I'd like a slice, please

What my husband said in a pretend conversation with the guy who almost ran him over during his run downtown this afternoon:

"You want a slice-a this beefcake? You're gonna need a fork, buddy."

I thought it was precious.


Also precious:
Birdy doing several "silly walks" all around the wide ledges of the Parthenon, including a totally kick-ass robot walk that would make the Beastie Boys stand up and cheer. Intergalactic, planetary! (that is not Bird in the photo. That is not even my photo. But that is the Parthenon.)

And precious-er:
Lunch time, Bird and I standing at the edge of the duck pond at the park, sans bread, when a sweet little girl came over to us and offered Birdy the top of a hamburger bun from her duck-bread stash. We said thank you, the girl moved on, and Birdy sat there for a second, staring at the bun.

She looked up at me and whispered, "Mom, can I eat this?"

Less precious:
20 minutes spent staring at, wondering about, and discussing in great detail a dead squirrel on the side of the walking path.

And most wonderful:
My Bird can read!
Fat Cat Rat Hat Splat! Can Ran Stand Pants! Hop Pop Stop!

Thoughts on giving and receiving

After a grumpy little incident involving my Bird, my mom, and a pair of brand new jeans, Bird and I had this exchange at bedtime.

Mama: You know, when someone gives you a gift you don't really like, most of the time you just say "thank you" and move on.

Bird: Why?

Mama: So you don't hurt the person's feelings. Think about how you would feel if you gave someone a present and they said they didn't like it.

Bird: Oh. It would hurt my feelings. Ok.

Mama: So... what if I gave you... a hat you didn't really like?

Bird: I would say "thank you."

Mama: What if I gave you... a really ugly shirt?

Bird: I would say "thank you."

(( long pause ))

Bird: What if I gave you a fart?

Mama: Well, I guess I'd have to say "thank you."

(( long pause, giggles))

Bird: I just farted, mom.

I once got busy in a Burger King Bathroom

Working from Home:
WOW, my friends. It's everything I dreamed it could be. And I just learned how to nurse in the moby, so YEAH. One sweet month of livin ' the dream before I'm back to wearing real pants, remembering my key code and doing my designated week of office kitchen duty. That's gonna hurt.

She Has a Home
Mystery solved: neighborhood-wandering chicken (who survived the cold snap! aw snap!) is the tragic result of a chicken escape that happened to my corner neighbors. Except the chicken was to be a gift, so the neighbors aren't exactly eager to get her back, as they never intended to own her. They tell me that the only way to catch a chicken is to wait until it's asleep and then sneak up on it and grab it, so... not bloody likely. Looks like I'll be cleaning chicken shit off my sidewalk for a good long while, or until the chicken meets with whatever natural predators a chicken might encounter 18 blocks from the smack-middle of a major metropolitan area. I must say it satisfies my country-livin' yearnings to see her pecking and scratching around outside the kitchen window every morning.

And speaking of urban living:
My friend J. recently tried to help me understand why in the holy hell one would live 30 miles away from one's workplace, explaining that he really didn't mind his super long-ass commute to work, or the traffic, or the fact that he puts in the equivalent of almost one extra work day each week just getting there and back. He said that on that very morning, he had left his subdivision and continued his commute through a stretch of hills and farmland, where a light morning fog was just beginning to lift over the giant, stoic hay bales dotting the fields. And something about a deer or a fox or a magical unicorn that inspired him to turn up the Dave Matthews, sip his Starbucks Mochachino and really JAM.

Well.

One morning, I saw a dude gracefully drop trou and take a shit in a garbage can on the Main Street Bridge, like it was nothing. Salut!

Things go missing sometimes:
I almost surely popped a box of granola bars in the library drop box along with my library books by mistake. (Hey, it happens.) Later, there was some discrepancy at the Library about books I had not returned, which I swore up and down I had returned. I defended my honor by stating that I absolutely remembered returning those books, because I returned them with a box of granola bars! See!?! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER MY GRANOLA BARS, LIBARY GUY? WERE THEY DELICIOUS? HUH? WERE THEY?
And then, I found the books under Birdy's bed. And the granola bars in the car.
And showed my true crazy to the library guy in one short vignette.

