Lumpyhead

I Bet Netflix Has Erratic Handwriting

2012-01-30T11:57:00.000-05:00

Netflix is totally turning into that tragic crazy chic from college, isn't it? First it was all those drunk emails from Reed whatshisname (I'm raising prices! I'm splitting into two companies! Why don't the boys think I'm pretty?) and lately I feel like Netflix is threatening me. Those emails entitled "How was the picture quality on ______?" feel slightly menacing. I'm monitoring your viewing habits, and I'm ready to tell your spouse about them at any time. Don't think you can just stream Mannequin 2, then delete it from your queue before she sees it. Don't you take me for granted, dammit. I'm cuter and thinner than she is. Wait, don't run, I bought you some flowers. . .

Lego Ninjago

2012-01-29T01:44:00.001-05:00

Are your kids as into this as mine are? Oh, the love. They can't wait until Wednesday night, when the next episode airs. Even Lula is hooked, rooting for the little sister who kicks ass and is promised that with patience, she will also be rewarded.

We watched some of the videos on the Lego website, and things took a turn for the unfortunate. There's a clip of the girl character, right properly kicking butt while one of the boys waits outside, trying to muster the courage to ask her out. When he hears a sign of trouble and swoops in to help, she's already taken out the bad guys (and has a pretty new bracelet too). The bad guys are mortified that they have been "beaten by a girl," but they're bad guys and not very bright, so it's possible to spin that into a not horrible moment. But why is this clip on the website, and not in the show itself? Scared of alienating the boy audience, are we Lego? ("I'm a white male, aged 18 to 49, everybody listens to me. Ah, nuts and gum, together at last.")

I'm willing to let it go, time constraints, maximizing the target audience and all, but in the next clip the girl character calls her brother "Stupid," and well, let's just say my children reacted as though she had just called him a Fucking Fuckwad. No, wait, it would have actually been better if she had called him a Fucking Fuckwad. Because in my house, stupid is a very powerful word that we might, in very dire circumstances, use to describe things; but not ever, ever use to describe people. And Nya, the only character Lego has given my daughter to identify with, drops the S-bomb on her brother. Bravo.

You know, the last time I used the word stupid in my house was to describe the new "Girl Legos," come to think of it. I told a friend that "making some of the bricks pink and making the minifigures look stupid is not the key to grabbing a girl audience." Lumpyhead was in the room and looked at me very gravely and whispered "You said stupid," and I retorted "and that's what I meant" and he trumpeted "I think they're stupid too" and we had to talk about things grown ups can do but kids can't. Like drink beer. So thanks for that.

So, what's my point? I don't have a point. I've been sick for three days and the nyquill has only half kicked-in and I can't get that damn theme song out of my head. Oh, and Nathan Jr is using everything he can get his hands on to spinjitsu his brother and sister, so we've got gold stars for brilliance all over this damn joint. Bring me some tea.

If Lucas Hadn't Sold Pixar

2012-01-25T09:52:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure Lumpyhead is aware of the backstory, but eventually everything runs together in his head anyway.

I give you the SCARIEST of the Sith Lords:

Darth Zurg

He's evil. (Obviously) You can tell by the eyebrows.

This Is Why You Should Not Have a Blog

2012-01-23T11:21:00.002-05:00

There seems to be a natural lull in parent blogging when the children reach a certain age. Maybe it's because the stories are no longer yours, or because you get a glimmer of life aside from parenting, or because once you step away from the habit it's hard to take it up again.

It's not just that I haven't been posting here. I haven't been reading elsewhere, either. My days are full and when I get home I just can't find the urge to sit back down in front of the screen.

But I miss the community that accompanies blogging. I miss you guys. Today I had a spare moment and used it to catch up with some of you.

And you broke my heart.

When last I checked, Susan was going to Cars 2 and space conferences. She was cutting a foam egg crate on twitter. I clicked over to her blog and had one of those "Wait, where am I?" moments.

You should not have a blog because you eventually neglect it. You should not have a blog because through it you make connections with dear friends who write beautifully. You should not have a blog because on a Monday morning you will have to close your door and cry.

Positively Paultardian

2011-12-15T15:39:00.002-05:00

The Kiss and Ride was swarming with cops this morning.

There were three patrol cars, flashing lights, officers with ticket books in hand, and two vehicles pulled over in the parking lot.

I was hoping for a clandestine ops bust, but they were just doing seat belt enforcement.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.
a) Liberal Smug - Hooray for keeping all those kiddos safe! Let's build safe habits that last a lifetime!
b) Conservative Crank - Boo for police state over-reach. It's a five minute ride to school, at 10 MPH max. Do we really need to be writing tickets?
c) Fiscal Realist - I guess the county needs new revenue, and this is easier than speed cameras or higher property taxes.
d) Black Helicopter Nutjob - Why are these people watching me? Who else is watching me? I'm not paranoid, you're paranoid. Someone give me a metal colander and some tin foil.

Six

2011-12-13T11:38:00.003-05:00

I cannot get a decent photo of Lumpyhead. He is either moving or looking away. If he is standing still and facing the camera, his mouth is wide open or he has the crazy eyes.

For example:

The First Day of School

Pumpkin Picking (You can still call it "picking" when it's actually "selecting," right?)

And yes, I follow the advice of "take lots of pictures to ensure you get a good one." These are the good ones. I'm not subjecting you to the hundreds of even worse ones.

Oh Christ.

So Your Brother Is Getting A New Lego Every Damn Night

2011-12-07T16:13:00.012-05:00

Thanks for all your help on that last post. Not. Everyone but Delora is shunned.

. . .

Okay, shortest shunning ever. I realize I post sporadically and stupidly, so you're forgiven. Most of you.

Even though you don't deserve it, I present:

Advent Calendar Ideas for a Four-Year-Old Girl Whose Mother Doesn't Want to Spend a Zillion Dollars and Whose Brother is Getting New Legos Every Damn Night

1. Paper dolls - I printed out some of those old school Betsy McCall dolls on cardstock (before I saw the awesome magnetized version on Cool Mom Picks). Unfortunately, I had given Lula a couple of these already, and if I tried to bust them out again for IS NOT A LEGO advent, she would have called bullshit on that faster than if I gave her nothing.

2. Ballet themed items - I found tickets to a version of The Nutcracker that's targeted to her age group, and she while she liked it a lot, it only took care of one night. Less than one night, actually, because when the time came for her brothers to get advent calendars, "But we went to the ballet!" was not an acceptable answer to "Where's MINE?"

(Duh.)

I thought I could knit some ballet-like slippers for her, but I'm not a great knitter. Three hours later, ROW 7 OF 7,891 laughed heartily at my expense.

(Make TWO. AH HA HA HA HA.)

3. The Winner: Felt dolls for a flannelboard

They are cheap, novel, and surprisingly easy. Most nights, as Bump is getting dinner on the table, I realize I haven't prepared this evening's outfit and go running off to put scissors to felt.

We don't have a proper flannelboard, but the doll sticks to the back of the couch.

On the first night I gave Lula the doll with eyes, lips, and hair; along with a few clothes. (Sorry about the blurry, I suck at this.)

You probably could draw the face on with markers, or be fancy and embroider some features on the thing, but I was striving for full reversibility and - more importantly - speed. I didn't have brown or black felt in the house (honestly, I was lucky to have any felt on hand), so I made the hair with yarn.

I also made a second hairstyle option.

It's funnier, but is too heavy to stick to the doll when she's vertical.

Lula named her Charlotte - or Scarlett, it depends on when you ask - and is passably excited about getting a new outfit every night.

With the scraps you can make bows and polka dots to decorate the clothes. You could glue the embellishments on, but they also just stick to the felt.

To be honest, making the outfits is kind of fun.

This was the outfit Lula received on the night we went to The Nutcracker.

The tutu was too short, so the next night Charlotte/Scarlett got underpants. (The underpants also make great -- and highly hilarious if you're a four-year-old -- hats.)

I have a few more outfits ready to go, but when Nana arrives tomorrow I'm turning this all over to her. I'm predicting that's when the real awesomeness will start.

Advent-urous

2011-12-01T14:15:00.007-05:00

As if we need a build-up to Christmas on top of "on the 25th of this month, you'll get a shitload of toys," we're starting advent calendars tonight.

We have beautiful advent calendars in the house, handmade by Bump's mom. One uses vintage Christmas cards. Beneath each number is a perfect image of the holidays, and the tormentors dismiss this gorgeous item of masterful paper-crafting with a shrug. They sulk through the nightly opening as if they're being punished.

Last year Grammy made 25 delicate, glorious boxes to be filled with candy on the appropriate day. The kids prefer the 99-cent chocolate advent calendars from Trader Joe's. It baffles me, as Grammy's pretty little boxes have more candy, but I suppose the volume argument is undercut by having to share the advent bounty with siblings.

Yesterday, Bump went to the Lego store and secured a Lego Star Wars advent calendar. Lumpyhead is going to lose his mind when he sees it. I was happy he found one, but immediately realized that Lula is going to pitch a fit when she realizes how comparatively screwed she is getting.

I know escalation is not the answer, but I would really like to avoid spending a) the month of December listening to her complain about how unfair this all is, and b) a zillion dollars on presents before Christmas.

But com'on, Lumpyhead is about to get new Legos every night. Lula is getting . . . well, nothing.

Ideas?

Oh, and I need twenty-five of them.

I need one of them in about four hours. GO.

(While you're at it, I'll need something for Nathan Jr., too. WOE)

Eastern Standard Time, Baby

2011-11-07T13:32:00.001-05:00

Remember when "falling back" meant you got an extra hour of sleep? When the worst thing that happened was that you showed up for football an hour too soon? When you didn't have fingers poking you in the eye an hour earlier than usual, and you didn't have to deal with strung-out chimpanzees at bedtime?

Yeah, me either.

Despicable Me Costumes

2011-11-02T10:07:00.003-04:00

Hope you had a happy Halloween.

Toilet Humor. Kind of.

2011-09-30T15:42:00.002-04:00

An ad on the Washington Post website told me that Kohler has a new potty. It looks like this.

According to the website, it literally wipes your ass for you. Plays music, warms the seat, lifts the seat, lowers the seat, etc. etc. etc.

Now, I realize that marketing artsy photos are not meant to depict real life, but am I really supposed to believe these pictures? (Photos taken from the Kohler website)

It's a POTTY. Right out there in the middle of the room, in full view of God, Oprah, and the entire city of Los Angeles. How is that supposed to work?

I can't even go if there's someone in the stall next to me.

There Oughta Be a Law - Or at Least an Advance Notice of Proposed Rulemaking

2011-09-22T10:53:00.001-04:00

Anyone who has read more than three sentences on this blog knows how I feel about profanity: I curse a lot. I even curse in my head; I often find myself sanitizing my words before I speak or write them. Really.

I understand that coarse language can be offensive, so I don't mind hearing an occasional bleep on the federally regulated airwaves.

But honestly, FCC, can we do something about the sound of sirens or horns on the radio? Broadcasters, can we apply a little self-regulation? Like many people, I listen to the radio in my car. When I hear a horn or siren, I don't immediately assume it's coming from my speakers. I eventually realize that a producer or reporter intentionally put those sounds into a recorded radio piece, and let me just say: STOP THAT THIS INSTANT.

At least warn me that it's coming, radio host, so I don't start looking for a place to pull over.

Note to Armando Trull, intrepid reporter from my local public radio station: You're effing killing me, dude. Knock it the heck off. (See? Self-regulation. It's easy!*)

*The normal filthy cursing you have come to expect from me will resume momentarily.

3-D Glasses are Racist

2011-08-05T15:52:00.000-04:00

Before my mother left - seriously, ten hours before she got on the plane - Bump and I decided that we needed to eek out the last little bit of Granny Nanny and went to a movie.

We saw Harry Potter in imax 3D and let me just say:
1. Wow. Holy fricken amazing.
2. $17.50 per ticket? Jebuz.

3. 3D Glasses are racist.

You know how - or maybe you don't - 3D glasses should sit about an inch from your face for optimum effectiveness? Well, that's hard if your nose doesn't have a bridge.

I'm just saying.

Aunt Bob suggested that there could be "Asian 3D glasses," but that would probably be EVEN WORSE.

I offered that at least those glasses would be good at math.

Cascade Falls

2011-07-29T16:04:00.000-04:00

Hey, remember that time we went to Maine and Lula was not tall enough to ride Cascade Falls? Well, our long national nightmare is over.

