All dolled up

Isn't it glorious fun being a girl?

the god complex (continued)

I woke up with benevolence coursing through my veins, so I must award more points before I spontaneously combust. Hmmm, let’s see.

Ten points to Nate for being related to me. Heck, that deserves twenty. And a bonus five for enduring many years of being mistaken for my twin. (Which is strange, don’t you think, considering how much cuter I am than you? Fortunately for you, I can’t hear your snickering from halfway around the globe, so you can keep your points. For now.)

And to those of you (you know who you are) who thought you’d land on the scoreboard by sending me comments or emails, well, sorry. That would resemble something like practicality, which would guarantee the aforementioned combustion. Better luck next time.

Zee

Insomnia, it seems, is hereditary.

Although I suppose that technically what I experience is not insomnia. It’s more of a lie-down-in-bed-and-instantly-find-six-billion-things-to-ponder-mnia. I get it from my mom.

She ponders (read: worries) about insurance and IRA’s and if everyone has brushed their teeth and changed their underwear.

My ponderings are a little less practical.

Like: do you think an orange is called an orange because it’s orange, or do you think orange is called orange because an orange is orange?

And: if everything in the universe was shrinking at the same rate, no one would ever notice. (Insert eerie “dun-dun-dun” here. It helps if you sing it.)

Last night the I’m-awake-mnia struck again. This time it was thoughts about Zee, being that it was his sixth birthday and all, and well...I was thinking about how we almost didn’t get to keep him.

I was six, maybe seven weeks pregnant when it began: that sudden, alarming rush of fluid, tinged pink with blood. Amniotic fluid? I had no idea. But whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

Off to the ER we went.

The doc there said I had nice teeth, which was good news, I thought, considering that an orthodontist had likely vacationed somewhere tropical on the cost of aligning those choppers. But hey, since we’re here and all, could you please tell me if my baby’s okay?

A couple of tests later, we had the verdict: a large hemorrhage on the placenta. Not good indeed. My OB said I had a 2/3rds chance of losing this one, and so, well, pray.

Which I was doing already.

Lots and lots of people joined us in the praying. Boatloads of people. I kept bleeding, they kept praying. We bled/prayed through the whole nine months. And then he was here.

I can’t begin to imagine life without Zee, and more importantly, I don’t want to. His hugs come easily, and there’s even something winsome (albeit simultaneously vexing) about his melodrama (“I’m not going to make my bed again, never never ever!”). He still runs like a little boy, one arm pumping, feet galloping in a slightly off-beat cadence. And the way he wiggles his eyebrows when he’s telling a story? Downright enchanting.

So to all of you who were pray-ers 6.75 years ago...thank you. My heart is full.

What six looks like

Today was Zee's sixth (!) birthday.

It began with a wee bit of disappointment...Em turned up ill this morning, so we had to phone the invitees to postpone the merriment and general chaos. It turns out, though, that we generated a sufficient amount of both on our own.

First, making the pizzas...



Next, the cake (while the pizzas baked)



Presents--Bee labored for hours creating gift wrap (light sabers on white paper) and Star Wars cards for his brother:



And the rest of the hullaballoo...



And this is six: crazy and undeniably sweet.

A walk with Elle

Elle is at the age where she wants “down, Mommy, down” so she can walk wherever it is we’re going herself. I am at the age where I am having no more children and she's my youngest and I want to carry her. But I’m working on this, truly I am. Which brings me to today.


Today the two of us went for a walk.

When I go alone, the walk is more of a jog and consists of plunking one foot in front of the other, plus a good deal of breathing, a bit of sweat, and the occasional creaking of bones which really ought not be happening to someone my age. Go out, go in, take a shower.

A walk with Elle is different. To say the least.

To her, a walk goes a little like this:

Run part way down the drive, knock on the back of the van door so the door will open and your stroller will come out. Do a happy almost-jump (where your feet never actually leave the ground, although they intend to) when Mom says that no, honey, we don’t need the stroller, you get to walk today.

Run to the end of the driveway and promptly stop. Call over your shoulder: "'Mon, Mommy, 'mon!"

Take a few steps. Bend down to pat your shadow. Walk over to pat Mom’s shadow. Practice saying shadow. “Da-dow. Dadow.”

