Status Post

So here it was, Saturday already. With the good feelings of Christmas behind me, the extent of my mouth pain began to strike me down. Saturday night I couldn't eat or sleep and the Tylenol with codeine wasn't holding me. I woke up Sunday morning in a fog with a swollen and immobile jaw, but could do nothing about it because I had to work that night and it wouldn't be prudent to head to the hospital for a night shift with narcotics in my system. Strangely, by night fall at the hospital last night I began to feel a wee bit better.
As I drove home from baby-catching this morning, wide open freeways ahead of me, I started to feel pretty darn positive. I could probably get rid of this tooth problem without any interventions, for sure.
Have I ever told you how Lars used to want to be a dentist? He loved teeth back when we were little guys, back when we both had a great metabolism and with great abandon could eat the gourmet French fries at the deli I toiled away at in my high school years. Well it is true, Lars had big dental dreams ahead of him. We'd put our heads together late at night, while our other teenage counterparts were making out, and plan our future of me making it big in Hollywood while he attended UCLA dental school. It was a pretty sweet gig we had going. Ah me. Anyway, Lars interned with a dentist when he was in high school and he actually learned quite a bit.
Funny how that dental internship learned him real good how to deal with his crazy wife.
When I got home, I was ready to tell it on the mountain that my teeth done got saved. I mean, not a stretch, after all it is the season for miracles. And just who, who, who, who are you to tell me that one of those tiny little miracles couldna crawled up into my teeth and laid some baby miracle eggs, huh?
Mighta been the lack of sleep. Mighta been denial. Call it what you will. Lars'll not call it anything, instead, he'll call every endodontist on our MetLife plan to get me an ASAP consultation. Which he did. For someone who refuses to floss his teeth, he sure knows a lot about teeth.
And so, with enormous boobies (from not having nursed all night and the pump en route to DC back to my expecting and imminent SIL), I have yet again found myself in an awkward situation while I try to explain to toothy professionals why I (a well-insured, employed, middle-class white woman with four children to model good behavior for) have not been to the dentist since my Ann Arbor days. Yes, Ann Arbor dentists are better. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist knows about my stainless steel medical equipment phobia. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist always readily admitted that my teeth were better than Lars' because I flossed. And still, it is no excuse.
So basically what happened is that my poor bones and ovaries were exposed to 10-kabillion units of radiation for the x-rays taken as proof for the insurance company that this was indeed a case of emergency mouth death. Then, my mouth was propped open with a propper upper and then, OMG, came the stainless steel syringe with a ginormous needle which was used not less then 7-times to (per the endodontist) "numb things up, make the pain go away." Okay, whatever crazy person. For the next 2-hours that crazy sadist lady took circular saws to my head and cut holes in my skull, all the while my mouth was being rammed open at 180-degrees by that very unpleasant propper opener. My funny husband, he's so funny (I'm laughing), thought to pack along my iPod for me -- as if listening to Bob Marley and Green Day was gonna make the whole procedure a bit easier. Though I dutifully listened, little could be done to address the rising panic that was festering just under my ribs. At the end of it all, the professionals told me that I was a wonderful patient and they really didn't see how I had a phobia because I was "just so calm." I think I probably just blacked out.
Well the deed is done. I've gotta imagine that it's some sort of love, or something, that inspires a man to schedule an emergency root canal for his wife. Makes me wonder, with the recent observance of our 10th wedding anniversary last week-ish, what kind of appointments will herald our 20th anniversary? Gotta be love . . . (this is me signing out as I drift off into the codeined mystic).

