Snacks, please!

Hiding the knives

2010-06-16T12:42:00.000-07:00

Josephine: I want a shaky peepee like yours.
David: oh?
Josephine: I used to have one...
David: really?
Josephine: But somebody cut it off!
David: oh no!
Josephine: And it blooded everywhere!
David: I bet!
Josephine: giggle
Josphine: JUST KIDDING DADDY!

hey, where did we go, days when the rains came...

2010-06-14T07:43:00.000-07:00

We went to the hood's potluck and slip n slide extravaganza last night -- and Lucy scored a portrait of herself from the artist around the corner. It was a black-and-white lined drawing, which he happily told her to color. So later, sprawled across our filthy family room rug, she asks me, "Can I color my eyes blue?"

Whuh? I quickly judge that this is not a question of artistic freedom, of making the sky green and the grass blue. (After a year with the Unitarians, I say make it blue and eat it too!) Ununnhuh, next thing you know, I'm finding rhinoplasty in our Google cache.

"Uhhh, you COULD make your eyes blue. But why would you want to?"

"Because I like them better."

"Really??? Ha! I think brown eyes are beautiful."

Silence.

"Can I?"

"Fine, if you want to break my heart."

"Okay."

The Mind of the Artist

2010-06-07T04:09:00.001-07:00

Earlier in the year, at the first of a series of parent conferences to discuss the academic goals of the 4-year-old... we told Lucy's teacher that we thought Lu could maybe try drawing without stencils. Perfect boat after perfect lion after perfect snowman -- that's all she brought home.

But now the artist has been revealed!

See here:

Her influences: Fra Filippo Lippi?

The artist is loath to explain her work, but she deigned to reveal a few plot points: In the left, you see the Sunday School teacher. To the right, you see the poor little girl dragged to Sunday School by her father.

Take two:

Now the father is yelling! NO! You must go to Sunday School! Girl is still unhappy and teacher is positively limp with misery. Not sure what is falling from the sky -- some sort of bird-baby-Jesus?

So, you're thinking, poor Lucy. Forced to go to Sunday School by that mean father who still wishes he had made more of his fleeting Sunday School encounters with the young Mariah Carey on Long Island. (Little does he know that Dreamlover was actually about a boy she saw eating Ritz crackers at church. Could it be??? He should try to find her on Facebook!!)

Anyway, the interesting part about this series of work is, Lucy has never been to Sunday School in her life! Not once! And I can't imagine what she thinks she knows about it. (I'm so disillusioned by what this tells me of the artistic process. I'm beginning to wonder if Thomas Kinkade isn't even American!)

Lucy does have a friend who goes to Sunday School and, on Friday, when we happened to have this little friend in the car, I said to her, "Hey Clara, what do you do at Sunday School?" Clara says: "We sing songs. Have snacks. Then, if it's not raining, we go out on the playground." "Well," I say, "that doesn't sound too bad, what do you think, Lu?"

The artist said nothing.

Here she is, looking all angelic herself, after pre-K graduation:

Just who is this Mano??

2010-05-13T09:12:00.001-07:00

Aie! Margaret screams, as she herds ants on our dining room floor. Mano! Mano! Come here, Mano! And then, a few days later, Josephine is talking on my cell phone (not the new one, which Auntie Pamela provided after the last was thrown to the floor in a pique of rage. Why don't people call me back?? Really? No really, it wasn't me.) Anyway, Miss Phinie-Weenie is on the phone chatting with... Mano?? Again, who is this Mano?? They just giggle and run away.

Lulu, do you know this Mano? She looks thoughtful. "No, no I don't."

"Margaret, who is Mano??" "Mano!" she yells cheerfully.

I think it might be their secret baby.

Ear Wax

2010-05-11T09:52:00.000-07:00

Lucy has a friend at school who knows all about big-girl things like Hannah Montana and home heating costs because this friend has a BIG SISTER! And this big sister recently visited Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum and now all the pre-kindergartners have heard about this amazing place where people are made out of WAX!

Lucy pauses in the telling of the story of this incredible place to ask, briefly: "Is that like ear wax??"

Last night, we were out in the garden, watering our baby bean plants. "I'm like a mommy!" shouts Josephine, cheerfully spraying water all over my feet. And then the girls meowed and made nests with their arms to carry their baby kittens (pretend), until they had to do something else, so Josephine carefully laid her kitten under the Rose of Sharon, where Lucy traipsed over with her Clifford on a leash. And Josephine cries, "LUCY! You stepped on my kitty!!" And Lucy yells back, "JOSIE! I can't even SEE YOUR KITTY!"

Odds and ends

2009-08-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

Josephine just peed in the potty and announced, "Princess pee!" And then she marched out to the family room, where Princess Margaret had collapsed on the veterinarian surgical table. (This is where we treat the poor little dogs who drink soda and cats who look too long at the sun.)

"No touch princess!" Margaret commanded.

So big changes in the Royal Castle these days.

Our new au pair arrived two weeks ago from a very small village in Austria, replacing Julia who seemed to think such things as "university" would be more rewarding than caring for the Royal Family. Sigh. First Julia, then Supergold, and now Ted Kennedy -- and frankly, I am glad bad news doesn't come in quadruplets.

I can not stress enough how much I liked Julia. You know if I didn't you would have heard much more about her...

Supergold, by the way, was the little fish that we brought home from the county fair on Sunday night. (That is, 36 hours before we discovered him listless on the bottom of an old flower vase.) Oh, my first book! "Mired: The Short Life and Fast Times of Supergold."

Oh! The other things we won at the county fair! Lucy -- a third-place ribbon for her painting. I call it "Square Rainbow"...see here:

I entered a half-dozen chocolate hazelnut crinkles in the over-hyped drop cookie competition -- and I got honorable mention, but that's really not very good, I don't think. (I blame the chocolate. Or actually, I blame myself for not thinking to buy the semi-sweet chocolate specified in the recipe and instead, hauling over the step stool, scrambling around the top shelf of the pantry, and emerging with a half-eaten bag of old Nestle chocolate chips...)

Next year, I might try filled cookies. Less competitive, I hope. Or maybe I'll just transfer my unrealized ambition to my children and force them to raise prize-winning tomato seeds. That makes the most sense, right?

Okay, okay, okay

2009-08-14T12:27:00.001-07:00

I'm not making any promises!

Our trek (no mountains, but an awful lot of SUVs on the NJ Turnpike) to Cape Cod was lovely. The girls peed in the potty, ate lots of gummy worms and candy buttons, caught baby toads -- c'mere, frogggggy! c'mere, c'mere, c'MEEEER! -- and got attacked by a family of teenage ducks in a freshwater kettle pond. No worries there. Adolescent ducks don't have teeth!

Most embarrassing moment: Josephine, sweetly licking an ice cream cone at Arnold's Lobster Bar, shouts to a nice-looking couple in the parking lot -- "Go WAY! Go way people, broke your head! Go!" (Crazy gestures!) "Go way, broke your head! Fly away, people!"

When I ask Lucy, "What is wrong with these babies?? Why are they so crazy??" she says to me, "You need to ask God. He made them. At least he made their bones. The doctors made their skin, I think."

I have no pictures because...the babies broke my camera.

Now that we're back we're enjoying the rule-crazy pool that we joined for the month of August. Last Saturday: Twin 1-year-olds spotted in the baby pool wearing matching Lilly Pulitzer bathing suits. They climb out and their skinny bikini-mama wraps them in matching pink Lilly cover-ups, which is to say that those babies were wearing $300 worth of summer wear that will last exactly 58 days...

Okay, off to health-care reform rally!

Fly, mighty pelicans!!

2009-06-15T11:58:00.001-07:00

So like I said the other day, I try not to talk about work here. But, just for fun and because it's technically not a violation of personal policy, let's discuss what I do not do for a living...

I do not nobly defend the inmates of Guantanamo Bay from anti-Muslim imperialism or Death Row inmates from Scripture-quoting Southern prosecutors. I did not just return from Germany where I fixed that climate change thing. I am not forcing companies in Africa to respect the rights of workers (you go, honey!), nor performing life-altering surgeries. On the bright side, I'm also not an experienced Emmy Award-winning television news anchor recently replaced by a 2009 college graduate who made it to the finals of the Miss USA contest...

Back from my 15th year high school reunion and, oh fine, back from my 20th year high school reunion, and I'm very much admiring the accomplishments of my smarty-pants pals. You guys rock! (Note to self: Write a book in the next five years.) It was great to see everybody. I'm sorry the bar ran out of gin -- not my fault, I believe... but probably a positive development since, even without that extra fuel, I managed to pull off the classiest introduction ever: "Seth, meet Dan. You guys should know each other! Seth manages money. Dan, you make it. Oh my God, and you're both Jewish too!"

Anyway, how did we get this old?? During the white-tent reception in the quad (yes, I went to THAT kind of school...), where alumni from the 5th to 55th reunions mingled, it was easy to pick out the 5th year people. Good god, those are college graduates? They look like they should be home, hunkering down for the AP History exam. And, of course, it also was easy to i.d. the old folks there for their 50th. But when it came to finding my own classmates, I'd stare at name tags and think, "Hmmm, you look sorta familiar, do I know you??" Step closer. Closer. Oh no, I don't know you! You're here for your 10th reunion! Finally I had to tell myself: Look for the middle-aged people.

See here:

I did not buy a new dress. Swedish car repairs = $1900 (!!)