Take a few steps. Bend down to pick up shiny rocks. Pick up every rock you see from here to the end of the road.

Say, “Here, Mommy, here. Here,” and make Mom the designated rock holder.

Hold Mom’s free hand while you cross the road.

Take a few more steps. Walk along the edge of someone’s lawn so you can listen to the crabgrass smish-smash beneath your shoes in a whispery sort of way.

Pick some grass and hand it to Mom, saying, “Fowers. Fowers.”

Take a few steps. Wave to houses, SUV’s, your shadow, the sky.


Crunch through the gravel. Turn around and crunch back in the opposite direction. Reluctantly turn again when Mom leads you forward by the hand.

Take a few more steps. Whisper, “Birdie, birdie,” when a sparrow hops alongside you through the grass.

Walk to the middle of the road and sit down. Stand up, take a few steps, and repeat.

Reach for a basketball marooned in the tall grass of someone else’s yard. Say, “Ball, ball” fifty times. Whimper when Mom picks you up and carries you away.

Ask Mom for the rocks. Take the rocks from her hand, one by one, and throw them as far as possible, which is maybe two feet.

Turn around and gaze longingly at the yard with the ball.

Walk to the middle of the road and sit down. Pat some dirt; look at your muddy hand in dismay. Wipe your hand on your pink shirt.

Tell Mommy, “Up, up!” and reach with both arms.

Push away and want down once she picks you up.

Take a few more steps. Tell Mommy, “Up, up!” and this time really mean it.

Let Mom carry you the rest of the way home because you’re tired of walking and besides, it makes her happy.

wooo-wooooo

And we're back with more points to give away! This point-giving thing is jolly good fun. Just imagine what I'd be like if I won the lottery! Not that this will ever happen, mind you, as there seems to be some sort of correlation between actually playing the lottery and winning it. Plus, I think I might have a religious objection to it, but I’m not positive. I’ll get back to you on that one.

Fifty points to LJ for outgrowing his clothes, so my boys have tons of stylish stuff for the upcoming school year. My children would be in danger of chronic nakedness if it weren't for you. And if they knew I said that, they’d be giggling. Apparently any conversation involving the word “naked” breeds instant hilarity.

Drumroll, please...

And today, ladies and gentlemen, I award ten points to Kristin for being the first (and only) person to post a comment on this lovely thing of a blog.

I envision this point system to function much like my husband’s favorite comedy show, “Whose Line is it, Anyway?”, where the points are awarded randomly and generously and really don’t count for anything.

Although.

I am sort of tinkering with the idea of posting a bunch of odd prizes for redemption, using your oh-so-hard-earned-points, sometime in the distant future. So you never know.

And while we’re at it, ten points to Loren for adding me to his mailing list just in time to send me an email concerning a decapitated canary, and a negative thirty points for promptly losing me again.

Patience (or a lack thereof)

Just for the record, I am *very* annoyed that Moda's Chocolat line does not come out till fall. And yes, I know that I can italicize words here, but I prefer asteriks for emphasis. ****** Aren't they lovely? Although I suppose having them all in a row like that makes it look like I cussed, which I assure you I did not. But back to my rant.

Somebody with way-up-there connections please go have a word with Moda because I need this fabric. As in Right. Now.

The limits of luminescence

Last night a firefly lost its way and wound up in our bedroom.

I don’t know if he slipped through an unseen crevice in the screened windows, or took a wrong turn from the lawn through the door in mid-dance.

But there he was, flitting an erratic path through the inky midnight air, blinking like crazy in a valiant and futile display of luminescence for the mate that was not there.

And as I watched him criss-cross the room for what seemed like hours, it struck me that he was a flickering, living picture of loneliness.

Just a firefly, I know. It’s strange how something can be trivial and poignant all at the same time.

And that's why we call her "Stinkerbelle"

My kids have this thing for lemonade.

I have this thing for 100% fruit juice. Still, sometimes I cave.

Yesterday was one of those times. It was Very Hot Indeed, because, well, it’s July. And we were sitting around staring at each other, reluctant to move a millimeter for fear of perspiring.

Okay, so I was sitting there, reluctant to move a millimeter, while my children ran in haphazard circles around me.

At some point, the jumbled pile of damp bodies clamored their way to me, saying, “Lemonade?”

And I said, “Orange Juice?”