Yeah, the other photo was funnier.

Lumpyhead's Bedroom Door

2011-07-26T11:14:00.000-04:00

When we got back from Maine, Lumpyhead made new signs for his bedroom door and taped them up:

Problems with this:
1. Orthography
He misspelled "Babies."

2. Enforcement
Nathan Jr can't read, so is unlikely to honor the sign. Lula can read, and even understands the intent of the restriction, but is unlikely to care about some stupid sign her brother wrote.

3. Exclusions
Lumpyhead later clarified that the prohibition did not apply to grownups, or to people who live in our house. Since we don't get many non-family girls or babies in the house - certainly none who want to visit his room - it is unclear who he is seeking to keep out with these postings.

A Very Lula Bedtime Story

2011-07-25T22:14:00.000-04:00

One night a Very Tired, Very Naughty Little Girl refused to go to sleep.

She demanded seven braids in her very tangled hair, and wiggled through each one.

But after her mother went downstairs to watch the baseball game, the little girl snuck out of her bed. She traipsed through both of her brothers' rooms, waking the boys up. When her mother caught her, the little girl claimed she was "looking for a new book."

She was harshly sent back to her bedroom, and the little girl cried.

"I can't sleep," she complained. "I close my eyes, but they only stay closed for a little while."

Her mother suggested that the Very Tired, Very Naughty Little Girl should think happy thoughts. She could remember all the fun she had in Maine with her cousins the week before. She could imagine what splendid things she would do in the morning, or later in the week. Perhaps she could go to the library. But for now, the Very Tired, Very Naughty Little Girl had to go to sleep.

She was told to think about Big Mama's Beach House, and the excitement in store for her there. The little girl's father suggested that she could swim in the water, or build sand castles, or lie in the hammock.

"I like to drink sweet tea," the Very Tired, Very Naughty Little Girl said happily.

And then she fell asleep.

Independence Day in DC with Kids

2011-07-05T15:59:00.003-04:00

"Someday," I have always said. "Someday we will take the kids to see the fireworks on the Mall. Maybe even go to the concert on the Capitol lawn."

Because, why shouldn't we? It's free. We can park in my work lot, a block away from the Capitol. The kids love fireworks. Gramma is in town.

2011, yesterday, was that someday.

If you're considering your own visit to Washington DC's celebration of America's birthday, here are some tips from my first-hand experience. I hope you find them helpful.

DO: ARRIVE EARLY.
Do not, for example, eat dinner at home at six o'clock and then breeze into the city for the 8 pm event.

But I have guaranteed parking nearby.
Yes, but you will still need to drag your entire sweating and complaining family for half-mile, around barricades and fencing, to the security checkpoint.

But the concert is broadcast on big screens, so you don't need to see the stage.
Yes, and the people who have been waiting on the West Lawn all day will have a clear view of the screens. You, and your sweating and complaining family, will not be able to see them. If you move around twice, further back and toward the porta-potties, you might be able to see a little bit of the top of one of them.

DON'T: CELEBRATE IN JULY.
Because it's fricken hot in DC in the summer. And it rains. A lot. It rains so much that your initial brilliant idea - attend the dress rehearsal of the concert the night before - will be closed to the public because of dangerous thunderstorms. It is so hot that after one hour your Minnesotan mother will insist that the sweat running into her eye might actually kill her. It will also start to rain lightly during the concert, prompting you and your husband to pull the plug on this whole ill-advised adventure.

But Independence Day is always in July.
I don't know what to tell you about that. I have no solution. Try Canada Day.

DON'T: BRING A STOMACH BUG
Guess how I gained the knowledge that the view was a little better closer to the porta-potties?

DO: USE ALTERNATE FIREWORKS VIEWING LOCATIONS
Bump's last-minute decision to "try Hains Point" after fleeing the Capitol was inspired. We found easy parking at the golf course, and had an unobstructed view of the very impressive pyrotechnic display.

I heard it was difficult to leave Hains Point after the fireworks are over.
Whoever told you that was lying. It is not difficult. It is absolutely impossible. There is one exit, everyone is trying to use it, and you're at the end of the line. The two firetrucks taking up three lanes of the outbound Fourteenth Street Bridge aren't going to do you any favors, either.

DON'T: BRING THIS GUY

Five minutes into the drive home, he will demand apple juice, chug it, then throw up. He will also be a whiny pain-in-the-ass in general, conning Gramma into carrying him most of the time and fish-flopping through the fireworks.

DON'T: BRING THIS GIRL

She will also screw around during the fireworks, insist that they are taking too long, and encourage her little brother to misbehave. Your husband will have to take them both back to the van before the finale. This girl will also complain during the entire hour-and-a-half drive home that your husband is driving too slow and demand to know why you are not home yet.

DO: BRING THIS GUY

He will thoroughly enjoy the fireworks show, and authoritatively announce the names of many of the bursts.

"It's a Toy Poodle!"

"That's a Golden Temple."

"Rainbow Star!"

He will declare these things with great conviction, even though he is clearly making that shit up (unless all fireworks coincidentally have the same names as Wii game items and the washable markers he likes to use).

The first words he will say the next morning are "Did you like the fireworks last night, Mama?" and offer that he is patiently waiting a whole year before he can see them again.

But based on his father's clenched-teeth pronouncement of "Remind me never to leave the house again on the Fourth of July," perhaps Lumpyhead shouldn't count on it.

Milestone with a Side of Possible Overshare

2011-06-23T16:03:00.006-04:00

Magic.

The Shopping List is magic. You write the names of objects on a piece of paper, and a few days later those objects appear in your pantry or refrigerator. Magic.

Fine, it's not magic. Bump drives to multiple local merchants, accompanied by one to three children in various stages of nap requirement, and purchases these items. He then places the items in logical places around the house, all while trying to transfer sleeping toddlers to their beds.

Bump often has multiple lists going; his lists are venue-specific and are usually sorted by location in the store. I can never be sure if I'm supposed to put something on the Target list or the Costco list or the Giant list - or the very targeted Trader Joe's list - so I just write everything down in the same wondrous place. (This is where you are supposed to congratulate me for at least noting somewhere that I have used the last of the mustard, rather than leaving my spouse to rifle furiously through the fridge while I'm at work.)

We can at least agree that the Shopping List is Mysterious then, right?

I know I haven't seen you guys in awhile, so it feels like I'm showing you my underwear after saying a quick hello, but here:

It appears Lumpyhead is testing the magic and/or mystery of the Shopping List.

Sweet Spot

2011-06-20T14:15:00.001-04:00

From May 31 to August 3, I inhabit that lovely space where, when someone asks how old my children are, I am able to respond "Six, four, and two." No one's eyebrows shoot straight up, and nobody gasps over our misfortune/insanity.

Sometimes, when I'm outside of the sweet spot, I phrase the response to that question as "the boys are three years apart," which doesn't sound so crazy, until I have to mumble "and the girl is right in the middle." Then I walk away as they puzzle through the math in their head.

So, how have you been? I've been meaning to get back to this blog, but honestly, you people just don't mean that much to me.

Kidding! Of course! Mostly.

Notes from Vacation

2011-04-22T16:33:00.001-04:00

Bump's family decided that we should all go to Florida for Spring Break. Something about Bump's mom not spending winters there for much longer, everyone's Spring Break falling on the same week, blah blah blah something something something that I just ignored because I was at work all the damn time.

Somewhere in the back of my head "Spring Break" and "Florida" filtered through and I shrugged and thought that sounded pretty good - completely forgetting that I have children now and tequila shots and beer bongs would be replaced by character breakfasts and a diaper bag.

Then a couple of weeks ago I realized that while I wasn't paying attention my family had planned to DRIVE to ORLANDO and go to WALT DISNEY WORLD during the same week the entire eastern seaboard was going to be there. Then I went back to work - because it was nearly 2pm on a Sunday and I had to get my ass back into the office, what was I, some sort of slacker? - muttering something about how these people were fucking crazy.

Then I forgot my PIN number.

Anyhoo, that pretty much catches you up on absolutely nothing. But I'm sitting here in my "office" - a hotel bathroom anteroom - while everyone else naps. Laugh if you will, but the door closes and I have:
1) a beer,
2) not one but two Sarah and the Goon Squad bottle openers,
3) a sad little crochet project that passes as relaxation these days,
4) a laptop that will get internet radio when the hotel wifi signal cooperates, and
5) a question for you.

How do you avoid getting sunburn on your part? Hair part. No, no, no, not your hairy parts. Your head - the spot on your head where you part your hair.

I'm relatively new to this whole sunscreen business. Remember, I come from the Land of Pasty Dutchmen, where our UV alert took the form of our lobster-red peers. By the time Cousin Bryan - the "dark" one - looked a little pink, Cousin Dawn was magenta and Cousin Alissa nearly had blisters, so we came in out of the sun while my brother and I were a dark taupe. "You kids are brown as Indians," my mother would cluck at my brother and me, which was funny because my brother is Indian, and my mother was not being ironic. Anyway, while I'm trying to be religious about sunscreen now, I don't know what to do about the tender pink line on my scalp that resulted from a few hours on an airboat. Wait, is this why you white people always wear hats?

Bright Side

2010-11-03T14:00:00.003-04:00

Shitty Thing The First: I am not happy about the election results and I was up way too late watching dismal returns.

Shitty Thing The Second: Lumpyhead forgot his backpack this morning.

More accurately, his parents forgot his backpack. I am grumpy. Bump is tired. Lumpyhead didn't have school on Monday or yesterday, so our morning routine is in disarray. It was the first time we forgot it, but I'm sure it won't be the last. We are, after all, us.

Lumpyhead was distraught at dropoff. As I was pulling away, I saw him shuffling dejectedly to the school door. He was so hangdog that an adult stopped to ask him what was wrong.

Lumpyhead was thrilled to see me - and the damn backpack - when I returned to school a few minutes later. Almost as pleased was his teacher. "Oh the backpack," she remarked flatly, clearly relieved. I'm certain Lumpyhead complained nonstop about that damn backpack the entire time he was bereft.

On Friday I made my second appearance in Lumpyhead's classroom, and wow, nothing compares to the affection of kindergarteners. There were hugs and nonsense stories and more five-year-old awesome than I can describe. Three little girls drew pictures of me. One kid told me he loved me.

So when I showed up with Lumpyhead's backpack this morning, I was treated as a Recognized Celebrity. It is impossible to be cranky when you're greeted with wildly enthusiastic waving and excited squeals.

Man, I love kindergarten.

More Halloween

2010-11-01T18:50:00.001-04:00

Dragon costume - complete with wings and surly baby brother. We couldn't get the fire-breathing part to work.

First person to point out that it's a little short gets cut with a snapped-off depleted glow stick, I swear to god.

Bump respectfully submits that he wins Halloween.

But even his mad carving skills and Vike-o-lanterns couldn't help my embattled team.

I'm Pretty Sure I Win Halloween

2010-10-29T12:47:00.004-04:00

Lumpyhead decided he wanted to be a dragon for Halloween, a gold dragon, so I stayed up all night last Friday sewing a costume. I produced one that was waaaayy too small. A few alterations made it wearable - a little lame, but wearable - and once Bump figures out the portable minifan/flashlight/fire-breathing part of the costume, Lumpyhead will be ready for Trick or Treating.

He has a Fall Festival in school today - it's like a Halloween Party, except that they can't call it a party - for which his teacher invited him to dress as his favorite book character. A dragon is not his favorite book character. Plus it has a tail* and I don't think he can get in and out of it independently, so he needed another costume for today.

After some complaining over my insistence that Diego and Mario were not book characters ("just because you have a book with them in it does not make them book characters"), he chose Owen from the Kevin Henkes book.

So I spent last night sewing pajamas and a yellow blanket.

Lula decided she wanted to be Milli from Team Umizoomi, which was by far the easiest of the costumes.

Her hood turned out a little goofy - and it's a bit too tight - but it works.

I planned for Nathan Jr to wear Lumpyhead's DJ Lance costume, patting myself on the back for finally, truly, finding a no-(additional-)effort costume. After locating the costume (a feat in itself), I discovered a piece of paper folded into it that held Lumpyhead's measurements. Then I took Nathan Jr's measurements.

There was no way I was fitting that ginormous baby into that costume.

I decided Nathan Jr should be Sir Topham Hatt. Because if you're too portly to wear your brother's hand-me-downs, you might as well go all the way and Embrace the Fat.