Pretty Much What I Expected When I Said I'd Bear his Children:
This weekend I walked in on A. in the living room drinking a bloody mary, dancing around with Birdy and watching the Humpty Dance on YouTube. A true peach, my friends.

Letter to a 4 year old

Dear Bird,

You are driving me nuts.
I love you, lovelovelovelove you, but damn.

xo,
mama

U and I make a difference

The other day, I heard Birdy in the parlor playing with some shoddily-made Christmas crap and doing some loud, frustrated growling that sounded like it would soon become frustrated throwing.

"Bird," I said, "Maybe when you're frustrated, you could find something else to say, like 'RATS!' "
"Yeah," said A, how about 'aw, nuts!' ?"

She thought for a minute and said, "Or I could say... SHUT!"

I'd say it's about time you met the Gopher.

There she is, sweet Ophelia Rose. Born at the beginning of December by c-section, 10 days early.

FAQs:

What is the Birth Story?
This could be a long one, due to some medical weirdness in my blood requiring a lot of doctors and a bonus captive period in the hospital a few weeks before she actually came for infusions and other excitement. Boring. Here are the parts that count:

1. Ringalingaling!
Surprise! I know we're catching you at the end of your work day, but just wanted to let you know the stars have aligned and your platelets are up and you're having major abdominal surgery to produce a human tomorrow morning at 9am! Be there or be square! Oh, and don't eat or drink anything after midnight! Tell your boss! Bye!

2. It turns out that while you lie there on the table, nice and sliced wide open, the hot topic of conversation is Types of Salsa in the Hospital Cafeteria. The anesthesiologist likes the fruity salsas. Turns out there are far more choices since Baja Fresh opened. Residents are all about the roasted corn, and the nurses dig the green chile business. What's that? Oh, shit! A BABY!

Also, being conscious through surgery in a teaching hospital means listening to the surgeon grill observing students about your innards. "What is this?" is not something you expect to hear from someone who is elbow-deep in your abdominal cavity. Even for the sake of education.

3. ...And truly miraculously, it happened again: a perfect baby girl. Generally grunty and squeaky with a bad-ass hunger cry and a voracious appetite, big blinky eyes and a nice baby smell. Oh, we are lucky.

What does Bird think of all this?
Where to begin? She's huge, for one. A gigantic, sweet and bumbling monster of a child, doing her very very best to not crush or eat this baby out of love or frustration. Always in her face, nose to nose. So much adoration for this tiny new thing, so much curiosity and, alternately, boredom. So much sharing of attention to be done, so much change. Trying so hard to be the big sister we all made such a big deal about. We congratulate her on her kindnesses, on sharing, every victory we can find. We try to be gentle with redirection, give her a little wiggle room. But we also get annoyed. She gets annoyed. We snap. We all act out. We reconcile. We say to each other, "I love you very much, even when you are DRIVING ME BANANAS." Permission to say that is worth its weight in gold, for all parties involved. I hear it just as much as I say it these days.

Goodness, though. It's complicated. Sometimes I want to set her out on the front porch and lock the door behind her, sometimes I literally cry over her sweetness and the hard, clumsy work she's putting into her part of becoming a family of four. Sweet Bird. Oh my.


Are you getting any sleep?
Am I supposed to? Stop asking silly questions. Are you winning the lottery? No? Did you expect to?

How is A. holding up?
Wow. The most wonderful husband/ father/ friend. I hit the spousal jackpot, y'all. This man was born to be a daddy of girls and a partner to a lunatic like me. He is incredibly kind, patient, and so easy to love. And damn cute, eh?

Can we bring a casserole?
And oh, the friends! The best in the whole dang world and beyond. We have eaten well and been so loved. Who says we don't live near our family?




How were the holidays?
The first in nine years without a single trip to Indiana. Plenty of visitors-- two separate shifts of grandparents and family before and after the Main Event, full of joyful company and personal quirks and general holiday drama. But Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were just ours-- free to sit around in our jammies and gaze at the baby and play with our (modest) Christmas loot and eat nachos and watch Mary Poppins. I never knew Christmas could be so lovely. Best. Gift. Ever.



How is Maternity Leave?
Oh, man. Livin' the dream most of the time. Sometimes feels a little solitary, sometimes wonderfully so. Adjusting to the pace of home, re-working my definition of urgency and daily accomplishment, trying to keep the dishes done and the laundry caught up, trying to work in a shower once in a while.