And The Pile said, “Lemonade?”

Me: “Apple Juice?”

Pile: “Lemonade?”

“Tomato Juice?”

“Mom!”

So, being the good mum that I am, I whipped up a batch of lemonade. Which is to say, I mixed one part powder with three parts water, as we had no lemons hanging about our place.

This is when I made my first mistake. I handed Elle some of the tart liquid in a non-spill-proof sippy cup.

Those of you with young children know that the world is populated with two kinds of sippy cups: the regular kind, and the spill-proof kind. Although truly, the spill-proof variety is more like spill-retardant; it just slows the process down a bunch. But I’m assuming “spill-retardant” didn’t look as appealing on the cardboard packaging. So.

My second mistake was remaining in the kitchen to pour a glass for Em while Elle headed for the living room.

When she reappeared at my side, asking for “more nemnade,” I initially thought that she is a Really Fast Drinker. It turns out, however, that she is a Really Fast Spiller. Or Pourer, to be more precise.

I must say that it is quite alarming how much liquid can escape through those four teensy holes in the time it takes for me to turn around and grab the cup from Elle.

Why they even make the non-spill-proof-sort, I have no earthly idea.

She is quite adorable, and very much the stinkerbelle in the family. But to her credit, she is not too shabby at sopping up lemonade puddles.

Things with which I harbor an unhealthy obsession

1. Hats and purses. Those of you who Know Me Personally are checking to see if you’re reading the right blog because you know that: a) I haven’t worn a hat since 1952, and b) I own all of one purse (in a yummy shade of kiwi that matches absolutely nothing). But. If you think about two seconds longer, it will dawn on you that (of course) I am not talking about hats and purses for me. I am talking about hats and purses for Elle.

The sad and sorry truth is that ever since Elle was born, shopping for myself has ceased. I see lovely women’s polka dotted knee socks trimmed with eyelet and ribbons and instantly I wonder where I might find such socks for Elle.

I don’t know if this happens to normal people, or if this malady is limited to those of us whose fourth child is (finally) a girl. But here it is, and, far as I can tell, it’s not going away. So.

Elle has ended up with a delightful collection of hats that, truly, she does like. It’s not so much that she likes wearing them, as it is that she likes putting them on and taking them off. More of a dress-up type activity, and not a cheap one at that.

Her purse collection has just begun, but is destined to exponentially reproduce. The ones she has now are ruffled, flowered, teeny little things in which she places such trinkets as Daddy's keys and cell phone and wallet. It is great fun for everyone but Daddy.

And now I can see that what started out as A List has turned into A Rambling of Sorts, or worse yet, A Digression. So we shall try for number two tomorrow. Maybe.

Budding van Gogh's

Body art is big in our family. No, I don’t mean the smear-tinted-mud-on-a-stranger’s-belly type of body art. The kind I mean is far simpler (and much less disturbing). Here are step-by-step instructions in case you’d like to recreate this experience in your own home.

1. Find any type of writing utensil. Pens, markers, and highlighters work best. Crayons and pencils, not so good.
2. Hide from Mom.
3. Draw all over your knees, arms, stomach, palms; any part of exposed skin will do. Be careful when drawing on your own nose.
4. Alternate between long, graceful curves, and quick dots and dashes. Circles have a particular aesthetic appeal, but they can be tricky.
5. When you run out of room, draw on your brother’s leg. It helps if he holds still.
6. Proudly tell Mom, “I draw!” and point to masterpieces (if brother mentioned above has not already told on you).

Elle is an expert at body art, and Em is not far behind. I used to be somewhat alarmed at things like this, but that was about three kids ago. I have since found out that children are very washable. Much more so than curtains, walls, and other people’s leather couches.

I’ve learned to pick my battles.

Bewilderment

So today I've decided to plunge into the blogging community. Assuming that some brave soul is actually reading this...you'll notice that all the previous posts bear today's date (since I uploaded them today), but at the start of each entry, I've dated them the day I actually wrote them.

Because life is not already confusing enough as it is.

Things I'm in love with today

7.11.06
1. Three year olds who always seem to need a haircut.
2. Sunshine filtered through maple leaves, dotting the lawn with scraps of gold.
3. Brothers who play pirates in the back yard.