Panama, Erie, Root: One of These Things is Not Like the Other

Twas two days before Christmas, when hour after hour
Kelly did moan and groan with teeth that felt sour
It was quite difficult to sort it all out while working at . . . work
But man! Holy cow! It hurt even to smirk!
The evening came, and to my home I did rush
But the traffic it certainly proved to be too much.
Too late to call a professional asking for an appointment at least
So instead of relief, there was a dinner party and Christmas feast
Alack and alas, dinner I could not tolerate
My Santa Fe Salad just sat on my plate
With grimace and agony, I grabbed at my left jaw
And ordered a drink from the first waitress I saw
Home again, home again, jiggity jog
But thanks to Irish Rootbeer I was in a fog
By the next morn, much throbbing ensued
And to my dental benefits my eyes did perused
I called all the dentists on my in-network plan
I would go to the dentist (thanks to insurance Mr Obama Yes I Can!)
But as it was nearly Christmas all my calls were ignored
As it turns out, even Muslims and Jews could not be implored
Not a phone call answered and the pain getting worse
I was beginning to think it was some kind of curse
"What should I do?" I cried out in distress
As the moments ticked by, I became more of a mess.
With guilt in my heart, to the kids dentist I texted
And it my brief note, the panic she detected

"I'll look in your mouth, we'll give it a whirl.
But I'm at the movies, with Arianna, my girl.
After the credits, at my office around two.
I will try to help and see what I can do."

And so in that pediatric dentistry chair
I lay in discomfort, nearly pulling out my hair.
Tap-tap here, and a whip-whap there
A dental exam and an x-ray to spare

My worst fears were confirmed by Dr Houri that day
An infection needing root canal and probably decay
My head hanging low and just filled with shame
Poor attention to my teeth, I am to blame!
Can I help it if I 'Mrs Natural Childbirth'
Am afraid of the dentist for all that it's worth?
I'm afraid of the poking, the prodding, the anti-fun
And so for two years the check-ups weren't done
And now here I am, on Christmas indeed
With antibiotics, pain killers and fears not relieved
I'll be a big girl, on Monday you'll see
I'll make my appointment for endodontistry

The End

There seems to be something about a family with four young children that strikes pity into the hearts of many folks. Perhaps it is because my husband and look younger than our true ages, many people mistake us for early 20-somethings. They assume things, like: 1) we are prohibited by our church to use birth control, 2) my husband is military and these are post-deployment babies, 3) we're mentally challenged. Of course, non of this is true. But, none the less, we still get lots of pity.
There are benefits to the aforementioned pity. Before I get started, though, I want to clarify a few things. For starters, each of our pregnancies was planned. Secondly, we are not any of the following: crazy, overwhelmed, burdened, unhappy, or stressed out. We run a tight and happy ship, with well-rounded and well-fed children. Every night, we have dinner together as a complete family, our bathrooms have toilet paper, my children's clothes are clean, and they arrive at school on time everyday with their completed homework in hand. Lastly, we can afford them. We're not destitute, which isn't saying we're rolling in it cause if you've got $50K to give then we could use it terribly.
Despite all this, people seem to want to give us things. This can't be more true than when we're at some sort of family oriented party. For example, yesterday, Soren's competitive soccer team had an end of league season (we're faaaar from done with this whole thing) party. Each family brought some sort of dish to pass and the hosts provided the hot dogs, brats, beer and $1.2 million dollar home in Rancho Santa Fe to party in. We showed up with our veggie dogs, whole wheat buns, and fruit salad in a carved out watermelon. The Indian family on the team brought an amazing curry and naan. The middle eastern family on the team brought some sort of grain, fresh tomato, and bean dish and pita and hummus. The Hispanic family brought some salsa and crisp corn tortillas. All the other white people brought typical white people things. It was a great array of food, a good time was had, and I happily stumbled out of the party with 3/4 of a Corona Light under my belt.
At the end of the party, there was a huge sheet cake with chocolate mousse filling, gobs of frosting and a black and white soccer ball iced onto it. The cake was so huge that despite the 40 or so of us there, we couldn't even finish half. As we were leaving, the proper British hostess (more recently here from the Bay Area) offered to send us home with some of the food spread. We are so pitiful appearing that people feel the need to send us home with leftovers. This is one of the benefits of seeming pitiful, destitute, Mormon, enlisted and mentally challenged. When you leave foody parties, you often end up going home with yummy doggy bags.
I smiled to myself, imaging all that great food coming home with my poor, starving children. Lars rubbed his hands together, tongue in the corner of his mouth at the thought of the delicious curry and naan for dinner. If we were lucky, maybe she'd thrown in a couple of Corona Lights and a few Modelo Darks?
She comes out of the kitchen, smiling broadly at me and hands me a large tin laden with food inside. Lars and I hop in the car, and then safely out of sight, I take the top of the tin.
Cake. Half a frickin' sheet cake. No Middle Eastern grains with fresh tomatoes, no curry, no guacamole, or standard white people food. No beers even. Just half of a sheet cake meant to serve 80.
I suppose this is karma. After every holiday, I bring in my children's left-over candy to my barrio clinics in the inland where those kids don't have toothbrushes, let alone routine dental care.
Well, there must also be something about being pitiful that makes people think you need chocolate mousse sheet cakes instead of walnut-couscous salad with scallion vinaigrette. Go figure.
And, just now, I ate 2-pieces of it for lunch.