I did wear the shorts. Not everybody understood it was a joke.

I did attend the poetry workshop, but did not write anything of my own. For the best. However could I have competed with the 50th reunion guy who wrote about his beloved wife: "When she cries, inside I dies." Or something like that. (Same guy hit on all the ladies at the bar that night... or at least my sister! who is pretty irresistible, if I do say so myself.)

Auntie Pamela and I also took Lucy on a Best of Hartford tour, which included three stops at the Italian bakeries on Franklin Avenue. (I am a huge fan of regional speech and something I love about Hartford is the way every kind of Italian ice is called lemon ice, regardless of flavor. You say, "I'd like a small lemon ice," and the lady says, "What flavor?" And you might say, "Strawberry, plz.") If you're in Hartford, know this: Mozzicato's has the best cannoli, but Modern has the best lemon ice, by far.

We took Lulu to my father's old bar, where she and my niece sipped on Shirley Temples and racked them up on the pool table. And we ate pea pizza! And picked strawberries! Then, on the way back to the airport, our final destination: The carousel in Bushnell Park.

First here:

Then there:

Ah, the carousel...Back 20 years ago, or 21 or 22, Pamela and I were hanging out in Bushnell Park for an art history project on Evelyn Longman Batchelder, the Windsor, Connecticut, sculptor responsible for the park's "Spirit of Victory," and we met a very nice young man on a bench by the carousel. He asked for my phone number!! Which was pretty big news for me. (Consider that I went to the prom with Pamela...) But, as I recall, I didn't want to give out mine, preferring to get his, which sadly, he was unable to share, because he was living in the local mental hospital, aptly named the Institute for Living.

He said: "But I'm not crazy! Just depressed."

Poor guy! In retrospect, I think, eh, we could have written a whole lot of terrible poetry together! But back then I thought, "Jesus Christ, I don't think Ma's going to like this..."

Anyway, David and the little girls survived. I got home and got lots of good hugs and kisses, not to mention sauteed kale with sundried tomatoes. Other news: Four baby wrens in Lucy's bird house! Lots of green tomatoes on our vines. And more lettuce than I could possibly eat from our new farmer. What else besides salad?? Any ideas would be welcome!

Armored cars, etc.

2009-06-08T06:31:00.000-07:00

You don't blog anymore, David says to me. And well, if even he's noticed... it must be so. I've been busy with my labor dispute, I tell him. Blog about it, he says! But, eh, I try not to write about work...

Anyhoo, just as I was pinning together a special skirt for striking workers, made out of union-made, in the USA, fluorescent-green bandannas (no you can not make this stuff up), it appears as if we have reached an agreement with Management. (Cue audio effect: Snap of whips, rumble of chains please.) So I'm done picketing, which is sort of too bad -- because it was a nice change of pace and I had bought a whole bunch of generic sunscreen and I really enjoyed the camaraderie of the anti-Kremlin effort. Of course, it'll also be nice to have health care.

When I was a kid, my brother and I listened to this one Irish Rovers album over and over again -- or maybe it was the Wolfe Tones? In any case, I believe we are the only graduates of our Connecticut private school who know all the words to The Men Behind the Wire -- not for them no judge no jury, nor indeed a trial at all. being Irish means your guilty, so we're guilty one and all! Which explains an awful lot about how excited I may have been about rattling my Thompson gun.

Speaking of high school, reunion is this weekend. To be decided: Now that I have COLA, should I also have new dress? The sirens of Georgetown are calling... Speeeeend, Mary Ellen. Or should I just wear my 22-year-old shorts? They still fit! And, except for a tiny little hole (and complete lack of style), they are fine!!

The girls: Margaret is talking up a storm! "Josie, no kicking my juice!" Much of it is directive. Very little reflective. Lately, there has been an awful lot of biting... but since they are not Northern Water Snakes, which eat dead fish and then board kayaks in Northern Virginia to bite people and spread disease (or so I learned on my moonlit paddle last night...) there is really no great injury, except to dignity because, of course, they must apologize and hug, which Margaret really does not like to do. Josephine is a great apologist, on the other hand. Even when she's the victim, she says, "Sorrrrrry."

Lucy doesn't want to die, she says. "I have a lot of living to do." (Is she listening to country radio when I'm not watching?? Oh! Speaking of country radio, Pamela and I went to the Steve Earle/John Prine show the other night and it was fabulous. The man who rhymes peaches and Jesus is a genius.) Is 4 the death-obsessed year? Or is it 37? Because I've been a little obsessed myself, lately. In any case, the 4-year-old is a funny thing. She plays tricks: Mommy, I saw an alligator in the river! And she works hard to figure out why the world is the way it is: This place is full of stores for Mommys, but not Daddys. Why not?

What else? I keep meaning to tell you all about my first professional massage. The lady touched my upper arms, smelled of cigarettes and mint, and dripped sweat on my body. So it might have been my last too.

Okay, off to Dublin in the green, in the green!

"But where do you buy people?"

2009-05-28T17:39:00.000-07:00

"I want a new family," Lucy announces.

"Well, mostly it's the babies," she reflects.

"They are BAAAAD!"

"Remember when they put my undies in the potty and doughnuts in my bed?"

Personal Challenge #1

2009-05-22T07:35:00.000-07:00

Months ago, I told David, "This is the summer that I do not buy a bathing suit from Lands End!" This is the summer, I promised, that I would actually go into a store, a real store! And TRY ONE ON.

Nothing against Lands End bathing suits. I've been at the hippy pool in Hyattsville with mommy friends who rock those halter tops, baby. But, you know, the virtual model is only so good.

Actually, my virtual model is quite good.

But why does she look so... roundish?

Anyway, as with most personal challenges where I do the judging, I can cross this one off. Done! Good job! I have not bought a bathing suit from Lands End...

I bought one from athleta.com instead! And I swear, it's going to be completely different! In terms of aspirational internet buying, I feel like I've hit the jackpot. (Which will be handy since Athleta's suits are twice as expensive...) These ladies surf! They wear ponytails and yoga prints! They probably don't go to the regional park with a backpack full of mini-Ritz that they try desperately to hide from the teenager lifeguard.

See?

A much preferred likeness, I say.

Back to neurotic analysis

2009-05-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

Candidate 4.0 asked to reschedule our phone interview yesterday because she had a party to attend. Okay... But then today, at the hour of her choice, she had a "headache" and canceled again.

Hmmmm.

4.0 and onward

2009-05-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

The problem with a vegetarian, I realized, as I was running this morning and listening to that song that goes, "Tell your boyfriend, if he's got beef, that I'm a vegetarian and I'm not fucking scared of him," (what a good line!) is that they probably have too many principles to work in our house, where such strongly held opinions -- I don't eat meat, I'm acting the change I want to see in the world, I believe marriage is a Holy Sacrament between a man and woman who, by the way, of course should change her name -- would really just get in the way.

In fact, I do not know any vegetarians who oppose gay marriage.

Let's see, Candidate 4.0: Austrian. Lives on a farm with ruminants, which she happily eats. Hopes to become a social worker. Plays volleyball. (Aha! I played volleyball 22 years ago!!! And I had a wicked serve!)

Lovely! Enough neurotic analysis. Let's just say yes, shall we? and get on with it already. (And that, my friends, is exactly how I approached marriage six years ago. Well, more or less. No, no, not at all, honey!!! You know this blog is full of lies!!)

Ruminants, for those of you who know nothing about the creatures that you turn into tacos, are animals with multiple stomachs. Like cows. Or sheep. They could also be defined by their dim wit.

What else? The kiddos are good. Josephine is peeing and pooping on the potty quite regularly! Margaret has no NO interest in it, thank you, but noooooo. buhbye. Josephine also likes to look in Margaret's diaper, while I'm changing it -- "Poopy? I wanna see!" Which outrages Margaret's sensibilities -- "Noooo, Joshie!" and she gives an angry one-handed wave around her nether-regions. "Ooooh, daddy poopy! Yucky!" Josephine shouts. "NO!" outraged Margaret shouts back.

What? Daddy poopy? I have no idea...

Josephine has a new game too -- in the morning, she crawls under our sheets (oh sheets, can you please change yourselves??) and then WOOF WOOF! "Oh no! Is there a doggie in the bed??" Giggle giggle. "WOOF! WOOF!" And then she comes bounding out, looking a little like a Bichon with curls in her eyes, giggling madly. For her part, Margaret has less energy in the early morning. She likes to cuddle in my armpit, blanket pulled up to her chin like a big girl.

Margaret really wants to sleep in Lucy's bed. With her. I am toying with the idea of getting a twin over double bunk bed for the babies' room, so that all the girls can sleep together. Trouble?? Hm.

Cell phone: Missing, but back!

Running: Not bad. Twentieth-year high school reunion providing some incentive. Plus new Sean Kingston song.

Rats: Holes filled! Undisturbed! Could it be??

Naughty children alert: Held my tongue at the playground last weekend when a little ninja boy started waving his arms and jumping around the sand pit. (Oh no! Sand pits! New study by alarmist researchers shows they have 5,400 germs per square inch!!) "Those are mine! All mine!" he says, pointing frantically to the SEVEN bulldozers within reach. And then: "I am a mean guy!" he shouts.

Weekend trips: Photos to come!!

1, 2, 3...

2009-05-14T11:50:00.000-07:00

Candidate 2.0: A vegetarian.