4. Kisses from babies who must concentrate to get to the smacking part.
5. The way Elle sings, "Dooby dooby dooby" whenever Scooby Doo appears on the screen.
6. Fathers who, no matter how old you get, still do their best to take care of you (especially on days when the aforementioned fathers send you money in the mail). Thanks, Dad!

Wishes

7.9.06

I've never been much of a hugger. I'm affectionate with my children when they're little, but that's about where it ends.

Still, you never know how much you'd like to hug a person until they're five thousand miles away, and it's their birthday.

Happy Birthday, Mum! I owe you, well, hmmm...my life.

 

On relaxation

7.6.06

When you are one, you are bossy. Elle is an aspiring dictator. It does not occur to her that her littleness makes her the least likely candidate for this position in our family.

I sprawled out across the bed today in hopes of a few minutes' reprieve from the chaos of mommyhood. Within thirty seconds, Elle was at my side, pulling my fingers, insisting, "Mon! Mon!" (Translation: "Come on!" for those of you who don't speak Elle.) "Mommy, MONNNNNN!"

She does this quite often, and generally I give in at some point. This is partly out of the guilt that I do not pay close enough attention to my children much of the time; that they are racing towards adolescence right under my nose, and I am missing it. And partly (okay, mostly) out of the fact that She Is Cute.

I have learned that Elle is not usually headed anywhere in particular, or perhaps she has forgotten her intended destination as she totters down the hall, mommy in tow. The main point is that she has confirmed that the universe does, indeed, spin around her wishes, which do not include any type of mommy relaxation.

First Puddles

7.5.06

Zee has learned to ride a bike today. True, he is almost six, and true, the bike has training wheels, but this is a big accomplishment for him.

This late start is largely due to the lack of a bike at the age when most of his friends learned to ride, and the presence of too much sense when he finally did have a bike. The blasted thing could kill him, after all.

Zee's world is spiked with melodrama. He trudges through life with the conviction that the universe is conspiring against him, and this includes his bike.

But today he was ready.

We went the long way around the block, which involved a good deal of whining that the pedals were too hard, and a dozen times of getting stuck midway up a hill. Bee was a great sport at hopping off his own bike to give Zee the needed push to get going again.

It had stormed the night before, and as we approached a stretch of leftover rainwater, Zee proclaimed, "My first puddle!" and gleefully (and slowly) pedaled through the middle of it.

And as I watched him ride out in front of me, his back speckled with gray puddle water, I felt a certain measure of satisfaction in his joy and evident pride in this accomplishment, however belated it may be.

Pavement

7.4.06

So I ran a mile today.

This is a grand thing in theory, but an unpleasant (borderline wretched) experience in practice, I assure you. Largely because it has been a good nine years since I have done anything resembling running on a regular basis.

I can now appreciate the mantra, "I'm in no shape to get in shape." It's true.

Back then, in my late teens, early twenties, I ran, oh, five or six miles a day. This is not because I was dedicated or persistent or particularly tenacious. It's because it was easy.

Now, in my almost-thirty-ness, this is not the case. At all.

And while I was plodding along I had the overwhelming suspicion that my body had betrayed me, that somewhere, very quietly, all the muscle had gone on holiday, never to be heard from again. And meanwhile, spotting the "vacant" sign, a jolly family of flab had settled on in, step-brothers, second cousins, great-aunts and all.

And to those of you muttering that it's about time I gained some weight, in the words of good ol' Willy, "Get thee to a nunnery!" Or at least a confessional. You are in serious need of repentance.

On Pixies

6.29.06

I cut Elle's hair last week. This is about her fourth haircut, since, like all our children, she has a mopfull. But this one was different. This was The Big Cut.

I think she looks fabulous, an unlikely combination of demure and pixie-ish. Hubby does not like it one bit.

Me: "So what do you think?"

Him: "It's different." By which he means, What on earth did you do to my little girl's hair?

Fortunately for him, it will grow back. And fortunately for me, I can cut it again. Thus begins the hair wars.

To Do

6.28.06

I have discovered that I am quite adept at finding Other Things to Do when I should be doing The Things that Need to be Done.

