Proving that "The Bachelorette" is a great metaphor for real life.

Likeohmygod.

You-know-how-that-one-time-on-The-Bachelorette-Trista-had-to-pick-between-Charlie-and-Ryan-and-I-was-like-ohmygod-because-Ryan-was-clearly-the-shit-but-I-heard-that-she-actually-chose-Charlie-and-I-was-SO-nervous-during-the-finale-because-ohmygod!-how-could-she-chose-Charlie-when-Ryan-was-like-so-totally-her-soulmate-and-it-was-so-freakin'-obvious-and-I-mean-it's-like-I-totally-know-and-love-these-people-and-just-want-it-all-to-work-out-ya-know?

Here is where I am going to use "The Bachelorette" to give you an illustration of real life, after which I will attempt to bring it all around and make a point. Hang in there.

During the first season of "The Bachelorette" I was psycho. I was so personally involved that you would have THOUGHT I actually knew these people. In real life. Not fake TV life. True story, I could barely watch the finale, because I had heard rumor (from very reputable St. Louis sources?) that Trista picked Charlie. And I thought I was gonna die. It was heartbreaking for me to watch all three parties involved headed toward doom and unhappiness. Because for me, Charlie equaled death and Satan and people who club baby seals. Though he did appear to be somewhat of a nice guy.

And then she picked Ryan! And it was like I was having my first child, I was so proud. Overjoyed! Happiness and rainbows and baby hamsters for everyone! And to top it off, a few weeks later, Mike and I went skiing in Vail and WE TOTALLY SAW THEM. Ohmygod-it-was-like-totally-the-best-day-of-my-WHOLE-life.

The point being, this is how I get with competition. Survivor, seasons 1-5, same story. I almost divorced Mike because he wouldn't call in a vote for Ruben Studdard in American Idol, season 2.

Yes, I have issues. And it is probably wise that I never played sports, nor followed them at any point in my life.

But this weekend, there is a HUGE competition about to go down. Maybe you've heard of the Final Four?

I usually don't pay ANY attention, because I grew up in Hawaii, and we are not known for our *height* or baller skillz. There were no professional teams to associate with in my childhood, though you need only reference the University of Hawaii's 2007 UNDEFEATED football season and the phenomenon known as Colt Brennan, to realize that Hawaii goes ape-crap over it's football. Seriously, I have a 4-year-old cousin named Brennan, if that puts it into perspective for you. And, I did happen to watch their crushing defeat in the Sugar Bowl, which *almost* fried every nerve circuit in my whole entire body.

For those of you who ACTUALLY pay attention to sports, and in particular, college basketball, then you are aware that a small school in Indiana is up for the title. A small school that has knocked off several giants to advance to the semi finals. I won't try to explain it any more, because frankly, I don't understand it. But I know it's all kinds of amazing, and while there are "stats" and predictions and records to explain it all, I prefer to think of it in terms of magical fairy dust and fate and the story upon which Oscar-winning movies are made.

Regardless, of the mad skillz or fairy dust, I am rooting BIG TIME for Butler.

And I am personally invested. Because Butler's coach went to DePauw, and he's one year younger than yours truly. But also, his wife Tracy happens to be my old roommate. My co-Rush chair who conspired to take over the world with me, one recruitment party at a time.

Just kidding. Kind of. When you are in a college sorority at a VERY traditional, Greek school, the process of Rush is similar to curing cancer. Only with cheering and matching t-shirts and brownies.

Oh! And she actually caught the bouquet at our wedding. Which *technically* means that I am somewhat responsible that she and Brad are married. Never mind that I think they started dating before Mike and I.

So. Though I know nothing about basketball, I have been officially GLUED to a television during the playoffs, or the March Madness, or the tournament, or whatever it is you basketball fans call it. And the tension--OH the TENSION--is so much worse than that-one-time-that-Trista-even-CONSIDERED-ending-up-with-Charlie-because-ohmygod-what-was-she-thinking?

Only now, it's like shoot-shoot-ow!-Rebound!-YESSSSSSSSSSSS-clap,clap,clap-breath-holding-REBOUND!-run, run-three-pointer-Ow!-REBOUND-foul-free-throw-clap,clap,clap. I watch these games and am filled with all kinds of excitement and joy and nervousness and pride for Tracy and her family that I can barely stand it. Because I want this BAD for them. So bad, that I am willing to risk cardiac arrest and severe emotional damage.

Here is also where I will note that Tracy is one of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met. And just to prove that I am not blowing smoke up your ass, I will tell you that I have many a bitchy college friend. Oh, you know who you are!!! I say this as a term of endearment, because it takes a real friend to tell you that you are being ridiculous.



All this to say, that you all know how much I LOVED college, and Tracy was such a part of my Senior year. And I am overjoyed and excited for the Stevens and the weekend to come--knowing that they are handling it all with incredible grace and style!!

Plus. It is REALLY fun to see someone you know on television. Ohmygod-it-is-like-totally-my-dream-come-true-as-it-pertains-to-transforming-TV-into-reality.

LETS GO BUTLER!

Bun buns.

So I found me a little project. Thank you Wal-mart and Target, you make it easy (and cheap) to create holiday shirts without feeling guilty and impractical. Total on both shirts, less than $10.

Once again, I went with my go-to fabric, felt. Love it, because it doesn't fray. So I embroidered the girls names, and then free-handed this shape onto a sheet of felt. It ain't perfect, but who can tell??? My little friend was inspired by the shape of a bunny Peep, if that helps.

Next, I took a needle and embroidery floss and sewed little eyes and a heart shaped nose. I sewed him on to the shirt with a simple machine stitch, but if you were without a sewing machine, I think the bunny would look great with an embroidery floss border, hand-stitched directly on to the shirt.

Then, I cut a length of ribbon, and sewed it at the spot where a bunny might place a hair bow. Tuxedo style would look dapper too, I think. I literally took the center of the length of ribbon and just sewed it in place. When attached, I tied the ribbon into a bow, and tacked down the "bow loops" directly on to the shirt with a few stitches each (stitches placed inside the loops, to hide them). I'm hoping this will be enough to keep the bow in tact, and not have to re-tie it after washing. Time will tell though, I can't promise it.

Done.

Also, as I know embroidery machines are not a common household item, I think this would be REALLY cute if you did a gigantic bunny without a name.



I'm thinking long sleeve pink shirts underneath, with a pair of jeans. To keep it cazzzzz.

Also, for those of you wondering if I had the ability to grow the most common plant in the history of the world...yes, I managed to sprout some grass in our bunny planters. I accomplished this miraculous feat by leaving town for a week and forgetting to ask our dog sitter to water them until day 7 of our 9 day excursion. Upon arriving back in St. Louis, I SWEAR I heard the bunnies speaking of peace and grooviness and tie-dye.

