the sofa and watch TV before making a gourmet meal together, CLEANING THE KITCHEN TOGETHER (please don't laugh yet), and then going to movie at the last minute without ever thinking about babysitters or budgets.

Hubby's BC Ghost tells him that on weekends "back in the day" he would play golf all day Saturday, and then sleep til 10 on Sunday, be served breakfast in bed, watch Sports Center until his svelte and scantily clad wife met him at the sofa with Buffalo wings and beer as the football games started, and then, after the Packers soundly trounced whomever they were playing, he might mow the lawn or go for a run, just for fun.

Now, you can see, dear internet, where these depictions of what a weekend could/should be will create resentment, frustration and even occasionally, despair. We have been DUPED into thinking that our lives BC were a freakin' Disneyland of pleasure and free time and that we were the lords of our own little idyllic fifedoms and had spouses who were more like slaves than partners. Bah!!! YOU KNOW it was never that way. Our Ghosts of our own Ex-lives have done what so many Exes do in the retelling: They Lie.

Because, you know what? My ass IS bigger, but that is MY fault because I don't make time to work out and I eat more crap more often. Period. And my hair is SHINIER because now I can afford to occasionally get it PROFESSIONALLY COLORED rather than just use Nice 'n Easy like when we were poor childless students. And yes, I haven't slept for more than four hours straight in six years due to constant pregnancy and nursing, but I still get enough sleep overall and even take naps sometimes with a snuggly little snoozer tucked under my arms or pressed against my back. And THAT is a heaven of its own.

And poor Hubby has much better golf gear now, even if he goes less often, and he gets to share football with his children who gamely cheer for whomever he cheers for and then steal his Buffalo wings (which he made quite capably by himself) and then afterwards he throws the kids on the bed for a half hour while they giggle hysterically and beg for more.

And when we do (gasp) go to a movie or even out to dinner, we appreciate it ten times more than we did BC. We are like dieters sneaking a pint of Ben and Jerrys, as we sneak off for our moments alone. Ahhh! The anticipation! It's like dating again.

There are trade-offs for every complaint and tirade of parenthood from my saggy boobs to the eight loads of laundry per week. My life is indeed much different from the world I inhabited BC, but I cannot ever adequately quantify the joys and humor and charm brought into my world by the three little ones who have joined us in our own brand of chaos.

As my Grandpa used to say to my Grandma in those crazy moments of solidarity and pride in that chaos which is unique to being a family; "I'm glad we're Us". And by that I certainly mean the WHOLE CLAN of us, warts, saggy boobs, and all.

Because you know that soon enough I will be waxing nostalgic about "when the kids were little" and then "when the kids still lived at home" and then "when the kids DIDN'T live at home AGAIN" and so on. And so I will strive to keep those ghostly exes in the past and try to ignore their persistent reminders of how great it was when I didn't have to clean up 27 Polly Pocket pieces out of my bed before going to sleep or wipe poop off the toilet seat before using it myself. Sigh.

Who Knew Mommy Bloggers Could Be This HOT!

Do you know that I get AT LEAST one hit every day from someone doing a web search for "Slutty Moms"? All because I once mentioned that my other blog was named "Slutty Moms" or some such obnoxious comment.

Think how disappointed the searcher must be when they click over here and get to hear about whatever cute thing my child did or my diatribe on how I was mad at the buttinski lady at the store.

Perhaps I could build up my online following if I mentioned more risque content regularly, like how my teething toddler abuses my nipples and how I enjoy house cleaning naked (ha!) or something.

But instead you just will get to hear about how I had food poisoning last night, delerium, a high fever and some seriously sexy fecal incontinence. Let's see what kind of searchers hit on that phrase!

Who Wants To Go Shopping With Me?

Scene: Old Navy. I have ventured cross-county to a location I have never frequented before because the other Old Navy store is in such a heinous and over-traversed locale, I figured this one would HAVE to be superior.

My Mission: New PJs for Gabe, because his old ones are all at least one size too small and look quite foolish.

My accomplices: Gabe, Quin and Ribh (because shopping with no children or even one child is for sissies.)

My Method: Three children in a grocery cart (a "buggy" to southerners). Ribh sits in the child seat. Quin in the basket (despite stern warnings on cart NOT to do so) and Gabe hanging off the side (despite stern warnings on the cart NOT to do so). I should note that no child is restrained by a "belt". But we'll get into that later. My preferred method involves rapid choosing of clothing and frequent distracting of children before bolting with cheap merchandise.