Candidate 3.0: A dental hygienist.

And seriously, which is worse? We summarily (well, not that summarily) dismissed the veggie, even though she sang! Jogged! Did crafts! Because we do like our meat. At least a few times a week anyway. BACON! We eat bacon every week! The smell fills the house and rousts our current au pair from bed.

And yes, of course, she could have cooked her own food...but it hurts my feelings when people don't eat MY food. And I like it when everybody eats dinner together. Then I can keep my eyes on everything... [We're not CRAZY about meat, okay? This week we will eat salmon, white clam sauce, two-bean pie and pot roast. Technically, because seriously, clams have no rights, people, and salmon only slightly more, that's only one meat dish. But it was pretty meaty. Says Lucy: "I like everything on this plate tonight!"]

But a dental hygienist? David thinks this is not a real reason to reject somebody, but it just screams BOOOORING to me. What kind of 19-year-old aspires to clean people's teeth? I'm probably a big old meat-eating snot (not that big!!), but I like people who are curious about the world. I guess the mouth is like it's own little world, but it's a rather small one. But then again, here she is, wanting to be an au pair in America -- that's inquisitive, isn't it? Ugh. I don't know.

Candidate 3.0: Swiss. Chocolate!

I'm not feeling her. Is that reason enough to move on?

In other news, the twins of mischief stormed into the basement this past weekend and filled Julia's toilet with paper, flushed it, flushed it! flush! flush! flush!! FLUSH! until the water spilled down the hallway, where they retreated, laughing hysterically, until David squished them with the wet-vac.

No, he didn't squish them. What self-restraint.

"Josephine! Do you want a time-out?"

"YESH!"

Says Lucy: "Children are SUPPOSED to be naughty!"

Behind Door #1

2009-05-07T18:25:00.000-07:00

We got our first application for next year's au pair today. How exciting!

Let's see...

She is Finnish. Fjords! Reindeer! +15
She has hair extensions. Hm. High maintenance?? -10
She does gymnastics. Oooh, Lulu loves gymnastics! +20
She is neat. Nice! We could use a little neat! +15

Ohhhh...weeell... Neat is one thing. But Candidate 1.0 writes that she super-cleaned her bedroom at Christmas. And now, because it's so lovely and tidy, she can't bear to sleep in it. Seriously. (Seriously???) She makes it clear: She has not slept in her room -- since Christmas! -- because she doesn't want to MESS IT UP.

Crazy?? -1,000

The developing world.

2009-05-06T18:10:00.001-07:00

My favorite line from today's appointment with the development specialist:

"Margaret does well on tasks of her own choosing."

Ha! Does one usually hear terms of economics in these appointments? I'm speaking, of course, of "laissez-faire," the doctrine that opposes government interference beyond a minimum. It also describes Margaret's response to developmental assessments. My baby, the Libertarian...

Josephine, of course, did beautifully on all sorts of tasks: solving puzzles, block-stacking, identifying objects, drawing shapes. First she listens, then she studies the tasks at hand, and then she does it. And if she doesn't get it right, she persists. Go Feeny-weeny! It did not escape notice however that she has nervous habits.

Nervous habits! At age 2!

The Preschool Dilemma

2009-04-30T16:36:00.000-07:00

Anybody remember what I said at the beginning of this ~~scavenger~~ treasure hunt? When it comes to preschool next year, I said, with lots of emphasis and meaningful looks, the most important thing is that all three girls go to school in one place. You know, to make it easier on moi.

And what have we achieved???

Hm. Not that.

We've committed our youngest to the Unitarians. I simply can't resist the lure of the contra dance. Plus, I feel like, with their total disregard for authority and fondness for hummus, they'll fit right in. Plus, in all seriousness, it's a half-day program, twice a week. Our other option -- Lucy's current school -- would be four full days. I think that might be a hard transition for the undisciplined.

But what about Lucylu?? So far, there's no spot for her with the godless. I did check out the special ed class at the local elementary school. The teacher? One of those incredible people who perform motorcycle tricks in steel cages at top speeds. But Lucy would be the oldest kid in the class, and the most able, and I'm not sure that'd be so great for her. And, you know, she really does like her current school. Today, ballet. Yesterday, bean seeds and recycling containers. Maybe she should just stay there... there are, after all, naughty boys everywhere.

So we'll need to hire another au pair, which is potentially a good thing. (I have U2 tickets for September! We need a babysitter!) Reading the listings of available gals is a little like reading one of those high-end travel magazine. You think, ohhhh, that would be nice... This one is president of her student council! And this other one has a horse! David says we've "gotten good" at picking au pairs, because our current is so lovely, but he is delusional.

It's just luck, I think.

Speaking of David, I bought his birthday present today!

[STOP READING HONEY!!]

Two David Sedaris tix!

Playing favorites

2009-04-28T18:16:00.000-07:00

The problem with getting too busy to post is when I actually do have time to sit down and write -- I've got too much to report! Let's see... the past week or so? Gigi and Poppa came to visit, I flew off to Little Rock, we took a mini-vacation to West Virginia...

First things first, tonight Lucy and I read one of those old Richard Scarry books about the animal people who do all sorts of gender-typical things -- i.e., the mommy Cat sets her house on fire, ironing the Daddy's shirt, and then all the other guys come to save them. "Save my Huckle!" Mommy screams. (At the end, they show poor Daddy's ruined shirt. Lucy observes it gravely and says, "That is not good.") Anyway, they have to call the fire department with a fire box, which we used to have in our old neighborhood in East Hartford.

That's before phones, I explain.

"Why?" Lucy says.

A long time ago, I explain, people didn't have phones in their houses, so they'd have to run outside to the fire box to call the fire department. She thinks about this and then says, "How did they play with each other?" Ah, the play dates! "They'd go over to their friend's house and knock on the door and say, 'Can you come out and play?'" She thinks more about this...and frankly, it's just beyond comprehension. "What would you do in you didn't have a phone?" I ask.

"Call them on the computer."

Then this, "Daddy is my favorite favorite person in the world." That's nice, I say. "Actually..." she pauses. "My favorite person is..." (Me! Me! Pick me!) "Julia," she concludes. Our lovely au pair. "Well, that's nice too." She looks at me and says, "I do like to play with you, Mommy. And help you." Umhm. "I wonder if I'll ever be your favorite person," I say sadly. She nods, "Yes. Maybe if you're more like Julia." "And how is that exactly?"

"If you have long fingernails and paint them."

In Little Rock, I missed my turn and ended up checking the map in the parking lot of "Live Free" bail bondsmen. I missed the Clinton library too, but did meet a young man who wore red lip gloss on his eyelids with red glitter smooshed into it. "Does that wash off?" I asked. "Noooo!" he said proudly. "Sometimes that would be a good idea," I said. The visitor's center at Little Rock Central is well worth visiting -- the archival video footage, wow!

Josephine goes on the potty! Margaret does not!

Preschool: Sigh. I'm visiting a special ed preschool classroom for Lucy tomorrow. No, she's not special ed. (Although there's nothing wrong with that!) In our district, the elementary schools offer preschool to special ed students, but the classrooms also have a handful of slots for "peer pals" who can model appropriate behavior... A good idea?? I'd like to see how it works.

The Unitarians remain elusive. This is because they don't have Hell, I guess.

West Virginia! I need to get pictures from my friend Stephanie, who joined us with her two kiddos. The highlights: Toads! Deer! Dirt! The lowlights: Long beef ribs? Eh. Not as good as the pig, in my opinion.

So, in case anybody is counting, and I certainly am, that's two new states that I've slept in! That leaves 15. Or 16, if you count Kansas. (haha! always making fun of the poor people without coasts, I know...) David claims I've picked off the low-hanging fruit, but that's not true as Delaware is extremely low and I still haven't slept there. I did spend the day at Rehoboth Beach in 1992, but it has to be an overnight visit to count. Them's are the rules and I didn't make them up. Actually, I did, but you have to have some kind of standard.

Okay, look forward to more cogency in the future!

Your favorite, ME.

Isn't that my line??

2009-04-16T10:33:00.000-07:00

I have become a great admirer of Margaret's conversational style. It seems designed to make her companions feel acknowledged, listened to. At the same time, she gets a whole lot of information with just a few key questions, and the tone! It's perfect. You might walk away thinking, "Wait a second, did she just say no??" but, at the time, it seemed that everything was so agreeable.

Let's see...

Birds fly outside the dining room window, carrying twigs to a little nest on our roof where they will train their young to poop on our children. (I had a wee bit of enchilada sauce on my shirt yesterday and Margaret pointed to it and said, "Birdie." "Birdie?" "Birdie poop," she explained.)

"Look Margaret! It's a bird!"

"A birdie?"

"Yes, and it has a stick!"

"A stick?"

"I think it's building a nest."

"A nest."

"Shall we go look?"

"Yesh."

Or this:

"Margaret, can you help me clean up?"

"Clean up?"

"Yes, Margaret, can you help me clean up?"

"Me?"

"Yes, Margaret, can you help me clean up??"

"Noooo."

Anyway, I am pretty sure that Margaret has secretly enrolled in some kind of middle management training seminar. But when?? Where?? The only class that I endorsed was Artsydoodles, which as described in the county's parks and rec catalog, seemed to have little to do with the art of evasion. Where are my framed tissue-paper collages that she can rip off the walls in a fit of artistic dissatisfaction?? (Oh yes, she did, and I'm going to keep it and put it back up there with a little title/artist card that says, "The Artist's Naughty Period.")