Exercises in Breathing

I'm quietly positioned, flat on my back just like the article tells me to. This exercise is to "quiet my mind". Okay, I'm flattening out . . . just a sec', there is a Lego dude poking me in my left butt.

(-Mommy, what are you doing? -I'm breathing, Soren. Leave Mommy alone. -Oh, can I watch you? -No. -I'll just watch you quietly. -Whatever.)

Toss it away. Reflatten. I'm flattening. My belly's just a scooch slidey, though, so I gotta squeeze my ribs together. Sort of makes it so I can't breath, but the article says flatten. Should I be wearing a couple of sports bras?

(-Mommy, for how long are you gonna breathe for? -A long time, I hope. -Oh. long pause Are you still breathing?)

Okay, now it says "begin with a deep belly breath." Now, as a lady, I gotta say this feels a little awkward since it's hard to do a belly breath without the junk in my trunk oodling out a bit. Not to mention, my ribs are squeezy. This all feels a bit counter productive, and painful.

(-Mommy, please can you wipe me? -Be right there, Annike.)

Get this, now I'm supposed to say some thing positive in the form of a word or phrase. But I can't think of anything to say except "Hi, how ya doin'?" Which sets me to laughing. My ribs become unclenched, my boobs start shaking and I go fetal because it still burns across my c-section scar when any sort of effort is applied to my abs.

(-Mama?! Mama?! -She's in here, Petra! -What are you doing, Mama? -She's breathing, you can watch quietly. long pause -Excuse me, I tooted. -You're excused, Annike. giggles ensue)

Next, I'm supposed to exhale out all this negative stuff. Instead I accidentally belch because I just finished giggling, swallowing big heaps of air in the process.

(-Nah-nah? Nah-nah-nah? Ma-ma? then spitting and pulling of my hair)

Okay, so here's my thing, wouldn't a splash of wine be a bit simpler?

Probably, Too Much Information

Have I mentioned that Tova's been walking for almost 2-months now? Since then, my System has gone to the dogs (the dog from the previous post). Clearly, Tova's walking has everything to do with it.

For example, I have found Petra's toothbrush in the toilet. I had to pretend something else terrible went and happened to it, otherwise Petra would have shrieked her brains out. She loves that ding little baby of ours, but it would upset her dreadfully to learn that her toothbrush passed away in a receptacle for . . . umm, you know. I told her we left it at Elise's, that held her.

Tova's walking is also the reason why I fell 17-loads behind on laundry this week. I fell behind 17-loads! If Tova weren't walking, I wouldn't have to wash her socks. Socks are an awful thing. Plus, in her new found height, Tova pulls the drying clothes off the line and drags them around on the sidewalk chalk covered patio to the point where they need rewashing. With walking comes confidence, with confidence comes more dirt on the clothes and in the mouth, with more dirt in the mouth comes nasty out of diaper experiences.