And now, without further ado, The Debacle:

Strange Woman: Oh! Oh! Your baby! Is standing! He could fall!

Me: (Standing two feet from cart, trying in a sweater over my clothing) Ummm? Oh yeah. Thanks. (Thinking to self: Whatever!)

Strange Woman: Oh! The Baby! The Baby! He could fall!

Me: Thank you! SHE'S fine. Got it! (Removing sweater quickly.)

Strange Woman: But the BABY! Could fall! I've seen a baby fall before! (Not moving any closer to us, but wringing her hands and so on)

Me: Yes. I understand. It's okay. I'm almost done.

Strange Woman: I've seen a baby fall before and HAVE TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!

Me: Yes. SHE'S FINE FOR A MINUTE! (Beginning to be quite annoyed ON PRINCIPLE. Sheesh woman! I have three children. I know what I am doing. Leave me alone!)

Strange Woman: Why don't you have her buckled up? She could fall! And have to go to the Emergency Room!

Me: She just wiggles out of the belt. I'm almost done here. (My other children begin climbing my body while asking questions about what the Emergency Room is and who the weird lady is)

Strange Woman: I saw a child fall and have to go to the EMERGENCY ROOM!

Me: I appreciate your help. We are leaving now!

Strange Woman: That's illegal! (Grumbling and grousing unintelligibly)

Me: Huh? (Get me the Heck outta here!)

I rush to the checkout and quickly purchase my single pair of pajamas. As I replace my check card in my wallet, Ribh leans over to grab the credit card swipey thing while her brother moves the cart away from the counter and.....WHOOOMP! Down she goes!

Everyone near the checkout freezes in HORROR! I grab Ribh, quickly assess the damage (she is scared but not hurt) and try to make a run for it, but......that voice! Here comes the Harbringer Harpy of Horror again.

Strange Woman: I TOLD YOU SHE WOULD FALL!!!! NOW YOU NEED TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!

Me: SHE IS FINE! WE ARE NOT GOING TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM! WE ARE LEAVING NOW!

Strange Woman: (To everyone in the area) I told her to buckle that baby up! That kind of behavior is illegal! She shouldn't be allowed to......

Me: (Running out the door) Dammit! I KNOW she MADE that happen with all her freakin' insistence that the baby would fall. Ribh stands in the cart (buggy) every freakin' day and nothing happens and then this freak comes along and.....! Arrrrgghhhhhhhh!

Another, Nice Woman, In the Parking Lot: Is your baby okay? Oh, Good! That lady was totally crazy! What did she think was illegal? She's nuts!

Me: Sigh. Thank You! I really needed that validation!

So, to sum up: Ribh is totally fine. She fell on her butt mostly (well padded) but we checked her and cleared out any subluxations in her spine when we got home. NO need for a trip to the ER.

Furthermore, I still defend my position as the parent of my own children to know that A) Ribh does not stay seated and secure in the crappy little belts that are meant to secure very small and immobile children in the seats in shopping carts and that in order for me to shop I must occasionally allow her to stand and wiggle around a bit while I stand nearby and do my thing. B) Just because I have small children does not mean I need to stay home in a freakin' padded cell lest my child should bonk themselves somehow in public. C) That woman pretty much MADE the event occur by her insistence that it WOULD occur plus her ability to totally distract me past my ability to listen to my own instincts. D) NO trip to the ER was ever indicated even if I was some doctor-running freak. (Which I'm not.) E) SHE should be illegal. Damn! That really pissed me off!

Numbers Trivia ( And Nonny is caught in a LIE!)

3.5: Hours of sleep I got last night after Ribh's excessive wailing and waking. I swear, everytime she twitched anywhere NEAR the top of her sleep cycle, her head immediately spun around three times and she started SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS. And while I was willing to let her sleep with my boob in her mouth, even THAT was not appeasing her last night. Plus, after all the nursing she did do, what with the smorgasbord of milky treats I left out for her all freakin' night long, there wasn't an ample supply of milk available anymore after about three in the morning and this Mama was getting sore and crabby. Not to mention that I am STILL fighting the Healing Crisis of Epic Proportions which left me feverish throughout the entire holidays and coughing every three to five minutes.

3: Hours of sleep I got after Ribh and my family got up this morning and Hubby (my savior) let me collapse back into my bed alone! Whee!