Their grass has since been cut back to more respectable lengths. Just another plan by the man to hold a bunny down.

Spring break 2010, baby.

Because I am tired and Easter is sneaking up on me, I am going to weenie out and do a pictorial post of last week's trip to Hilton Head. Oh. And I'm also a tad grumpy because I cannot seem to find an Easter craft for kids that is inspiring me.

I need a craft. It is affecting me.

Anyhoo. Let's begin with a picture of our traveling toilet and bowling pin kitty wearing pants.

Biking,which we did much of. Though we have no pictures of it, because it is hard work keeping four children ALIVE, on bikes that share the road with real cars.

Oh. My. This girl is so beautiful. And this could quite possibly be one of the last pictures we capture before she looses those front teeth. Sigh. It's a long, awkward, oral road once those teeth fall out and we wait for G's jaw bones to catch up to the chompers that will overpower her face for a while.

A little friend:

Does this picture not CRACK you up? He clung for dear life to this tree branch for a good 20 minutes, I'd say.



And then we managed to find a petting zoo. And they had a llama. And you KNOW how I love me some llamas.

The animals had all kinds of fun eating all of the vegetables that our children won't touch with a ten foot pole.

Our last day was just warm enough for swimming in a heated pool. Hypothermia set in after about 30 minutes.

Bring it summer. We are out of crappy swim diapers and we are ready to party.

I am convined that cartoon heros are hopped up on all kinds of illegal drugs.

So while Mike and I drove home from South Carolina yesterday, Elmo and Thomas the Train and Wilbur the pig and some dancing penguins babysat my kids. Because I get carsick and am rendered useless if I have to so much as take my eyes off of the road ahead--which means that in a car, I am effective as a mother, so long as it requires nothing more than verbal encouragement/reprimanding, or passing any object within one arms length. Seriously, I am forced to sit in the front seat and change DVDs and eat pounds of yogurt covered pretzels and sour gummy worms.

G has taken on a substantial amount of parenting responsibilities during long road trips, and I feel this is great, practical and resume-worthy experience, for which she will thank me one day.

Anyway. When you only hear the vocal portion of cartoon movies for 13 hours straight, it is impossible not to dissect them on a deeper level. You know, apart from the stunning visuals that distract you from the crap that is the cartoon story line.

Take for instance, Happy Feet.

Listen, I am not a prude. My children are currently making up words to the tune of Kesha's "Tick Tock"--an activity I am fervently trying to stop as it is, a) annoying, b) very inappropriate for young children and c) the kind of thing that might label me as a wack-job mother that feeds her kids pop tarts and nuts for breakfast.

It's not the subject matter I have so much an issue with, but the general story line. Which consists of a penguin that is ostracized from his pack and ends up on an expedition to figure out why the fish have disappeared from the ocean surrounding whatever frozen tundra they live on. While single-handedly solving the greatest issue to ever face the penguin population, Mumble the penguin is captured and put in a zoo.

Okay. I can buy the idea of a furry-dancing-penguin-as-savior up to this point.

But then, Mumble decides to throw down and dance his way right out of the zoo! Seriously, the kid is known for his happy, dancing feet and he turns the mutha out. And his captors take notice, and decide to set him free.

Because I am SURE that if humans discovered a penguin that could tap dance with impeccable rhythm, we would most definitely return it to the wild. Versus creating all kinds of crazy You Tube videos and charging exorbitant fees to see the little monkey dance.

Dance, monkey. Dance!

No. Mike and I both agree that for the movie to feel authentic and believable, Mumble would need to kill every other penguin in his cage. That would definitely lead to his release--or his euthanization, but either way, it's the only plausible solution.

Also, this led to a lengthy discussion with our children, in which we had to explain why crazy dancing was NOT an acceptable response to being kidnapped and held against one's will. Seriously Dreamworks! You have a social responsibility to teach the youth of American to fight like hell when abducted.

This reminds me of an episode of Go Diego, Go!, in which Diego cornered a cayman alligator, only to confront the beast and extract it BY HAND from some bushes. Which, of course led to the infamous discussion of how our kids were NOT to manhandle gators.

I don't care what kind of amphetamines Diego is shooting.

I, for one, am all for the alternate Happy Feet ending in which Mumble pecks the eyes out of his fellow, imprisoned penguins in an attempt to gain release into his natural habitat. Just keepin' it real.

Derogatory slurs, filth and unhealthiness: The trifecta of offensiveness.

I'm BAAAAAAAACK. Did you miss me?


Maybe you guessed that it was Spring Break and that we have been out of town. I would have loved to blog you through the 15 HOURS it took us to get down to Hilton Head, South Carolina. But then I would have publicized my absence to the creeps of the world (all 5 of you that read this blog...jk). I could not, in good conscience leave our fat beagle to single-handedly protect the house against intruders.


Anyway. On my first official night back, I would like to tell you of a cultural phenomenon.


In Macon, Georgia--on an exit off of Highway 16--there exists every kind of fast food on the planet. Within a one block radius. I like to think that amongst the communities of the morbidly obese and those at risk for heart disease, this would be a neon, greasy heaven.


And as I have no willpower and am being held captive in a mini (van) with four young children, my reward/death sentence this morning equalled a breakfast biscuit and a Dunkin' Donut. Oh fine. Two breakfast biscuits, a donut and a *few* donut holes.


And a diet coke.


I kind of want to vomit and sob uncontrollably and laugh and call some sort of interventionist, all at the same time.


While I sparred my children the atrocity of clogged arteries in the morning, I did manage to serve them a breakfast of pop tarts and a variety of nuts. Which means I have inadvertently fed them the preferred foods of hillbillies and rodents. Awesome.



(No offense to those of you who serve these foods, as a complete nutritional meal, on a daily basis.)


So. I ate my sausage sliders and donuts in the car, all comfy with my down comforter and pillow. In essence, this was much like eating large amounts of grease in a moving bed. Which kind of sounds like this century's flashier, sexier, "in-YO-face" answer to the water bed. Boo-ya.


Coincidentally, a bed on wheels would appear to be a GENIUS proposition for the morbidly obese/heart diseased populations. And their flagship store shall be in Macon, Georgia.

Be warned, though. The bed-on-wheels CLOSELY resembles a toilet-for-birds. As witnessed by the winged terrorists that took a crap all over our car. In summary, I am now eating dangerously unhealthy amounts of greasy and artificial sweeteners, in a bed-on-wheels that is covered in shit. Ca-peesh?



Wait.