On top of that 17-loads of laundry (not to mention this week's 24 that I need to get started on) I'm still playing catch-up from last week's of episode Me vs. the Clean House. Tova goes from room to room depositing things where they're not supposed to be, her hands are free so she can carry stuff around now. Little trinkets of the girls' suddenly appear in the grass outside. Lars' socks, from the Clean Sock Basket, end up in her mouth as she traverses 4-rooms in the house to end up plinking her baby fingies on the piano near the dining room.

Today, Tova snuffled herself awake at 7:10 a.m., which meant I had a narrow window in which to Booby Snack her before she got up and started poking around on her baby feetsies; not to mention, I had to scram for my 8 o'clock patient. On top of that, today was a big day at work. Today was the day in which we were having our TG potluck. I made an apple-raspberry pie. It needed to be impressive and dramatic, from taste to presentation and most importantly to where it happened to be displayed on the long table in the break room. Very important.

I had to get out of the house to procure a good spot!

Tovey snacked. Then I raced to get dressed (can't get dressed before feeding the Tovesters, otherwise I end up with drool and snot on my professional clothes), throwing on my fabulous Bohemian outfit in a jiff. With time to spare I peeled out the door, kissing the kids and husband in my wake. Breathlessly, I scooted in the car with my beautiful pie, sliding across my driver's seat only to incur a wedgie in the process.

The pie and I arrived in one piece. I got the coveted spot on the break-room table, and then went about my day seeing patients happily and without trials or tribulations. Except one thing, that wedgie I had from the morning slide across my car seat seemed to be unpickable. Inoperable. Granted, I was wearing my new cute undies designed to make behinds coveted by all who gaze upon them and to reignite passions in marriages that have gotten ho-hum. But still, I'd worn this particular pair before without any problems.

No time to bother, had patients to see. Babies to scan. Mamas to reassure. Endocervical cells to collect. Lumps to diagnose. And, oh dear me, there was the matter of that most impressive pie. Finally, our lunch hour arrived, with my panties in a bunch I plunked down in a chair amidst all my colleagues. I watched them devour my pie, licking their lips, oohing and ahhing with pleasure. Of course, I felt completely satisfied. Happy, well, except for the undie deal. But as a dehydrated breastfeeding mother, I never have to void and so no reason to stop at the WC to check the situation of the unpluckable undi-grundi.

End of the day arrived, I raced the kids into the house, headed straight for my room to change out of my work clothes and whaddya know?! My undies -- inside out and on backwards! Well, I'll be damned if that doesn't explain it all. With little time to dress this morning, chasing after Tova with my arms barely pulled through my dress and all this in the darkness of daylight savings it's no wonder. If Tova just blobbed around in her bed like a good baby should, then absolutely none of this would have happened.

On another note, it's a great professional advantage. Now, when my patients call me with complaints of discomfort in their nethers I will firstly advise them to check which way they happen to be wearing their skivvies that day (then charge 'em $70 bucks for treating them).

Maggie and the Technicolor Dream Coat

The life and times of our sweet Magdalena Humphindinkellheimer are filled with riveting tales of love, loss, humor, deceit and adventure. Her life of intrigue is kinetic and fast-paced, complex to the core.

Recently, Maggie was inspired to change her looks. Don't be fooled by her blase demeanor, she really found it all quite fantastic.

Just another day for our ebullient hound dog.

I would never . . .

I would never bore you with annoying pictures of my kids in Halloween costumes. How irksome is that? To look at pictures of other peoples kids, as if they were cuter or more special than your own. Plus, it's really hackneyed. I mean, for crying out loud, I'm striving for originality here.

Keeping that in mind, the following may or may not be my children just prior to pillaging the outer reaches of the globe/subdivision on their most recent Viking exploits.

I absolutely cannot say with certainty that I clearly or vividly may recall when this picture might have been possibly taken. Really, sort of, I can't exactly particularly remember.

