I'll still be friends with you

"I've never had a humble opinion. If you've got an opinion, why be humble about it?" -- Joan Baez

This quote has been on my refrigerator since 2004. It came from a quote-a-day calendar (It was Sept. 30), and it was one of two quotes I saved that year. (The other one had to do with cats biting the hands that feed them. Our cat is a cranky beast.) 

I have strong opinions. It's part of my charm, as Michelle will tell you. Once in college when we visited her parents, Michelle's sister asked me how I liked my coffee. "I believe in black coffee," I said. Her sister teased me -- how can a person believe in any kind of coffee? -- but I wasn't trying to be funny. It is just what I think: Coffee should be black*.

Here's another one of my firmly held beliefs: Christmas cards should not be photos.

I believe Christmas cards should be on card stock and not have my face or my boys' faces on them. I believe in finding the cutest, vintage-looking card I can. I believe in the cloud of glitter that dumps out of my sister's card every year. I believe in the foil-lined envelope that comes annually from my great uncle. I believe in the crick in my neck and the cramp in my hand I get from writing out all those cards. I believe in the wavery "I love you" my grandmas write in each card. I believe in tucking a photo into the cards of the family members who truly want a keepsake of my kiddos.

Inevitably some of my very dearest friends do things with which I do not agree. It doesn't change my mind about them or the thing in question.Using Michelle as an example: Every time I see poor little Gizmo with a ponytail antenna on top of her head, I shake my head. Children should not have antenna ponytails. I love my best friend, but not that weird ponytail.

I have seen some cute photo cards (YOURS! I'm sure yours was lovely! ), but I don't ever plan to send any. And I know I'm going to get photo cards this year -- YOURS! I hope I get yours! -- and I'll ooh and ah appropriately over the cute babies, I swear. But I can't promise I won't let them be buried behind the first glittery, handwritten Christmas card that arrives in the mail. I just can't help myself.

Other things I believe: 

-- Stuffing should be made with bread cubes, not crumbs of any sort.

-- Low-fat anything is gross. Ditto for diet stuff. 

-- Small babies should have their heads covered when outside. If it's hot, it just means you need to block them from the sun. Put a hat on that baby!

-- A good book solves most problems.

-- Anecdotal ledes are lazy and trite most of the time. (That makes no sense to anyone without a journalism background, but trust me.)

-- Macaroni and cheese should be topped only with salt and pepper. (The husband puts sugar on his. I just ... well, it's a wonder we're still married.)

What do you believe? 

*Don't throw my love for peppermint mochas in my face. That barely qualifies as coffee.

11 months

 Give me cute. Good. Good.

 OK. Now give me playful mixed with curious.

 Now give me angry. Wow. OK. You might be overselling it a bit.

 Let's try a different setting. Give me dangerous. Yes. That's it.

 OK. Try this. Give me cat stuck in a tree. Yes. Perfect.

Give me, momma-please-take-the-damn-picture-because-I-don't-feel-well-and-need-a-nap. Wonderful.

Gizmo is 11 months old today. To celebrate, she has a stomach virus, the start of an ear infection and her two top teeth are breaking through. Don't you wish you were invited to the party?

It started Friday evening when Gizmo puked all over me after dinner. She had no fever and was fine after so we thought it was something she ate. She was fine all day Saturday but Sunday morning, she had it coming out the other end. By Sunday night, she was puking again.

Fortunately I already had a doctor's appointment scheduled for today for her flu second flu shot. Unfortunately the doctor's office was running way behind again today so I spent 40 minutes in the waiting room and another 40 minutes in the exam room.

To top it off, I have things due at work today. I was up for two hours in the middle of the night working on them trying to get them done.

Gizmo is now resting (hopefully for awhile) and I'm going to try to get some work done.

Have I mentioned I haven't even started planning her first birthday yet? Eeep.

Holiday bits

The girls were kind enough to indulge me and wear their turkey shirts and tutus for Thanksgiving, which we spent at my parents' house with my sister and her yahoos.

My mother, who is a big believer in Black Friday, could barely contain her excitement when she realized that all of the stores we wanted to go to were opening at midnight. This seemed like a better plan to me too since I would prefer to stay up over getting up at 4 a.m.

However, what we didn't think of us was that the midnight opening would draw in more people and younger people, namely a bunch of teenagers. It was insane. I thought people were going to start throwing down over $19.99 boots at Macy's. Others went with the pack mentality of shopping. One person would stand in the very long line and others would shop bringing stocking carts full of stuff. My mom waited in line for almost an hour for one purchase.