But also: YOU SHOULD SEE MY LIST, Y'ALL. Budgets, closets, books, sewing, projects, purging, thrifting, cooking... half of me fighting for long hours of napping and dreamy baby-gazing and the other half barking tasks like a drill Sargent. This is the last maternity leave I'm likely to have-- and possibly the most time away from work until I retire*-- and both of me (dreamy mama and taskmaster) just want to make the most of it. Sometimes it is an ugly fight, but everyone eventually gets their say, and it tends to cost me my nap.

And what else?
Ran over my own keys in the pet store parking lot this weekned. And you thought it couldn't be done!

The neighborhood free-range chicken has taken a particular shine to our front yard tree/ garden. As her shitting place.

Lovin' the MOBY.

Contemplating a haircut like this one, as a sneaky growing-out tactic, considering going back to Shaky Hands. I know! A gamble! But she is so cheap! And I know better!


And up to my general scheming, as usual. Wheels turning, turning. Always.


*OMFG

Pothole O'Reilly

Those were my two wavy words to type when I ordered my 7,000th bridal shower gift of the summer on Amazon. Pothole O'Reilly. Sounds like a scruffy little pickpocket.

I was explaining this at the dinner table, and Bird said, "who is Paco O'Reilly?" And yeah, even better.

Bird has been doing this weird exaggerated Southern accent lately, and I can't decide if I love it for its cleverness and her ability to notice and modify language, or if I hate it because it's obnoxious and loud and usually repetitive. Both, I guess.

I'm in the middle of a huge project at work. A project which involves a lot of pressure, and a deadline, and a lot of research. And truthfully, I should be at the END of this project, but I have grown to dislike it very much and spend a lot of my work time searching for distraction. Like the Seinfeld episode where George and Jerry sit down to write the pilot. In any case. This project. Kicking my lazy, pregnant ass all over the room.

Things we have recently prepared and liked, which involve minimal stove time: Mango Avocado Rolls, Edamame Hummus. Yum on both. Go try.

Currently reading: Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc. The library sent an email saying the book was overdue. So I went online to renew it, naturally. And it is ON HOLD for another patron, and therefore un-renewable. But! I am loving this book, in a sad and curious way, so I keep making reading promises and making more headway, racing to finish and return just a little bit late. This is my public apology to the next reader: I do hope you are a hopeful and disorganized library patron like me, that you use the hold list as more of a wish list, and that you will be pleasantly surprised to learn that it's your turn, instead of sitting in your reading chair in the dark all alone, tapping your fingertips on the table until I'm done. Because dammit, I have to finish this book.

Vocabulary Police, Dawdling, and Over-thinking

If you had been at our house this morning, you would have seen me standing over the washing machine with my arm in almost up to the shoulder, frantically fishing through cold, dark water for my drowned cell phone. Already late for work, you would have heard me say a lot of things to myself. And you would have heard me end with "FUCKING STUPID."

And then, you would have heard a firm little voice in the kitchen say, "Mom. We don't say 'stupid'."


--

Ah, my Bird. She is a piddling, dawdling, piddledawdler in the mornings. A. puts up with most of it since I (theoretically, anyway) start my paid workday earlier than he does, and it is more frequently becoming a power struggle/ battle of wits/ tangle of wills between the two of them. They argue like teenagers. He asks her to put on her shoes, she puts on five finger puppets. He askes her to go get dressed, she spends her time jumping on the bed. He asks her to brush her hair, she ends up in a puddle of tears because she's found her winter coat in the too-small box. He asks her to put on her listening ears, and she says, "I left them at school." He counts to three. She complies at the final second. And more than a few times, Bird says, "Daddy. Settle down." Which, if you know my mild-mannered A., is especially funny. Except not to him.

--

So, about that too-small box. Looks like it's going to be seeing a lot of action starting this winter-- baby #2 is officially a girl. Time to start naming, sorting, wrapping our heads around what's going on around here. Two girls. Yay and yikes.

--

No time like the pregnant to over-think some shit: In halfway following a discussion board comment thread, I read the words that push the overthink-buttons of WOH mamas around the country: "evaluate what you give up to go to work and decide if it's really worth it." I'll spare you the details of my rabbit-hole thinking-- my ever-changing and always hazy list of gains and losses that never declares a winner.