Besides, Halloween was quite some time ago. I only bother to bring up current events.

Work and Life

I'm a failure. I'm being driven to the ends of time on an exhausting and elusive chase. I've read about it in magazines for mothers and parenting families. I've watched Kelly Ripa exude it in her Electrolux commercials. I've watched other mothers from afar, gazing upon them as they seemingly manage finishing out a work day, clickity-clack home in their Jimmy Choo's, where they empty the dishwasher and fix a nutritious dinner while their kids sit quietly (and happily) around the kitchen table scratching out answers to math problems with their perfectly sharpened pencils.

Maybe my problem is that I don't own a single pair Jimmy Choos, we could start there. But really, really I have tried to close that gap on the work-life balance heeled and unheeled. In fact, I have been known to harriedly vacuum my entire house with my dress pants and heels on in a matter of 20-minutes just so I can convince myself that I am truly a master of all my domains. Okay, this also may have been done on some very repressed, sub-conscious level just to prove something to my husband. Unfortunately, or fortunately, high-heeled vacuuming is not something that happens regularly in my world. Despite the house needing a thorough vacuuming everyday, it often goes to an every other day sort of thing. Despite my best efforts at establishing a system, so that the dishes or the laundry or the itty-bitty scraps of paper from kids' projects never get the best of me -- despite my system, there are shortcomings. As it were, The System happens to apparently be my system and mine alone. Not my dog, nor any of my four children, including my amoral 11-month old baby (who has been walking for 1-month now and in her hands-free glory picks up various kitchen objects to deposit into the toilet - and vice versa) and certainly not my husband care for my system of hooks and well-labeled bins, or daily jobs, or spacious compartments, or sanitizing sprays or my constant reminders to put things away in the "correct spot."

Alas, the job of keeping house is mine and mine alone.

Which is why the following happens while I am away at work on my 14-hour nights:

This, sadly, is only a representation of 1/3 of our house. I crave domesticity in violent waves, tearing ruefully at my ever-sagging cheeks when confronted with the task of reviving my ailing system. I become poetic about the covers of Real Simple, taking notes on the 100-Ways to Have a Clutter Free Home, allowing myself to become rosy-cheeked at the thought of chronic perfection. I allow my imagination to play the If Only Game -- e.g. if only I had a cleaning service, if only I was a stay-at-home parent, if only I had $250K . . .

But as I sit here, the reality of the situation becomes garishly apparent:

1) I fed my kids warm, toasty Petit Pain aux Chocolat this morning (2-strikes: one for morning junk food, the other for not dealing with the baking sheets)

2) There is a wet spot on my leg (3-strikes: Tova has a nasty diaper from being on day #8 of antibiotics, she's still in said diaper, I transferred her to the floor)

3) Clothes on the line (2-strikes: they are now dry but yet to be put away, there is a laundry basket waiting to be hung out to dry since last night -- shame on me for not doing a better job at controlling the weather)

4) Chalky footprints throughout the house (3-strikes: I haven't mopped yet, the chalk is still out on the patio not put away, Tova was just eating that chalk)

I'd keep going, but I really need to change Tovey's dipey. And bathe her. And put her clothes in the washing machine.

So, I guess my answer to Real Simple and the the BS load of crap about the work-life balance is the following:

Kelly's 7-Ways to a Simple, Clutter Free Life

1) Get rid of all yer shit

2) Teach the baby to use a potty

3) Join a nudist colony

4) Stop using silverware when eating

5) Eat only take-out (with your hands)

6) Don't buy sidewalk chalk, regift it wherever possible

7) Shape up! Cause Lord knows, if I don't have my shit together not a single one of the rest of ya' does -- and that's the truth. Frickin' Kelly Ripa . . .

I know it's been a while. I'll be back soon. There are no good excuses, but I've missed many of good stories to tell. I missed the opportunity to tell you the story of how I was recently awoken at 1:00 a.m. by a mysterious phone call only to see my husband in our back yard, standing among the clothes pinned to the clothesline, relieving himself. As if we didn't have toilets or something . . .