While she was doing that, I was hating my life and wishing I could tell her no, I don't want to do Black Friday anymore. I'm going to buy everything on the Internet and it will still be better if I have to pay shipping than dealing with this. Also, I watched a woman have a one-person flash mob. Macy's had a DJ - why, I have no idea - blasting dance music at the entrance of the mall. This woman, who was in her 50s, at least, began dancing like a crazy fool. Three (3!) songs into her performance, a crowd of at least 100 people had gathered. Many were using their cellphones to capture the moment. And then, she knocked over a store display and everyone scattered like a frat party full of drunk freshmen getting busted. Still, I stood there, waiting for my mother. Never. Again.

Anyway, on to the happy bits. We did check out my hometown holiday parade. It started when I was an intern for the city while in college. I helped plan some of it and worked the night of the parade. My job was to make sure the lion (yes, lion) that arrived in a Econoline van (yes, van) did not kill anyone. I walked along side the float with a walkie-talkie and made sure the lion behaved. To this day, I am flabbergasted that anyone thought this was a good idea.

My parents are not big into crowds and hanging with people (my father would be a hermit if we let him) so we just walked around the parking lot where the floats were lined up instead of actually watching the parade. The clowns Freaked Peanut Out. She looked at them like they were known sex offenders and clung to me like a spider monkey. And while my niece and nephew practically knocked Brutus Buckeye over in their excitement, Peanut again clung to me like I was about to feed her to a wild animal. Later she told me that someday she would be excited to see the clowns and Brutus Buckeye.

Gizmo meanwhile, hung out in her stroller and clapped her hands excitedly at the lights and music.

 Chill.

 No clowns around? Alright. I'm cool.

slow learner

I was in a bit of a funk on Thanksgiving Day.

I thought it might be that we all woke up super early -- about 5:30 a.m. -- to go to a Turkey Trot 5K the husband was running. The Boy was running the kids' race, too. The Lad, the dog and I were just along for moral support.

I thought it might have something to do with corralling two kids and a dog for multiple hours with limited amusements. Now, I can handle two kids, and I also can handle a dog, even in a crowd. In theory, this means I should be able to handle two kids and a dog without problems. In practice, I don't have enough hands. The Lad was covered in donut hole crumbs, half my coffee ended up on the ground and Brucie the dog got more caffeinated than I did.

My funk also might have been caused by Brucie's unbearable cuteness. The husband estimated at least 100 people came up to pet her, which is nice except some people are unbelievably stupid about approaching a strange dog. I warned everyone that she's a puppy and we're still teaching her not to nip -- and then at least 30 percent of them proceeded to shove their small child -- like, infant, in some cases -- right at her face. Stupid.

The funk almost went away when The Boy finished his race and came up sweaty-headed and glowing to show me his medal, and when The Lad grabbed the turkey-topped trophy that the husband won and shouted, "TURKEY! Bock, bock, dobble, dobble."

But it returned when we got home to a house that did not smell like roasting turkey -- we were having a late Thanksgiving dinner with friends -- and The Lad spilled an entire cup of orange juice on the floor.

I sobbed my way through cutting up onions to make stuffing. The husband asked if I missed my family. That wasn't it; he and the boys are my family. I just felt ... put-upon, sad, melancholy and very hungry.

The funk lifted when we went to our friends' house. I made gravy from scratch -- my grandma would be so proud -- and ate lots of pie and felt better.

Well, except for being bloated and still hungry, all at the same time. That's just Thanksgiving though, right? The holiday of the glutton.

And then yesterday, the true source of my crankiness and bottom-less appetite arrived: my period.

You would think after 18 years, I'd recognize PMS. You would be wrong.

Things to remember: Random evening at home

The Lad built a rocket out of these snap-together blocks we have. It actually looked like a rocket and he flew it around and around the room, yelling, "ROCKETSHIP!"

"Lite-ning Queen on," The Lad said. "Lite-ning GO! ROCKETSHIP! Go fast!"

And just like that, I had two pint-sized story tellers. In case you can't tell, Lightning McQueen was riding in that rocket, going very fast.

---

The Boy was running around, playing with the dog. Brucie dodged, and The Boy couldn't dart as fast. He ran eye first into the corner of the cabinet. He's fine. But he does have a thin cut just under his eye on his cheek. I put a Band-Aid on it -- Lightning McQueen, coincidentally -- and every time he looked in the mirror, he giggled.

We're calling him Scarface.

---

While we were getting every jammed up for bed, the boys started running around half naked.

"Belly fight!" The Lad said.

"I don't have my shirt off," The Boy said. "I can't belly fight."

Neither the husband nor I had any idea what they were talking about. The Lad yanked on The Boy's shirt, which soon came off, and then, they chased each other around, bumping bellies. It was like tiny Sumo wrestling.

Belly fighting devolved into back fighting and then butt fighting. When we forced them to stop and get into jammies, The Boy, still giggling, informed us the kid fights were over, but now the adult butt fighting was starting. Do I have to tell you the husband and I complied?

---

Not only is The Lad telling his own stories, he's following others more closely.