Now, I know you guys are all "Phhht, whatever, I make a toddler-sized cutaway tailcoat every morning between the crossword puzzle and breakfast," but I kind of suck at sewing. I enjoy it, but I do stuff like sew dragon costumes that are six inches too short in the torso. I started with the grey pants, and had to make them three times because I couldn't figure out that the pattern said "sew front to back" and not "front to front." Because sewing front to front does not give you pants. It gives you . . . I don't know, the thing I had.

I consulted the internet and designed a pattern** and made Nathan Jr a morning coat. Then I created a vest and even a tie.

He looks really disheveled in about 10 seconds; the coat sleeves slip off his shoulders, his shirt comes untucked, he gets really sweaty under the hat. But I always assumed The Fat Controller was a bit of a drunk, so I think it works.

*The tail. Oh, the tail. Turns out I wasn't supposed to stuff it until the very end. But I didn't get that (A-plus for reading comprehension), and spent most of the night trying to sew with a stuffed tail poking me in the gut - which starts to feel a little obscene after awhile.

**So, turns out nobody makes a pattern for a toddler-sized morning coat. Maybe I'll tell you about The Making Of the Coat later, because, damn.

I Think That Makes Me Mr. Magee

2010-10-15T09:42:00.001-04:00

When Nathan Jr protests - and oh, does he protest - he uses the phrase "No can like that."

Not "I don't like that" or even "No like that," but "NO CAN LIKE THAT."

It's not that he doesn't like it. He can't.

As if he's thought it over, and while he really wanted to be on board with this whole "going to bed right now" thing, after careful consideration, he's voting against it.

Or, after extensive lobbying by special interests, he's been bought and paid for by Big Broccoli, so is unable to support the eating of asparagus at this time.

It's like Drunk Hulk goes to Washington.

Those Can't Be Real

2010-09-27T12:58:00.000-04:00

I know he's still growing, so they could be developing naturally, but somehow I doubt it.

You know how it is. Once celebrities start with the enhancements, they can't stop.

Reports from Kindergarten

2010-09-23T11:03:00.001-04:00

On the first day, Lumpyhead said he had math and reading. He reported what he ate for lunch, but his answer at 7pm was different from his answer at 4pm. So he either had two lunches, or is an unreliable dietary witness.

When pressed about math, he said he "did skipping," which I assume means counting by twos, or fives, or tens or something. Because he also claimed he did it well, and if he tried to do that thing where you big hop, little hop on one leg and then a big hop, little hop on the alternate leg - instead of writing about Lumpyhead's first day of school I would be posting a photo of my son with a big floor burn on his face.

***

I was warned when Lumpyhead started kindergarten that he would come home exhausted. A full day of learning, plus no mandated rest/down time, creates a five-year-old who is wiped out by pickup.

On Day 1 he was running laps and doing that super-fast run-in-place dance move when I came home. He was so energetic that Nathan Jr - who was happily riding an apple juice buzz - regarded his brother with suspicion and an unmistakable "Dude, CHILL OUT, you are seriously harshing my mellow right now" gaze. Nathan Jr joined him in the dance for about three seconds before needing to lie down (I suspect room-spins from the apple juice buzz).

Wiped-out kid, my ass, Kindergarten. WHERE IS MY ZOMBIE, Universe? Huh? I WAS PROMISED A ZOMBIE.

The Horrific Milestone of Kindergarten, Week 2

2010-09-13T09:51:00.005-04:00

I'm getting better at this Abandon Your Firstborn Son thing.

First, I moved his booster seat to the other side of the car - the curbside - so he can more easily exit the vehicle as the PTA Ladies circle, hungry for the tears of an anguished mother.

Second, interspersed between the preying PTA Harpies are little children, probably there for a softening effect, most assuredly forced into their duties by their PTA-cult-leader mothers. Poor Dears. (Or, you know, responsible fifth-graders who volunteer for Safety Patrol.) They stand at the Kiss-and-Ride, with their reflective belts and shoulder harnesses, cheerfully opening car doors and greeting arriving children.

This morning I got a Child Minion. He helped Lumpyhead out of the car and into his backpack, then shut the car door. I watched him take Lumpyhead's hand and lead him onto the sidewalk.

And then my corpse piloted my car to work, for I died from the cuteness.

(Oh, and I have visual confirmation that the Evil PTA includes males. A father-type stood there at the Kiss-and-Ride, his bloody fangs bared, as I drove away. Or perhaps he too was smiling at the outrageous cuteness happening aside my right rear quarter panel, IT'S HARD TO SAY.)

PTA Ladies Took My Son

2010-09-08T10:15:00.003-04:00

It's true what they say. Once the video stops rolling and the cameras turn off, the world is a cruel place. Just ask Lindsay. Or Lumpyhead. Away from the glare of the digital flash, Lumpyhead experienced kindergarten this morning – the non-sanitized version.

I'd been warned that Day 2 was worse than Day 1. On Day 1, the PTA Ladies who lined the parking lots and directed traffic were a friendly presence. On Day 2 they were a menacing horde with one goal: Rip My Boy from His Mother's Loving Arms.

Oh, don't bother to respond, PTA Lady. You with your sympathetic "I've been there" eyes and your gentle "It will be okay" smile. You cruelly forced me to get back in my car after a quick hug – maybe two – oh, and a little kiss – and send my five-year-old to walk that fifteen feet to the school door ALL BY HIMSELF.

Don't think I missed that fleeting expression of doubt on my son's face. I saw it. I'm his mother, and I notice these things. That momentary uncertainty was the last thing I witnessed before I pulled away.

Rest assured, PTA Lady, that if I could have identified you through my veil of suppressed gaspy sobs, you would be SWIFTLY AND SOUNDLY SHUNNED the next time we meet. You have escaped my wrath, for now, and must earn my future condemnation through direct insults or misdeeds (on at least two occasions, because that first time I'll probably chalk it up to you having a bad day). But if that happens, you will SUFFER MY MALEVOLENT RAGE, most likely in the form of a carefully worded and subtly sarcastic email, in which my righteous anger and indignation will be apparent only to me.

Oh, I will have my revenge, PTA Lady. You and your kind are hereby put on notice. How dare you?

-Lumpyhead's Mom

P.S. I do not want to join your group. But I probably will.

Would Prefer "Garten" to be Preceded by "Beer." Or "Ina"

2010-09-07T00:02:00.001-04:00

Lumpyhead starts kindergarten tomorrow. His backpack is loaded, school supplies have been delivered, and his lunch account is funded. He met his teacher last week, visited the school, and tested the playground. We've been working on the pep talk all summer, and he's excited. He's ready.

I'm not sure I am.

Ba Dum Bump

2010-08-30T20:31:00.000-04:00

Lumpyhead was playing with an inflatable flamingo in the pool.

Lumpyhead: Mmmm, delicious flamingo.
Me: I don't think people eat flamingoes, Buddy.
Bump: Flamingoes, no. But egrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention.

My husband, ladies and gentlemen.

I Can Come in Handy That Way

2010-08-27T04:00:00.000-04:00

I went to the Social Security Office with my mom so she could apply for benefits under my dad's record.

I'm fairly certain she was the only English-speaking white woman to arrive with an Asian interpreter to translate bureaucrat-ese.

Things That Only Suck a Little About Attending Your Father's Funeral

2010-08-22T01:13:00.004-04:00

1. Hearing how your father touched the lives of such a large and varied group of people, and learning how many others will miss him terribly - almost as much as you will.
2. The socially adept fellow mourners who manage to say the right things at the right time.
3. Seeing distant family and friends again (both the ones who live far away and the ones who are aloof).
4. Aunt Wilma.
5. Missing your children a lot, but being really glad they're not with you.
6. The amazing support from your friends - through every means possible - like getting text messages and voicemails (when I can triangulate between the big rock and the church steeple and a windmill and score two whole bars) or watching the florist haul in truckloads of flowers from your friends and colleagues.
7. Finding out your mom has high-speed wifi. (It went like this. Me [incredulous]: "Mom, do you really have wifi?" Mom: "What's a why-five?") It's a little unreliable, but it's wifi, man, and upon its discovery the heavens opened and the angels sang and I cried a little.

Things That Don't Suck About Attending Your Father's Funeral
1.

I still got nuthin.

Things That Completely Suck About Attending Your Father's Funeral

2010-08-21T02:09:00.002-04:00

1. It means your dad has died.
2 through 8,932. See Number 1.
8,933. Leaving a fantastic beach house in Charleston, SC - three days into your trip - and finding an airline that will deliver you to Sioux Falls, SD (in a hurry, one-way or multi-city, for less than a gazillion dollars).
8,934. You end up back in your teeny-tiny hometown, with spotty cell service, even spottier blackberry service, and internet through your mother's ancient computer.
8.935. It is logistically impossible for your family to join you, so you spend most of the time answering the question "Where's your husband and kids?"
8,936. No, that's not my husband. That's my brother.
8,937. That's my uncle.
8,938. That's a woman. Dude, are you blind?
8,939. The social morons who want you to guess who they are. They approach you with the words "I bet you don't know who I am" and then just stand there, expectantly. [Note: It is perfectly acceptable to say "I bet you don't know who I am," and follow that immediately with "I'm Firstname Lastname and I know your mother/father/family through…" But if you just stand there waiting, imagining that you are a) so astoundingly memorable and that I will recall that one time your daughter and I went to the swimming pool together and b) so age-resistant that I can recognize you from twenty years ago, then you are seriously drinking too much of the local nitrate-laced water, my friend.]

Things That Don't Suck About Attending Your Father's Funeral
1.

I got nuthin.

Legitimized

2010-08-10T15:44:00.003-04:00

Nathan Jr discovers the trick for not looking ridiculous in a red felt cowboy hat: Add a Horse.

The issue remains for the boots, however.

Nathan Jr's Birthday

2010-07-29T13:59:00.006-04:00

Tuesday is Nathan Jr's birthday.

Like his siblings', his birth was induced at 38 weeks. There was very little uncertainty about when he would be born. The obstetrician scheduled an appointment with the hospital, labor was induced with pitocin, and grandmothers' flights were booked well in advance.

I realized at the time that because we could schedule his birth, perhaps we should take advantage of the calendar and give Nathan Jr a cool birthdate: 08-08-08.

You may recall that I'm not a very happy pregnant lady. I'm sick for the first half and GINORMOUSLY HUGE for the second half. I spend the last month or so experiencing constant contractions which enable me to walk into the hospital already 4 to 5 centimeters dilated. (On the bright side, that makes delivery pretty fast. Nathan Jr was out on the second push.) Then there's that whole "sober" thing that doesn't mesh well with my lifestyle or personality.

Someday, when I'm far enough removed from the horror of pregnancy, I may wonder why we accepted the first available time slot on the 3rd. Why didn't we request the 8th? Well, Future Me, allow me to respond:

Reason 1: Bump's birthday is the 10th.

No one wants to share their birthday, and a full week between Bump's Special Day and Nathan Jr's Special Day seemed reasonable. That gives me a whole week to recover from planning Nathan Jr's birthday party and to prepare the Absolutely Nothing I typically shower on Bump.

(Yeah, I kind of suck. At least I make a cake, though, and seven days guarantees that Nathan Jr's cake will be completely gone and Bump will get his own damn cake.)

Reason 2, aka the Actual Reason, and Waaaaaay More Compelling Than That First Thing: There are FIVE days between the 3rd and the 8th.

If you had suggested to me - pregnant and contracting and extremely unhappy me - that I wait five (5! FIE-HUV.) whole days to get that baby out, just so he could have an amusing birthdate, I would have punched you in the throat.

If you had suggested it via telephone or email, I would have walk-waddled to your house and then punched you in the throat, muttering the whole way about what a fucking idiot you are.

So Happy Birthday Nathan Jr. I suppose I could have used this post to marvel that you're already two, to describe how awesome you are and what milestones you've reached, or to imagine the incredible man you will become. But I didn't.

I'm glad you were born. On the 3rd.

I'll Need to See Your Referrrrrrrrraaaaaal . . . .

2010-07-22T14:49:00.000-04:00

Nana came for a short visit last weekend, and we miss her already.

Among other things, she told us there are lots of film shoots around New Orleans right now. Some of her friends - the ones with lots of time and patience - have enjoyed serving as extras. She tried to get Doc (her husband) to answer a casting call for "big guys" to be zombies.