"Margaret, will you come to staff meetings with me?"

"Margaret??"

See?!

2009-04-15T06:45:00.001-07:00

The evidence mounts.

These children really really are naughty! And I hear you sighing, you know who you are, saying, oh no, Mary Ellen, they're just a little mischievous! Ha. Sometimes, yes. High spirits! Other times, like when they look me right in the eye, with pineapple rice clutched in their little fists and I say (firmly!), "Do not throw that on the floor, Margaret!" and then she laughs LAUGHS AT ME and throws it gleefully on the hard wood, which used to look so shiny, but let me tell you ranch dressing is no Murphy's Oil, and well, that's a little beyond King of the Leprechauns, isn't it?

Above? Purple princess lip gloss on yellow hallway wall!

And the remorselessness... My God, they have no conscience.

To wit, please see resemblance:

Same hair!!

Smile!

2009-04-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

Been a little stingy with the pictures lately.
Here's a few to make up:

Birthday party, birthday party!! I should have put this one up a while ago...but I've been sort of pretending that the girls were still 1 so that I didn't have to pay for their tix to the circus this week. Technically, if the girls had been delivered when originally promised by the manufacturer, they would be just 2 this week. So it's not really cheating. And it's not really bad for the animals either. Really!! They love their life of captivity.

We've been reading a lot about the gnomes and fairies, like I've said before. But here she is! Queen of the Fairies!

I think our snowy days are over...Which is fine with the Popsicle Twins.

Lucy liked the snow tho. Sledding helped.

Okay, this is not a particularly flattering picture of me at story time. But, if you glance quick and squint maybe a little, it's not actually me! It looks very much like somebody else, related to me... I'll give a kiss to whoever gets is. (I'm making it small to help with the illusion.)

So we decided it was time for David to cut the girls' hair. Lucy went first. She is so brave! But David, who can not be trusted, used the nail scissors! (Because he could not find his proper shears, an obstacle that might have led another person (like Lucy's mother) to say, "Let's wait.") Thankfully, after a quick trip to Target for a new pair, everything looked very trim and cute.

See here: Before and after!

promises, promises

2009-04-08T10:56:00.000-07:00

I am preparing a contract for Lucy's signature. It says, "I, Lucy, promise to go on an African safari with my mother when I am 16. I do not want a car." Seriously. I'm going to put it in a box somewhere and then wave it around when she's 16. Maybe I will write an addendum, "Also, I promise, of my own free will and consent, to listen to my mother when I am a teenager."

Seriously, I told her last night that we should go to Africa and she said, "OF COURSE!" she wants to come too. She wants to go when she is 9 and the babies are 7, but that's crazy talk. I think 16 and 14 will give me much more time to save my coupon money, plus maybe they won't cry hysterically at the immunizations. I said, "You won't decide you want a car instead?"

She paused.

"No, I will want an airplane," she decided.

Meanwhile, the twins of mischief went into the kitchen and filled my mini-muffin pan with tasty mounds of Morton's salt. And then they pulled all of Lucy's undies out of her drawer. And then they dragged the hallway runners into the bathroom. And then... wait a second, I do watch them! Yes I do!! And I resent your accusations. You try keeping track of small children with the apparent ability to invisibilate. (I just made that word up, but feel free to disseminate at will. No contracts are binding.)

Status updates:

Cell phone: Still working!!
Cakes: Country pear was too dry.
Work: Seriously?
Books: Eh. The new Wally Lamb was too-too.

Tell me about it, kid

2009-04-02T18:06:00.001-07:00

Tonight Lucy and I were reading the Gnomes book (much friendlier than the Faeries) and learning about Gnome marriage customs. First they get married under the trees, sometimes a bunny comes to watch, and then they have a party back at the house.

"Not everybody can go to that!" Lucy says indignantly. "Some people have children! They need to go home and take care of them."

Ain't that the truth, kiddo.

PS -- Last night, it was pink Dora toothpaste, spread across the bathroom by the twins of mischief. Tonight? Sour cream!! Argh.

Odds and ends (again)

2009-04-01T07:56:00.001-07:00

Really I admire those of you who still read this blog... I know it stinks! I have excuses aplenty, trust me. But eh, those aren't any more interesting than my recipe for stout-braised short ribs.

What? You want to see it?? Trust me, it was a big hit at a wee dinner party we threw in March for a friend moving awaaaaay (and the gay neighbor who never invites us to his pool parties, but taunts us with airborne shouts of water glee. Now I've fed him Italian cookies and short ribs, and expect an invite pronto.) My advice: Serve with colcannon and Guinness, and do it before summer arrives.

Another hit, another night: Carrot cake with Bailey's icing.

Enough of that, you say. What's new with the kiddos?

Josephine is so skinny that she's taken to wearing her stretchy headbands around her waist as belts. I am unconcerned. She also ends every sentence with the word ME, as in, "Mommy, puzzle me!" Margaret is returning to the cardiologist on Friday. No worries!! Earlier tonight, she and Josephine spread pink Dora toothpaste across the bathroom door... I'm not sure whose idea it was, but Margaret was very upset when David yelled at her. Josephine was unruffled.

Speaking of David, his recurring Mafia nightmare has returned -- the one where he's driving around with Christopher Moltisanti, explaining how he really really would like get out of the business, no offense, okay? and Christopher says, "You can never get out." (Fairly certain this must be related to some kind of work anxiety -- and not our marriage. Mwahahaha!)

And speaking of work, I was reading the Faeries book to Lucy last night. Some of it I've quite familiar with, of course -- like the never eat at a Fairy party, no matter how good it looks!!, or you'll be trapped forever and ever and ever in the Fairy Kingdom. (Lucy says: "You should just say, 'No, thank you.' And then you can go home and eat later.") But I wasn't familiar with the Fairy rings, where they do their crazy dances. Very dangerous! If you accidentally fall in, you'll start dancing and dancing and dancing, and you might think you're dancing for just a few minutes, but actually years of your life are passing by!!!

What I'm saying is, this better not be me.

Lucy is putting a sock under her bed to keep away the naughty fairies.

Hmm. So what else?

Oh my God!! I got U2 tickets!! Thanks to my friend Kathryn, who, it must be said, is actually a bigger fan than me and belongs to some Secret Wives of Bono Club where you get access to pre-sale tickets.. I've got two to the show in September. Aiee!!! I wonder if I can find an old Joshua Tree tour t-shirt and wear it... You know, to make sure everybody knows how old I am. Aieee! Bono!!

(I did one of those Facebook quizzes a while back -- which U2 member are you? And I got Larry Mullins, Jr. Ugh. Proof that these quizzes actually can't see into your soul, where I can assure you, I am totally the Edge, thankyouverymuch. Although that Larry Mullins is a cutie, isn't he??)

Other updates:
Preschool: Two in, one still waiting.
Cell phone: Recently replaced.
Rats: Don't ask.
Running: So-so.
Reading: Excellent! Must tell more later.

More on dinner

2009-03-25T12:30:00.000-07:00

Did I give you the idea that dinner here is an uncivilized affair?

Not so!

Yes, those are Brussels sprouts on her Easter bunny melamine tray. And no, she did not eat them. Note the strawberry milk, close to hand always.

Please pass the cold comedy

2009-03-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

Dinner conversation at our house:

Lucy belches over our cracker-encrusted cod and giggles.

"My burp," Margaret announces.

Lucy's head whips up. "No! My burp!" she corrects.

"No, my burp," Margaret cheerfully disagrees.

"NO! My burp!" Lucy insists, a little outraged.

"NO! MY BURP!" Margaret shouts.

"Noooooo! MY BURP!" Lucy cries.

"No. No. My. Burp." Margaret crows.

"MYYYY BURRRP, MargaRET!" Lucy screeches, tears forming.

"MYYYY BURRRRRRRP!" Margaret yells back.

"Mommmmy!" Lucy wails.

"Lulu! Why do you listen to her? She's 2 years old and she's crazy!"

"Weeeelll," she sniffs.

Recovering, Lucy shouts back, "You are not invited to my birthday party!"

My Cup, It Overflows

2009-03-22T16:25:00.001-07:00

You will not believe how big my breasts are. Seriously.

For months (maybe years??) Auntie Pamela has been telling me about this place in NoVa where you can get properly fitted for a bra. Not Nordstroms. (Although I do love that place...) For some reason (oh, I know! maybe Pamela's peripatetic story-telling skillz??) I thought it was some kind of home business run by elderly Russian women who decorate with scented silk flowers.

Not true!! In reality, there was one Russian with supermodel bangs and a handful of lavender sachets, but there was also a fair number of Free People nighties and $115 hand-embroidered bras that screamed, "I do not work for a living!!!" I saw a pair of suede UGGs under the fitting-room curtain and heard their owner tell a staff member, "I'll take this one and that one...and that one too. My boyfriend is over there. He's paying."

So, into the closet I go, wearing my 36B Lands End, beige soft cup bra. This is basically the same size I have been wearing for 20 years, with the exception of those years when the fried potato harvest was exceptionally good -- and then I wore a 38. A perky brunette in a tight white T and molded cup takes out her tape measure. Zip, zip.

Thirty-four, she says.

Really?! Hm. That seems rather... slim! But who am I to argue with the tape measure? Let's start with a 34C, she says. A C? Really? That seems rather...biggish. But good. A 34C sounds very healthy. It sounds like something that you might plunk down $5,000 for, saying, "Just a little more."