My previous use of the word hill-billy has me uneasy. Because somehow, my brain is telling me that this term connotates negativity toward Southerners? If so, I apologize. I realize the pop-tart/nut breakfast combo is not reflective of all territories south of the Mason-Dixon line...rather, it is a possibility for anyone who serves meals from the convenience of a 7-11. But I am at a loss for non-regional words to describe a person who may serve her children sugar & legumes while consuming fat in a moving bed? Suggestions?



Missourians would probably use the term "Hoosier"--which of course is the highest form of a compliment in the fine state of Indiana. And I happen to like Indiana.


My study of the Jersey Shore (translation: hours watching MTV) tells me that this type of individual *might* be called a Guido? But that also leads me to believe there must be unhealthy fake tans, hair extensions and Italian ancestry involved. Not a perfect fit, but maybe the Northeast equivalent?


Lest you think I am totally a food snob, I will remind you that I LOVE Spam. I ate it for breakfast REGULARLY as a child. And just to make sure I induce a good gag in my blog-audience, my preferred method for inhaling spam is to put it on a bed of rice and wrap it in seaweed. Yum-O. I do not know what the equivalent, territorial slur for strange food eaters in Hawaii would be. Open to suggestions though.


Regardless. I'm pretty sure it was the moving-shit-bed that made it all really special this morning. Complete with child-sized port-a-potty. I am owning that kind of awesomeness.

If there was a list for toy molesters, I might be on it.

Today, I spent a good hour giving a zhu-zhu pet the equivalent of a Brazilian wax. It involved a screwdriver and very small crevices, and as it made me feel like I was inappropriately touching a childrens toy, this event officially wins as the strangest part of my 2010. And then he? she? hopped in her car and drove away. Weird.

Also newsworthy: I observed (for the first time!) freckles on my sweet little red-head. Makes sense, as there is a good chance he will become a walking pattern sometime soon, but these are the FIRST! It's somewhat hard to see in a picture, but trust me, those are not dirt spots! Coincidentally, Big J did fall off the jungle gym today and returned home with something very similar looking, only dust-able.

And as I was sending my kids off to school on the bus, I noticed this:

What caught my eye is the fact that this robin was prancing/crapping itself all over our neighbors car. Oh! And pecking at the hood and windows. Psycho or dumb, I can't decide. But also, I was fairly certain that our neighbors had gagged and blindfolded it's baby on the center console (in the style of the SAW movies), based on that reaction.

Nope.

Turns out this car must be parked on ancient robin burial grounds, as our neighbor claims this chick is here every spring, leaving it's signature poop splatter all over the place, and attacking their front door. When I pointed this out to Mike, 5 HOURS LATER, he did a little social experiment, wherein he challenged the robin to a death-match-dance-off. They be krumpin' and poppin and lockin' like CRAZY.

Just kidding. Mike did, however, aggresively test this bird's territorial boundaries and space issues--and though it hopped away for a moment, it came right back. Our thought is that it is building a nest. So DUMB, right? Or not...possibly it is pimping out the baddest mother freaking RV EVER!

Also, this does not taste like cardboard, and it is an inappropriate match for my almost-non-existent will power. Good thing I finished it.

Oh my God! I did not finish it--there is, like, half a cake there. If you thought I finished it, my ass must be at least 150xs bigger than I think it is. With a belly to match.

We found leprechaun gold and it consists of 10,000 calories.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, blog world! It's been a whirlwind of a day that began with a 6 a.m. run...very unlike me. But, as I was planning for a day of "themes" AND I have a strict policy against showering twice in one day, I decided it was in my best interests to get out of bed and try to kill myself with heavy lung exertion. Therefore, I was showered and dressed in green by 7:30 a.m. Very novel.

See, here I am, keeping with the green theme this evening. I bought this dress at Target and am pretty sure I am going to buy every color available. Please pardon that clump of hair that is awkwardly clinging to my forehead. And remind me NEVER to cut bangs again, as most days I feel like I am sporting a female comb-over.

Here is the last of the St. Patrick's Day activities....a rainbow cake! Tons of examples on the Internet, but really, it was just TWO boxes of white cake, with batter divided to make each colored layer. Not hard, just time consuming, as I baked two layers at a time. I used a variety of food coloring (gel and old school drops) to produce the colors. Orange and Purple were mixed by combining their respective primary colors. It all worked out quite well.

I will also note that the thinner layers makes the cakes bake much smoother...lots of times my cakes have puffy tops, but this wasn't so much the case. Here are the individual layers:

And what it looked like when it was stacked (with a thin layer of canned icing between each layer):

And the finished product, when you cut it open:

I'm pretty sure this face says it all:

I used a total of two cans of icing as well. Let me tell you, this sucker is heavy. But pretty! This dessert is ALL about the pretty.

Hope you all had a wonderful St. Patrick's Day!

I celebrate my roots with fabric.

Because there is a lot going on around here this week, I decided to take on a dozen new projects. Makes TOTAL sense. Or perhaps, I am just trying to discover my Irish roots by making something green. Because, for me, trying to understand your heritage means playing into the most commonly held stereotype of a particular race (i.e., the Irish fetish for green clothing).

And to show you how serious I am about that, I also fully plan to test the limits of the Irish liver. Just kidding. Beer is not on my diet. And as stated before, I am half Asian...and whatever super-human alcohol-absorbing powers my Irish genes gave me are made null and void by the Okinawan intolerance to the sauce.

Anyway. As St. Pat's day kind of snuck up on me, I decided to make a couple of flower pins for the girls and myself. I played with a few ideas that I had in my head, but as all of those turned out crappy, I went with an idea I saw online (link here). Though it should be said, I was not as precise as these directions--I free-handed my flowers and threw them together as fast as I could. Also, I think mine have less layers to them? They probably took less than 10 minutes each. My only tip, is that the thicker the fabric, the fuller the flower. Felt works great, but with my cottons, I cut two pieces per every petal.

Oh! I saved those bottle caps from some Izzy soda that my kids hated a while back, though my husband rolled his eyes and gave me all kinds of crap for it. To which I say, what up, Mike? Who's the sucka now.

While I interpreted the eye-rolling as a craft-dare, he meant it more in the spirit of recognizing my extreme hoarding compulsion. For which I may/may not need medication.

Anyhoo. Here are a few more of my shamrocks. Which will be pinned to my girls tomorrow.

Also. I am seeing all kinds of ideas for fun St. Patrick's Day shenanigans (is that an Irish word? Wow, am I learning the dialect too!). Stuff like adding food coloring to the milk and toilet bowl water. There are two problems here. First, I am spending WAY too much time blog surfing. Second, it appears that I am about to take on 27 new projects.