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Doc is quite tall, like his son was, with the same lineman's build. He certainly fits the "big guy" description, but the hospital might not like scheduling around his budding acting career.

I should probably point out that Doc is a neurosurgeon.

"Yes, Thank You for Noticing" Might Have Been a Better Reply

2010-07-13T12:46:00.004-04:00

My toenails and fingernails are currently the same color as Lula's. On Sunday, a very sweet 20-something woman grinned at us and asked, "Did you get manicures?"

"Well," I said, "if by 'manicure' you mean sitting on the bathroom counter and painting under duress, then yes."

"Duress?" she asked warily.

"She was yelling and I tried to shut her up with nail polish," I explained while darting off to prevent one of my children from causing yet another disaster.

"Oh," the poor girl said softly.

I think she was imagining the lovely world of having a daughter, where charming mommy-and-me outings for mani/pedis precede baseball games. I probably shouldn't have burst her bubble.

Squick

2010-07-10T23:19:00.048-04:00

I went to a Big Box Hardware Store this afternoon to buy paint. Bump is refinishing furniture for Lula's room, and we were negotiating color choices this morning. I was being difficult because the correct shade of pink was not among the 45 frillion color chips he brought home (That's too light! That's not red enough! I want it to match the super-cute rocking chair Nana sent!) so Bump threw up his hands and sent me to the damn store myself -- well, with the chair.

I eventually found the right hue and collected all my purchases while lugging around a child-size rocking chair. I got tons of comments about it (it is super-cute, after all) and realized that my quasi-standoff with Bump about which of us was trudging back to the damn store with the damn chair to find the perfect damn pink probably ended the right way. While he is physically better able to carry a piece of furniture like a handbag, socially it was probably less awkward for me to haul a wee pastel chair around in public.

All the attention from strangers about the chair meant I wasn't alarmed when someone approached me in the parking lot with a smile.

"Are you Vietnamese?" he asked.

"Nope," I chirped. I always find that question a little weird. Sometimes I go out of my way to avoid satisfying random obnoxious curiosity, but I was feeling generous. "Korean."

I put the chair in the passenger's seat. By the time I got behind the wheel the guy was next to the car, waving expectantly. I rolled down the window.

He was earnest and stranded. His car had broken down. He called his friend but it had been over an hour and his friend hadn't arrived.

I offered him my cell phone.

He declined. He worked at a National Gas/Service Station Chain (a work shirt bearing the company's name was draped over his shoulder) and really just needed a ride. Did I live around here?

I answered vaguely. This was not the location of the Big Box Hardware Store I normally frequent. I had a navigation brain fart and failed HARD on the most direct route to get there, and at that point I was only pretty sure I lived in the neighborhood.

This guy was having a rough day. No one would give him a ride. He said something about a taxi, so I offered to call him a cab.

No, he didn't have the money for a cab. He really just needed a ride. Would I give him a ride?

I shook my head no.

He continued for a bit longer, and I listened sympathetically. He pressed again for a ride. I said I was sorry, but I couldn't help him. I drove off.

I thought about this guy all the way home, mulling ways I could help. Maybe I would send Bump back to the parking lot when I got home. Maybe I should have given the guy cab fare.

At the first traffic light, I noticed a bus stop on the corner. It's hard to give a stranger enough money for a cab, but I certainly would have given him bus fare if I had thought of it. Why didn't he take the bus? I realized he was probably unfamiliar with the area, and bus routes are confusing when you are familiar with the area. Hell, I knew where I was going -- in my car -- and still managed to screw it up somehow. I wasn't even exactly sure which Gas/Service Station Chain location he needed.

But if it was relatively nearby, as he seemed to suggest, why didn't he just walk there?

And if his car had broken down on the beltway, how did he get to the parking lot of the Big Box Hardware Store? I used to joke with Aunt Bob that seeing a male gynecologist was like using a mechanic who rode the bus. Had I actually just met a mechanic who couldn't fix his own car?

How can you find someone willing to transport you from your broken-down car to here, yet not convince them to ferry you to your not-incoveniently-far-away destination? The same destination where people bring broken vehicles for repair, I might add. (I can't quite get passed that.)

I understand waiting an hour for your friend to pick you up, but why would you solicit a ride from someone else instead of calling your friend again and being all "Dude. WHAT THE HELL? I'm stuck in an effing parking lot STILL waiting for you. Also, it is hot outside. Gitcher ass here now."

I started to realize what might actually have happened. I understood why I didn't do more to help this unfortunate guy. Why I listened sympathetically and smiled through an open window, but my hands were never far from the keys in the ignition.

It was the Creep Alert.

You know the one. At least I hope you do. (If you have never read Gavin de Becker's book The Gift of Fear, you must do so immediately. If any woman in your life has never read this book, get a copy for her right now.) It is that little voice that tells you something is . . . off.

It is the voice that excellent predators convince you to disregard.

I remembered hazy bits surrounding a young woman's recent tragic death. The story caught my attention not only because she was local, but also because the statistical "butler" when a woman is murdered -- the abusive husband/boyfriend -- didn't do it. I knew where she died was near another location of this Big Box Hardware Store. I thought this guy's story was odd enough to warrant a call to the police.

I apologized to the officer who answered the non-emergency line. I offered that "it was probably nothing," but I wanted to report it. When I mentioned the guy set off my "Creep Alert . . . you know what I mean?" the female officer said immediately, firmly: "I know exactly what you mean."

Tonight we went to a minor league baseball game to celebrate a friend's birthday. I can't help but imagine a different end to the day, one without hot dogs and lemonade and dear friends and fireworks. An afternoon when it takes me far too long to come home from the store, and my family's annoyance becomes concern which becomes fear and panic and horror and unspeakable grief -- because I ignored my Creep Alert and let a down-on-his-luck stranger into my car.

I really hope that my Creep Alert is oversensitive and some dipshit mechanic just had a terrible day, wasn't thinking very clearly, didn't know where he was, and lost a little faith in humanity today because no one would help him.

But I have to protect myself and pay attention when the Creep Alert is triggered. You must, too. I wish Vanessa Pham had.

They're Half Dutch, You Know

2010-07-07T01:58:00.001-04:00

On my side. Yeah, it's confusing.

You can't accuse Lumpyhead of jumping on the bandwagon - it's the 2006 uniform.

Parental Relativity of Time

2010-07-06T12:22:00.000-04:00

5:38AM - Baby cries

If you're the one getting out of bed, the baby woke up at five-thirty.
If your spouse got up, the baby woke up at quarter-to-six.

And that, my friends, is absolute.

Pissed Off One

2010-06-17T10:32:00.003-04:00

Dear Volkswagen,
Your current ad campaign resurrecting the Slug Bug/Punch Buggy concept is very cute. The SuperBowl ad featuring Stevie Wonder made me laugh out loud. I spent many childhood hours sucker punching my brother or rubbing my arm in the back seat. So kudos to you for an effective blend of nostalgia, humor, and brand identification.

But for placing your ads on Nick Jr - and thereby teaching my children to beat the crap out of each other while howling "BLUE ONE!" - I hope you die in a fire.

Slowly.

Love,
Lumpyhead's Mom

P.S. You know what Nick Jr? Fuck you for this, too.

I'm Not a Big Fan

2010-06-16T11:19:00.003-04:00

1. I'm pretty sure Delta Airlines is fucking with me.

After being really, really, stupendously shitty about my flight to Sioux Falls, the airline was fantastic about canceling my parents' flight. They rebanked the miles I used to purchase the tickets and even refunded the $10 fee. What the hell?

Also, five days after I got back to DC - still complaining bitterly about the stinking $150 I had to pay to redeem miles on short notice - I received this email:

See? They're totally fucking with me.

2. Bump's family is coming to visit in a few weeks, which means seven more people (aged toddler-ish to eighty-ish) will be in my house. This spurred a frenzy of furniture shopping and money hemorrhaging, and while I knew we would need these items eventually, OMG holy sudden cash outlays.

We got a bunk bed for Lumpyhead. All three tormentors are very excited about it, but for now no one is allowed on the top bunk. We haven't placed the top mattress yet to further discourage climbers.Why buy a bunk bed and not use half of it? Well, because the room has a ceiling fan.

I know, I'm an idiot, right? We need to do some creative arranging, because right now a child going for the top bunk is destined for a head thwacking, absent some masterful timing and lightning-fast reflexes. While we can situate the bed so that a climber is not automatically imperiled (which is the plan, obvs), the fan will always be within reach of the top bunk.

Is this a non-starter? Can a child be convinced to leave a ceiling fan alone? Will one good thunk-thunk-thunking make the point in spades? Do we have to take down the ceiling fan or unbunk the beds? I need an answer before my sister-in-law arrives with three more heads and thirty more fingers to jeopardize.

Camp Lumpyhead Update

2010-06-08T10:06:00.003-04:00

Bump took the tormentors to a new playground yesterday. It was a beautiful day, and he took full advantage of one of the few not-too-hot days that we get in the DC metro region.

Then they had fast food for lunch. And everyone took a nap.

The kids were more excited about the chicken nuggets and french fries than they were about the awesome playground. Bump was really excited about the nap.

In my attempt to contribute to Camp Lumpyhead, this morning I gave Lula a craft project and Nathan Jr an activity to help develop spatial relations and fine motor skills. For I am awesome.

. . .

Okay, FINE. I didn't put milk on their fruit loops.

Then I gave Lula a string to make a necklace, and Nathan Jr an empty bowl into which he could transfer his cereal before eating it.

Nobody half-asses it like me. Don't even try.

Camp Lumpyhead

2010-06-07T13:16:00.001-04:00

Preschool ended last week. Today was supposed to begin a glorious two-week period wherein visiting grandparents provided childcare while Bump and I frolicked, responsibility-free, for a fortnight.

Bump planned to complete all the projects he cannot undertake with three kids around, and scheduled a butt-load of doctor's appointments. Ha! Butt-load. (It's funny, because one of those appointments is a colonoscopy. HA!)

But my father's kidneys failed last month, and while he's feeling much better, his doctor was not amused by the idea of his just-released-from-the-hospital patient leaving town for two weeks.

So, today begins Camp Lumpyhead (with apologies to Stimey - who does actual, theme-based days with her kids and is awesome). If I were running Camp Lumpyhead, it would go like this:

call Grampa and Gramma at regular intervals and have the children tearfully ask "When are you coming to see us?" (evil villian laugh)
resolve to go to the playground. Take one step outside and determine it's waaaay too damn hot to go to the playground, and return to the fiftieth consecutive episode of the Backyardigans.
decide to go to the pool. Gather pool items, change kids into swimsuits, slather sunscreen on floor while trying to splotch a few drops onto a pack of rabid alley cats, pack snacks, wait for child to use the potty, remember forgotten swim goggles,wait for other child to use the potty, start out the door, discover smallest child has gone and had hisself a little old rest stop, change smallest child's diaper, curse swimmy diapers, change smallest child's swimsuit, head for the car again, realize it's too close to naptime to go to the pool, and opt to spray children with the garden hose.

I can't wait to check with Bump to see how the real Camp Lumpyhead is going.

Refugee Redux. Also, Fuck Shit Damn

2010-05-26T07:31:00.002-04:00

As many of you know, I grew up in rural Southwestern Minnesota. When I visit my parents, I fly to Joe Foss Field in Sioux Falls, South Dakota: airport code FSD. The other option is Sioux City, Iowa. And while booking a ticket to SUX is poetic in so many ways, Sioux Falls is almost always the airport of choice.

I don't go back very often; it's easier and cheaper to bring my parents to DC than it is to fly to them with three monkeys and their corresponding crap. The last time I visited Sioux Falls my father was having emergency bypass surgery. I boarded a plane with no luggage – I bought clothes when I landed – and abandoned Bump with two small children and plans to move heavy furniture the next day, in the midst of an expansive home renovation.

My mother called me yesterday afternoon because my father has been hospitalized. I have once again made a last-minute trip to FSD, although on this occasion I took the time to pack several pairs of my own (clean!) underpants, among other items.