"Rock. Read," he demanded before bed, so we settled into the rocking chair. We read Lightning McQueen and then he asked for "Fur-uh-nun." It took me a minute to figure out he meant "The Story of Ferdinand," which two nights ago he was calling simply "Bull."

He pointed out the flowers and the mother -- "Cow. Momma cow good." -- and the tree. And when we got to the part where Ferdinand sits on the bumblebee, he shouted.

"OH NO!"

---

These are the reasons I had kids.

The holidays

This time last year, I was 11 months pregnant, or at least felt like it. The last thing I wanted to do was spend a ton of time decorating for the holidays. We were still trying to finish a bathroom and redo and decorate the nursery.

I had priorities, mainly getting that child out of me. If we celebrated the holidays at all, it was just icing on the cake. My only motivation for getting through the holidays was that once they were over, Gizmo would be born.

The holidays stress me out. The shopping, the parties, the cooking, the traveling. I remember feeling slightly disappointed after Peanut's first Christmas because it just didn't seem as Magical as I thought it should be. I was so hell bent on making everything Magical that I didn't stop to just freaking enjoy what was happening.

But this year, I am not going to let myself get stressed out. I will not be a spaz anymore. OK, I will try not to be a spaz.

I'm not going to worry that I have no idea what I am getting the girls for Christmas or for Gizmo's first birthday (or when we are going to celebrate her birthday for that matter.) I'm not going to worry about when the decorating is going to get done. I'm not going to worry about how the girls are going to react to spending the next 6 weeks in the car, traveling to see everyone.

I'm going to enjoy my baby's first birthday. I'm going to enjoy writing a letter to Santa with Peanut for the first time. I'm going to relax and laugh when Peanut and Gizmo "help" their father make Christmas cookies and make a mess. I'm going to take lots of pictures of the girls in their special Christmas pjs while they open up presents.

I'm going to soak it all in because it goes too fast. Worrying doesn't slow it down. It just makes me get gray hair faster.

Cleaning question

We woke up Sunday to rain and humidity and general nastiness outside our window. I would have been happy to curl up in my chair with a book and put The Boy in front of cartoons while the husband and The Lad went for a run, however, the husband said something about it being a good day to clean the house before he left, and I felt guilty. He wasn't being passive-aggressive; he was only pointing out that we didn't have any major plans and likely weren't going to pursue any outdoor activities. He was right and the house obviously needed to be cleaned.

(I still might have shrugged it off and read, but the dog got sick the night before and cleaning her corner of the living room wasn't an option.)

So, I loaded up the CD player with a bunch of loud, dancy music, cranked up the volume and got to work. The Boy balked a bit -- he wanted me to read Curious George -- but I told him he could either entertain himself or help me ... and then danced him around the room. He happily picked up a dust rag. 

Over the course of the morning, we dusted and sorted out books and toys for donations. I organized the pile of crap on the end of the counter, cleaned the gunk out of the coffee pot and the crumbs out of the toaster oven. I dusted baseboards and picture frames. I also wiped down all of our white, show-every-speck-of dirt kitchen cabinets. 

You guys. Prekids, I wiped down those cabinets every single weekend, at least the fronts. I still spot clean them sporadically, meaning if there's a dirty, Lad-sized handprint on the door where the trash is, it's likely to get cleaned about the fifth time I notice it. I honestly don't remember the last time I really cleaned those cabinets before today and, though I knew they needed it, I didn't think they looked awful -- until I cleaned them. For the first time in lord knows how long, they actually were white. 

If you came to my house, I don't think you would think it was dirty. I am very good about controlling clutter, especially because we live in a small space, and generally clean up big messes. (And honestly, if I knew you were coming, I probably did the five-minute panic clean before you got there.) But cleaning -- really cleaning, like scrubbing the shower and wiping down baseboards -- is the the thing I let slide. My kids get homecooked meals every night, but The Lad's highchair stays pretty sticky, is what I'm saying.

I've thought about getting a cleaning service to come in just once a month or maybe every two months to really deep clean the house. The husband had one come in before The Lad was born and coming home to a spotless house was a lovely feeling. But. But. But. I can't commit to that monthly bill. It seems frivolous when I'm CAPABLE of cleaning the house myself. Also, it seems .... I don't know what word I want, but I feel bad paying someone to scrub my toilets. I mean, let's be honest: Sometimes the reason cleaning doesn't get done is because I would rather -- and do -- spend the time napping or reading or taking the kids somewhere. 

So, I'm curious. How many of you have a cleaning service? How did you decide to get one? How often do they come? Do you ever feel weird about it? 

There goes my baby

We have been prepping Peanut for a week now for her transition to preschool. I fretted that she wouldn't handle it well.  It would be the first time that she would spend hours away from anyone but family and the babysitter. She didn't know anyone. What if she got bashful and had a potty accident? What if she forgot her manners? What if she cried the whole time because she was afraid?