She returns with a plain beige number. (Something about me must scream, "No lace!!") Trying it on, I see piles of soft-serve ice cream in molded cups. How delicious! Head shaking, the white T says, "Let's go up to D." D?? As in Dolly?? That's not somebody who should be running four miles on Sunday in a 10-year-old Champion from Target. At this point, Pamela shouts through the curtain, "Got a size yet??" "Nooo, not yet," I answer.

"Three babies!" Pamela shouts cheerfully.

It must be said that Pamela's own bra size falls somewhere in that part of the alphabet where you can't quite remember which letter comes first.

The D is too small. Too. Small.

So, here it is: I thought I was a 36B. I really am a 34DD.

My back hurts already.

Odds and ends

2009-03-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

There is a new sign on the wall outside of Lucy's class that says, "I am ANGRY when my little sisters don't be nice to me!"

Josephine says, "Puzzle me, Mommy!"

And Margaret...

Margaret has gone to the doctor three times in the past week for a mysterious rash that, of course, completely disappeared the morning of her appointment with the highly coveted specialist. "You could have canceled this appointment," he noted. Really? And miss this conversation?

On her own, without her side-kicks, Margaret is a timid little bunny. She clings to my side in the doctor's waiting room, her hair tucked under my chin. She observes other people with wide eyes. It's hard to believe she's the same girl who steals Lucy's wind-up mouse and then sticks out her belly and bellows, "Noooo!"

A night's sleep for my kingdom, please

2009-03-12T06:20:00.000-07:00

Margaret!!!

From 1 to 4 a.m., she was awake every 15 minutes, 20 minutes, 5 minutes, standing in the corner of her crib, closest to the door, wailing, "Moooommmmy!" Alarming Josephine, who just wants to sleep for the love of GOD, and waking Lucy, who would pitifully cry, "She won't let me sleeeeep!"

And there was nothing wrong with her. Her diaper was changed. Her jammies were comfy. If this was the first time, maybe I'd cut her some slack -- but Miss Margaret has gotten into the habit recently of demanding an awful lot of non-specific night-time parenting. We put her in our bed. She lay there awake for an hour, kicking; we put her back in her crib, she shrieked. Josie cried. Lucy moaned. Finally, we took out the Pack-n-Play, put her in the family room -- she slept for a half-hour, then completely lost her head, somehow climbed out of the crib, which is taller than she, and delivered herself in a sobbing heap of blobby snot and curly hair outside our door.

And then she slept for the last two hours of the night.

But, of course, I did not.

On the lighter side, or not, if you count calories, I made clam chowder for dinner last night. Lucy stirred it a little and then said, "I can't find the chicken!" David peered over and said, "Well it's right there!" So she tried again, taking a spoonful to her lips and then exclaiming, "Oh yes! It's bubble gum chicken!"

The king's men didn't understand either...

2009-03-09T17:05:00.000-07:00

For bedtime reading, the girls and I sat down to The Little Engine That Could. A classic! "Wha's that?" asks Margaret, pointing to one of the sad little toys intended for the good girls and boys on the other side of the mountain.

"That's Humpty-Dumpty," I say.

"Wha's that?" Josie asks and points.

"That's Humpty-Dumpty," I repeat.

"Wha's that?" Margaret asks again.

"Humpty-Dumpty."

"Wha's that?" Josie repeats.

"That's Humpty-Dumpty, the EGG MAN!"

Silence.

Put back the pudding!!

2009-03-09T06:51:00.000-07:00

Safeway Stores, Inc.
Arlington, VA

March 9, 2009

Dear Ms. Fxxxxxx:

This letter should serve as formal notice that you have violated Safeway Stores, Inc., Customer Covenant Section XI, Children in Store(s), No. 3B, a nationwide store policy that restricts each adult (female) shopper to no more than two (2) children under the age of 5. (For obvious reasons, each adult male shopper may be accompanied by no more than one small child.)

Store manager #347 has reported that you have entered Safeway Stores, Inc., on at least six (6) occasions with three (3) small children. Surveillance cameras show these small children attempting to evacuate the shelves of all ice cream cones and Mylar ballons, and clinging to the sides of your grocery cart like giggling bats in a candy cave.

These policies exist for the safety of our youngest customers, and also to ensure a comfortable shopping experience for our older customers. When a fellow shopper approaches you to say, "Oh, my name is Margaret too!" you should wonder why she knows your child is named Margaret. Everybody in the store knows your child is named Margaret!! This Margaret should not be allowed into the dairy section.

Other things we all know:
Lucy waaaaants snow crabs!
The children do not, do not, do not like squash!
Your personal consumption is wine is really very moderate, all things considered.

We do appreciate your patronage. We do believe that your family is single-handedly propping up the strawberry syrup industry in America. We do understand that you spend roughly $1,000 a month in our store. (We would advise you to consider what you can do with beans.) But we must regretfully tell you that you will not be allowed admittance to Safeway Stores, Inc., with three (3) children again.

Sincerely,

Mr. Crabs
Safeway Stores, Inc.

aaaah! And what about our service project??!

2009-03-05T15:17:00.001-08:00

Before I had three children ~~and lost my mind~~, I used to read those stories about crazy Manhattan mothers, desperate to get their babies into the "right" preschool and laugh uproariously. Like this: hahahahaha -- go get a latte, Gwyneth! But now, it appears as if the laugh is on me, because gaddammit Josephine and Margaret are numbers 32 and 33, respectively, on the waiting list for the two open slots at the Methodist preschool.

Oh, you Methodists... you think you're so great since you don't have Hell. (Ah, but you do! And it's this goddamn waiting list!!)

So, let's review: Two years ago, we tried to get Lucy into the crazy Montessori school. When they rejected us, we opted for the Baptists instead, where Lucy's teacher wraps neat tissue-paper dresses on the naked Barbies that our long-haired heathen brings for show-and-tell on Fridays.

But it's an all-day program and, let's face it, these babies are crazy. So we ventured reluctantly into the world of half-day programs and parent co-ops. There are many such programs in Arlington, where it seems many many MANY mothers have been researching the options since pregnancy. And they all know each other. And they all knit during gymnastics. And they all have sons named Eamon, girls named Emma. Oh, and what else? Naturally thin, of course.

Sooo, first I can rule out the preschools where there is no "random lottery," where instead they tell you to come visit, meet the "parent board," and then "assignments will be made." (Good use of passive tense...) This all seems way too much like picking kids for dodge ball and I NEVER GOT PICKED FIRST.

My first choice appears to be the Unitarian preschool. I believe I have mentioned by love-from-a-distance for the Unitarians. Help the homeless! Learn to contra dance! This particular school would require an awful lot of MY time, what with the volunteer hours required for three children, plus the "parent education" demands, not to mention the rotating snack-making requirements...

Oh! They're having an open house!! All five of us will attend. Aha. First dilemma: Should I wear my super-cool purple and pink suede coat. (I am serious. It is awesome.) On the one hand, I might appear to be a hip mama. (I know, I know, it's supposed to be a "random lottery," but do we really believe that??? It's not like Unitarians have Hell if they're lying...) On the other, I suspect the Unitarians are all about "animal rights," whatever those are, and maybe somebody will throw paint on me. There is an awful lot of paint in preschool classrooms.

Ah well, it's raining. Question answered. Now... Be friendly. Even to the naturally thin mothers who represent your competition for the very few open positions. Be inquisitive. But not too inquisitive! Control tendencies to ask critical questions about qualifications of teaching staff. Be supportive. Say things like, "Oh! I love what you've done with the learning centers!!"

Leave feeling...like this can never possibly happen. There are 200 people there! For like five open slots! And Margaret touched all the doughnuts!!!

Go back for a "classroom visit" because you want to show your interest. Understand that it is a "random lottery," yes, yes, yes, but still, you are very interested. Really. Seriously. And you make awesome snacks. For teachers too! Oh yes. (You're qualified, right? Aaaaah! I didn't meant that!)

So, where are we??

Well, well, well. We got our letter from the Unitarians yesterday and Margaret is Number TWO on the waiting list. Point proved again, Margaret is a lucky baby -- and she has been since conception. Josephine is number... like 62? And Lucy is somewhere in between. Of course, if Margaret gets in, then Josie and Lucy pop to the top of their respective waiting lists.

Could they actually get in?? Who knows?! In the meantime, the babies remain on the waiting list at Lucy's school. There are no guarantees about their admittance there, but chances are good. One big difference: If they all go to Lucy's school, we will no longer have an au pair. If they go to the Unitarians, we will need to hire a third because our lovely Julia intends to abandon us in August for her cutie-pie boyfriend and a university program in education. Sad, sad, sad.

She says to me, "But what will you do if they get in nowhere?"

Oh my. Start working on college apps, I think.

Springing ahead!!

2009-03-04T18:44:00.001-08:00

We've been sledding a couple of time this week and ohhhhh, I do love a good sledding. So does Lucy. Zip, zip! ("Margaret, do you want to go sledding too?" "Noooooo." "Do you want to go home?" [Pitiful sniff.] "Yeeesshhhh.") But, even as the ice still clings to our front steps (oh, Milkman, please be careful!!) I think winter is over.

Spring is coming.

And next thing you know?? Summer!!!