Highlights thus far (other than the underpants thing)

I had two beers and a decent crab cake at National Airport. No, really.
Dad looks better than I expected. He's not ready to pitch the softball season opener or anything, but I had braced myself for a shriveled old man lying in a hospital bed, connected to various wires and beeping machines. He's . . . oddly random. One minute he's awake and asking about Bump's fantasy football team, the next he's half asleep and snoring or muttering or giggling and grinning like a newborn with wicked gas. I dunno.
The airline is a complete and total asspimple. I feel nickel-and-dimed to death, and am the victim of several small-scale extortion plots, of that I am certain. ("You want to see your father? That will be $1200. Oh, it's a medical emergency? Well, in that case, it will be $700. To go to South FUCKING Dakota. We have cheap flights to Paris and Tokyo, and your kids could fly free to Turks & Caicos or Bermuda, but since you want to go to exotic South Dakota, chaCHING. Pay up, sucker. Oh, you want to use frequent flier miles? Then it will be $150, because you want to leave today. Next time please plan your medical emergencies 21 days in advance.") Fuckers.
I was saved once again from my own glorious stupidity by -- well, more stupidity. I decided to take Nathan Jr to FSD with me. It would provide my mother with some happy distraction and relieve Bump a bit from several solid days of solo child care. Bump and I dithered about whether or not it was a good idea to take the baby, but my aunt offered to provide backup babysitting if Nathan Jr proved too taxing for my mother or the hospital setting was too stressful for him. Plus, he could still fly for free. Take that, airline. While I was furiously packing my things Bump packed for Nathan Jr. On the way to the airport I realized we forgot his passport/birth certificate/proof of age, which the reservations agent assured me was necessary for him to fly as a lap infant. He stayed home with Bump.
Dad's IV drip sounds like a mewing kitten, which is either cute or makes me want to drown it in a burlap sack. It depends on when you ask me.
There were some amazing lightning flashes at the Minneapolis airport (one cannot fly directly to FSD), along with heavy rain. While beautiful, it created some seriously rough flying conditions. I was pleased not to have a toddler-sized projectile on my lap.
As I settled into my seat with the in-flight magazine, I had a flash to a different timeline. Bump and I still had two incomes and no children, and could leave at a moment's notice for a weekend excursion. After at least one drink in the terminal bar/restaurant, we would jet off to somewhere fun, where massages and art museums awaited. (Okay, we never went to art museums or got massages. More likely, our schedule included a tee time, dinner reservations, and at least one incident of drunk puking by yours truly.)
Then I flashed to another alternate timeline, one where I brought Nathan Jr with me as planned. Instead of my seatmate exchanging gracious pleasantries with me, he was scowling at a squirmy squealy sweaty fat toddler who kicked and flailed and yelped before crying and sinking out of my lap to the floor between my knees by arching his back wildly and turning his arm and shoulder bones to jelly.
I blame all the flashing on that damn Lost finale.
My brother will arrive in Sioux Falls this morning, and I have warned him that if he doesn't show up with a cooler and plenty of beer I am going to punch him in the throat.

Huh. Turns Out the Substitution Property is the Answer.

2010-05-25T14:03:00.004-04:00

I saw a dead dog on the side of the road this morning.

I grew up in a rural area, where fallen creatures on the shoulder are very common. But I honestly don't recall the last time I saw roadkill. In 2007 we drove to the beach and I saw some smashed watermelons on the highway, but if I have to remember a specific incident before then - or one including an actual dead animal - I've got nuthin.

It was terribly sad.

Also? Really confusing.

How does a dog end up on the northbound express lanes of 395? (Those lanes are sandwiched between several lanes of traffic on both sides.) The poor thing must have fallen out of the car it was riding in, right? In which case: HOW DO YOU FAIL TO NOTICE THAT YOUR PET HAS EXITED THE VEHICLE?

Sorry about the shouting, but, damn.

Perhaps the crazy mutt jumped out of an open window? You think, maybe? In which case: WHY WOULD YOU OPEN A WINDOW FAR ENOUGH FOR YOUR SQUIRREL/HUMMER-CHASING MONGREL TO LEAP THROUGH?

Jesus. That's like handing the baby a blowtorch and being all "caramelize the top of that creme brulee for me, would ya Drools?"

Speaking of religion (What? Blasphemy counts), maybe that's where I should look for help in understanding this troubling manner.

I'll start with this nugget of wisdom I've picked up during my commute:

Great. So DOG = GOD.
To which I'll add a little philosophy:

And TA DA!

Dog is dead. There you go.

Sharpen a Number Two Pencil (Heh, I said "number two")

2010-05-24T09:52:00.008-04:00

1. Where the fuck are my keys?

Lula and I went to the Farmers Market yesterday, and I set my keys down in the kitchen because my hands were full. Later I saw Lula playing with them, and I thought I took them away from her, but this morning I spent at least 15 minutes hunting.

Bump dropped what he was doing (the time-sensitive morning deadline stuff like packing lunches and fixing breakfast and stuffing wriggling feet into clean matching socks) to help search and to interrogate the children. "Have you seen Mama's keys? What about you? Lula, what did you do with them yesterday? What do you mean you don't know? Try to remember."

**

Either Aunt Bob is wrong, or Pete is wrong. I know who I think is right, but you are going to settle this once and for all.

2. If I showed up at your house and said, "Wow, I hit every light between my place and here" you would think:
a) Every light was green; I didn't have to stop at all.
b) Every light was red; I had to stop every time.
c) "I have no idea what the hell Lumpyhead's Mom is talking about. Again."
d) "Uh, I live in New Zealand."

3. What if I said "I made every light"? (same choices as above)

4. If "I caught every light"?

**

By the way, the answer to 1 is: In my purse.

(But! But! Not in the pocket where I normally keep them. In a different one.)

Also? I'm pretty sure if you contact us in six years, and mention this, Bump will STILL be annoyed.

Fore.

2010-05-21T14:33:00.004-04:00

I've had a shitty week at work, but I just went out to lunch at a golf course. I ate a great burger, drank many beers, and forced two of my colleagues to work the words "nougat" and "marzipan" into ordinary office-related sentences.

If only I had brought my clubs, I could have spent a little time at the driving range.

It almost makes up for the shitty week.

Volume

2010-05-19T11:47:00.001-04:00

Lumpyhead is ALWAYS! SCREAMING!

I don't mean he's squealing all the time. I mean when he's talking HE'S ALWAYS SHOUTING AT US. Bump is constantly sighing "Buddy, I'm right here. Why are you yelling?"

Sometimes he's excited, but usually he's just casually mentioning that he cleared Level Whatever on his Gameboy but HE'S MENTIONING IT SO LOUDLY I CAN HEAR HIM IN THE ATTIC. It's like sitting across the dinner table from a guy with a bullhorn. Or Aunt Bob when she's drunk.

If I had a dollar for every time I've reminded him "Use your inside voice, Billy Mays" I'd be a very wealthy woman.

Please tell me this is just a phase.

Back on the Horse

2010-05-18T16:54:00.001-04:00

When I haven't written in a long time it's hard to get back into the swing of things. Everything I consider posting seems too trivial and boring. So I'm taking the pressure off and just jumping back in.

Here's Nathan Jr drinking tea with his pinky in the air, because it cracks me up.

And I Only Had to Deal With Two of Them

2010-04-14T12:12:00.000-04:00

Bump took Lumpyhead to a kindergarten open house this morning, so I stayed home with Lula and Nathan Jr.

In the two and a half hours Bump was gone, we baked bread, rode bikes, blew bubbles, and had a tea party. My proudest accomplishment was fitting in a quick shower, thanks to Dora and Tivo.

It was exhausting.

I arrived at the office by 11:30 where a half-finished project from yesterday was waiting for me, along with a new meeting request and seventeen unread emails. But my afternoon suddenly seemed a lot easier than my morning had been.

I Think I Got It Now

2010-04-02T23:59:00.000-04:00

Hey, so remember how I'm a complete idiot who can't tell the Voltaggio brothers apart?

I think I got it now.

This one's Bryan.

Yep, Bryan.

SECRETS REVEALED: How to Get Long Hair Fast

2010-04-01T10:42:00.002-04:00

Finally! The secret to long hair FAST - in easy step-by-step instructions.

Step 1: Begin with short hair (sour expression and spotty mirror not required).

Step 2: Find ordinary hairbrush (goofy expression not required).

Step 3: Make hairbrush MAGIC.

Step 4: Finish magic.

Step 5: Activate Magic Hairbrush

Step 6: Instant results!

You're welcome.

I Is Relly Smart

2010-03-26T14:41:00.003-04:00

I have grumbled for years that DC drivers can't cope with weather. Morons drive around in snow with no clue what they're doing, going way too fast or way too slow. The smallest bit of rain inevitably snarls traffic. I can understand why snow would be a problem, but why is rain so hard?

It occurred to me for the first time this morning: it's probably not the precipitation, it's probably the extra drivers on the road.

If it's an option, people who might otherwise walk or bike or take public transit get in their cars when it rains. The ten or fifteen or twenty dollars (or whatever it costs these days. I work on the Hill, remember, I'm supposed to be out of touch) to park your car in the office garage is worth not having to wait for the bus in the rain.

Has this been obvious to everyone else, for like, forever? You can get back to me on that, because now I'm busy investigating Pope Benedict's religion, if the sky is indeed up, and whether or not bears defecate in forests and other wooded areas.

Cruise Ship Haircut

2010-03-22T13:51:00.008-04:00

Nathan Jr needed a haircut badly. It was only $15, so we got it done on the boat.

This is Nathan Jr with his grandmother, before the haircut, looking scraggly.

This is the lovely woman who gave my baby his first haircut.

She was very sweet, and very worried about making him cry.

He wiggled and squirmed and we juggled and bounced, but lo, he did not cry.

And it looked pretty good.

Even the next day.

Until it got wet.

(Nathan Jr took an unexpected dip in the pool on our first shore excursion. Unexpected for me, that is. He very much meant to go in when he did.)

A few minutes later, starting to look a little . . . off.

Three days later, looking like a hot mess.

There were whole sections the very sweet boat stylist missed. The back pieces that tend to stick up stuck up at vastly differing lengths. He reminded me of Kate Gosselin. I tried to even it out a bit myself, but it was clearly a disaster. Nathan Jr didn't cry during his first haircut, but he got a lousy haircut.

What? Really?

Yesterday I resolved to fix that catastrophe on Nathan Jr's head.

This is the committed professional who fixed my baby's first haircut.

This stylist wasn't so worried about the child crying. She wasn't crazy about it, but she was more concerned about giving him a decent haircut.

The result was impeccable. Nathan Jr cried the whole time.

He cried the second we plopped him into the chair. I held him on my lap and he threw a fit. Afterward I took him outside to try to calm him down and he sank to the concrete sidewalk and wailed. He screamed while I paid the Committed Professional (and tipped her mightily for the hazardous duty). He wept all the way home. He sobbed while I gave him a bath, which was necessary because no mere cape could contain the hair clippings that flew while he fish flopped, red-faced and angry.

Perhaps I was mourning the loss of my wonderful, wonderful hair, Mother. Did you ever consider that?

It's impeccable, but it is very, very short.

Drooleykins, the Buzz Cut King of Molarville

Help Me Out Here

2010-03-21T22:04:00.002-04:00

Look, I travel in pretty liberal circles. Most people I know think like I do.

But I understand those who disagree. I know that many smart, kind, loving people really believe in lower taxes and smaller government. I respect that. (I also know that it's easy to beat the shit out of someone who thinks education should be handled on the local level by painting that person as "opposed to education funding.")

I understand the political realities that have given us huge deficits, low taxes, and lots of government spending.

I am painfully well-informed and like to think I'm open-minded.

But I don't understand the opposition to health care reform.

At all.

I mean, I get the policitally motivated "capitalize on the frightened, misinformed electorate" sentiment. I think it's irresponsible, but I understand the political calculation.

I know we often think that if people who disagree with us just understood the issue, they would agree with us. I know that belief is usually misplaced. It leads to shouting and anger and hatred.

But I don't understand the well-informed, thoughtful, well-reasoned other side of this. Is there one?

Someone help me.

Phoning It In

2010-03-16T11:35:00.002-04:00

I know, I know. It's really stuff on the baby's face, not his head. And these photos are from, like, December.

Please ignore the snot and the klassy klothesline.

I tried to photoshop out the snot, but there's not much I can do about the klassy.

Wait. [LIGHTBULB!]

Oh look, she figured out how to move the damn laundry before taking a picture. Here. You want one?

Same Time Every Year

2010-03-10T09:38:00.003-05:00

Why does February fly by, while March stretches on forever?

One day it's February 20 and two seconds later I realize it's March 2nd and I yelp curse words and scramble to pay bills and arrange other first-of-the-month things. Then, vowing to never let that happen again, I carefully watch the calendar to ensure I handle things at the end of the month like I'm supposed to.