We told her she would have so much FUN. Meet new friends. Learn cool things. Dance. Sing. Play. I told I would drop her off and leave but that we would always come back for her. I told her she didn't need to get upset.

I should have worried more about how I would handle it. There was a 24-hour period where I couldn't even think about her going to preschool without crying.

Tuesday morning dawned with Peanut crawling into our bed. I started singing a made-up song about school and she giggled. She was excited. Then the reality of what was about to take place occurred to her and she got her game face on. She was serious. More serious than I have ever seen my little bundle of giggles and smiles.

She didn't want to eat much breakfast. I tried to coax her, explaining that she had to have a full belly to go to school. Then she didn't like the outfit I picked out. Then she had to try on three different pairs of shoes before she was OK. I tried to be understanding while also scooting her along so we wouldn't be late for her first day.

I took pictures. She insisted that her sister be in them. (She is.) At least Peanut smiled long enough for a cute picture.

And then we were off. Her school has an optional tumbling class one day a week and a dance class the other day before school. There were fewer kids there than when we visited and Peanut very seriously looked at me and asked, "Where are all the kids, momma?" I explained that more would be coming later. Thankfully three little girls walked in about that time.

While I was writing a check, Peanut launched herself at me.

She hugged me.

She kissed me.

She looked me in the eye and quietly said, "Momma, you need to get Maddie and leave."

And with that, she turned around and left, never looking back. She didn't even notice when I walked out.

I left and cried all the way home.

When I picked her up, her teachers said she did great. She said she had fun and wanted to go back. I got a picture with an outline of her tiny little hand decorated like a turkey. She also put together a construction paper ice cream cone. She told me they learned the ABCs but did not talk about the numbers. She was rubbing her little eyes by the time we got the babysitter's house. She was exhausted.

She said she met K with red shirt and a girl with a Dora shirt but that she couldn't remember her name. She also met a boy with orange hair who she hasn't stopped talking about (which is annoying the husband beyond belief).

It will be four years tomorrow that I found out I was pregnant with this amazing being. She has gone from a squishy being who kept us up at tonight to an amazing person. She loves her little sister more than anything in the world. She is daddy's girl. She gets frustrated just like me when she can't do something. She reminds us that we can't leave her alone at home. She sings in the car and loves to have dance parties, yelling, "Get up and dance with me, momma!"

She's going to school.

Things that made today better

1. This poster from Very Demotivational, found thanks to the lovely K. Every time I even THINK about this poster, let alone see it, I laugh like a fool. I need a cactus.  

2. The boys rocking out on the ride home to Christina Aguilera.

3. Homemade egg mcmuffins for dinner.

4. Good things at work -- despite more computer issues. (Seriously. Need a cactus.)

5. A plan to make the after-work, pre-dinner hour less crazy. (Dog on leash, kids at the table.)

6. Good family. My mom, who works a late shift, listened to me whine for 15 minutes this morning before 8 a.m. I'm a lucky girl.

7. Good friends, in the computer and out. Even when I'm cranky, you people make me laugh.

8. An amazing husband. He came home early because he knew I was on my last legs. He also did the dishes and packed lunches so I could get tomorrow's dinner prepped.

9. Wine. One glass is a nice way to end the day.

10. Broccoli cheese soup -- this recipe is made and ready for tomorrow's dinner.

WHINE!

I have a headache, a nasty one that's sitting at the base of my neck and radiating up behind my eyes. I just wrote an entire post, but I think it mostly was one big whine because of this headache, and if that's all I'm going to do, I might as well DO IT rather than force you to sit through a lengthy narrative that goes no where. See. I'm thinking of others.

So, what am I whining about tonight?

Well, first: the headache. This is exacerbated by the fact that The Boy has determined that the only acceptable speaking volume IS THIS ONE. I REMEMBER MY OLDEST NEPHEW BEING LIKE THIS A FEW YEARS AGO WHEN WE WENT ON VACATION AND MY MOM WAS LIKE, HE'S 4! THAT'S WHAT 4-YEAR-OLDS DO. Perhaps she was right. I sure as hell hope The Boy finds the volume control soon because I can't take 13 months of this. The Lad also was screechy tonight and the husband, god love him, can't function in the house if the stereo isn't on. What is wrong with silence?

Second, the boys fought tonight over a pooper scooper. Seriously.

Third, my computer crashed multiple times at work today. I could not get into our editing system for more than an hour. That does not make for a productive day.

Fourth, Brucie the puppy is crazy. I know she's crazy because she's in a crate all day and I'm really sorry about that, but I wish we could turn the crazy down a bit.

Fifth ... hmmm, I appear to have lost my whining steam.

What's getting on your nerves tonight?

And the winner is ...

Of the Inspired Giveaway is Tara from Our Little Geekling!

Congrats, Tara. Send me a message either through twitter or mesullivan26 (at) gmail.com and let me know what designs you want and size. Also, if you want a onesie or a t-shirt.