55: Number of minutes it took to disassemble the Christmas Tree this morning. After the three days it took put the dratted thing up, I'm pretty pleased. I still need to organize and wrap up all the ornaments and what not. But I do not need to clean up a million embedded needles.

18: The number of children I will complain have been "hanging from my body" when I am feeling overwhelmed by the collective force and chaos of my children. I come from a long line of gross exaggerators. This one is minimal. And feels quite accurate at times.

987: My favorite number* to use when establishing that there was really really A LOT of something. As in: It only took me 987 hours to put up that damn Christmas Tree From Hades. Sometimes I say 897, just to mix things up.

*I believe the birth of my use of this number began in childhood. I was recently watching the movie Annie (You know, the one with Albert Finney) and when the orphans escape from Miss Hannigan and run around New York trying to find Annie to warn her that her "parents" are really Hannigan's evil brother Rooster and Bernadette Peters (and who wouldn't be terrified of THAT) the orphans finally find Fifth Avenue and they realize they are at Number One Fifth Avenue, but they need to 987 Fifth Avenue, which apparently is Daddy Warbuck's address.

The utterance of this line of dialogue struck such a chord with me, a familiar twang of recognition spread through my body and I was reunited with the dialogue which begat my favorite exaggerative number. Aww, how sweet! And so, in celebration, I will bestow one more life changing line of dialogue from the movie Annie: "Buddha says, A Child Without Courage is like a Night Without Stars, Come!"

2: The number of times I have been the "Shalvaysta" in my entire life. This may be meaningless to you, but apparently it is even more meaningless than I ever suspected.

"Shalvaysta Day" is a family tradition of my childhood based on a Finnish tradition in which the last person to get up on December 31st is declared the "shalvaysta" or the Laziest Person in the house for the entire year! Cute huh? My mom was raised in a Finnish community in Northern Wisconsin and she taught us this little bit of folklore and I have handed it down to my family. But wait, it gets trickier! (Hang on family members who read this blog! Here comes the part when you will find out it is all A LIE!!!)

I look up the proper spelling of the word "Shalvaysta" on the trusty internet in order to appear intelligent and ya know, FACTUAL, and here the whole story falls apart. There is NO "Shalvaysta day" on December 31st! There is no mention of any word resembling Shalvaysta, which probably just means "sucker".

Actually, July 27th is "Sleepyhead Day" or Unikeon Paiva in Finland, and the last one up, the "Laziest Person", is actually called the "unikeko". And furthermore, this person is roused by throwing water on him or best yet, wrapping him up mummy style in his bedsheets and dumping him in a nearby lake! So, Big Brother Matt, you got off cheap all these years with just a little good natured ribbing. There could have been water play and cutting a hole in the ice so we could dump you in the lake. Well, not in July. But you get the picture.

I don't know if my mom's little backwater community somehow bastardized their cultural observances and brought "Laziest Person" days to the wrong solstice (the Fins are known to drink quite a lot) or if my mom just got creative on her own and somehow transported the holiday into New Years Eve Day in order to get her slacker children out of bed over winter break, but just to set the record straight: Tomorrow IS NOT "Shalvaysta Day" and you can all sleep in as late as you want without fear of recrimination. (I know many of you are enjoying such huge sighs of relief as you read this.)

But watch out on July 27th! I may even have to locate a nearby lake.

Meet Bubbles Kitty

Ribh enjoyed her first Christmas.


She crawled through drifts of discarded wrapping paper and toy packaging and made friends with all her new toys, one by one. But her new Bestest Friend is Bubbles.


Now I know Bubbles may not seem like much to crow about for crafty folks like Loobylu (who could whip up a creature that would put Bubbles to shame using only items she carries in her purse and the grunge that accumulates under the sofa cushions.)



But I don't possess such crafting skills and am so impressed by Bubbles adorable little freakin' knit self (hand knit in Peru by the folks at blabla) that she has already become The Mama's favorite and will therefore likely become Ribh's favorite as well.

And here the little shy darling is modeling some new leggings by trying to pull them over her head. How droll is the little cheesecake pose?


And finally, she contemplates other ways to showcase her many burgeoning talents for her mother's blog readers.

Beware folks! This one is going to be clamouring for this kind of acclaim all the time in the near future. I can just feel it.

Ransom Note

Hostage: One wee silky My First Hello Kitty, abandoned in our minivan by visitors from Milwaukee.


(*note the way we have bound her wee arms behind her back to prevent escape)

Ransom demanded: One case of squirt and a bottle of vodka.