Soon, friends, soon.

With much love,
Kelly

Dear ZPG

This is about an imaginary conversation I have in my head all the time.

Well, I suppose it's not actually imaginary, I'm actually having the conversation. The conversation, you see, is between me and . . . me. And, I suppose that since I am real on all fronts, a little too real for a certain husband of mine I am afraid, then the conversation is in fact real and not in the least imaginary.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've been working out a dialogue so that I can be prepared for the iffy possibility that the population management people may come after my family some day.

Wowee, do I sound nuts or something?

Mebbe I am.

But, but, but, but, since NPR doesn't come in well on my radio in The Bus, I spend a lot of time while I'm driving watching all of you in your own cars talking and singing to yourselves. I'm not so different from the rest of you, I just happen to bring up my idiosyncrasies in a public venue.

Okay, back to the population control folks. See really, I agree with them. If we all keep careening out of control like we are, then I have too many kids for this failing planet to support. I was irresponsible, I put my own interests before those of the greater good. It's true. I knew all this long before I chose to go forth and multiply, I knew I was gonna replace more than just myself.

Having said all that, I am unapologetic (mostly, cuz honestly, which two kids would I put back in? Quite frankly there ain't much room in there for any of 'em.). As the mother of four, and hopefully someday more, I have a bigger responsibility than most to make my family's carbon footprint as teenie-weenie as possible. I also have a bigger responsibility to consistently and frequently do The Right Thing because the consequences are farther reaching compared to raising a single biological child.

Quite frankly, without my kids, I'd probably wouldn't be out "there" being a do-gooder, guardian of mothers' and coastal lagoons. I wouldn't care so much about who is in charge of the country, the world, or my city. My four kids make the future tangible and meaningful. Without those little nut-butts, I would be schlepping around my home in a Snuggie, eatin' Lean Cuisines, watching DVR'd episodes of Oprah, and thinking about how much this place needed someone to get their butt in gear and do something about "it" but never really doing very much at all. So, in rebuttal to the Zero Population Growth folks, who scorn my family for being on that slippery-slope towards super-sized, here's what we are doing:

I'm raising them right. They're being raised with a conscience. They're going to vote meaningfully as adults. They're always do The Right Thing by humanity, community, ecology and all the good stuff that ends in the letter "y". They have a strong sense of morality. If they lose sight of those damn morals I'll beat the Hell out of them with a can of low-VOC paint . . . see that's funny because -- oh never mind.

Secondly, my kids are thin and physically fit; therefore, they don't take up much space.

Thirdly, we are vegetarians. We're not contributing to the ruination of the planet by eating methane-farting cows. Here, Annike demonstrates how to choke down Daddy's dahl, naan, and aloo chat.

We eat organic and local. Easy to do in these here parts, but done none-the-less.

Also, with help from Little Tovey, we make our own beer right in our closet. No harsh chemicals. No noxious by products. No waste. Same bottles used over and over. Good, clean drinking. Saving the Earth one beer at a time!

I am a midwife. I promote self-care, personal responsibility, investment in the present and future. I encourage my patients to empower themselves, so that they in turn can also do The Right Thing. Eventually, their children will learn to do The Right Thing.

When my children take baths, I don't empty the tub down the drain. I fill up buckets with that bathwater and I use it to water the plants outside. Believe me, this is a real pain in the ass.

"If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down." Oh, for crying out loud, not sure my puddins stick around long enough to listen to the second half of that verse. But I'll be damned if my toilets aren't filled to the rim with tinkle before they get flushed.

We compost.

Waste not. Okay, waste less. For example, everyday their lunches (and mine and Lars') get packed in reusable containers. No plastic baggies, no juice boxes, no disposable applesauce containers. There's room for improvement, without a doubt, but we're off to a good start.

We use Energy Star Appliances.