I spent the afternoon finishing up Thanksgiving shirts and starting on the Christmas ones, which are much easier.

Thanks everyone for the name suggestions. I am still working on it but will keep you posted.

Inspired giveaway

So I've finally done it. I have found my craft. And you get to help me with it and get a something in return.

I've spent years doing little crafts here and there. I've painted canvasses. I've made diaper cakes. I've made tutus and button letters, ribbon wreaths, fabric circles. I've thought about starting an etsy shop or maybe going to craft shows with these things but have never done it.

This week, I found the craft that inspires me the most (and what I think is the most marketable should I decide to sell it.)

It started with this:

I found it on Pinterest a couple months ago and thought "I could totally do that." I pinned it and promptly forgot about it.

Then my sister said something about making shirts for our girls for Thanksgiving. I remembered the Christmas tree shirt and thought, "I bet there is something like that for Thanksgiving." A quick trip around Pinterest and I found it. I modified it a bit and made this over the weekend:

I put a picture up on Facebook and within 24 hours, people were asking me to make shirts for their kids and offering to pay me for them. It wasn't my intention but I was inspired. This is my craft. I can do this. In my mind, I've already designed a shirt with a sun, one with a flower, one with a birthday cake, and one with fireworks.

All of this has inspired my 2012 goal. Start my own etsy shop. Go to at least one craft show.

Here is where you come in. Leave a comment below. You can tell me your favorite whimsical word (I'm trying to come up with a name for all of this) or maybe something that you think would be cute for a t-shirt. I'm working mainly with ribbons and buttons with some fabric pieces.

I will randomly pick a winner. The winner will get two shirts. You can pick from any of the designs I have mentioned. Comments will be accepted until noon on Saturday, Nov. 12. If you win, all I ask in return is that you let me know how the shirt holds up and any suggestions that you have.

Brainwashed

The husband shared this little exchange among he and the boys this morning: 

(Background info: Jay Bruce and Brandon Phillips are players for the Cincinnati Reds.) 

The Lad is wearing his Jay Bruce shirt and is quite pleased.
The Lad: Bruce shirt
the husband: You like your Bruce shirt?
The Lad: Bruce defense.
the husband: Yeah, Bruce does play good defense.
The Lad: Uh, huh
The Boy (whose favorite player is Gold Glove second baseman Brandon Phillips): He didn't win a Golden Glove though.
the husband: He should have.
The Lad (nodding): Glove too.

And then the husband's heart exploded with pride.... He was so cute, grinning like it was Opening Day when he told me this story. And then he had to share it on Facebook.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I have spent most of the last 18 months working in the evenings. Noon to 9 p.m. (Or after. Frequently after).

I agreed to do this when I took a new job and we had one kid. The husband and I thought it would cut down on child care costs and keep Peanut with us more than with anyone else. We knew we would be single parenting - me in the mornings, him in the evenings but we thought it was still worth it. It worked well. It allowed each of us to have one-on-one time with her. I got to take her to tumbling class in the mornings last winter.

About two minutes after I took that new job and new schedule, I got pregnant. This schedule allowed me to sleep in when I was tired (and turn on Sesame Street.) It allowed me to pull myself together when I was sickest. It was great.

Then Gizmo came 10 months ago. You know what happens when you are lone wolfing it and there are two kids? You are out numbered. You wake up, change a diaper, get the toddler on the potty, change two kids out of pajamas, feed the baby, feed the toddler who wants to act like a baby, get juice, change another diaper, dump out the training potty because the toddler refuses to use the big potty, keep the baby from climbing into the training potty, get crackers, pack diaper bags, pack a lunch, fix bottles, try to make dinner, remember that you haven't eaten breakfast, make coffee instead, put the baby down for a nap, set the toddler in front of the television, hop in the shower and hope the baby naps the entire time you get ready, realize this is a pipe dream, get ready while the baby cries, get a diaper bag, pump, lunch bag and laptop bag into the car, get the kids in the car, get them to the babysitter, get to work, realize you had a couple crackers and some coffee for breakfast and scarf down lunch at your desk.

It has not been easy. (I've said it before, I will say it again. I have no idea how single parents do this on their own day in and day out.)

So when the opportunity came for me to move to days, I jumped at it. It means we actually spend less time with the kids and more money on child care. But our kids will see us together each day. We will be a family of four each day. We will have dinner together and I will be there for baths and bedtime, something I have tried not to think about missing when I call each night to check in.

Also, Peanut is finally starting preschool. We found a different place that is more convenient and they have a tumbling class one day a week and a dance class the other day before school starts. We visited it today and within five minutes of being there, Peanut declared, "I LOVE my new school!" Also, the director hugged me before we left. I'm a hugger so this was a bonding moment for me. If you hug me the first time we meet, I automatically love you.

So, while I am not one to have my cheese moved and like it, I think I digging these changes.