So on March 15 I start thinking "Okay, I'm gonna need to take care of that stuff soon." But 63 days later it's somehow only March 20 and I'm all "WHAT THE HELL, CALENDAR?"

This happens to you too, right? How can only a couple of days make such a difference? I don't have this problem on 30-day months.

Oh com'on. You know it happens to you, too. Maybe you haven't noticed it before, but trust me, sometime around March 28 you're gonna be all "That Lumpyhead's Mom, man, she's a fucking prophet."

TPA = WIN

2010-03-03T10:45:00.001-05:00

Work is crazy, Nathan Jr was sick, and I'm still trying to get my head on straight from our vacation.

The kids' passports inexplicably arrived on time and without incident, a happy coincidence Bump and I are still marveling over. Good thing, too, because we needed them exactly ZERO times on the trip.

The tormentors loved spending time with their cousins, enjoyed the ports of call, and adored the on-board children's program (supervised on-board kid activities - i.e. "drop 'em off and have a few hours to yourself" - Bump and I were big fans, too).

Other than the seasick, I had a great time.

Can't say I enjoyed the seasick.

But! Did you know that the Tampa airport has a great children's play area? Well, it does.

Entertaining the monkeys at National Airport

Entertaining the monkeys at the Tampa airport.

The Tampa airport totally wins.

So, to recap the lessons learned on this trip: 1) use Tampa if your travel plans take you to Florida and 2) being seasick sucks.

(Yes, I suspected I would get seasick. In the past I have remedied seasickness by being drunk or asleep while on a boat. I tried the behind-the-ear scopolamine patch this time, and I did not feel disgustingly nauseous between the vomiting episodes, so I guess the patch worked.)

Weather Karma Not Exactly Working Out in Our Favor

2010-02-10T16:19:00.005-05:00

Provided we can actually escape the clutches of THE STORM OF THE CENTURY (of the week) on Saturday, we'll leave for the cruise this weekend. Bump checked the weather in one of the ports of call today.

Yeah, under the temp that says "Funnel Cloud." I'm thinking that can't be good.

The Neighbors Got a Snowblower

2010-02-05T21:28:00.002-05:00

"Look!" Lumpyhead yelled from the top of the stairs. "There's something very wrong with the snow."

"What?"

He guided me to his bathroom window and pointed across the street. "There's something wrong with the snow, see? They're lawn mowing it."

Okay, look.

2010-02-04T02:04:00.004-05:00

It's fucking February.

It's time for the holiday wreath-substitute door spray to go away.

But I luuuuuurve it so.

Plus, Nana made it. It's an heirloom. Or something.

Fine, fine. It's coming down this weekend.

Mystery Text

2010-01-17T21:14:00.003-05:00

Bump just received this message:

We're not sure who sent it, but we're pretty sure it's from his grandmother.

We were unable to respond, but we hope Feef - or whoever sent the text - got home safe.

The OMB Director's OBM

2010-01-07T12:14:00.003-05:00

So the Director of the Office of Management and Budget has an "Other Baby Mama."

My first thought is "Congratulations" and the second is "Wow, that guy has some seriously fantastic time-management skills" because I'm working a much less demanding job and do not have time to date even one person in New York.

My friend Anne knew Ms. Milonas at school and claims she is very nice. (Anne is an excellent judge of character - don't let the fact that she hangs out with me convince you otherwise.) She had no idea the woman was the daughter of a shipping tycoon.

The news coverage on this is interesting (although not half as interesting as the gossip and speculation running around my office - god I love my job sometimes) and funny. The tag on Wonkette's post makes me ecstatic about the future. Achenbach's take is hysterical, even though he seems to forget that an heiress doesn't really need a partner to raise a child. 1) Capable women can ably parent alone. It may be difficult, but women have been proving this for years. 2) Rich women can hire staff.

The New York Post's article is especially harsh. Using old-fashioned phrasing like "jilted" and "kicked to the curb," it paints Claire Milonas as a heartbroken, knocked-up dumpee who was left waiting at the altar.

I heartily disagree. A "brainy Yale grad and Harvard MBA" can find her pills when she wants them. I suspect that she was ready for a baby, found a guy everyone says is brilliant, and obtained his genetic contribution the easy way.

Go Claire, Go. (Anne says hi.)

And congratulations on the birth of your third child, Mr. Orszag.

Lumpyhead's Law

2010-01-04T15:16:00.008-05:00

Bump's mother decreed that for her next birthday, she will be surrounded by all of her grandchildren. On a boat. A big boat.

Yay, right? Except I may have to be at work.

While I am disappointed by this, Bump is positively horrified by the specter of having to travel with three children on his own. Indeed, if given the choice between the office and a Caribbean cruise - a cruise wherein one is expected to fly to Tampa, board a ship, spend several days at sea, disembark and fly back to DC with three children aged four-and-a-half, three, and eighteen months - I think the office wins.

I approach parenting with a modified version of Murphy's Law, let's call it Lumpyhead's Law: Shit WILL go wrong, just try to prevent catastrophe. The cruise line strongly recommends all passengers have passports in case an event like sickness, missed departure, etc. requires air travel. Therefore Bump's mother strongly recommended the children get passports, and her travel agent urged us to get passports, which meant Bump's mother really, really wanted us to get passports. In the spirit of Lumpyhead's Law, we decided to get passports for the tormentors.

Dudes. Passports cost a freaking fortune. Sixty bucks for the State Department. Twenty-five bucks for the Post Office. When I read that the Post Office charged $15 for passport photos, the Dutch in me kicked in. Hell, I have an off-white wall right here in my kitchen. The internet says you can make your own passport photos. Fuck the fifteen dollars; I can do it for twenty cents.

But you know what I can't do? Get my children to take passport photos in the kitchen.

I don't think the State Department would find these acceptable.

These either.

But hey, these are pretty good.

I was pleased with my efforts. Two by two inches, exactly? Check! Faces measuring between 1" and 1 and 3/8" from top of head to bottom of chin? Check! High-quality prints? I'll print them at Target, just in case my printer is not acceptable. Check! Final price? Sixty cents. (Not including the hours I spent cajoling my children against a blank wall and cropping and measuring photos, of course. One and three-eighths of an inch can bite my ass.)

Then we went to the post office. The very nice lady who processed our applications worried that the background was too dark on my DIY passport photos. "Where did you get these done?" she sneered. ("Uhh…" "Oh.") She fretted about our departure date and my decision not to expedite the processing. (But we're seven weeks out! Expedited processing is another seventy-five bucks per kid! You may get $3.30 from me for some bullshit "domestic money order fee" because I have a debit card instead of an actual checkbook, but you will not browbeat me into another $225, so help me god, Very Nice Lady.)

Very Nice Lady dutifully filled out forms and stamped things and clucked "so cute" and handed the now-feral children activity books. She worried more about the photos. "It costs fifteen dollars to do them here," she told me, "but the photo place two doors down will do it for six dollars. I just don't want the State Department to deny your applications, it being this close to your departure."

That's when I caved. Nearly fifty bucks for photos is a load of crap, but eighteen dollars? If I knew I could get real passport photos for $18 I wouldn't have bothered with all those shots of Nathan Jr's ear in the kitchen.

Bump took the children to the photo place while I continued with the paperwork. Turns out the $6 price was for adults. Children under five cost $11.

But hey, you know what a photo place can do? Take acceptable passport photos of all three of my children in about forty-five seconds.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The only reported difficulty was that Lumpyhead kept smiling, and the photo place demanded neutral expressions. (Nathan Jr certainly has the blank/I have a cold/"why are you flashing that thing at me" expression mastered, doesn't he?)

Very Nice Lady was pleased with the new photos. Several minutes later, we had completed passport applications. The whole process took about two hours (not counting the kitchen photo shoot - and subsequent cropping and measuring - which I heartily recommend against).

Bump and I fully expect the passports to arrive two days after the kids leave on the trip.

Breakfast? Not so much with the Fast

2009-12-22T10:44:00.000-05:00

I heard that steel-cut oatmeal was the new Big Thing (I dunno, I probably read it on the internet. Damn you, Internet, filling my head with all kinds of ideas) so I bought some and tried it.

It was a revelation. Steel-cut oatmeal is freaking awesome. It has a nutty texture and is completely unlike the mushy stuff I'm used to. It lived up to the hype.

But here's the thing, Internet. Who in the ever loving hell has 45 minutes to cook steel-cut oatmeal in the morning? Do you? Because if you do, come over to my house and make me some damn breakfast.

Wait, you know what? If you're going to spend 45 minutes on something, why don't you make me some grits and eggs. And biscuits. And bacon.

Because while steel-cut oatmeal is really good, even if you pile on the brown sugar and maple syrup it is still oatmeal. And yes, it is very good oatmeal, but if I'm going to spend 45 minutes stirring something it better taste like truffle-fucking-risotto when I'm done.

Seriously. Forty-five fricking minutes. Most of you can drive to my house, drop off an egg mcmuffin, and scurry back home within that time window.

Don't forget my hashbrowns.

Grandma Bell

2009-12-09T14:41:00.001-05:00

Often Lumpyhead and Lula decide that they must call Gramma, immediatelythissecond.

Sometimes they preview this demand by calling her on one of the seven hundred fake phones that are lying around the playroom. Sometimes an event or item clearly reminds them of her, but sometimes it's just a random urge.

Occasionally we reach her, and the kids blather away about nothing, illustrating their nonsense themes by pointing at things and gesturing extravagantly. Lumpyhead and Lula inevitably hang up on her during the baton pass between them, so whoever was cruelly cheated out of the chance to dial the phone the first time receives restitution by dialing the second call.

Usually the kids get the answering machine, which they still haven't really figured out. They stare at the handset in a puzzled fashion and mutter a few half-silent phrases before being prompted to SAY SOMETHING TO THE MACHINE. My mother dials us immediately after hearing the message, always mildly distraught that she wasn't there to receive the call (because she was out getting her hair cut or buying groceries or living her life instead of waiting by the phone for the mood to strike a 2.5-year-old and a 4-year-old to call their grandmother).

I don't have the heart to tell her that, while they're confused by the answering machine, the kids aren't disappointed when they don't reach her. The excitement doesn't lie in talking to their grandmother, but rather with pushing buttons. Yes mother, they thought of you. But really? They just like to dial the phone.

Salute to a Fallen Hero

2009-12-02T11:57:00.000-05:00

Let it never be said that you failed. The enemy's onslaught was overwhelming, but you distinguished yourself with courage and might.

Yes, Morning Diaper, there was a containment breach. You were outmatched. But you staunchly held back a monumental volume of opposition fire.

Many lesser diapers have come before you and faltered against much smaller foes.

Rest well, valiant warrior. May your days in the landfill be replete with stories of your greatness.

On behalf of a grateful laundry basket,
Lumpyhead's Mom

Da Boys

2009-12-01T12:18:00.002-05:00

Lumpyhead got his much-needed haircut.

Nathan Jr: Yay!
Lumpyhead: Cheeeese.

Now the baby needs one.
Nathan Jr: Wait. Wut?
Lumpyhead: I don't think this is going to end well.

Nothing at All

2009-11-30T12:55:00.003-05:00

There's nothing fun about smelling something funky at final bedcheck, turning on the light, and realizing the baby has been visited by the Midnight Barf Fairy.

There's nothing pleasant about shampooing yuck out of your son's hair as he shivers and cries in a tub of chunky vomit soup; because even though the water is warm, a few minutes ago he was sleeping and now he's naked and wet.

And there's nothing worse than soothing a finally clean child, who rests his head on your shoulder and heaves an exhausted sigh; because while you're pleased to be providing a bit of comfort, all you can think is "Damn does this baby need a breath mint."

Took a Day Longer Than I Predicted

2009-11-26T22:21:00.000-05:00

(Caution: Grossness Ahead. High Ew Factor. Do not read if you are eating or have just finished a meal - unless you're too full and can't find the ipecac.)

This morning Lula woke up sick. It seems to be the same "I Feel Fine Except for the Vomiting" virus Lumpyhead had on Tuesday morning.

She had those awful empty-stomach pukes -- you may know them from such hits as Horrible Hangover and Horrible Hangover II -- that come with full-body convulsions and orangey-colored bile and mucous product. Then she ate breakfast and erupted spectacularly.

Lumpyhead threw up only once, rallied to eat another breakfast, and kept it down. We assumed Lula would follow a similar path and must have said "surely that is the last one" at least seven times.