All this talk of giving up and gaining. Of worth. How much of it is truly about the benefit to the child and how much of it is about having sorted laundry and clean sheets and time to slow-cook a meal? How much is about parenting and how much is about physically being in and keeping up a home? How much is just straight-up personal, on both sides of the decision?

I have wrestled with internal and external voices that both encourage and challenge my choices as a working-away-from-home mama, and I can tell you with complete honesty that sometimes, the desire to be home with my child during the day really does boil down to having naptime to myself and getting some flowers planted. Running an errand in the middle of the day without paying for it with my lunch hour. Spending enough time in my house to clean it and enough time in my neighborhood to enjoy it. And having time for actual, personal, non-facebook connections with my actual, personal friends. That is what I am missing-- or feel like I've given up-- the most right now. I have time with Bird every night, but I haven't seen some of my dearest friends in months.

Storm a-brewin'

I have 70 lbs of shaking, drooling, clumsy dog trying to fit under this desk with my legs tonight. Who needs the weather man when you've got this guy?

I realized this week that I have been misusing (and misunderstanding) a common business term for about five years now. C-suite. Who knew it actually meant people whose titles start with "C"... CEO, CFO, COO, whatever. I thought it meant "C" suite. Like, not quite "A" suite, just down the hall from "B" suite. Like a C-list celebrity. A C-list executive. As in, probably drives a Taurus.
Fortunately, I discovered this on my own, prior to making an ass of myself, though I might have said, "aaaaaah!" under my breath in a meeting when my own personal lightbulb finally went off.

Also at work this week, the bug guy showed up in his poisonous metal backpack, wearing a tie with illustrated bugs on it. Dude. Way to get into it.

I picked Bird up from daycare and she wanted to show me her "ant hill"-- a paper plate painted green, topped with a paper cup painted brown. I found the one with her name on it, sitting in a row of identical creations, drying and waiting to have fingerprint ants applied in the morning. Walking home, I told her I really liked her ant hill. "No, mama" she said, "Ant Heel."
"Oh," I said. "I always thought it was "Ant hill."
"No. Ant Hee-Yull. Like the Hee-Yull of your foot. Hee-Yull."
A. and I are Midwestern to our core, but that girl is all South.

Oh, hello, it is March, I am still here

Lyrics to the song Bird sang to me this weekend, with gusto (and wild hand gestures):

I am going to the DOCTORRRRR
And I am bringing my PURRRRRSE!
And in my PURRRRSE
I have some doctor STUUUUUUFFFF!


My brother in law and his fiance visited this weekend, lovely time, etc.
Took Bird to the "Slumber Party" at daycare (Parents' night out, WOOT!) and finally made it out to this place, which was delightful, and then on to other places closer to home where I ordered additional fine beverages crafted by the first place. We saw friends, we shouted over the crowd, we spent some money. We were OUT and ABOUT, dammit.

When we got back at 11:30, the floor of the daycare was dark and lumpy with sleeping children. And my Bird was the only kid standing up on her mat in her sad little mismatched jammies, watching the door for us to come back. Ouch.

And today, my dear sweet husband has alternated between writhing around in cold sweats and sleeping like a rock. I gave him a mild level of shit about it (attributing his illness to his sinful livin') until I realized he was burning up with fever and probably dealing with actual illness. Since then I have been really, really nice. And Bird has been even nicer, stroking his hair and bringing him saltines and using every giant plastic tool in her doctor kit. I can't wait to see which one of us will be the next victim of the sudden puking fever illness!

I have no idea how old I was, but I remember very vividly one night when my brother and I were left in the care of a high school-aged babysitter, staying up (!!) until my parents got home, which probably really peeved the babysitter who, I'm sure, would have preferred to yap on the phone to her BFF or watch one of our four luxurious television channels, or any of the things high school kids did before texting and reality TV and the internet. But we were up. And I remember mom and dad walking in the front door, surprised to see us, and me hugging my mom through her taupe-colored trench coat, and her clothes smelling like smoke because they'd been to a bar. Which I didn't understand at the time. But I knew when I hugged her this was no church meeting they'd been to-- that they were out having some kind of fun that did not involve me in any way, in a place I had never seen or visited, and I felt a little "WTF" about the whole thing, clearly, because I remember it now, in my mid-30s. Mostly I was just happy they were home, and a little weirded out about this secret life of theirs. Which is probably how Bird felt when I zipped up her jacket and put on her shoes and she said, "Mama, what did you do?"