2 and 4

The Boy started crying before dinner because I'd given him the yellow straw instead of the blue one. He cried harder when he got no straw. The Lad was fine with whatever straw was in his cup, but threw his tortilla on the floor -- repeatedly. He cried when I put him to bed at 6:30.

"Having kids two years apart is great," the husband said. "Until they're 4 and 2. Four and 2 kinda sucks."

---

This weekend, The Boy was driving me batty. He either wants to be on top of me -- literally sitting on my lap or climbing on me, which is becoming increasingly difficult considering he's over half my height and a third of my weight -- or is giving me major attitude, asking me questions 50 times in 20 seconds, repeating things like I'm stupid. Apparently, this is why my mother thinks all 4-year-olds should be shipped off to an island to work their shit out, Lord of the Flies style. He is only 3 and 3/4, however, he always has been an overachiever when it comes to troublesome developmental milestones.

Meanwhile, The Lad is adorable and violent, as only a nearly 2-year-old can be. I've caught him taking out his anger on the dog; I tell him no and he smacks poor little Brucie's nose. Of course, his petting sometimes verges into smacking territory, too, and it's no different when he's cuddling with me. He wants to sit in my lap and stroke my face -- and then he's yanking my earrings out.

So, this weekend, The Boy was in the chair yapping about something, practically jumping out of his skin because LOOK AT ME, YOU MUST LOOK AT ME NOW ALL THE TIME MOMMA LOOK AT ME, and The Lad wanted up. I picked him up. He patted my face. We hugged. I was softened by his dimples. And then, he struck. He grabbed two fistfuls of my neck. Let me repeat: Fistfuls of my neck. I don't have neck fat, you guys. He was grabbing tendons. I dumped him on the floor and demanded an apology. Before he could speak, his brother interjected.

"Snack?"

I was in pain, which he'd seen inflicted, and he couldn't even throw in a "please." They did not get a snack.

I left both of them -- and the damn dog -- in the living room and hid in the bathroom until I felt less murderous.

---

But.

I am an optimist.

When they're not being shit heads, my almost 2- and almost 4-year-olds are pretty cool, especially together. They fight, for sure, but they also make each other belly laugh. They wrestle in the tub, which, yes, gets too much water on my floor, but also is great fodder for blackmail when they're teenage punks. The Boy is taking a lot of responsibility for Brucie, never whining when we ask him to take her out or feed her. The Lad, my little comedian, always is busting out some new funny phrase.

"It's like ripping off a band-aid," I told the husband tonight.

Books: Coming down the stretch

This whole reading 100 books in a year has been so very good for me. It's made me take time for myself and exposed me to so many good books.


With that said, I didn't read a lot of good books during this last grouping.  In fact, very, very few would I say that I loved. I liked some and thought others were just OK. And I few, I just wanted to weep when I was done they were so bad.


I'm on my 85th and 86th book now - one I'm reading (The Dead-tossed Waves) and one I'm listening to (The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox), something I can't get used to and don't know if I will do anymore. Maybe it is the books or the narrators but I just cannot get into audiobooks. It almost feels like a chore. Then again, if I am going to make my goal, I need to utilize all the time I have, including my more-than-30-minute commute to and from work.


I accidentally read quite a bit of young adult fiction this time around. Because I get all of my books in ebook form from the library, I don't always realize it until I've started reading it and I think, "Hmm. I think this was made for the 16-year-old crowd." And then I keep reading.


Loved
The Help by Kathryn Scott: Wonderful. Loved. Don't know if I want to see the movie because I fear it will spoil my feelings for the book. This is one book that really does live up to the hype.
Front Porch Prophet: I don't know if this book is for everyone. It is a lovely, southern tale about all kinds of relationships. It took me awhile to get through this book but it was like a good piece of chocolate that I didn't want to end. I read it slowly on purpose. The characters felt very real to me.
Robopocaplypse by Daniel Wilson: If you don't want to be afraid of your car or your smartphone, don't read this book. It is an unnerving tale of how robots and computers take over the world. Gripping. I keep eyeing my phone like it is going to zap me though.
Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A.S. King: I really, really loved this book. (I did not love the ending, which felt anticlimatic) but I loved the book. I liked the writing, the structure, which was just a little different but not Different. It is young adult done right.