She projectiled her snack while sleeping on the sofa. She expelled a chocolate milkshake onto Bump's chest. She had four sips of water and blew chunks into a bucket.

We postponed Thanksgiving. We just didn't feel right about feasting in front of a hungry child who couldn't eat anything; and honestly, neither Bump nor I had very enthusiastic appetites after cleaning up and catching (but mostly missing) puke all day.

(Seriously, people. I know I served it to her, so it was totally my fault, but no one - no matter how grave the offense - should ever be subjected to cheddar cheese and Chicken in a Biskit crackers on the return. Ever.)

Today I am very thankful for my washing machine.

When I Told Bump About It, He Immediately Went to Locate the Fire Extinguisher for My Future Baking Needs

2009-11-25T10:31:00.002-05:00

In what was perhaps a questionable decision, last night Bump allowed me to go to the grocery store to complete the Thanksgiving shopping. (One time Bump sent me to the store for bok choy and I came back with napa cabbage. Evidently those two things are not interchangeable.) (Ditto on snow peas and frozen sugar snap peas, apparently.) (I suck.)

It was late and the grocery store was deserted yet bustling. There weren't many customers, but the employees were scuttling around like ants. The produce section was cordoned off for mopping or something, which meant that every time I got to the end of the aisle at the front of the store I had to turn around and go back the way I came. Efficiency! Thy name is not Lumpyhead's Mom. (I guess my name is technically not Lumpyhead's Mom either, but . . . eh, nevermind.)

I decided that pre-made pie crust was worth $1.50, but store-made cornbread was not worth $3. I bought the mix and planned to bake cornbread with the kids' help this morning.

Lula helped with the mixing. When it was time to pop it in the oven, I remembered that I wanted to move the oven thermometer to the center of the oven. Our oven temp is a little erratic, and I worried that the thermometer was too close to the heating element to register the correct temperature.

I reached in to the preheated oven - with a towel, because I'm an idiot, but I'm not that much of an idiot - grabbed the thermometer and POOF! accidentally touched the heating element with the towel.

That sucker went up like a marshmallow in a campfire.

I am awesome.

Have a great holiday, and here's hoping your spouse is more helpful in the kitchen than my husband's.

Happy Thanksgiving - I've Got a 25-lb Turkey

2009-11-24T15:29:00.002-05:00

My office is closed tomorrow, so my holiday begins in a few hours. Five-day weekend! Hooray!

Nathan Jr went to the pediatrician this morning and got four shots, including seasonal flu and chicken pox. Lumpyhead woke up this morning complaining that his tummy hurt, and promptly ejected the entirety of his just-eaten breakfast onto the kitchen table.

So, tomorrow morning I will be dealing with a freshly inoculated baby, a maybe-recovered four-year-old, and -- if things work out the way I expect -- a two-year-old who's coming down with a stomach bug of her own.

Who wants to bet that around 9:30 tomorrow morning, I'll be dying to go to work?

Are Veterinarians from SE Asia Called Vietnam Vets, Too?

2009-11-19T09:54:00.004-05:00

Apparently one of Lumpyhead's preschool classmates wants to be a vet, so everyone was invited to bring a stuffed animal to school today. I guess she is going to give them all exams or something. Lumpyhead chose this:
Bump: Is that a crocodile or an alligator?
Lumpyhead: It's a crocodile. His name is Mr. Alligator.
Bump: I bet that gets confusing.

Also? Holy cow does my son need a haircut. Maybe one of his classmates wants to be a barber.

All Look Same

2009-11-12T11:28:00.002-05:00

So help me God, I cannot tell the Voltaggio brothers apart on Top Chef.

I'm usually pretty good at names and faces, but these two are a complete mystery to me. I've been watching all season, and constantly confuse the two.

Maybe it's a sibling thing. When I was growing up, my brother had a friend named Faron who I couldn't distinguish from his little brother Vincent. One was blond, the other wasn't. (But which ONE was blond? I DON'T KNOW!)

Have you ever mistaken someone for somebody else? Please tell me about it so I don't feel like such a moron.

A sibling mix-up would make me feel a lot better, but you won't be doing me any favors if your story involves identical twins.

That Handwriting Thing I Was Telling You About

2009-11-10T10:42:00.003-05:00

Hey, remember when I told you that Beth did this cool handwriting thing? She even did a follow-up post and I'm so slow I didn't even get this done in time for that.

I created a submission for her right away, then forgot to scan it, then left it at home and my computer is still busted so [shrug] you know.

I finally got my head out of my ass and realized I could just write another one. It's not like it's hard. I swear, some days it's amazing I can drive to work and remember to wear pants.

Behold (click to embiggen, and if you can't read it, then aren't you glad I type this blog):
Yes, my hand cramped up while I was writing that. And I think that's the first time I've ever signed something "Lumpyhead's Mom." That was kind of weird.

H8NU H1N1

2009-11-05T10:49:00.009-05:00

I dithered a bit about getting the kids vaccinated at first. I had some crazy naggings about vaccine safety, and I really didn't want to wait with the rioting masses of frenzied nutjobs.

Then I read and heard from enough people stricken with H1N1 who were all WOE! and IT'S GOING TO KILL US ALL! and 47 KAJILLION CHILDREN ARE ABSENT FROM SCHOOL! that I decided to get it done.

But the largest factor in my decision-making was that my county has a clinic less than a mile from my house, and had shots on a day that was convenient.

Plus Bump and I felt that if we made a perfunctory effort to get the kids vaccinated - even if it failed - we wouldn't feel so guilty when they were inevitably stricken with the flu.

So yesterday we raced to get everyone loaded in the van, I notified my office that I would be a little late for work, and we showed up at 8:30 for an 8:00 clinic. (Our goal was to arrive before 8, but, [shrug], you know.)

They had 300 doses. I'm guessing we were number 340.

But waiting in line for an hour and getting turned away gave us a plan for today. By God, now that we had gone through a little bit of trouble, we were going all the way and getting the damn vaccine. (Why waste only an hour, when you could waste several?)

So. This morning I packed my thermos and a folding chair, bundled up and got to the clinic at 7am. Bump met me there with the kids at 8 o'clock.

We were numbers 110-112.

I was feeling good. We juggled the children and toys and snacks in a long line in a frigid parking lot. More importantly, it was someone else's kid who was whining incessantly and kicking his mother. (GO US! WIN!)

We finally got inside where Bump filled out paperwork and I tried to keep Nathan Jr from bolting away while I threw random books and things at Lumpyhead and Lula to keep them quiet.

Lumpyhead and Lula bravely got the mist and Nathan Jr squealed angrily when he got his shot. Then we were reminded that we needed to come back in a month for their second doses.

And I almost cried.

Obligatory Halloween Costume Photos

2009-11-04T09:24:00.003-05:00

Yeah, yeah, it's like the 4th of November but I've had issues. Here:

Balloon Boy

King Kong
King Kong after I figured out how to put the collar of his costume on right.

Dora Being Abducted by Aliens

Lula HATED her costume. Lumpyhead agreed to wear the alien suit during Trick-or-Treat Round II in Aunt Bob's neighborhood, so at least my work wasn't all for naught.

--

Oh, did you see that Brad Pitt wants to be like Lumpyhead?

Brad Pitt went trick-or-treating.

Lumpyhead is all: Dude, that was so two years ago.

Oh My God You Guys

2009-11-03T11:38:00.001-05:00

In the last month or so, my car has needed new brakes, a new side mirror (ahem), and a new exhaust system. My camera broke. Over the weekend my computer died.

Ded. Doornail dead. My IT guy at work took a look at it and uttered the words "total loss." The data is irretrievable and of course I haven't backed anything up in like, ever.

So there's that.

I've got so much to tell you. There are Halloween photos to share and I did a sleep study and Beth did this really cool handwriting thing but first things first:

We voted today before the kids went to school.

"Hey Lumpyhead, put your sticker on your head."
"Hey Nathan Jr, be distracted by these animal crackers long enough for me to put a sticker on your head."
"Hey Lula, put your sticker on your head."
Uh, Lula declined to be photographed wearing the sticker.

Consolation Prize

2009-10-30T11:57:00.008-04:00

I was going to post pictures of the kids in their costumes, but I got lousy photos at the preschool parade. Lula refused to wear her costume anyway and I realized later that I put Nathan Jr's costume on incorrectly so here's a picture of the baby in a blond wig.

Surfer Baby is angry.

Two Things

2009-10-29T11:19:00.003-04:00

1. Lumpyhead somehow managed to set his alarm clock to 3:06am, a fact I discovered just as I was dozing off again after Lumpyhead came into our room. He was whimpering about something or other and instead of sending him back to bed as I should, I lazily let him snuggle under my arm. So while he lay sleeping in my bed, I ran haphazardly around the upper level of our house with my heart pounding, trying to figure out what that goddamn noise was. Smoke detector? Nope. Carbon monoxide detector? Nope. Something outside? Nope, it's coming from Lumpyhead's room and OH MY GOD YOU MUST BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

Let's prevent that from happening again, shall we?

2. What time does Trick-or-Treating start on Saturday? I was really happy that Halloween fell on the weekend this year - no Halloween night rush hour traffic, which sucks as much as mary jane peanut butter kisses [and for those of you who are about to comment "I LOVE peanut butter mary janes" don't even bother. They're gross, I hate them, and I've always hated them. If you love them so much, I'll trade you all your milk duds for my mary janes. There, see? You don't love them so much now, do you?] - but this "Halloween on a weekend" nonsense means I'm uncertain about when is too early to send my crew to the neighbors' houses and when I should prepare for little goblins to come to my door and holy shit. Now I've got to have three costumes ready by the morning of Halloween Fucking Eve for the preschool costume parade, and, well, All Hallow's Eve Eve is just wrong.

Dicknostril.

(That's my new favorite word. Beth gave it to me. You like it?)

I guess dicknostril makes three things. You're welcome.

Oh, and I got a new camera. I tried to take a picture of Nathan Jr with a blond wig on his head and he cried. I blame you for making the baby cry.

Wow, I'm cranky today. That's probably your fault, too. But you may be able to foist the blame onto Lumpyhead's alarm clock pretty easily.

Argument

2009-10-26T13:49:00.001-04:00

"All in all, I think 'douche' is pretty tame."

"I don't want my four-year-old calling some other kid a douche on the playground."

"It was the two-year-old who said it."

[Glare]

"Douche will probably be prefectly acceptable dinner-party talk soon. You know, there was a time when 'jerk' was considered a vulgar reference to masturbation."

[Pointedly] "Is now that time?"

"It's better than asshole."

"Is that the only alternative you can think of?"

[Long pause] "Yes."

--

Okay, I can think of other words, but asshole is the most apt synonym for douche. What do you suggest? Assume any variant of douchebag is unacceptable to my children's father, as well as anything with the ass- prefix (asshat, assface, asslicker) or the -hole suffix (dillhole, jackhole, jerkhole). It must be a perfect substitute for douche, because otherwise I'm not using it.

Someone Needs to Watch Her Language

2009-10-23T13:42:00.005-04:00

Last night, Lumpyhead and Lula were arguing over a puzzle. Lula was working on a section that Lumpyhead wanted to complete himself.

Lula got right in his face. "Don't be a douche to me, Lumpyhead," she commanded him sternly. "Don't be a douche."

Ahem.

While it's good advice, I'm not sure it's . . . appropriate. But the words were pretty funny coming out of her mouth.

And she may have said it because I had just told Lumpyhead not to be a douche. I don't know.

I Suddenly Have the Urge to Call You All Kittens

2009-10-22T13:37:00.007-04:00

Be jealous, people.

I went to Happy Hour with Aunt Bob last night, and Anne and VUBOQ joined us. It was great fun, and even if my camera hadn't shit the bed, I still wouldn't have gotten any photos. Because 1) I am a lazy-ass blogger and 2) I was having too much fun to stop and take stupid pictures for your benefit.

And if that weren't enough to blow your mind with the awesomeness, VUBOQ brought me a present.

It's Gorge. Us.

Behold.
(sorry for the crappy camera-phone photo, but as you recall MAH CAMRAH IZ BUSTED.)

VUBOQ said he thought it would fit on Nathan Jr's head - and I think he's right - and as soon as I get a new camera I will photograph the shit out of Nathan Jr's new hat.