In other news, I am trying to complete the paperwork on a refinance, because DAMN interest rates are low. But I can't fight the feeling that I'm signing over permissions I don't understand, like maybe mistakenly joining a cult, or the circus, or becoming an exchange student, or donating my live body to dangerous scientific testing. When they come to collect me and put me in the experimental colony under the volcano, you'll hear me wailing all the way down the block about how I thought I was dropping a whole point.

If your kid puked in the car on the way there, would you still take them to the dentist?

No? Oh. Um. Okay.

But what if the dentist was 30 minutes away, and you got really lost so you were already 15 minutes late but really almost there and still kind of lost, and you knew you had to find the dentist before you could even begin to find your way home?

And what if the puke wasn't like real puke, but just a little bluecch -- watery nothing that didn't even get on the real clothes, just the jacket? What if it was erasable puke?

And what if she perked up right after? And said she still wanted to go to the dentist?

Still no?

Yeah, well, I totally did.

And she was completely fine at the dentist, puke-wise, but notsomuch look-at-my-teeth-wise, when faced with lying down on the dentist table, which, WTF, we had been talking for a week about the cool dentist chair and that little plot twist totally mucked up the plan. There was much wailing and pulling on mama's clothes and exposing much mama skin and jiggle in the flabdomen and boobular area. And then there was the flossing. Flossing! At three and a half!

Emotionally, it was like taking our old cat to the vet, for both of us: me feeling helpless over the terror of this thing I love, and the subject of the examination coming very close to doing some actual biting. And then she got a treat, all was right with the world.

There was also me lying down on the table like a goof ball and letting the hygenist poke around in my mouth while I, in exaggerated happiness, brushed the very large teeth of a stuffed purple hippo. And Bird sat in a chair against the wall with her arms folded across her chest, giving me and my shenanigans a look that could not be mistaken for anything other than "Surely You Are Not Fucking Serious."

There was also the part where I thought I had locked my keys in the car, but didn't, and the hygenist found them at the front desk while I rooted through my cavernous bag like a raccoon going for the banana peel at the bottom of the garbage can, all grubby wild-eyed and hissing.

And there was also the part where we waited for a long time while they sorted out Birdy's heart murmur history with our pediatrician, and everything was totally fine, just a CYA thing involving possible antibiotics and more drama than I was prepared for at this, our first dentist appointment.

This sounds so traumatic-- Nobody got hurt or permanently emotionally scarred, the whole thing just felt a little more like a pediatrician's visit with shots than the happy fun denist time that this particular practice advertises in their tv commercials.

And then there was also the part where Bird looked really, really tall to me today, in her new dress and "no-feet tights," puke or no puke, with this suddenly big kid face, saying big kid things and asking me to turn off the radio, please, because she was "constentrating."

So yeah. We went to the dentist.

And this evening I made homemade pretzel dough in the bread machine and brushed some egg on top and baked 'em up and OMG.

I'll open with a quote, then there will be eleven things:

mama: Bird, which coat do you want to wear?

bird: My pink coat.

mama: Good choice.

bird: I love this coat, in spite of everything.


1. After the holiday feeding frenzy, A. and I gave up cheese, large portions, and junk food. We gave up laziness and tight pants. We bought a bathroom scale and a pedometer, fired up the ipod and started exercising. It's been about a month and we are still, for the most part, on the wagon. The wagon that is full of sunflower seeds and carrot sticks. The wagon in which we sit and stare wistfully at the other wagon, the one full of feta crumbles and sour cream and stringy, gooey lasagna.

2. I have discovered some super kick-ass vegan cookbooks, and have gotten in over my head on occasion but for the most part have learned that there is life after cheese. And that things actually have a taste when they are not covered in dairy products. I'll stop short of calling myself a vegan because I'm just not ready to be That Girl, but it has been a satisfying road so far. Highly recommend Veganomicon and the Vegan Lunch Box, both of which were available at my local library, and that means FREE for all of you playing along at home.