Liked
The Pioneer Woman by Ree Drummond: Nice story of The Pioneer Woman's courtship and wedding with her husband. I like to read the back story of bloggers. I don't read her frequently but I check in every once in awhile.
Bright Young Things by Anna Godbersen: This was a Free Friday book with Nook. I wasn't expecting to like it much given that it is hit-or-miss with these and it is young adult. This was actually pretty good. It's historical fiction set in the era of flappers and prohibition. Maybe my low expectations helped.
Overbite by Meg Cabot: Fluffy, fun story of vampires done chick-lit style. Second in a series. I liked this a little better than the first one. 
Matched by Ally Condie: First in a young adult series (shocking, a series). I liked this look into the future although it felt a little bit like The Giver but slightly more edgy to attract older teens. I plan to read the next book.
Gossamer by Lois Lowry: I don't remember reading any Lois Lowry books in school, which is kind of sad because I find her books lovely. They are quick, quick reads. This one wasn't my favorite but I enjoyed it.
Number the Stars by Lois Lowry: Come to think of it, maybe I did read this one in school. Still enjoyed it as an adult.
The Messenger by Lois Lowry: The final in The Giver trilogy. Good but I liked The Giver the best.
Dani's story: Sad true story of a feral child and one family's fight to adopt her. It is a good story.


Not my cup of tea but an OK book:
The Scent of Rain and Lightning by Nancy Pickard: I liked most of this book but by the end, found myself saying, "Oh COME ON!" and "SERIOUSLY?" with the plot.
Alice Bliss by Laura Harrington: Decent young adult fiction about a girl and how her family copes with her father's death in Iraq. That's about all I remember from it. I wasn't wowed but I wasn't bored.
Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman: This is an interesting book about a woman's stint in federal prison on a 10-year-old drug smuggling charge. It was fine but dragged for me.

The Shack: I expected more from this book, which I heard people rave about. There were some moving sections but overall, I wasn't really impressed.

Before I Fall by Lauren Oliver: I vaguely remember this as a young adult fiction that wasn't great but wasn't awful

Light on Snow by Anita Shreve: I usually like Anita Shreve. Fortune's Rock is one of my favorite books that I have read over and over again. This was just OK.

Townie by Andre Dubus: My first audiobook. It was OK. I can see how others might like it but it wasn't for me.

Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson: I was really disappointed in this book. I usually love Joshilyn Jackson but I really did not like this book. It felt all over the place.

Don't blame me if you read these:
After: Story of a teen who hides her pregnancy and then throws away the baby. It follows her through the criminal justice system. No. Just no. I couldn't get on board with the main character. Young adult fiction.
Ape House by Sarah Gruen: So very disappointed by this book. This is the same woman who wrote Water for Elephants. This is no Water for Elephants.
Dark Legacy: I should have looked at the GoodReads reviews before I read this book, which I got as a Free Friday selection for my Nook. It's horrendous.
The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan: Disclaimer on this, it is the first of a young adult series and I am actually reading the second book. Why? I want to see if the series gets better or if it is really that bad. The entire time we were in Austin, I kept trying to explain to Hillary how awful this book is. She said that's why she kept reading the Twilight series even though she thought they were awful.


What are you reading?

pictures and worries

My uncle has been digging up these old family photos and posting them on Facebook. The first was this beautiful shot of my mom taken by him in 1979. She was 18. 

Then there were a few of my grandma and her sister. This one of my grandma was taken probably around 1958, a couple years before mom and Uncle Tom were born, 22 years before I was born.

Mom's name is Sue. Growing up, I always was called little Susie, but I look more like my biological father the older I get. I know this. But seeing these photos was weird. I see very little of myself in them. I see my sister's chin and nose and hands. My hair is about that color; maybe my narrow shoulders look like Grandma's. If I don't look like these people, who do I look like? 

I haven't spoken to my biological father in nearly a decade. I don't have any desire to talk to him. I feel mostly like he's this very old friend who disappointed me and who, thankfully, moved away so we don't have rehash the unpleasantness. Except, I see traces of that person's face every time I look in the mirror. His family was dysfunctional. He and those in his family I knew were smart, strong-featured, tall -- but also cruel, delusional, addicted. His parents died when I was little. I don't have any pictures of them. Someone -- him, my grandma? -- once told me I look a great deal like his mother. She was an alcoholic, though my mother said she probably was pretty once, so I suppose this is a compliment. 

I hate that my mind worries over the absent, nonexistent parent. I have a whole family who love me and raised me and support me. Mom is amazing and so is Dad, who has been a true father to me for 27 years. Mom married into a family that just wrapped my sister and me up in love. I am not missing anything. I should not be fretting over people I don't and can't know.

But still I wonder: Whose face am I wearing? Whose bones were built like mine? 

I've sat on this post for two days. It seemed so melodramatic. But it's true. I wonder if this is how people who are adopted feel. I wonder about those mystery genes, though they don't matter. 

And then, my uncle posted this picture.  

That's me, around 3. My first thought was, "I look like The Boy." Then, "The Lad has my smile." 

I'm not a little girl any more, trying to figure out why my biological father is an asshole. I'm a grown woman with a family of my own. And, while I am a collection of genes, I am my own person. 

I can't control the past. Sometimes I look in the mirror and see a bit of my biological father -- my nose, the wrinkles staring to appear on my forehead -- and it feels, because of all the memories tangled up with him, like physical proof of the worst of me. I can't help that. I can't erase those bad associations.