Here comes Peter Cottontail.

I know it's been quite some time since I have entertained you with a craft! Well people, I aim to please, so for those of you who are dying to get your glue out, today is your lucky day.

Valentine's Day left me in a state of withdrawal, I think. It was all kinds of pink and fun! And cute-si-ness! And then it was OVER. Done and gone, that bitch just left. And I still have those large Double D's on my front door and my teeth/gum lines/ass have not been the same since those 28 bags of Sweethearts I ate.

So once again, I am on a diet that consists of anything resembling cardboard. And I am getting my crafting mo-jo back with the Easter holiday.

Let's plant something. There are all kinds of ideas about planting grass centerpieces for Easter, so I am hopping on that party bus. Plus, I figure it is grass, which grows EVERYWHERE in the world without any kind of effort, so chances are *better* that I won't kill it.

What you need: old yogurt containers. I used both the single serving size, and the larger tubs (for variety). Also, you will want cotton balls, glue (plain ol' Elmers), popsicle sticks and some scrapbook paper and felt in coordinating colors. Plus some potting soil and whatever you want to stick in it.

First, stab small holes in the bottom of the containers for water drainage. I used a scissors.

Okay. So, I had my kids glue the cotton balls to the old yogurt containers. VERY easy for young kiddies. You can do it in rows or just plop the balls on there in random order...I think the end results are just the same. We glued ours with no space showing between the cotton balls.

On my second attempt at this, I realized it is MUCH easier to put the soil and grass seed in BEFORE gluing the cotton balls on. If you aren't super careful scooping the dirt into the yogurt containers, it will stick to the cotton balls and give the container a dirty appearance. And then when you try to lightly blow the dirt off, you will end up spraying it back in your face/eyes/nostrils. Coincidentally, I am also conducting an experiment to see if grass seed can take root in sinuses. I will keep you posted.

All this to say, if you are going for a Pig-pen style bunny, then by all means, glue the cotton balls on first.



From what I have read, grass seed does not need to be covered with soil. Please correct me if I am wrong, but our seeds are just sitting on top of the soil.


For the ears: I free-handed a set of ears out of scrapbooking paper--two pieces (front and back) per each ear. Then I grabbed the old glue, and sandwiched a popsicle stick in between. Done. Oh! I did decide to add a smaller felt cut-out for the inner ear. You know, if you want extra credit.

My kids stuck the ears in their planters, and then I cut out a little heart bunny nose, and glued that on to the front. You could also add some googly eyes, but I was trying not to make it look so cartoon-ish. However, googly eyes would add some definition to the face, so you do what you feel is best. I aint mad at 'cha.

And here you have our bunny gang! As you can probably tell, I planted some sort of purple flower in the large yogurt tub and I LOVE it! My kids are going to be full of all kinds of good bacteria, as they will be eating yogurt in mass quantities over the next few weeks, so that we can gift a few of these around town. I bought a six-pack of those flowers and used one for the planter...perfect fit.

Um. Can anyone guess what we are having for breakfast tomorrow?

My cultural knowledge can be summed up in the words "Sand the floor"

I am a quarter Irish.

I know, I know.

These racial features elude me, but I did happen to birth a lil' leprechaun, maybe you've noticed.


Honestly, I'm not up to speed on the physical characteristics of an Irishman. But I do know that red hair is the most recognized stereotype. Having grown up in Hawaii, I am quite studied in the differences between people of various Asian ancestry, but the Caucasian races are quite an enigma.



Yes, I grew up in an Asian melting pot. And am half Okinawan myself. But anyone who lives in Hawaii will tell you that I am, remarkably, un-Asian looking. This isn't an insult, but a statement of fact--just as one might say Michael Jackson is quite pale, considering his African American roots.



Which is all very interesting, as it plays out in my children. One blonde that I'm going to assume looks German. One dark brunette that looks 100% Asian. One red-head that looks 100% Irish. And a sandy blonde, G, that is somewhat of a combo. To add to the confusion with G, Mike and I have yet to identify her eye color. Seriously. If you asked me to pick a color, I would go with gray. But last I checked, that wasn't really an accepted choice, unless you are the main character in the book "Memoirs of a Geisha".

A book, which happens to take place in Japan, and *possibly* supports my theory that Asians can produce gray eyeballs. Nevermind that this is a fictional work. Or, that it is set in Japan, NOT Okinawa.

What's the difference, you ask?

I don't know. And this is why I refer to myself as generally "Asian", to avoid my embarrassing lack of cultural knowledge. I do happen to know, however, that the most famous Okinawan of all time is Mr. Miyagi--which means that my knowledge of my own, personal, ethnic history IS solely and completely summarized by the movie "The Karate Kid."


All this to tell you that I went to a St. Patrick's Day parade on Saturday. Perhaps in an effort to celebrate my Irish roots? And here is what I learned.

While I would normally associate St. Patty's Day with the color green and corned beef and cabbage (which I would never actually EAT, mind you), it appears I was wrong. Per the large leprechaun toting a giant sausage?

I had NO idea that hot dogs were traditional Irish fare? Based on this new knowledge and the diet of my children, it appears that we are WAY more Irish than we've been given credit for.

What are your plans for sausage day?

Where I point out INCREDIBLE similarities between me and an ogre.

This is what I will affectionately refer to as "forced bathing." As it means I will most definitely need to take soap and a vigorous washing to this kid's face. Tomorrow. Because he is asleep right now. Which also means, there is a good chance that the stamp shapes will blur to large, faded green spots come morning. And it *may* be difficult to erase, but I consider that kind of a win-win situation, as St. Patty's Day is almost upon us, and I have plans to dress this little whipper-snapper up as a leprechaun.

Tell me that is not the GREATEST IDEA EVER????? I need to find green sweats, or in a less ideal situation, make a pair of green shorts and find some suspenders to match. And, of course, a toddler-sized black top hat would be amazing.

So this morning, I was a helper in the children's program of the bible study that I go to on Thursdays. I was assigned to the 2-year-old room, mostly because I have kids in the 3 and 4 year old rooms, and they try to have you volunteer separate from your children (trust me, it is MUCH easier this way).

Anyway. As you might imagine, some of the 2-year-olds have a hard time separating from Mom. Goes with the territory. I had a kid that SCREAMED for 2 years straight whenever I would drop him off in a nursery/Sunday school situation. Totally get it. The solution was always for me to detach the claws of the screaming child as quickly as possible, throw a clean diaper at the teacher and run like crazy while yelling, "Later, Sucka!"

Just kidding. But prompt exiting was the key, as my screaming child would not calm down until he was sure that I had officially abandoned him, thereby forcing the said, distraught child to form some sort of emotional attachment to another mother-figure. I was always very appreciative when a teacher/helper would aid me in my escape.