We dry our clothes on a line. In an article by Natural Home and Garden, you can read about the significant benefits of line drying. Since we've started, we've dropped our energy use by nearly 20%. Our energy bill, in the high-priced zone of the country that we live in, totals $75 for gas and electric. Not bad for a stain-troubled family of 6.

So to those esteemed champions of sustainable living, the ZPG people, with whom I have frequent imaginary discourses with -- my kids are gonna be so amazing and so incredible as adults that they'll be like negatives to population growth. They'll turn this Earth around, clean it up and whip it back into shape.

And to my pals out there, you can do the little things. Lots of good little things. They don't seem like much, like drying your undies out in the sun one day, washing the floor with your bath water, or even not flushing after every pee. But, with The Right Thing always on the forefront of your mind it won't take long for all your little things to add up and make a Big Right Difference.

Gas Guzzlers

We're having a cold front down here in Southern California, the windchill has got my fingers all bluish at the tips. In fact, our high was only 64-degrees today. Might as well be back in Michigan, all this frigidity.



So anyway, I sloppily puttered around the house today, dressed in my denim capris, woolly zippy-hoody, ski socks and my husband's overstuffed slippers. I did some laundry, vacuumed, you know that same ol' same ol' stuff that women have been longing to rid themselves of for centuries. Then, because I'm feeling a scooch under-the-weather and because every visitor at our home this afternoon said I looked a bit feverish, I climbed under our sturdy couch blanket (made with Michigan nights in mind) and curled up on our futon. And, in a completely out of character move, I turned on the TV where I dozily caught up on Project Runway and nursed Tovey endlessly.



In the kitchen, Lars and Mike happily chatted about the physics of beer as they set about on their semi-regular Sunday Beer Making Day. I half-listened to them trade microbiology hypotheses and give each other advice on best gadgets for fermentation. Occasionally, Mike popped in the family room to say a few words to me. One time, he angelically took sleepy and ornery Tova from me and bounced her until she succumbed to a nap, her snotty and drooly cheeks smooshed into his dark shirt.



Mike left after the beer was safely stored on top of my heating pad. Lars began making Tofu Pad Thai, smells of lime and rice noodles filling the house. Wild kids flapped around on the trampoline, duking it out in a game they made up and refer to GaGa. The few straggler kids, (who aren't ours) waited for a parent to come fetch them out out of our yard, mashed with our babies yelling and screaming in unison -- some crazy mob of nutbutts in a full on chorus of "mine" and "cheater" and "you hurrrrt me" and, of course, "I'm telling!".



Later was dinner. Excellent, as usual, courtesy of my husband -- what he lacks in laundry skills, he makes up for in dinner serving. As we were all sitting around the table, one of the kids (I can't remember who now) brought up the digestive system. And for those of you who have discussed the digestive system with your children well know, this topic cannot be complete without the special highlight of the whole process . . . poop! Round and round they go, happily throwing out the words poop and dookie with utter exhilaration. Poop! They were thrilled, tickled at the idea that they could use Potty Talk at the table, exploring the limits of what falls into the tidy circle of relevance.



My husband, with a glint in his eye, fervently engaged in the discussion. From melons to cucumbers, bread to ice cream, he and the kids determined together what came out as solid and what came out as liquid. And, as many of you who are familiar with my husband know, never one to miss an opportunity to put it into music format, my husband broke out in a robust version of They Might Be Giants' latest hit "Solid, Liquid, Gas". Having thoroughly discussed the first two states of matter already, Lars found it absolutely delightful to pass a large and loud fart as he sang out "gaaaaas." This, of course, sends my older three children into giggle fits sending Lars on repeat performance of the aforementioned song and "act." The rest of the evening seemed likely to deteriorate from there.



Sitting quietly this whole time in her corner of our kitchen table, 10-month old Tova happily munched on her tofu and rice noodles. With determined patience, she stoically endured the shenanigans of the evening, never making a peep. And, except to occasionally suggest that she wanted more raspberries by bringing the fingertips on her two hands together for the sign for "more", we really didn't have cause to disturb to her. However, seemed like Bitty Tovey had had just about enough of it once Daddy got to singing. Around the time of the third encore, Tova thrust her two baby hands into the air and waved them side-to-side, then said "ahhhh duh!"