But I can control the present. The boys are going to get some of those same traits. I'm going to do the best I can to make sure when they look in the mirror and see me 30 years from now -- see my nose or my lips on their own faces -- that those characteristics only make them smile and wonder wryly when they got so old.

I hope they remember ...

I hope the girls remember family time in our bed on Saturday mornings. Peanut jumping into our bed while we wait for Gizmo to wake up. Bringing Gizmo back to bed, making us a cozy family of four. Watching Gizmo try to dive headfirst off the bed and Peanut laughing and laughing with her father and begging him to take her to get donuts.

I hope the girls remember our dance parties. Shaking their booties. Singing. Laughing. Swinging and spinning. Peanut yelling "Again! Again!" asking for her song of the day while Gizmo bops up and down on the floor.

I hope the girls remember singing in the car. The whole family singing to Taylor Swift, Hot Chelle Rae (shame. oh the shame) and momma trying to get them to listen to something decent.

I hope the girls remember their time together. Playing together at such a young age. Wrestling each other in Gizmo's crib while I get ready in the mornings. Splish-splashing in the tub, taking turns sitting closest to the running faucet.

I hope they remember looking through our wedding album and momma and daddy trying to explain why their sweet little girls weren't in any of the pictures. (Because you weren't born yet. Because you weren't momma's belly yet. Just because.) And Peanut later saying, "That's when you and daddy got married. I wasn't in your belly yet."

I hope they remember their matching fleece jackets and momma taking time to coordinate their outfits.

I hope they remember their father making them cheesy toast and pigs in a blanket. And how he got down on the floor and wrestled with them.

I hope the girls remember that I told them that I love them to the moon and back 18 times a day.

I hope they remember the tickling. The kisses. The hugs. The times we tell them how smart they are. How sweet they are. How lovely they are.

I don't know why I have been thinking about this lately. Maybe it's because I see just how quickly they are growing and changing. Peanut is drawing actually people with faces instead of squiggle lines. She starts indoor soccer in a couple weeks and I'm finally (FINALLY!) able to move ahead with getting her in preschool (more on that another day). Gizmo is experimenting with standing, balancing all on her own for a few seconds at a time, wearing a look of determination that says "I know I can just walk over there." She started raising her hands over her head when we cry "HOW BIG IS GIZMO? SOOOOO BIG!" She has two teeth. She cries when we tell her no, like we broke her heart.

And as all this happens, I keep thinking "I hope we all remember this."

"This is the BEST Halloween EVER!"

"This is the BEST Halloween EVER!"

This is what my darling daughter shouted after every single house while trick-or-treating. The same child who was completely mute last year and refused to say "trick-or-treat" and "thank you," making me feel like the worst parent ever.

(I wouldn't let Peanut go trick-or-treating until she could actually say thank you because it felt wrong to me. If she's asking for candy, she needs to be appreciative. So last year was the first year and she was a bit overwhelmed.)

That was not the case this year. Peanut said "trick-or-treat" and "thank you" at each house and even started adding a "happy Halloween" on her own. She ran from house to house with the reckless abandon that made me yell "SLOW DOWN" all the while enjoying her excitement. And every time she yelled "This is the BEST Halloween EVER!" I thought this is what makes all the headaches and sleepless nights of parenthood worth it.

We did have one almost near disaster thanks to a not-so-small-child appropriate candy hander outer (yes, I think I just made that up.) A guy dressed as a zombie was slumped motionless in a chair next to a sign that read, "Help yourself." It was difficult to tell if it was a dummy or a real person so Peanut, my nephew and the husband walked up very slowly examining him. By the time they got to the front porch, a small crowd had gathered behind them. The man sprung into action, scaring the bejeesus out of Peanut who was pushing small children out of her way to get away. My sister even tried to scoop her up but Peanut juked past her screaming, "Momma, Momma, Momma!" I feared she would be scarred for life but she recovered.

 So I posted this picture of Peanut wearing her Jessie boots on my Facebook and Connie Schultz, former Cleveland Plain Dealer columnist, Pulitzer Prize-winning writer and Sen. Sherrod Brown's wife, "liked" it. It pretty much made my day.

 Full Jessie costume minus the hate because somebody didn't want to wear it even though it was Awesome with red glitter.

 I never did get a decent picture of them together. Gizmo just went along for the ride. She was a horse. No candy for her this year.

 Showing off her tooth. I think this might be my favorite picture of her. Ever. It pretty much sums up her personality.

 Momma and baby. She rode the entire hour we went trick-or-treating and never once fussed. She might be the easiest baby ever.

After trick-or-treating with daddy. She was being quite the wiggle worm after spending so much time in the stroller.

After all was said and done, I raided Peanut's bag for her Almond Joy's because what kid wants coconut and almonds? I was doing her a favor.

Fess up. What candy do you steal from your kid?