Please note the 1950s quality of my home movies...

the city of brotherly love

2009-03-04T10:08:00.000-08:00

We went to Philadelphia this past weekend to visit the Please Touch museum. (This is for children!!) Had lots and lots of fun, saw our friend Kathryn and her little Dude, who is not nearly as crazy as she makes him out to be, went swimming at the hotel, which we shared with a conference of lactation consultants... and ate cheese steak! And South Philly spaghetti! (okay, okay, I ate the veal too -- but I'm not talking about it! It's a native hunt, I tell you!)

Some things to consider:

Why doesn't DC have a great children's museum? Are we a second-tier city? Aha! But our museums are free -- not $15 frickin dollars for each 2-year-old, which means nobody better cry, because we're damn well staying until nap time.

The Liberty Bell is pretty small.

Lucy is the funniest. She says, and this has nothing to do with Philadelphia, "Do not laugh at Josephine. It makes her bad." Also, why does she appear to know the entire plot of The Little Mermaid, including how Ariel has to approach Ursula, who is like a person except she's sorta purple, to get her voice back and also, "If you become a mermaid, they take away your clothes, except for your underwear..." and she's never seen this movie??

(Underwear. Maybe undies. But never panties, thankyouverymuch.)

Anyway, some shots from the museum:

The babies and Lucy prepare for careers in the Army Corps of Engineers.

Lucy the Clown!

Margaret takes the wheel.

Josephine rides the carousel.

(She looks sweet, doesn't she? You should see the bite mark on Margaret's arm!! Do not be fooled.)

What luck!

2009-02-27T07:26:00.001-08:00

This morning I put on an old brown jacket -- oh dear, that description makes it sound a little meh, no?? Try again. This morning I put on my lucky jacket, a tobacco-brown, nipped-waist number that I bought at a little boutique in West Hartford years ago. Or maybe my sister bought for me because Lord knows I didn't have the kind of money to drop in little boutiques in West Hartford back then, which was 1994, to be exact, the year I borrowed $40,000 from the federal government so that I could earn a graduate degree in journalism and win a $16,000 a year job in Florida.

Anyhoo, this is my lucky jacket because one day, back then in 1994, I slipped it on and sneaked out of work to copy my resume at Kinko's. (Some things never change! Except now I sneak out for chocolate.) I was hurrying down K Street, thinking about job options -- Florida? Idaho? Cincinnati? nah, not Cincinnati, I don't even like chili... -- when a nervous-looking guy with a big camera stopped me and spilled this long story about a missing model, a magazine photo shoot, and would I please, please, just step into this restaurant's bathroom?

Oh my! It briefly crossed my mind that this was actually a sophisticated trap by white slave traders to capture self-obsessed Washingtoniennes. You go into the bathroom and exit in Arabia somewhere... But I could not resist! So I went in, pushed up my lucky jacket's sleeves, and washed my hands, over and over and again, while the camera clicked away. Supposedly it was a story on bisexual bathrooms, which sort of makes sense, those were the Ally McBeal days.

Ha! I know they're not bisexual bathrooms, but that's my secret inside joke that makes me think of my grandmother, who used to buy me Calvin Klein Escape perfume for Christmas and say, "You know what? This is bisexual perfume! The lady at Fox's told me so." And I'd say, "Naaaan! It's not bisexual! It's unisex!"

Anyhoo, they gave me a $50 gift certificate to the restaurant.

And that wasn't its only piece of good luck. This morning, when I reached into the pocket, I found a business card for a big-shot editor at a big-name newspaper. Aha! In 2003, I wore it to a job interview -- and got it! (I suppose that editor is probably panhandling on Biscayne Boulevard now, given the general state of the news industry these days... You know the Rocky Mountain News is publishing its last issue today? I have a friend who works there. Ack.)

So what luck has my jacket brought me today?? Well, we spent a little time this morning at Lucy's school, which was holding an open house for its pre-K program. Very nice. I do not, in general, approve of the use of workbooks in any kind of classrooms, especially pre-K, but I did very much like the fairy village that the kids constructed from lunch bags and imagination.

And then, David dropped me off at the Metro elevator, where I reached into my purse for my wallet and -- it was gone!! Aaaah, babies! (I always blame the babies when things are missing. They are convenient that way. I picture Margaret, sitting on the floor, tossing credit cards to the ceiling. Or Josephine, unzipping the change purse and gleefully shouting, "Monies!") Momentary panic -- but, in the corner of my eye, I can see David's car disappear into the entrance of the county parking garage.

I am off! Flying down the ramp in my brown boots, waving my rolled-up umbrella! I ran three miles this morning (was supposed to run four, but my God, was it warm!?? Three days ago, it was 22 degrees, and this morning it was 51! And me in my winter pants!) And down we go, him in the speedy Saab, me in my tall boots. Down, down, down to...

Level 4. Four! Where he opens the door, grabs his bag, and finds me standing outside his door, huffing in my lucky jacket. "You didn't see me?" "Why would I look behind me?" Realization dawns. "You ran down four levels??" More huffing, but mostly of the self-righteous kind. I take $25 -- Metro fare plus fancy lunch with Auntie Pamela at Il Mulino today. And shuffle off to the elevator.

Get to work finally...

Find my wallet on my desk.

Oh, what luck!!

Happy birthday, babies!

2009-02-23T10:30:00.001-08:00

The babies are 2 years old!

I know, I know, they're not really babies anymore... Josephine reminds me of this, as she rips off her Pampers and shouts, "Peepee!" Or refuses to sit in her booster seat. "Big, big!" she protests, and climbs up on a dining room chair.

Okay,little girl -- you are big. Even if you do weigh 22 pounds...

We had a birthday party this past weekend and Margaret got a new soft brown dress from Auntie Sharon. Why brown? Because Margaret makes us think of a chocolate. She is sweet and round. Josephine's new dress is green -- and that's about right too. She's still a little elf.

Finally, the girls have started to talk like little children. They say, "Mooo, Joeshzie!" (You're sitting on my dress!) "Nooo, MINEZ!" (That's Josephine.) "A pees?" (That's a very hopeful Margaret, hoping for a piece of candy.) They sing songs. "Ba ba bakkk seeeee, yeshir, yeshir..." And they say everybody's name: Mommy, Daddy, Lulu, Joeshzie...but not Margaret. You can point to her all you like, but Margaret grins and dips her chin and says, "Noooo!"

Margaret runs around the house with her arms outstretched behind her, chortling, then hops through the kitchen like a frog. She follows Lucy faithfully. Josie perches on top of the furniture, giggling. Everybody wants to be held! But then everybody wants to get down already!

The other day I found cheese in Margaret's hair. Yesterday I found cheese between Margaret's toes. I have no idea...

A Math Problem

2009-02-10T06:09:00.001-08:00

Take two packages of dinosaur oatmeal -- the kind with little eggs that hatch into red dinosaurs upon impact with boiling water. Divide into three bowls. Make sure everybody has the same number of marvelous hatching eggs. Give everybody a pat of butter -- then give Margaret an extra slice. Now, the question is: how many minutes until you're late for work (again)?

Who you looking at?

2009-02-06T11:58:00.000-08:00

The other day, one of our many aunties -- and that's auuuunties, not annnties, because we are from Connecticut, please -- sent me an urgent email titled, "Baby Contest -- You Must Enter." And here, a real quote from urgent email goes, "YOU HAVE TO ENTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOUR BABIES ARE WAY CUTER THAN ANY OTHER PICTURES THEY'VE SHOWN AND THEY ARE PERFECT FOR GERBER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Well! It is true! They are way cuter than any other babies in the contest. I mean, let's face it, they're way cuter than any other babies on the fricking Earth. It's their behavior that's a little less attractive. (I'm talking to you, girlfriend! Put down the poopy diaper!!)

Anyhoo, maybe I'll enter, maybe not, but frankly I'm leaning toward not because I think Josephine already displays many of the freakish behaviors associated with supermodels and I need not encourage them.

To wit:

1) She's obsessed with clothes. The other night, I made the enormous, Sarah Palin for VP-sized mistake of putting Margaret into the lavendar sparkly jammies and Josie into the red ones with moose applique. "Minez! Miiiiinez!" screeched Josephine, yanking on Margaret's sleeves, plucking at her zipper. Denied, she eventually collapsed in a sobbing, sleeveless puddle on the bathroom floor. (Margaret toddled off for a baba.) Now I know to say, "Which one?" She points -- "!inez!" -- and then, while I comb her hair, rolls a footie up into her armpit so nobody can take it away.

(Margaret doesn't care about clothes, except she likes to smooth her shirts over her belly.)

2) She's obsessed with accessories, namely the two sets of rainbow-striped "baby legs" that I got for free at last year's Baby Loves Disco. She wears two on her arms and two on her legs. Or, if she's feeling a little more Pretty Young Thing, she just pulls on a single sleeve.

See here...this is sort of her Slash look.

3) The supermodel physique! First she plops a pink strawberry into her water. Then a maple sausage. Then a handful of Cheerios. Fillet of fenny snake, boil and bake... When you exclaim, "Josephine! Stop playing with your food!" she'll take a few defiant sips of her murky brew, brows knotted, sisters gaping.

4) Bottled water. Supermodels are crazy about bottled water!! And so is Phinie-Weenie. When her poor dehydrated sisters clamor, "It's my turn!" she sticks her little tongue into the neck of the bottle and just keeps it there, like, "I may not be drinking this water, but bitches it's minez."