And as I watched this mama this morning, it was clear that she needed an escape, and a willing arm to contain the child. She didn't appear to me to be the kind of mom that needed (or thought it possible) to talk her child out of hysteria. So I stepped up the the plate, and she made a quick exit.

Whoa.

This kid was STRONG for a 2-year-old. I mean, it took every ounce of my strength and concentration, and he still escaped me TWICE! As in, out the door, screaming for mom. To which I responded with lightning speed, chasing him down the hall and scooping him up with a "GOTCHA!", followed by an evil, blood-curdling laugh, that I am sure didn't freak him the hell out, or anything. If you know the secret to restraining a child (that is not your own) and not appearing to be a hairy, terrifying monster with fangs, let me know.

I mean, nursery workers and volunteers in OTHER classrooms came to see the commotion and stared with wide-eyes. There were shoes flying EVERYWHERE. I was sort of awkwardly stomping around and dodging fists, and I think there were like 10 other children crying. And I am totally sure that someone peed in their pants/diaper. And then, the teachers in the 2-year-old classroom sort of gave me a look as if I had a giant chainsaw and a hockey mask on. AND I AM ONLY THE VOLUNTEER in the class. For one day! So. You can imagine I was lacking all kinds of self confidence in dealing with the situation. I'm also fairly certain that if anyone had raw meat or a goat, they would have thrown it at me, because based on all reactions, I was totally the ogre terrorizing a room of small people.

But I didn't really feel that letting him run down the hall and a flight of stairs was in his best interests either. So. I held tight and I dragged him back to my cave (a.k.a. the 2-year-old room). And I shut the door. And I'm pretty sure at least 5 people thought I was going to eat him.

Only, once we returned to the class, I was smart enough not to let go! I was steadfast in my grip, all the while whispering sweet affirmations that his mom would indeed return! And he would live! A full and meaningful life!

I'm pretty sure that this came off as the propaganda of a serial killer.

Then, we noticed the windows overlooking the parking lot. And I asked him to tell he what color car mommy drove. And then we looked (through the window...I am smart enough to know that leaving the room is NOT an option) for a gray car and we found one! And this is how I convinced the 2-year-old that mommy was, in fact, still in the building. And by golly, we sat there for 15 minutes, just to be sure.

And then he found a ladybug on the window! And I brought him in for a closer look, which was a BAD and SCARY idea. Ladybugs are just as scary as giant, wart-y, nursery workers! But we found the gray car again, and all was right in the world.

Story time rolled around, and he was all over it. And then we did a CRAFT, during which he participated 110%. I was so proud. It was like, amidst all the hub-bub, he learned my love language, and he became my buddy. It was totally a Goonies moment, and he was Chunk and I was Sloth and he was sharing his Baby Ruth bar with me.

Baby. Ruuth?

And I was successfully able to convince a 2-year-old that I would not stuff him in a sandwich bun for lunch.

I love him just a little bit.

And this is my official record of events, should the police or child protective agency come knocking on my door, investigating a plot to devour small children. Totally innocent.

How crap is made.

At some point last week, my children took every single toy out of our toy bins. I don't know when it happened, or who was the ring leader, because I was drunk and unable to process those kind of details.

Kidding. Kind of. I wasn't drunk (Relax!), but the mess did go unnoticed for a few days, as it occurred somewhere near the weekend, and I DO NOT CLEAN on the weekends, even if someone takes a big, juicy poop on our floors. Kidding, I would clean that, but not much else. Also, on top of the "NO Cleaning" rule, I have assumed that this particular toy bin is a portal to the earth's unending supply of plastic crap, and tend to ignore what it vomits onto my floors every day.

It's been years since I saw the bottom of that bin. YEARS. And it appeared to be covered in small McDonald's toys, crumbs and pieces of wicker? To my great shock, no rancid, cheese-filled sippy cups were discovered. But. It is clear that our toy inventory can be separated into the following categories: Crap, crap with dead batteries, crap with broken or missing parts, baby crap, small rubber balls and small purses/bags/backpacks.

Seriously.

Case in point: This little beauty (pictured below), has been hanging out in the toy bin. It's that Fisher-Price stacking star toy that plays music and lights up. NONE of the stars are to be found. And let's say my children have outgrown this thing by, at least....3.5 years.

So. I have weeded. I have separated. I have organized (you're right, not really.). I have thrown lots of stuff down in the basement. But at the end of the day, I need some sort of genius system for keeping it all neat 'n tidy. Any tips for beating toys into submission?

My problem here is...well, a lot. I own EVERY size of plastic bin that exists. But when you have 25 of them hanging out in your living room, it's fugly. Neat, but fugly.

There are cute options at Pottery Barn, and Target, and pretty much everywhere, but they are too small! Or too kid-like, or too impractical. Or a ga-zillion dollars. I think I need to find a cheap bookcase that I can paint a funky color and fill with baskets--but it's possible a bookcase might not be deep enough for the size of basket I would need. Though, I will also say that I am strictly against bookshelves for books, as they end up everywhere and I find it a pain to keep it nice looking. We throw our books in a slide out drawer...nicer copies and bigger books are on a mommy-daddy only shelf.

Oh my God, did you laugh out loud when I said I like to keep my bookshelves "nice looking"? I did! Because my house looks like the place where cheap plastic gets wasted and all kinds of nasty. We are the Vegas of crap, and what happens here stays here and multiplies like rabbits. Let's not fool ourselves by saying anything in here is "nice looking". Just keepin' it real.

I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for. Mostly because, I don't have a good eye for assessing what I have, and then finding a solution that will contain it. And I'm pretty sure that Target would frown upon me carrying my crap pile into their store for measuring purposes.

So. I'm interested in suggestions and advice from all of you who seem to have toys that are well kept and showered and groomed. And if I have ever been to your house, that means I am talking to you.

Help me.

Bailey.

Bailey the Beagle.

I have spent the better part of today thinking that our beloved dog was/is dying. It's still possible, but as she has rallied, exited her cage and eaten, my paranoia has subsided.

A little.

I don't know. Call it a 6th sense or something, but lately I have been thinking that B may have to be put down soon. I don't know why, she's not acting different and she has been terribly unhealthy looking almost her entire life (so appearance is, unfortunately, not an indicator of life expectancy. Good news for Mickey Rourke.). But I'm all kinds of sad about it. As I cried for an hour today thinking this was it.

Which it wasn't.

Bailey is a rock star, as far as I'm concerned. We got her the year we got married and she was our only child until G appeared. And then, she basically got ignored as I obsessed over how to keep an infant alive. And then we had two NICU babies, and another red-headed surprise 16 months later. Yep, Bailey got the total shaft.

