Lumpyhead's Bedroom Door

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.