(That makes her sisters cry.)

5) Her penchant for costumes. See here...

So, I don't know. I'm tempted by the fame (and fortune! We would finally buy a gnome-shaped coffee table and apartment in Dublin!) but, all in all, it seems like a largish risk. Thoughts?

25 Things About ME

2009-01-30T11:21:00.000-08:00

This is kind of like cheating...because I really wrote this for Facebook, where the order to self-indulge is floating around like that pink Teletubbies cloud. But. but! Some of you are not on Facebook! Some of you are actually crazy anti-Facebookers who say things like, "I just don't get it," while sipping martinis and chomping on roasted almonds. I'm looking at you, Auntie Pamela. It's also possible that some of you are on Facebook, but we're not friends? Is that right?? Hm. Conceivable, but I don't like it.

Anyhoo, I don't have time to actually blog about anything -- because the babies are throwing up and I need to go have a meeting at the coffeehouse and I'm losing all of my Lexulous games.

So here goes.

1) First of all, it's Mary Ellen. Not Mary. Facebook is discriminating against the Catholic girls of the 1960s-70s! Mary Ellen? Mary Lou? Mary Anne? Jane? Jo? Fran? Pat? Maybe I should start a petition.

2) Speaking of names, I did not change my last name.

3) I am trying really really hard not to say anything else about names. So as not to sound insane.

4) Ohhh, but while I'm at it, the girlies are Lucy Margaret, Margaret Carol and Josephine Patricia. And yes, they have a hyphenated last name. And yes, I know it's long! When they grow up, they can change it if they really want to. You know, if they want to betray the revolution and break my heart. (oh dear, did that sound insane?? I have a hard time judging....) oh, fine!! I will still love them. Ha. More than anything else on this Earth.

5) I actually promised the Mother of God that I'd name the littlest baby Mary Margaret if she beat the odds, but then I didn't do it. I worry about this a little bit.

6) I'm not actually superstitious, but I do believe in luck and I think I have a whole lot of it. The extraordinarily good kind. Also, I see signs. Not the regular ones. More like suicidal birds and old men.

7) Speaking of such, the day of my wedding, as I was waiting to walk down the aisle with my father -- or, actually, up the path to the beach -- an old guy in a bathing suit and towel came up to me and said, "You don't have to do it!" And I thought, "Oh no! Is he an angel? Was he sent from God?" But I thought, weeelll, most likely not. Right? (Right?!) And so I laughed and walked on. And I am really really glad about that.

8) When I met my husband, I was pretty sure he was gay. Proof: The pet greyhound, the talk about "antiquing on Southern Boulevard", the same-sex housemate with funky shoes, and the passing acquaintance with my housemate, who really is gay. What I don't understand is, he thought I was gay too...

9) My wedding was awesome. We had the sauce-mixing ceremony, the oyster-shucking men, Cape Cod Bay, Irish music, Vietnamese hand rolls and almost all of my favorite people. I'd like to do it again. You all can come.

10) I always wanted a lot of babies. Is three a lot? Maybe. Maybe not... I do know that they are just as much fun as I thought they'd be and I'd pretty much rather spend time with them than anybody else on Earth.

11) No epidural. You don't need one. But do demand juice.

12) It's been 11 years and I still miss my grandmother terribly. It kills me that she can't make meatballs for my daughters, hold them in her rocking chair, and tell them stories about bad little dogs and good little girls.

13) When I was a kid, I told everybody that I wanted a job like my father, where I could drive around all day and stop for a coffee when I felt like it. For a while, that's exactly what I did! And I loved it.

14) Still, my almost-favorite job was tending bar. One night, an old guy at the bar pocketed somebody else's change and I jumped over the bar and chased him down Maple Avenue. "I know the owner!" he protested. "So do I, buddy! He's my father!" I said. He gave me back the money, and it turned out he was the guy who introduced my parents. I am willing to believe he made an honest mistake.

15) I entertain a lot of stories in my head -- and one of my favorites is, "Where I'd go if I was on the run from the law." Probably not Ireland. I think I could hide there, but they'd trace the passport. Not a hotel -- they always want credit cards. I'd have to find a friend to take me in, and it would have to be somebody the feds would never ever think of. (It's always the feds.) That is, it couldn't be one of my very best friends...but it would have to be somebody who'd say yes, without question, and never think of turning me in. I have some good candidates. Of course I prefer not to say who exactly... (Feel free to tell me if you'd like to be on that list. I will make a note -- but not on paper!!)

16) Here's what I hate in people: Hypocrisy. Self-indulgence. Whining. Here's what I do like: Loyalty. Funnies. A willingness to eat my food. And play with my children. I do believe you should judge people by their best actions, not their worst. But I don't necessarily expect you all to do that for me.

17) Back in high school, the most fun was late nights at the LOG office. Then in college, the most fun was late nights at the Irish Times. And graduate school? Sorta like a combination of those two things. Speaking of late nights, I hope that my children use better judgment than I have.

18) You may be surprised to know that I can check the sheep for worms.

19) Aha! When I was a little girl, I thought for sure that I had been impregnated by God with the second coming of Christ. I had no idea how I would tell my parents. I knew it would be difficult to explain.

20) You know how kids can get so absorbed in a book that they can't hear you talking to them? I was like that -- Narnia, Anne of Green Gables... I've never outgrown that. And I do appreciate your patience, honey.

21) There's a handful of people that I call honey -- so much so that their real names, when I feel like I have to use them, feel weird in my mouth.

22) If I could design my ideal day, I'd have a whole lot of sand chairs out on the second bar in Cape Cod Bay. (Sand bar, that is.) And I'd have my whole family out there -- Ma, Dad, sisters, brother, spouses, and all the kiddos. And we'd play in the tidal pool and eat red grapes and talk about food, which is pretty much my favorite thing to talk about. And, if it wasn't too windy, we could play Setback!! We are the only people I know who play Setback.

23) I miss motorcycle rides to the middle of nowhere. But I don't want to orphan the children. Although, if I did, I think they'd be happy living with my sister Sharon, who is as near to me as you can get. Except the tattoo, which she doesn't have. And the fat, which she refuses to eat. And she doesn't like 80s music quite as much. Or public schools. She also cleans way more. And runs waaay faster. Not to mention, I think she's a wee bit bossier. But aside from all that...

24) I have never done a cartwheel. Not once in my life. And, even though I'm not quite as round as I used to be, I'm starting to think it's too late for me.

25) A few years after I moved to Florida, a friend of mine died. He was somebody I had known for a long long time, who lived up the street, who took my best friend to the prom, who helped my mother decorate her Christmas cookies. I think he saw it coming (although I didn't) -- and he had spent the last few years of life traveling around the world, visiting friends, giving big hugs and making sure we all knew we mattered. I would like to live my life like that, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at it.

On the rocks, please

2009-01-28T11:12:00.001-08:00

Today's morning snack: Bacon and cocoa.

Yum!

Early this morning, long before the big kids dragged themselves out of bed, Lucy and I grabbed our new purple two-person flyer and hit the ice hill across the street. Were we fast?! Wooooweee! We hit the fence, baby! All the waaaay! A guy with a shivering German shepherd stopped us on the slog back up, me crunching through the ice on the incline, Lucy about 125 pounds lighter (oh, how I lie...), slipping along the surface in her princess boots.

"That's..." he paused.

Dangerous? Foolhardy? Bad mothering?

"Well, it looks like fun," he concluded.

He opted not to borrow our sled and try it himself, but David -- on the way to the bus stop -- did give it a go. "I don't know how to steeeeeeer!" And then, of course, we needed a little bacon and cocoa before Mommy had to do a little work. (I do actually work sometimes. It's true.)

What else is going on here? I promised to post photos...

This one is from the pre-inauguration concert:

See?? Bono?? That's him!!

In 1987, I saw U2 at the Hartford Civic Center -- the Joshua Tree tour! I should have bought a T-shirt... My father used to know a guy who worked at the Civic Center. About that guy, this is what I remember: One dark night, when he was walking home from my father's bar, a can of beef stew in each of his jacket pockets, he fell into the pond in Goodwin Park. He thought he was going to die! Dragged to his death by Dinty Moore. Sort of like Virginia Woolf, except much less poetic. And of course less effective, since the pond is only about 3 feet deep.

Anyway, he eventually became an HVAC guy, but those tickets that he got for us were quite good. Bono looked right at me! And then picked this funky girl with white hair out of the crowd to dance on stage with him (remember that music video with Courteney Cox? Was it Courteney Cox? Pulled on stage by Bruce Springsteen? Isn't that how she got famous?) Anyway, later that summer, I went to a sleep-away writing camp (I know, you can tell I've been formally trained, huh?) and, during orientation, we all had to say something true about ourselves and something false, and this one girl (her name was Siobhan, can you believe I remember that??) said, "I danced with Bono." And it was her! It was true!

I can't remember what I said, but I bet it wasn't that interesting.

One more photo...

Between inaugural events (I know, I have to move on with my life...) we headed out to Great Falls park, where we ran into a small giraffe, wandering in the woods. This is really inhospitable weather for giraffes! You know they usually live in Africa. Or western Palm Beach County. Anyway, we brought her home, where she sometimes wears pants and eats bacon, and shows a great deal of interest in our toilet. (Last night she actually shouted PEEEEEeee and scampered over to it!)