I will also tell you that she got a WICKED infection as a puppy, after the surgery in which we removed her uterus (is that spaying or neutering?). Anyhoo, turns out she's allergic to dissolvable stitches, who knew? Her tummy poofed up like a big, red, irregular shaped balloon.

And then, a couple of years later, shortly after G was born, we noticed Bailey had ZERO energy. Just slept, didn't move. For some reason, I thought she had heart worm. Don't ask, I'm about as accurate diagnosing animals as I am humans (see recent posts where I missed strep throat TWICE, instead choosing to blame odd, viral behaviors on my Asian ancestry. I am CRAZY.). This is when we learned that Bailey had a thyroid condition, not a life-threatening illness. She has taken doggie speed since 2003, and it has altered her laziness/large tubbiness not one bit.

Sometime before the wondertwins were born, we began noticing that Bailey wasn't eating. This is a DEAD GIVEAWAY that something is wrong. And then she wasn't peeing, and acting all kinds of uncomfortable. I just knew she was dying. Mike took her to the vet, and what do you know? Bladder stones, HUNDREDS of them. That had been building up in her system for years. Turns out her body can't process something in dog food...so we have to buy some specialty stuff from the vet. VERY inconvenient when you run out of food at 10 p.m.

So, G received a Pottery Barn chair (the child-sized, plush ones) for Christmas YEARS ago. And our kids only wrestle with/upon it, making it somewhat of a hazard and a pain in my ass when I am trying to get them to calm down. About two months ago, I moved it downstairs, and Bailey has claimed it ever since. She does NOT leave that chair. It is hers.

But today, she was no where near the chair. She was in her cage, then out of her cage, then in the middle of the kitchen (totally high traffic, she knows better). I tried a Scooby Snack, wouldn't touch it. And then I noticed she was shaking. All over, small shaking.

Totally dying.

But then she ate? And peed. And crawled back in her Pottery Barn chair. Wha?

I know the dog has 9 lives. But. I'm not exactly sure how long a thyroid-deficient, over weight, under-exercised dog, can be expected to live? Seeing as she's already 10, and I think that's pretty much the life expectancy of a beagle?

Crap. Remind me that this is an argument for never having another pet. It's too freakin' emotional.

The most important lesson that I am still learning.

When G was born, those first couple of days in the hospital, she slept the WHOLE time. I don't think I heard her cry, not even once. I thought we had something of a coma going on, but as we were in a hospital and none of the medical staff seemed alarmed, I played it cool, as if I had any idea about what babies were supposed to be like.



We left the hospital, it was lightly flurrying, and G stayed true to form, sleeping the entire way home. It was dark, we got her in the house, and proceeded to keep her in her snuggly car seat. If it aint broke, don't fix it.



And at some point she woke up and I fed her--or at least tried to, as I was pretty inept at grasping my body's full potential as a personal milking machine. But. I went through the motions, like I had for the past 48 hours, to feed the baby with sleeping sickness.



And I changed her and I held her and I swaddled her and put her in her crib.



And she cried.



And cried.



And cried.



All night.



Someone did a face transplant with my baby and swapped her for the kid that wouldn't stop screaming its brains out! Amazing that there were no scars, though I checked, but I believe that baby skin heals quickly, so lack of surgical evidence was not fooling me! Someone give me back my comatose baby!



Please.



Yes, I fed her. CONSTANTLY. Hell, I think Mike tried to nurse her. I would have let Bailey (the beagle) feed her if she were lactating, and had less than 6 nipples.



By the next morning, we were convinced that small swaddling blankets were to blame, since she sucked on me for 10 hours straight, and Mike made a bee-line for Babies R Us to rectify this issue. IMMEDIATELY.



When he returned home, we swaddled that baby so tight that her arms wrapped twice around her body and we strapped her into that car seat to prevent any sort of blanket slippage whatsoever. Boo-ya.



Bring it, parenthood. I discovered the secret, magic weapon and it is called bondage. I will keep her immobile and strapped to something.



Forever.

And that is why, our 7-year-old daughter remains duct-taped to a chair, at all times. I KNOW it looks weird, and it’s pretty unconventional, but it totally works. JK!

About the time that I lost my first 24-hours of sleep, I appeared to spike a fever. Based on a general and unceasing sweaty-ness and feelings of absolute crap. Until crappy, achiness became pain. Unbearable, highly-sensitive pain.

Which is totally explainable by the boob job I apparently received in the past 8 hours. Holy hell. Because when you let a child use your chest as a pacifier for an entire night, the body assumes it needs to produce enough milk to sustain a 30-year old. And when I bound her to a car seat that lured her back into her hospital coma AND my milk rushed in, my chest became the dairy production/storage facility for what seemed like an entire country of starving adults on a liquid-only diet.

Side note: I am so sorry plastic jugs (I am in fact referring to ACTUAL containers and not boobs). I didn't realize how much it hurts to carry milk. Consider me humbled.

Yup, definitely my milk. I was, in fact, a touch sensitive shower. Still sweating profusely, and now spraying milk. Awesome.

It appears that swaddling was not so much the issue, as starvation. Up to this point, she was hungry, and I had nothing. And possibly, the swaddling (or lack of in the first 12 hours) played a part—as G was a happy sleeper when she was wrapped tight. But I really had no idea at the time. I picked an issue and fixated on it as the cause of all of our problems.

Still do it, in fact. I’m always one problem away from perfection.

I want the one solution that makes them perfect. I treat parenthood like a multiple choice exam. There are right answers. And medical studies. And research linking vaccinations to autism. And suggestions that having peanuts before the age of two increases the risk for allergies. And psychological proof that strapping a child to a chair has all kinds of negative implications (shocker).

At first, it’s totally manageable.

And then you start feeding your baby food, and you are paralyzed with worry over the choice of strawberries or peaches. And incorrect use of the pincher grasp can make you crazy. All still manageable, but consuming, ya know?

And then you hit the preschool years. Enter team sports. For which your child has ZERO interest, and in fact fears large groups of screaming/kicking children, and any kind of ball that flies in the air. Do you force it in an effort to expand comfort zones and motor skills, or let the child navigate their own sports interests? What if it’s their god-given talent? But isn’t choice important?

And then, the results of making the right choices manifests itself in your child--who fails to try new things, or take initiative, or speak up for fear of getting something wrong.

Crap.