3. Also, I have started running. First on the elliptical machine at the community center, then on the treadmill at the community center during the commercial breaks on Oprah (walking the rest of the time) and in the last few days, running on the actual sidewalks in the actual neighborhood. It is not graceful, and it sure as shit is not easy. And it hurts like the devil, but I keep doing it.

4. A. is doing great with the running, the bastard.

5. We quit smoking a little over a year ago. WOOT!

6. Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?? 13 months ago, I was gnawing on hunks of cheddar and the only place I was running was into the 4-stop to buy a pack of smokes. And look at me now, with all of this bothersome health crap. Apologies. If it makes you feel any better, I am farting like an aging dog with a belly full of pinto beans. On that topic, we are trying to dissuade Bird from saying "fart." She now says she "has the vapors." Ah yes, much better.

7. Job. I like it. Being a mom. Like that, too. Not as mutually exclusive as I once thought. Either I'm getting better at balance or numb to the guilt and the second-guessing. Both, probably.

8. To the person that told me to clean my cast iron skillet with vegetable oil and coarse kosher salt, avoiding water unless it's a true stuck-on emergency: Thank you, kitchen wizard.

9. I hate playing "school." I get put in Time Out a lot. And then there is a version where there is a "teacher" and a "mama" and we replay a dropping-off-at-preschool scenario until I can't remember my own name. This is Bird's favorite thing to do-- she starts insisting on playing school before we even have our coats hung up in the afternoons.

10. I think it is time for a blog diet to compliment my new healthy eating plan. I have, like, nine thousand jillion blogs on my Google Reader. That link over there to my bloglines? Ancient. I've moved on to the Google Reader, and I will subscribe to anything. Everything. Cooking blogs. Mama blogs. People I Know blogs. And all of this blog checking has become a task, a pain in the ass, and it keeps me from writing here. There are things! Out there! That I haven't read yet! So I'll just read one more!

Mostly it's this: I subscribe to a lot of very beautiful blogs where people take pictures of their morning cups of coffee or write essays about their cherubic children weaving on looms in the wilderness or their gorgeous collection vintage dresses and heirloom quilts and and perfect crafts made in their tranquil, sunlit rooms before they prepare beautiful homemade meals for the family they love so very much, and it is all just such a huge load of bullshit. Obnoxious fiction. But I get sucked in, I scroll through these perfect little fantasies and they cast an ugly little shadow on my real life until I snap out of it and feel disgusted that I've just spent a very real part of my very real life looking at pictures of white curtains and whitewashed floors and reading about peaceful mornings spent playing with blocks in front of the fire or stitching up aprons or other such nonsense. So I am going to unsubscribe to these blogs very, very soon. Or at least put it all in one folder so I can avoid it as if it were cheese.

11. My mom is totally on facebook.

Brought to you by the numbers 8, 53, and a number between 6 and 10

8:
hours in the car again this past weekend (hey, it beats our usual 10), up and back to E'burgh for the last of the'08 Christmases. It was an especially difficult one, as everyone is still so raw from A's Mamaw's death in November, but everyone kept their shit together for the most part and a good time was had by all. And as a bonus, I passed on my 24-inch Dancin' Singin' James Brown to a STOKED ten year old in the (lively) gift exchange. DSJB was originally a wedding gift from my brother, who reads this blog, and dude, before you get all hot under the collar about it: the Godfather of Soul was scaring the crap out of Birdy and he had to move on to a place where he would be loved. Okay.

53:
Degrees in our house Thursday night, even though the thermostat was promising 72. Ice on the insides of the windows and sub-zero toilet seats. Frozen pipes to the washing machine. Wearing several pairs of socks over my tights, under my jeans. Birdy's icicle fingers.

It got very cold in Tennessee-- the coldest in 12 years or something crazy-- right around the end of last week. It wasn't any colder than what we knew as "normal" in Indiana, but we have softened up and thawed since then and DAMN, single didgets are brutal. And it seems our little old Southern heat pump agreed with us. The heating repair guy came out in his van and spent some time in the scary dirt basement region while I ran up and down the steps to flip breakers on and off (more responsibility than I was prepared for). He delivered a sorry prognosis.

Replace this whole part, he said.

$700, he said.

Wait, he said.

They don't make that part anymore, he said.

Replace the whole thing? I said.

Yep, he said. Ob$cene amount, he said.