But you'd better send the vodka and squirt soon or else poor Hello Kitty will be abandoned yet again, but this time to the whims of my multiple offspring. Bwa Ha Ha Ha!

( A few of you didn't know what a freak I can be yet, didcha? Now you know.)

WE MUST NOW INTERRUPT THIS BLOG TO BRING...

YOU ARE EXPERIENCING A TEST OF MY ANNUAL "HOLIDAY" LETTER. IF THIS HAD BEEN AN ACTUAL ANNUAL HOLIDAY LETTER IT WOULD HAVE ARRIVED IN YOUR ACTUAL MAILBOX AND WOULD HAVE BEEN ACCOMPANIED BY PHOTOS OF MY SCRUMPTIOUS CHILDREN WHICH YOU COULD AFFIX TO YOUR REFRIDGERATOR. TOO BAD! THIS IS ALL I HAVE TIME FOR THIS YEAR. ENJOY:



Okay. So the big news for all of you who have been living under a Mar's World News Blackout: WE MOVED TO GEORGIA. As in The Southland. The Land of Plenty. The Land of Nefarious Accents and Unseemly Language Usage. The Land of Roads which go hither and yon with ne'er a bit of logic behind their direction nor naming procedures. The Land of the World's Coolest Aquarium. We are officially Southerners.

In other news this year, we added the third (and final) installment to our family with the arrival of Ribh (Yes! Yes! It's pronounced "Reeve" people. Got that already? Let's move on.) Wallis Flannery in January. She was born in front of the kitchen sink with her Mama cursing and her Papa catching with minimal hoopla, as it should be, to our way of thinking. She is growing (and growing and growing, especially those thighs!) and will likely be walking by New Year. She is much beloved by her sibbies and already showing the dramatic bent which is so often characteristic of "The Baby" of the Family. Especially my family. Wheee! She's dern cute tho'.



Quinlan is almost three, going on 16, with her obsessions with clothing, makeup and "being a princess". She is into everything. Really. She is almost magical in her ability to scale great heights and hidden depths to find all things that have been forbidden to her. She has adapted her vocal chords to the point where her Pterydactyl Shrieks have escalated to noises only dogs can hear at times, but overall she is adapting well to longer being the "baby" and becoming a Southern Belle (egads!) all in the same year.



Gabriel has graduated from hanging out at home with us slackers and bon bon eaters to showering and shaving daily before going off on the big yellow bus to kindergarten. Under the southern accented tutelage he has mastered concepts such as phonics and AB patterns and monetary exchanges with alacrity. He also enjoys hanging out with the neighborhood children and emulating Scooby Doo and Shaggy whenever possible. Especially if cookie dough is involved.


Brian (Hubby) is missing his former students and patients but loving life and Life (His new employer) in the Southland. He especially enjoys golfing in winter (when he can get away) and never having to chip ice off his car. He is enjoying being a "City Boy" and loves the company we have finally attracted now that we are no longer residing in Iowa.

I am also missing both students and patients from Iowa but I am content that we are (once again) where we are supposed to be. I have had several major life lessons this year in surrendering control and finding my creative spark once again. It has been good for me to release myself to my creative inclinations and I've managed to refine and teach my Innate Birthing classes and birth my latest offspring, this blog. (Two offspring in one year! It's like Irish Twins or something equally freaky, huh?)

And now's the part where I get all sappy: We have so much to be thankful for this year. I am so grateful for all my friend and family who helped pull us (me) through some really difficult moments this year with kind words, hugs, copious babysitting hours, drives to Iowa, and loving ears who listened to me bitch and kvetch. I want you all to know how much your love (And comments! Yaay for those who post comments!) has meant to me. My faith in the universe was tested this year, but it was the support each of you gave to me and my family that allowed me to see how truly rich and blessed I am.


And so, Tra La La! And Ho HO HO! Merry Christmas to all!

YOU MAY NOW RESUME YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM.

The World's Longest Delay

Yesterday we drove to the airport twice. Once to drop off our visitors and once to pick up our visitors. Because far far away, in the land of snow and sleet, an airport called O'Hare lost its everlovin' mind.

But don't feel sorry for me. Consider my guests (which include a six months pregnant woman and a toddler) who spent six hours in limbo at the airport. And then they came back to my house and we drank vodka and Squirt (except the pregnant woman). And then, this morning, as I was loading the van to drive them back at the airport, they got another call informing them that their "new" flight was cancelled.