Today I have to finish sewing a rather large custom order, plus fold laundry, clean the house, babysit a friend's pair of children, pack for a weekend jaunt to the in-laws, and code the html for this set:

I have found, though, that it is much more pleasant to watch Mary Poppins with Em and Elle, or blog, or sketch out new outfits instead. It is particularly pleasant to eat ice cream in a waffle bowl with a dollop of Cool Whip. Life is brimming with pleasantries.

But I suppose I shall peel off my narcissism and get back to sewing.

And then there were two

6.27.06

I can feel myself breathing today.

The house is quiet, almost serene, and at times like this I notice the details, the bypassed nuances of life.

My older two, whom we shall call Zee and Bee (the creativity well is dry indeed, folks), are in Michigan with the grandparents. Hub is in Mississippi with the teens, sifting through the wreckage left by Katrina's wrath, rebuilding.

And I am in between, in a quiet and clean house with Elle and Em (the latter of whom is a boy, just to clear things up).

In this blessed two-ness, I have learned a few things. First, it is very hard to turn down a "more cookies?" request from a child who pronounces it "tooties." Especially when this child lacks cookies not because she has eaten them all, but because she has given them away. And to her brother, to boot.

Number two. Hmmm. Okay, so thus far I have only learned one thing. But more are coming, I can feel it.

 

---

 

6.27.06 continued

All right, I'm back. Number two: cookie dances are very rewarding. For those of you unfamiliar with a cookie dance, it consists of the word "tootie" over and over, with a measure of happy bouncing as one walks toward the cupboard.

Number three: when you are one, you walk cute. I don't know when the cuteness goes, exactly, or how it seeps away, but by two, three at the most, it is definitely finished. Luckily, oodles of other things are quite yummy at those ages, like made up vocabularies and stealth practicing.

On vocabularies:
Zee has this word "poink." We've ascertained, from context, that it means a combination of poke and point. And when you are almost six, life is full of poinky things. Such as:

"Mom, something in my shirt is poinking me."

Brothers are poinky too. "Stop it! I said stop it! Mom, he poinked me in the head!"

This I will assuredly miss when he is seven.

The stealth rehearsals usually involve some form of Sneaking Up on Mom. Bee and Zee give each other missions to accomplish: crawl down the hallway and belly-slither into the room where Mom is sewing, without being detected. Rarely are these missions successful, as the boys are still rather detectable.

Once in a while they manage a stealth exercise that does not involve me as the target. One such occasion occurred on a memorable night last week, long after the children had been relegated to bed.

From my sewing room down the hall, I could tell that much fun was being had. Entirely too much fun for children who had been sent to bed. So I ambled from my chair in time to witness Bee zip from his room, fire a dart gun into his brothers' bedroom, then race back across the hall and dive into bed. A cursory glance into room number two revealed Zee and Em, both out of bed, crouched with dart guns in hand.

The guns went quickly missing.

And although the boys got a good scolding, I must admit that I laughed the whole way back to my sewing machine.

Yummyness abounds.

Ode to an uncle

6.26.06

I have this uncle who keeps letting my addy slip off the bottom of his mailing list, so I thought if I wrote him an ode, I might get myself reinstated.

Somebody go tell him about this, preferably interjecting adjectives like "brilliant" and "witty" into the telling.

Ode to Loren

A poem for a dear, wise uncle of mine
Your toenails are clean and your ears really shine

Your pearly whites hold not one smidgen of plaque
In wit, heart, and stature there's not much you lack

Ninety-nine percent prince and just one percent toad
But now we are done, for I'm all out of ode.

Hmmm. Now that I've written it I'm guessing it's more likely to get me permanently deleted than reinstated. Oh well. I like it; it's staying.

Happy Monday to all.

Preface

So the truth is that I've been putting off this blogging thing for quite some time now because, well, I don't like the word "blog." Or any form of it, for that matter. Blogging, blogger, blogged...it all sounds awkward, about an eight on the embarrassing-words-to-utter scale. Right up there with lollygag and frankly and tush.

But I'm over it.

So here it goes, partly for my mom and MIL, who will welcome the more frequent, albeit sporadic, glimpses into the lives of their grandkids. And partly for my kids, who will someday have a fairly reputable record of their childhood.

But mostly, to tell the truth, it's for me. I was going to expound on my love for the written word, and the sense of liberation and catharsis that comes with journaling. But then I decided to be honest: I like to hear myself talk.

If you have earplugs handy, now would be the time.