Wait it out? Miracle recovery? I said.

Take your chances, lunatic, he said.

Sounds like a plan, I said.

And lo and behold, when the temperature started to feel more like a Tennessee January than a Siberian one, the Little Heat Pump That Could? Totally DID. And we took off our coats and hats and thanked God above in advance for Birdy sleeping in her own warm toasty bed and not digging her little toes into our ribs.

The moral of this story: Sometimes old shit still works, but just part of the time and probably not when you really need it. But old shit does not require financing, just extra socks and sweaters and a decent space heater where you sleep.

A number between 6 and 10
percent paycut. Announced last Friday, the freezingest day, just before I left work to meet the gentleman about my failing heat pump. Asking your child to take off her mittens to eat dinner makes you feel one step away from the poor house, and doing the paycut math in your head while you serve the beans and rice* makes your kitchen feel even colder.

But! I have a job! And the people at that job are optimistic, positive. The cut is promised to be temporary. Kind things were said to me about the way I do my work, and truly, I am feeling quite happy there, finally comfortable. And hey, the heat came back on. Just put on another damn hat and wait it out, right?


*that's not for dramatic effect, we just happened to be having beans and rice, but it did make things seem a little bit more desperate in my moment of hand-wringing.

On our terms

You may not have known this, since I was totally not posting for most of the month of December due to a mighty brain-sucking work project and holiday obligations and lack of daylight making me hibernate, but anyway: Little Miss Preschooler? Totally not down with Santa in 2008.

As in, persona non grata.

As in, mumble in his general direction at the Christmas tree farm, but HELL NO he is not coming in our house, no matter what he's slinging in that sack. She even went so far as to say, "Mama, you and Daddy can get me the easel. I don't want presents from Santa EVER OF MY LIFE." (plus a lot of hand gestures).

It was looking like a blacklist year for Jolly Old Saint Nick.

But, in a surprising turn of events in the final hours of Christmas Eve up in Littletown, Indiana, a deal was struck. We would leave Santa his milk and cookies. And a carrot for the reindeer. And he could leave presents to his heart's content. But he was not, under any circumstances, to enter my parents' home office where Bird slept on an inflatable mattress. Make no mistake, Cringle. You've been warned.

Reality-based play

So, my Bird. She is a born caretaker.
If she's not taking someone's temperature, she's putting someone down for a nap, or feeding them, or disciplining the dog, or-- as is most likely the case-- she is changing her baby's diaper.

Bird is also the oldest kid in her daycare class (thanks, October Birthday, for ensuring that we pay for daycare for as much time as mathematically possible before the free public school days begin), and one of the only ones completely potty trained. Sometimes, she pretends to change some of her classmates' diapers.

Do I have to tell you where this is going?

This week, we had a little pow-wow about how we don't take our friends' pants off at school.

Good Thursday Morning

Had that dream this morning-- the one where you get up, get in the shower, start breakfast. Everything normal, even the laundry is where you left it on the table. And then, you really wake up. And it's been 45 minutes since your alarm went off. And you shout obscenities and throw yourself at the shower, because it's the one day you have an outside meeting, and you have to find some un-embarrasing pants. And that can take a minute or two.

And your daughter, she wants to wear spooky socks. But mom? Not THOSE spooky socks. Those have SPIDERS on them, see? Not spooky. She needs the green ones with TWELVE PUMPKINS on them. TWELVE! She's holding one green sock, and the other? Well, anywhere. Your guess is as good as mine. But miraculously, you find it, in the bottom of the clean laundry. And honestly, if you'd found it in the bottom of the dirty laundry? Same result. Here's your sock. Please put it on. PLEASE. PUT IT-- hand the marker to me, please-- ON. And we have socks.

And then, shit, it's picture day at school. Let's have a look at you... bedhead, weird black and white hoodie and too-big pink cords, and the aforementioned bright green and orange spooky socks with TWELVE PUMPKINS. And you know the photographer brings "fancy clothes" for the kids, but last year the proofs of your simple girl looked like "trailer park pageant princess," dress too big and outdated, ruffly, falling off her shoulder. You know you're not buying photos anyway. But you dig around in the closet and find her pink and brown polka dot dress from your cousin's wedding, shove it in her bag, along with the Morningstar nuggets you'll be sending for lunch for the third day this week.