Right after I cover the floor under Nathan Jr with bubble wrap, of course, because there's no way I'm letting that little newly mobile poop machine put so much as a teeny tiny chip in Mama's beautiful new bowl.

Yikes

2009-10-21T17:13:00.004-04:00

My camera is broken. I thought the display was messed up, but it looks like the camera itself is FUBARed. There are horizontal lines running through all the shots,
and although some don't look too bad,
others are clearly unsalvageable.
Is there some kind of Blogger Disability program for this misfortune? Well, there should be.

Pop Quiz

2009-10-20T16:18:00.005-04:00

When was the last time you did something for yourself? Just for fun.

Not on your way to an errand. Not at the same time you were doing something for someone else.

For you. Just you.

What did you do?

Tomorrow night I am having a happy hour with Aunt Bob. We used to do it once a week, and I'd like to make it a habit again.

It's just for fun. It's just for us.

(I don't mean "just for us" as in "you can't come" - because you should totally come - but as in "simply for ourselves." For us, not for our families or our jobs or our [insert other obligation here].)

Now, I just need to work on not feeling guilty about it. Because not only is it fun, it is necessary.

And you should totally come. Especially if you can't think of anything in answer to that first question.

It's a Proper Straw Hat

2009-10-15T10:41:00.003-04:00

Worn at a jaunty tilt.
I'm resisting the urge to photoshop a hay stalk in his mouth.

First!

2009-10-14T13:24:00.001-04:00

Nathan Jr has definitely begun walk. He has taken a few steps, independent of furniture or other support.

I felt compelled to painstakingly document Lumpyhead's first steps. I wasn't as fervent about it with Lula; but since Nathan Jr is the Last Baby, I feel I should tell you about it. (Aw, poor Middle Child, everyone feel sorry for unfortunate, neglected Lula. As she will one day rule the Universe with an iron fist, use the opportunity to think of her as vulnerable, now, so you can look back on this moment fondly when she's crushing your hopes and dreams as Magnificent Overlord.)

I no longer understand the big deal surrounding the first steps. Unless your child is delayed in some way, it's pretty much a given that he is going to walk eventually, right? What's the big significance in the first steps? Have you missed something momentous if the child takes those first steps in daycare, or somewhere else out of your sight? Come to think of it, how do you know those are the first steps, really? That wily baby could have been testing out that stepping shit for days while your back was turned.

It's not a milestone to be celebrated, once the third baby comes along. It's the beginning of the end. The onset of any type of mobility is a dreaded day, and full-on walking means the battle is lost. Retreat now, for the Small Ones shall conquer us all.

Until they meet Mr. Staircase, that is.

One Way to Achieve Those Coveted Racing Stripes

2009-10-13T15:11:00.004-04:00

This weekend I ripped the driver's side mirror off my car. (Which I predicted I would do when we moved in.) However, instead of hitting the side of the garage as I expected, I removed my car mirror using the minivan.
On the bright side, I found a replacement mirror at a salvage yard for $80. The service station guy said he can install it for about $70, which is significantly cheaper than the $350-$400 the Honda dealership quoted me.

If you're keeping score at home, you may recall that I also ran a red light recently. This puts the pricetag for my Dumbassery: Vehicle Edition at over $300 in the last 23 days.

Ten Things. Honestly

2009-10-08T17:32:00.003-04:00

Nora tagged me for a meme in which I am supposed to post 10 honest things about myself. Since I don't usually lie to you, Internet, this development doesn't represent a great seachange around here. Therefore I am going to use this opportunity to post ten random things about myself; and there you'll sit, forced to read them.

So: HA! Nora totally gave me permission to bore the everloving hell out of you. Blame her.

1. CSPAN changed the font for its vote tally and it's blowing my mind.
2. That's what qualifies as mind-blowing in my life. I don't know if that's pathetic or really good.
3. My husband left this afternoon for a weekend in Las Vegas.
4. My parents are still here, which means I will have only one night of solo parenting.
5. I'm a very lucky woman to have my parents' help with the children.
6. That much-appreciated help will surely drive me crazy this weekend, so WOE. COME VISIT ME AND BRING WINE.
7. I'm supposed to tag seven other people as part of this meme, but I'm too much of a chickenshit to do it.
8. Nathan Jr doesn't always cooperate when I take pictures of things on his head, so I have a lot of photos like these:

9. Okay, that last one wasn't from an attempt to put something on his head. He just looks at me like that a lot.
10. You probably do, too.

Playroom Nightmares

2009-10-07T09:31:00.006-04:00

My mother is appalled that Nathan Jr, celebrity chef extraordinaire, is also kind of a dickhead.

I can't seem to find my hands. And where is my f***ing ladle?

F*** off, you stupid cow. Where's your f***ing brain? My ladle! Fetch my f***ing ladle! F*** you.

Grandma proves that she simply won't stand for such language.

Bluh-ur-gath. What the hell?

Ahem. Fine. Now, about that ladle.

All the Single Ladies

2009-10-05T10:28:00.003-04:00

Maybe you know this already and I'm a little late to this party, but here:

A Lesson from this weekend's wedding reception. Let me share it with you.

You know how it is, at every wedding reception, when the DJ plays "I Will Survive" and all the women of a certain age drop their drinks and go running out onto the dance floor, bellowing all the words while giving their girlfriends meaningful looks?

Sorry, Gloria Gaynor. There's a new sheriff in town, and her name is Beyonce.

If you're not sick of that song yet, people, I've got bad news. You're going to be hearing it at wedding receptions for the next twenty years.

My Weekend Was Better Than Your Weekend

2009-10-04T15:22:00.004-04:00

On Friday morning, Bump and I got up ass early for our flight to MSP. We crept out of the house just as my mother was waking up with Nathan Jr.

Upon arrival at the gate, we were informed that our plane was delayed an hour. Between grumbling about runway construction at MSP - we could have slept another hour! - and a brush with fame - hello Senator Franken! - we made it to MSP.

Where this happened:

Yeah, that's ElectricYoak.

And THOSE are mini corn dogs.

Your intense jealousy is warranted.

A weekend away without children of course means hedonistic excess. We slept for many hours without interruption. We slept late every morning. We napped on a rainy afternoon. That's right, people, we fucking napped.

We ate good food and drank good beer with good friends. We attended a lovely wedding for a fantastic woman (and her new husband, who I assume is equally fantastic, but let's face it - she's fantastic enough for several people). At the wedding reception the favors were personalized decks of cards and around the corner from the dance floor were darts and cornhole boards. Heh, cornhole.

I miss the tormentors - a little - but right now I'm watching football in ElectricYoak's basement. I'm getting a beer as soon as I finish this mimosa the size of my head, and trying to figure out how to make this weekend last three more days.

The Neighbors

2009-09-30T12:02:00.005-04:00

Bump and I met our next-door neighbors at an afternoon barbeque, two weeks before we moved in. She was heavily pregnant and he was chasing around two little boys, aged three and one and a half. The little guys stopped running long enough to grin at us, showcasing their gleefully stained faces and shirts. I think they were wearing ice cream, or maybe it was juice, and no one cared. They were happily sticky and very sweet, inside and out. We remarked that their children would be spaced exactly like ours, only their boys would be a year younger.

The neighbors' closing date was two weeks after ours, and they had to schedule their move around the baby's delivery. They knew the birth would be complicated - the baby had a heart defect.

We had just bought a house and moved, and we were exhausted. A year earlier, we had a baby within days of moving, and it nearly swamped us. The thought of doing all those things together made us weep. The additional stress of a sick baby was unfathomable. We marveled at their strength. Their burden.

Their boys bounded over to splash in our wading pool, and we celebrated the baby's successful surgery. While our children laughed on the playground, I was told of a small setback - the baby required the post-op ventilator for longer than expected. As Lumpyhead and Lula traded backyard toys with the boys, their au pair relayed that the baby was having good days and bad days.

The neighbor was always upbeat. Serious surgery, yes, but the baby had excellent doctors. He was cheery and optimistic.

His wife was more reserved. "How are things?" I would inquire quietly. "Okay," she would shrug with a smile, after a small pause. I backed off, never pressing, but you can bet I milked that au pair and the mother-in-law for everything they would spill. How is the baby? How are they doing? Do they need anything? What can we do?

I saw the neighbor walk by with her older boys in the stroller one day, and I envied her body type. She is one of those naturally thin people - I remember how slender her arms and neck were when she was eight months pregnant - and six weeks after delivery, she didn't have a speck of baby weight. "Genetic good fortune," I muttered to myself. Guiltily, I later realized her movie star weight loss could be due to, you know, STRESS. (Way to go, Insensitive Dumbass.)

Lumpyhead and Lula were psyched when the neighbor got us into the Toy Story double feature. But as he delivered the tickets, he was more restrained about his infant son's condition. The baby had contracted an infection, and the ongoing steroid treatment wasn't effective. His heart was in great shape, but the rest of his organs were struggling.

Bump saw the neighbor and his boys at the movie on Saturday, along with others from the neighborhood with whom the neighbor had shared tickets. They waved and exchanged pleasantries, and an ill-timed fire alarm gave them a chance to chat.

We have so much in common with these people: parenting small children, living in a new neighborhood, anticipating kindergarten in the near future. We like them. We are them.

The baby died on Sunday. He never came home to his family's beautiful new house.

I am heartbroken.

I am lucky.

I am grateful.

But today? I am mostly heartbroken.

A Day Late and a Bullhorn Short

2009-09-24T12:15:00.003-04:00

Dude, and it's not even the correct child.

Meh, whatever. It's not really a bullhorn, either, it's an antique milk funnel, which . . . maybe it's best to walk away from this post right now.

Make Up Yer Damn Mind

2009-09-23T09:30:00.004-04:00

Nutjob Watch

Number of Nutjobs with Bullhorns outside my office today: 0

I'm a little disappointed. Do you think they don't care about us anymore? I hope they're okay.*

*You know, I hope no Unfortunate Incidents involving bullhorns shoved in inappropriate places have befallen them.

They're Multiplying

2009-09-22T09:25:00.004-04:00

There's a new Nutjob with a Bullhorn on the corner outside my office today. Yesterday's Nutjob moved two blocks down the street.

This better not be a fucking trend.

Not only is it annoying (with the bullhorns) and disturbing (with the posters of aborted fetuses) and sad (You've got nothing better to do with your day, old man? You've clearly got too much quality health care. Let's do something about that), but there also seems to be a career path for the Nutjobs. Start on my corner, get promoted to the corner down the street.

The guy outside is not just a Dumbass, he's a Trainee Dumbass.

I'm Not In Favor of Limiting the First Amendment. Just Regulating the Volume

2009-09-21T09:27:00.003-04:00

Dear Nutjob on the Corner Outside My Office Window:

I fully support your right to protest (abortion? health care?) whatever it is that you're protesting. Really, I do. Free speech and all that. It's great.

But I STRONGLY OPPOSE the bullhorn.

Love,
Lumpyhead's Mom

Outlaw

2009-09-17T16:14:00.001-04:00

It was Lula and Nathan Jr's first day of school today; Lumpyhead started his school year on Tuesday. Lula has none of the separation issues Lumpyhead did his first year. Lumpyhead cried at dropoff for the first - I don't know, six weeks or so? Lula cried today at pickup.

Leaving a crying child at dropoff fills you with guilt and dread. Hauling a weeping child home who wants to stay at school makes you feel like the least popular person in the world.

Seriously. That dude spreading H1N1 at the mall is better-liked than me. (I even took time off from work to pick her up, that Little Ingrate.) At least Nathan Jr was mildly pleased to see me.

As I was driving home, a police officer turned on his lights behind me. I changed lanes to let him by, but he changed lanes, too. I pulled off into a strip mall parking lot. So did the cop.

Internet, I ran a red light. Right in front of a police car.

Sure that was stupid - particularly the "right in front of a cop" thing - but it was completely unintentional. I swear I didn't notice the red light, and I travel that road all the time.

The whole thing makes me uneasy. How many other red lights have I run, completely unaware? Had the officer not been there, I would have never known. On occasion I might try to squeak through an intersection on a yellow, but mis-time it and run a red. That wasn't the case today.

I blew right past a stoplight, with my three children in the car.

With my three children in the car.

And that makes me positively nauseous. While I can think of much better uses for a hundred bucks (or however much this ticket will cost me), this incident could have ended much, much worse.

I don't think I want to drive anymore.

Pull-Top Baby

2009-09-16T16:31:00.002-04:00

Still not sick of this, Mother?