Recently, I have learned of a friend who is having a tough time with being a new mom, particularly as it relates to an intense battle over breastfeeding her new baby. It isn't going great, mom is tired, baby is mad, and I don't have to imagine the frustration and worry that goes along with it. Breastfeeding may not have been my issue, but I have a thousand others all dealing with my desire to make the right choices for my helpless infant. And I can only imagine that everyone has an opinion about it--stop nursing, keep nursing, pump and bottle feed, add formula, blend a steak to add some calories.

And she is EXHAUSTED!

So here is my point, for what it's worth. When I look at my now 7-year-old and think about all the decisions that got us to where we are today, I would do things a lot differently. Not necessarily in the choices, but in the attitude. When I made ANY decisions on G's behalf, I researched them, I talked to my friends, I called the pediatrician--and I chose the RIGHT plan of action. When to hold her, when to let her cry it out, how to let her sleep, how to feed her. It was all very mechanical, very studied.

Because I had NO FREAKING idea what I was doing. The only way I had any confidence as a mother was to research it and DEFEND my choices with a 12-point dissertation if anyone asked. I was absolute, black-and-white, no gray area. If there was a gray area, I got back on the Internet and figured it out. Yea, me!

Let me tell you, the results of "absolute" parenting, as I'll call it, produce "absolute" children. A daughter who fears being wrong. Who doesn't take chances, or speak up in class. She debates and considers everything. When she is wrong, she fiercely clings to her answer and refuses to concede.

Wonder where she learned those great habits?

It wasn't the choices I made that got us here...it was the attitude I had as I made them. This idea that my decisions save me from bad consequences, or provide greater advantages for my children. I made myself her God, and with the lack of faith that I parent with, I am totally successful at showing her that he has no place in my everyday life. I am leading her straight down the path to believing that faith in Jesus equals church on Sundays and five-minutes of night time prayer.

At the heart of it, I live as if my choices save me. And when I struggle to know what it looks like to live in faith, it's frankly because, I've never done it. Putting Jesus in charge of my grocery list sounds a little ridiculous? Yup. But maybe not. I don't really know, I never asked for help before hitting the grocery store, but who knows what I'm missing here?

The pipsqueaks soak in EVERYTHING. Not just the skills of a certain sport, or the order of the alphabet--but our MOTIVATION for teaching them these things. They learn to put value in what we consider important. If it's the choice itself, they are destined to be bad at something, fail at something, be completely unfulfilled by something. But they will continue to think the next choice will be the right one.

What I would say to a first time mom that's struggling? Even best intentions and seemingly good choices can produce not-so-great consequences. That I NEVER saw coming. I want to do this job right, I want to give them the best, I expect that good choices produce good results. And it just aint so, because I’m failing to see the bigger picture. The one that goes beyond the age of 1 or 7 or 15 or 65. The one that tells me I am destined to fall short—but promises that there is a Savior who ALWAYS gets it right.

Frankly, you need to fail at something. It's humbling. It's frustrating. It makes you desperate--and prepares your heart for a Savior that will scoop you up. Learning to fail in parenthood is, I think, the most important lesson of all--it will change you, it will make you softer, it will (hopefully) show you that the choices aren't the things that define us, unless you live paralyzed and dependent upon them.

I have SO much to say about all the ways I have guaranteed G at least 10 solid years of therapy, probably more. And I see it so clearly now--and yet, still fail her daily. It's my destiny, I was never meant to be her God, I suppose. But I do hope she never thinks I was perfect (fat chance) or proud or arrogant or unbending. And the only way for me not to leave that legacy with her, is to think about the bigger picture, right now. In the midst of 7-year-old craziness. Or 4-year-old eating issues. Or newborn breast feeding.

All of it matters, but not in the choice.

The toddler tightrope.

This past week has produced some of the best weather we have seen in many long, long, months. It was just enough to tempt us out into nature for an afternoon.

We wandered along a small creek, which was all kinds of magical for children who never get to throw objects in water. And then we came upon this fallen tree, just tempting my boys to cross it.

I know it looks simple enough. Stable enough. Low enough to the ground. Though, let me preface, that the "ground" in this situation is a shallow creek/bank of uneven rock. In fairness to truth, I feel it should also be said that as the tree angled upward, there was a point at which the boys were SUBSTANTIALLY up in the air and off the ground. More so than it appears in the pictures.

Also noted for fact's sake--I wasn't all that nervous about it. Well. Until Big J decided he didn't actually want to walk across the log, instead preferring Mike to hoist him mid-air walk. It was like that scene in Dirty Dancing, only I was acutely aware that Baby had all the potential to suffer serious brain damage if she fell off that log. It could go from dancing-musical to bloody horror REAL FAST.

They made it. And Big J would be the only child to cross the tree bridge that day.

On our way home, I asked Mike what his plan would have been, should he have felt they were beginning to fall?

His response: "I would have thrown him into the bushes."

And by bushes, I assume he means creek bed/bank comprised of irregularly shaped rocks. Or perhaps, the leaf-less tree area that perhaps would have broken his fall before hitting the creek bed/bank comprised of irregularly shaped rocks.

Totally serious. I'm beginning to think Mike also sees rainbows and unicorns and little leprechauns, if he finds lush greenery in this setting. Also, it is fairly obvious to me that last weeks tree branch incident *may* have done more damaged than previously believed.

How moms get *NASTY*.

Friends. My apologies for my lack of posting last night. It was/wasn't my fault.

I am having SEVERE computer issues, but am either too lazy or cheap to do anything about it. It began as a simple battery issue, which was no big thang, as I just keep my lap top plugged in. But somewhere along the way, my Internet connection became spotty. Whatever. Most recently, however, it has been pulling what I refer to as a "Fatal Attraction", where it gives me some sort of BS message about an error and then it completely shuts down and ruins my life SEVERAL TIMES on a daily basis! For a computer's limited powers, I imagine this is it's best attempt to kill my rabbit and other completely psychotic acts.

I am totally ready to kick its ass with a butcher knife. Someone should tell the computer that psychos never win.

I think I am staring down a battery issue, a modem issue and a computer issue. And as I'm not really sure of where to begin rectifying these issues, nor wanting to spend upward of $20 to have someone tell me how to fix it, we are in a frustrating and inefficient holding pattern. In which my access to the Internet is a crap shoot at any particular moment in the day, and I am tied to my desk at all times (therefore, limiting the benefits of a LAP TOP).

As I was in the middle of typing up a huge PhD level thesis on motherhood last night, I lost my Internet connection, and it never returned. Which, in the end, was okay, because that post needs some whittling to make a point. I hope to post it on Sunday, in a more condensed and witty version! It's a combo of something I'm working on for the book, but I am struggling lately with making book material, blog compatible? Dig?