To you non-sign language speakers this may not seem huge or momentous or amazing or any of that, but to those of you in the know, you would have already recognized the sheer enormity of what just transpired. Tova looked her daddy and her naughty siblings in the eyes and told them to "shush" the best way she could. Not only did she do the sign-language for "all done" but, she also spoke. All of us stopped and stared, mouths dropped open. Moments later, we burst into applause, and this time Tova gladly joined us.

Project Maggie: Part Two

Prject Maggie: Part Two, In Which Maggie is Schooled on How to Place Her Head and Ears Out the Window of a Moving Vehicle

I mean, c'mon! How amazing would that be for her big ol' Dumbo ears to be flapping out the side of our VW Bus? Nevermind our poor success rates from years past, today is the day! Get ready California. No, no -- even better -- get ready world . . .

First things first, Little Maggie, you are sitting in the wrong seat.

Move. Please?

She's all smiles as we head out for Operation Ear-aqi Freedom.

Maggie, you're facing the wrong way. The window is the other way.

Success! Can you believe it? After all these years of prodding and cajoling, she finally does it!

Not sure this really counts though. Fact of the matter is, the car wasn't moving. Secondly, Lars was standing on the other side of the window calling to her. Thirdly, her ears never made it out of the safety of the car. Well, it is a step in the right direction.

Project Maggie: Part One

Since the time we first received Maggie in our lives, we've set out two goals for her:
1) swim in a large body of water like a rugged, athletic macho dog
2) stick her head out the window of a moving vehicle.

Today's post is about the first of our two goals for Magdalena. However, much of what we've learned from our attempts at raising Maggie as a proper dog comes straight out of that old adage, "you can lead a Bassett Hound to water but you can't make 'em float."

Enter Dog Beach:

Running and sniffing and sniffing and running . . . far away from the water.

She made a friend.

And kept running.

Won at King of the Hill, but still no water.

Kicked sand on other people's belongings.

And then finally consented to a brief foray at the water's edge.

Wear she got her paws wet . . . and her ears.

Can't say that you can call this swimming, but near bout was.

Poor short legged doggy.

Even after taking the leash off her, she didn't run away from the water. She sure wasn't thrilled about it, either.

Half-smile.

"Can we wrap up this lesson?"

The other day, while picking Soren up after a whole day of school, I noticed something a little quirky about his wardrobe. At first I thought it was a theme day at school, but then I noticed none of the other children were dressed like him. Then I realized that my Main Man had committed a major wardrobe gaffe and I needed to get home pronto to document it on camera and share it with the public, loving and supportive mother that I am.

Step One: Engage him in idle conversation while snapping pictures of his sweet, winning smile.

Step Two: Zoom out just a scooch, act non-chalant as you take pictures of the evidence.
Still don't see it?

Step Three: Lovingly point out to your son that his shorts are on backwards, complete with plum jam stain from his PB&J at lunchtime.

Step Four: Take pictures of him on the floor, laughing his brains out.

Now that's just dang funny, ain't it?

Taco Tuesday

Very occasionally, she'll eat something besides a non-food item. Tova is very fond of Taco Tuesday. This picture is to prove to you that we feed her stuff besides sand, in this case black beans, refried bean and tomatoes.

I gotta say, bean dipeys are almost as exciting as sandy dipeys.

Eating Disorder Continued

No matter what we offer her at home, from Cheerios to booby snacks, nothing -- and, I mean nothing - - sates this baby's appetite like a couple of five handsful of sand.

Maybe it's a thirst for sea salt?

Iodine deficiency?

Probably, a craving for Eau de Dead Poisson.

Mystery, none-the-less.

Sticks, hair and dirt are a close second.