But wait. Just now, as we were putting shoes and jackets on all the kids so I could bring them to the airport for their "new new" flight, my guests received a call informing them that their flight was, once again, cancelled. Until tomorrow afternoon. Vodka and Squirt for everyone! Cheers!

(This means there will be no new blogging, unless there is drunken blogging.)

Southern Comfort

Ooops, I did it again. I went awol all week. This week's excuse: COMPANY! Wheeee!

Thursday and Friday were spent preparing for said company. Which means I actually vacuumed all the rooms in my house AT THE SAME TIME. (By which I mean on the same day, not that I somehow overrode the laws of physics and managed to simultaneously exist in more than one place. Jeesh people, don't be so literal!) All the toilets in my home were excrement free momentarily and I made a major shopping trip to Harry's, the mecca of all kick-ass gourmet foods. (I probably shouldn't mention the excrement and food in the same sentence, but that's just how it turned out.)

The company, my college roommate and her husband, my college boyfriend's roommate (confused yet?) arrived with their delightful offspring, Lily (17 months), on Saturday. Since then, we've been busy eating the delightful snacks from Harry's, hanging out, drinking a smidge (ha!), and watching our children roam about snatching each other's toys and sippy cups.

We did make the pilgrimage to Gladys Knight's (and Ron Wynan's) Chicken and Waffles for, you guessed it, Chicken and Waffles. Well, we had the super crispy chicken and delicious malted waffles, Chris and Tracy and Lily had Waffles and Waffles, because they are vegetarians. We had planned to take the children to the Children's museum, but naptime interceded and the meltdowns appeared to be in earnest, so we aborted that plan and opted for some serious napping, and not just of the child variety. We also went to an outlet mall and went out for dinner sans children last night. Clearly, it has been a spectacularly thrilling visit for my company so far.

Today we are planning a trip to the new Georgia Aquarium, which truly is lauded to be spectacularly thrilling. Then we (I) have delusion of a quick trip to IKEA to spend a bit of my Christmas money while we are downtown. This will likely be interrupted by nap needs, but, hey, its 6:30 in the morning, so anything still seems possible.

I am also planning to make cheese fondue for the first time ever for dinner and have MORE COMPANY (with children) over to see if we can maximize our household capacity for sippy cup battles and shrieking. Don't worry, I bought plenty of wine.

Photos to come, I promise.

Woe is Tree!

Where have I been for the past week (well, almost)? I've been putting up my freakin' Christmas Tree. Really! It's been so so fun! (Are you catching all the heavily dripping sarcasm?) Do you want to hear all about it?

On Saturday, we braved the drizzling rain and set off for the cute little local Christmas tree farm I had seen featured in the local county newspaper. The fact that the establishment was featured in the Paulding County Reporter, which arrives free in my driveway every Thursday morning should have been my first tip that this was not a great idea. But alas, I was striving to achieve Super Mama Nirvana with an adorable family trip to cut down our Christmas tree, so we went anyway.

Actually, I am making the process seem much easier than it actually was. Just before leaving the house to set out on this excellent adventure I had a complete meltdown of some type (Over nothing really. Never underestimate the power of female hormones) and spent a half an hour crying in the closet and then mopily apologizing to Hubby and Dr. P for being so insane. The girls were crying and Ribh pooped everywhere just before we left and Gabe was mad because I wouldn't let him bring along some toy and Hubby was getting aggravated by all the hoopla and we hadn't even left our house yet!



We arrived at the tree farm ( I only cried two more times on the way there) and discovered that they had none of the usual varieties we like to get (Douglas Fir) but instead had wild and shaggy "southern varieties" that frankly, sucked. I swear, each and every tree on this rinky-dink tree farm was either a contender for The Most Lopsided Christmas Ever, or sadder than Charlie Brown's worst Christmas nightmare, or a combination of both. Whoever trimmed and shaped these trees was doing it while wasted and blindfolded!



To top it all off, Quin was in total nap-needing meltdown and demanded (by wailing incessantly) that she be held at all times. Since I was slinging Ribh, the lot fell to Hubby to lug Quinny's snotty whining self and the saw as we trudged around it search of a tree that only mostly sucked. Gabe was in charge of the camera, so all photos are courtesy of a five year old and the only member of our party who wasn't whining and crying.

So we picked a tree that only generally sucked and cut it down and paid our $24 for it (Thank God! The only good part of the whole debacle) and drove home, stopping about 15 times along the way to re-tie and ascertain that the tree was still affixed to the roof. Good times!