And I need to make them work in tandem, because I don't want to give up the blog (I need daily affirmation), and I NEED to write the darn book. Also, a part of me is struggling with how "Christian" me comes off in all my realness and confessions and profanity on this here blog. Which is sort of RIDICULOUS, because one of the reasons I am writing the freaking book in the first place is to beat and bludgeon and bury the idea of Christians as "thinking-we're-all-kinds-of-perfect-and-holier-than-thou-because-we-wear-turtlenecks-in-July." And yet, as I am writing the thing as a calling from God, I'm also pretty sure there are some things that just aren't pleasing or glorifying to him. So, I am trying to figure out the balance of all this realness and inappropriateness and funniness and seriousness. Which, maybe, is like Lil' Wayne trying to record a grass roots folk album. It's sure gonna be interesting.

Also, I have been doing my long runs on Thursday afternoons, which means I am somewhat of a zombie by dinnertime. Yesterday, our weather was beautiful and cool! And I ran, and ran, and ran...and it actually felt pretty good. Probably helps that I have (once again) severely limited my Diet Coke intake this week. There just might be something to this whole theory on hydration and effective aerobic performance.

But shortly after completing my run, I began feeling my body's nervous ticks, as it does not like hours of exertion. And then I started to feel a bit of a sore throat coming on, which would be logical, as we have a snot fountain answering to the name of L, lately. Hours later, when this soreness disappeared, I realized that it was brought on by my long run, and the 100 minutes of heavy panting that went with it. Apparently, I dried my throat out--what with all that deep breathing (translation: gasping) of crisp spring air. Nice.

So that, folks, are all the excuses I have for not posting last night, and breaking from my constant schedule. Forgive me?

Also. I HAD to include that picture of the wondertwins, because it brings me great joy. Even though Big J spilled his slushie all over my mini (van) less than 20 minutes before this pic. Why, WHY aren't all child beds/furniture/clothing/toys/family mini vans made of plastic? Now, on top of the gross smell and general appearance of a garbage dump, my car also has a stickiness to it.

I do believe that is a trifecta of nasty.

I prophecy monkey babies.

I HATE homework. Hate, hate, hate.


It makes me angry.

Mostly, because it focuses completely on my inadequacies as mother, as it pertains to teaching a relevant life skill. And well, if I suck at that, I might as well be raising a pack of puggles wearing tutus. Or something.

Because intellect and the ability to love separate us from the animals. I think that's totally biblical, that thou shall be able to love addition and subtraction, per the words of the patron saint mathmaticus. And it appears that I am not capable of passing on practical thinking skills to a 1st grader--and my resulting bad attitude/tantrum pretty much guarantee that G will be unable to love anyone that tries to teach her anything. EVER.

Failing in two areas, simultaneously is like hitting the triple-word-score in the game of "I-Suck-at-passing-basic-life-concepts-on-to-my-offspring". You should play, it's awesome.

If I ever have more children (not likely, but I suppose, possible), I believe that God will bless me with a pack of small, hybrid dogs. Based solely on my sub-par ability levels with small humans. No wait, maybe I'll birth monkeys, because their opposable thumbs will make crafting possible.

Anyway.

Prior to tonight's homework meltdown (mine, not G's), this post was intended to be about my husband. Who showed up to Little J's preschool conference looking like this:

Um.

"Did you hit your head on something?" I asked.

"Why, is there a mark on my forehead?" He responded, somewhat non-chalantly.

"Yup."

"Is it bleeding?"

"Exactly HOW HARD do you think you hit your head," I responded, somewhat alarmed.


It appears that on his way into Little J's school, there was an altercation with a tree branch that went unnoticed to my 6'2" husband. Correction, there was probably an altercation with 5-7 tree branches, based on the looks of his forehead...or he retraced the incident upward of 5 times, at various angles. And yes, there is a small crusting of blood that now resides near his hair line.


Based on these facts alone, I can only assume that he sprinted through a heavily wooded area, blindfolded. Thank God he wears glasses/eye shields, or it's possible he might be blind. And as he downed several advil a short while ago for a headache (translation, slow-building brain bleed), it is VERY possible that there is a head trauma of some sort associated with the visible flesh wounds.

Yup, it's definite. At some point we are going to have small monkey babies that hate math (but they are monkeys, so we will focus our teaching on effective scratching) and walk at a height well below traditional tree branches. It's really the only safe, and responsible way for God to allow us to procreate, from this point forward.

We might be renaming Big J.

We had a somewhat uneventful morning. Except for one head trauma.

I wasn't even in the room, but I definitely heard the awkward, ill-timed fall of a five year old from our kitchen benches. Ah, the benches. The most common piece of furniture from which child accidents occur.

Pause.

Loud cry.

As the benches are two feet tall, it's safe to say that I didn't rush to Big J's aide (child identified by pitch and rhythm of his scream). I got to the kitchen, asked what happened, cradled his little head.

And then almost FREAKED the F-- out when I felt the horn that appeared at the top of his noggin in less than 10 seconds flat. I don't know what kind of blunt force trauma can force the brain outward of the skull with that kind of speed, but I knew it couldn't be good.

Hang in there, Big J. Stay with me.

I think he is teetering on alertness.

He is not.

He is normal.

ICE!

My children hurt themselves very infrequently, so in moments like this I do panic and instantly think every injury is hospital-worthy. The first time G ever bled as a result of a fall, I had her buckled in her car seat before Mike even reached the bottom of the stairs. He suggested waiting a moment. The bleeding probably stopped in 20 seconds.

And then, there was the time that Big J catapulted himself from his high chair to the wood floors below. I wasn't in the room, but I heard it from our bedroom upstairs--and Mike confirmed that he did, indeed, fall straight onto his head.

INSTANT call to the pediatrician. Who asked us several questions, many of which I was totally unequipped to answer. Was he awake? Yes! NO! WHAT does that mean???? I believe she asked my name, and I'm not sure what my response was--but it was completely possible that she sent us to the ER because she thought I was a crystal meth addict and that it was in the best interests of the child to seek medical attention/police involvement.

I was SO Britney Spears BEFORE Britney was Britney Spears. Dig?

And today. Big J is fine . Happy even. But that unicorn horn is still CREEPING ME OUT. As if I can actually see his brain. Which I cannot. But I am imagining it red and blinking. And odd shaped with a horn!

As you might be gathering, I'm pretty sure his skull and brains can only take so many powerful blows--and we are running quite a tally. Also, I should mention that as a preemie, Big J had an area of bleeding in the brain that was of some concern. Totally cleared up, but let's just say that if he hits his head one more time before he enters kindergarten next year, it is completely possible that he will no longer recognize or ever be able to fully utilize letters G-V in the alphabet.

Which means we will have to rename him.

I'm thinking Zed.