And we're off.

Today it is gray and raining, fall-feeling but not too gloomy.
I got up early and left before it was really light out to get to an early meeting about a tv ad script. I attended the grand opening of the new bus transit station and took some pictures. I wrote rationale for my recommendations on the longest tagline project ever. I put what I hope is the final polish on a big chunk of web content. It's been a productive day, I've enjoyed it. And now I'm staring at an ad in need of a headline and nothing. Nothing.

And what I'd really like to do? Is throw on a sweater and some thick socks, make a cup of coffee and sit on my front porch with a good book while the leaves drop. And I haven't thought about this for a while, but I as long as I'm dreaming I'll take a few cigarettes with that coffee, thanks.

About the getting up early: Bird has been waking up these dark mornings and coming into the kitchen squinting in her wacky-print jammies, saying, "too light, mama." And I have been trying my best to be more conscious of taking the time to sit down in the parlor and rock her long-legged sleepy self for a bit vs trying to speed everything up so I can get out the door on time. I'd rather miss ten minutes of work than ten minutes of my real job.

Hi. I'm still here.

There are big things happening, y'all. I've been a bit preoccupied, a bit tired. So much to consider, so much ahead. All good things, but so complex.

Also, we've been carting our happy little asses back and forth to Indiana for all manner of family events, and we're road weary. We're deep in a laundry crisis with no way out-- let's call this a laundry quagmire-- and we've stopped unpacking suitcases, treating them like special floor storage for the clothes we wear the most. We're over-committed after work to all kinds of worthy and unworthy causes, we're spending an ass load of money on groceries because we don't have the time to be smart about what we're buying. I feel like we're living event to event to event and we're facing another trip to Indiana this weekend. Fortunately, the last until the holidays, but damn, our (paid) dog sitter is LOVING us.

Does that sound a little down? I know. It is. I'm a little down, a little overwhelmed, a little pissed off and a lot emotional. We've made some decisions I certainly don't regret but now that we're at a no-turning-back place, I'm seeing more clearly how other things (job, for one) don't fit the way I thought they could. My math isn't working out and I'm feeling so disconnected from my real life-- the lively, interesting one-- spending all this time here in my box with my tiny window. I'm itching for a change again, even though change is barreling down the path, coming right for me.
Nothing is WRONG, but still, things don't seem quite right. The nudges are becoming shoves.

And to counter all of that moping, here are the things that are oh-so-good: my funny, funny Bird becoming more herself every day, doing awesome Bird things like hollering upstairs to A to make sure he doesn't forget his "deenerant." Saying, "Let's rock out" when she's got her shoes on and ready to leave the house. Reading her books to us, teacher style, slowly moving the book in front of her body in an arc so we can see the pictures. A's startup business taking a little more shape, gaining a little more momentum. Cooler weather, a heavy garden, never needing to buy tomatoes or peppers. A house I love that is patient with me and all my neglect. Little things like new tupperware. Constant things like old smelly dogs that tolerate being covered with stickers and friends who don't care if you don't call.

Summer Dress

My big girl, in her sweet new dress from Great Grandma O.

*sigh*
Three is only about two months away.
Looks like I'm going to need another one of these.

Vacation Thought No. 1

Can I brag for a minute? My Bird—THE Bird—was the best little traveler on our trip to Hilton Head last week. Three flights, ten total hours in the car, three different beds and a week in a beach house with six adults and no kids to play with and precious few toys and still. She was chipper and good-natured and cooperative. (Only one true meltdown and one major injury, both of which I will describe later.) She pee-peed in the scary/ stinky airplane potty and was perfectly happy to entertain herself with shells and toys when she needed quiet time in the house. She lavished attention right back at my parents and my brother and sister-in-law and was sweet and delicious and funny. She asked to be excused from the table, used her inside voice, and threw please and thank you around like a raquetball.

Not that two-year-olds should be held to adult standards or manners as a measure of good behavior. It’s not like I have a buttoned-up Yes-Ma’am kid. She’s a spirited little bird and a powerful little joy-force that may or may not be wearing clothes at any given moment. But she is so agreeable, so generous, so thoughtful and of such a pleasant disposition. She’s so much fun to be around, and I am more grateful than I can describe to have had a full, uninterrupted week of her silly, loving company.