We brought the tree inside and wrangled it into our tree stand and fought to find a "straight" position considering its hopelessly subluxated (not straight) spine and finally poured some water into the stand and watched in run out like a mini river. I then sent Hubby to the store to buy a new stand to replace the old one which had apparently cracked in the move to Georgia. We got the tree into the new stand, mopped up all the water and began to string lights.

Okay, first of all, how is it that lights which are only one year old and were perfectly functional when they are packed away become completely non-functional after sitting in a cushy box and eating bon bons all day for 345 days? Why do I have to buy five or six new sets of lights every freakin' year??!! Why, I ask you, why??

Also, why does my husband NOT GET that lighting the tree is not a FUN THING that I do JUST FOR FUN!?! Every year I have to beg and plead for him to help me and every year he says the same lame thing: "But Honey, you like to do this". Note to Hubby: I like Christmas. I like Christmas trees. I like presents and carols and ornaments. I do NOT like doing all the decorating myself. I would like it to be a family activity in which people stop watching the football game for like a half hour and smile at each other and light a fire and have a glass of wine or hot chocolate and maybe create some holiday memories. I know I have to give up this dream, but DAMN! It seems so simple and reasonable when I start out each holiday. Sigh. Okay, THAT rant is over now.

But wait, there's more. I paused in the tree decorating extravaganza to nurse Ribh to sleep and was interrupted by a loud crash accompanied by a pitiable screech. Hubby and I convened in the living room where we discovered Quin UNDERNEATH the tree, which had toppled onto the floor, again. Hubby began cursing and picking the dratted thing up and poor Quinny scooted into my arms. We mopped up the water all over our floors again. Dr. P came upstairs and informed us that some of the water had seeped through the floor and was running down the casement window in his bedroom. We also now realized that the tree would doubtlessly need addition tethering to keep if from toppling again. We aborted the operation for the night and went to bed (in tears again on my part.)


The next morning we discovered The World's First Horizontal Christmas Tree. Luckily, I had been too overwrought to remember to refill the water the night before, so we didn't have to deal with the flooding again. We determined that the tree is so unstable (because of its crooked trunk and unbalanced shape) that it was a lost cause. We began searching on the internet for artificial trees.

I will try to streamline this post (too late) by simply saying that I searched the internet, many stores in person and a few tree lots and finally settled on a non-pre-lit tree that I got from some guy on Craig's List for only $60 bucks. I drove 45 minutes each way to pick it up and of course, when I got it home I discovered that it had no tree stand. It only took about three to four hours to assemble properly, and then I had to light it and "help the kids" decorate but three days later I finally have the whole thing up with light and ornaments and the works. I think it may become a permanent part of my living room decor because it was so much damn work to get it there!



Without further ado: Behold! The Holiday Tree!

You Never Know Where the Conversation Will Go

Gabe and I discovered a large-ish spider crawling on his towel as he got out of the bath. He was (understandably) creeped out by this and asked that I "get it" for him. I proposed wrapping it in toilet paper and throwing it in the toilet, which he was all for.

But then, as I flushed the toilet, the questions began.

Gabe: Mom, where did the spider go?

Me: I flushed it. It went in our septic system.

Gabe: What else could we have done with it?

Me: Well, we could have put it outside, but it would freeze at night and it would die. We could leave it to crawl around our house but I don't want it to crawl around on me when I am sleeping so I would rather not keep it in our house.

Gabe: Me neither!

Me: Actually, I kinda squished it a bit when I picked it up with the toilet paper.

Gabe: So, it's dead. Spiders can die?

Me: Yup. It's dead. Everything dies eventually.

Gabe: Even you and me?

Me: Yes, but we probably won't die for a long long time and we will be very old.

Gabe: Old, like Papa (Hubby)?

Me: NO, much much older. Like a Grandpa.

Gabe: (Aghast and a bit emotional) But I don't want to be old.

Me: Why not? (starting to feel bad for all my frank talk)

Gabe: I don't want to have hair grow out of my nose.

Me: (Chortling) It's okay Gabe. You don't have to let hair grow out of your nose, even when you are very old.

When Babies Find Markers

The budding artist's first masterpiece. Her own face. It's like one of those tribal tattoos.

I couldn't pick just one photo 'cuz she's just that cute! And brilliant.


And yes, the marker was washable! Hooray!