(I do not know why my hat looks like that. Russian. I bought it 10 years ago on a ski trip to Colorado, where it was supposed to make me look like a teenage snowboarder... Feel free, any of you with skillz, to make and send me a new hat! I would be so happy!)

What a mystery!

2009-01-21T17:56:00.000-08:00

Lucy takes her pink baby and hands it to Josephinie. "Here Josie. Do you want to play with my baby? It's a new one! It just came out of my tummy. I don't know how exactly it did that. But here it is."

The second half of history

2009-01-21T16:12:00.000-08:00

So, last we left, I was sitting at my desk, eating an orange... contemplating the next 2.1 mile walk (uphill!) back to Cynthia's. Ugh. I did finally limp up 16th St, past a guy wearing a Make Out, Not War button and a girl carrying a Health Care, not Warfare shoulder bag. Stopped for two empanadas. Collapsed on couch.

Oh! Ted Kennedy! The honored guest at my ball last night... I have blogged before about my Ted-love. (Familial, not romantic. Wish he was my Uncle Ted too. We could eat oysters! Talk about wind energy -- right for some people, like maybe in Iowa, but not for us...) Last night, at the ball, while I was expressing my near-teary Ted regret over the lobster risotto, somebody says to me, "Well, he's dying."

He's dying???! Maybe. But I won't say so. Not for sure.

Anyhoo, back on the couch, lots of parade coverage. Lots of water.

And then, eventually, off to the ball! I'm not a make-up gal, but I tried my best with my new eyeshadow from Target. (Twenty bucks! For eyeshadow?? But it did come in a nifty case with three colors that pre-matched, removing the possibility that I might think blue goes with green. But it could, couldn't it?? Because it works in the ocean. And I do like the ocean.)

That's me on the left, the lovely Cynthia on the right.

Got lucky with a cab, except cabdriver was big ninny who dropped us off SIX BLOCKS from the Folger Shakespeare Library, where last night's ball was held. Good thing I was wearing woolly tights under Vera Wang. We stopped some teenagers near the Capitol, which seemed to be glowing with unusual beauty, and asked them to take our picture. Had momentary -- um, I just gave my digital camera to faceless kid in a hoodie?? Then felt regret at my anti-hoodlum paranoia. We are One!! Kid Hoodie was surprised too, it seemed. Picture lousy anyway.

At the coat check: George Lucas!!

The scene: Enough dark wood to sail the Spanish Armada, yards of crimson-bound books, enormous fireplace and lots of nerdy men in tuxedos (this particular ball was sponsored by a consortium of educational tech interests).

The food: Creamy lobster risotto, fresh tomato and goat cheese tart, and a watercress salad with pears! Munch, munch. Ohhhh...raspberry cream tart and chocolate bread pudding.

The entertainment: World-famous Farras! What? You haven't heard of him? Seriously? Because he's been in the Today Show -- you know, the TODAY Show?? -- and he does a to-die-for cover of Elton John's Tiny Dancer. Get with it, ladies.

Mr. Big was supposed to show up, but he did not.

So, you know, it was fun. It was an "unofficial" ball, which means no Obama. Which also means no security... not a bad thing. Oh! Speaking of security, I read in the Washington Post today that ticket-holders spent FOUR HOURS in the Third Street Tunnel yesterday, also known as the TUNNEL OF DOOM, and still never made it into the light, onto the Mall. These include people who have waited all their lives for such a moment -- and all they saw was a whole bunch of ski jackets. I feel very bad for those people.

More photos to come. Promise!

Halfway thru history

2009-01-20T11:00:00.000-08:00

It's 2 p.m.
I have walked 9.3 miles. (seriously, gmap-pedometer...)
I have eaten two sandwiches, one apple and the best-tasting orange ever.
A crack addict asked me if I was a man or a woman.
A pimply teenager stood behind me and said, "Push on like they're Orcs."
I feel like I've drank the bitter swill.
But baby, it's been awesome!

Let's see...

5 a.m.: Awake. Two pants of pants, stole David's long underwear. Final decision -- bike or bus? Public transit apologist in house convinces me to take Metro bus. "Nobody is taking the bus!" he says.

6 a.m.: First bus. I'm on!

6:30 a.m.: Get to Metro station. It's kind of a zoo. Already beleaguered Metro employee explains that no Virginia bus will be allowed to drive into the city -- thanks to a last-minute change by Homeland Security. I get on a bus that gets me a mile closer, but end up sitting next to a crack addict who is screaming, "Denzel Washington ain't on this bus! Motherfuckers!" And then she turns me to and says, "You a man or woman?" I eat my first sandwich.

6:45 a.m.: My march begins -- across the Potomac, covered in jigsaw ice. Bicyclists whip past me. Um-hm.

7:30 a.m.: Get to office -- I am on time!! But Cynthia and Sanjay, whom I am to meet, have been delayed. Sanjay forgot his wallet. Oh, and now he wants cocoa. Does he know there will be one porta-potty per 5,000 visitors? Enjoy that cocoa.

8:30 a.m.: Insanity. Cynthia and I approach the 3rd Street Tunnel, but we do not like it. It's dark, it's crowded, and it's rapidly filling up. Later, somebody will describe the experience as riding into one of those box canyons where they catch and kill wild horses. We hear the tunnel is closed at end, freak out and leave.

9:00 a.m.: We are going the long way around the Capitol and we are smooshed between blue lines and purple lines, maybe orange lines, nowhere near the silver line, where is where we wish to be. And we are seriously smooshed. Annoying teenager behind us starts talking about the final battle of the Lord of the Rings. I'm going to jab him in the kidney. People have babies in here? Are they nuts? Cynthia is looking grim. We hop a steel fence.

9:30 a.m.: We find Cynthia's pal in the silver line, which is sort of like Southwest C. We are waiting and waiting. I eat my apple.

10 a.m.: Still in line. I eat my sandwich.

10:30 a.m.: Still in line. Shoulder to shoulder. More than a little squished, and nobody is moving. I worry that we will miss the Joe Biden swearing-in. I didn't like Joe so much at first, but I love him now. Girl wrapped in tie-dye blanket (these are the kind of people who get silver tickets??) overhears me and snips, "I've always loved Joe Biden." Whatever. I step on her blanket.

11 a.m.: Cynthia is past grim. She is leaving.

11:30 a.m.: Good thing Cynthia left. Pandemonium has ensued. We are pushed forward by crowd, over Jersey barrier, across trampled crowd control fencing. Park Police man is bellowing, "You will be asphyxiated!" My new friend leans in and says, "Do you think I still need my ticket?"

And suddenly, it's bliss. The announcer says, "Introducing the President of the United States," and the woman in front of me begins to cheer! The announcer finishes, "George W. Bush!" "No, no!" I tell her, "Not yet!" And she says, "But I'm ready! I'm so ready!" Our crowd boos Bush. Somebody says, "A little respect!" Somebody else says, "But consider how he treated us!" Aretha Franklin sings. Oh! So beautiful. Joe is sworn in!

We are steps from the Capitol Reflecting Pool, watching Obama on the Jumbotron, watching the flags ripple across the Capitol. He takes the oath. A woman behind me cries, "Amen!" And then he speaks.

It's glorious. It's stirring. It's serious.

And now I need some water.

Too late

2009-01-15T15:02:00.000-08:00

Margaret is chomping on a grape Tootsie Pop.
"Where'd she get that?" I ask Lucy.
"From the garbage," she answers matter-of-factly.
"The garbage?!"
"Yes. She reached in and found it."
"Margaret! That's from the garbage??"
She pulls it out of her mouth, studies it closely and cheerfully agrees.
"Yah!"
And then pops it back into her mouth.

Inauguration fever!!

2009-01-15T08:21:00.000-08:00

Aaaack!

Okay, first there's the free concert on Sunday in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Bruce Springsteen! Even better, Bono!! How am I going to get there? Hm. Bicycle, I think, since the Secret Service "is insane," says U.S. Congressman Jim Moran, and has closed every single bridge between VA and DC. So fine, pedal, pedal, pedal... Is it possible Bono will pull me from the crowd?? No. Not possible.

On Monday, there's the Day of Service and I've signed up to help get books to kids in Uganda. That is, I will be loading a truck.

And then, then, then, Tuesday is Inauguration Day! I do have a ticket. One single, standing-room only ticket to history -- or, more specifically, the area near the reflecting pool. Again, I'm on the bicycle. Because the Secret Service has closed every single bridge between VA and DC. (Is that any way to reward Virginians for voting blue for the first time in 40 years??)

And then, then, then, I have a ball ticket! Actually a press pass -- to a ball where the tix cost $2,500 per couple. Oh. My. God. And Ted Kennedy is going to be there. Have I talked about my love of Ted Kennedy? If I could get a picture of myself with Ted Kennedy...it's going on the wall, baby. I haven't blown up any picture from my wedding, mind you. But I'd have Ted on my wall, for sure.

I am scampering over to Auntie Pamela's place to try on dresses. I do not actually own a single long dress... But I'm also covering my bases -- and ordered a fabulous red one from Bluefly. (Vera Wang, $130). That's a bargain, right? I had a Vera Wang wedding dress. (Which I bought on eBay, because I do like bargains...)

Okay, I'm off to twitter and flitter around the office.

Oh yes, you know this is all really about hope, right? I am hopeful. I am excited about my red dress, but I'm also excited about this country. (P.S. My new crush? Steven Chu. What a cutie...)

I'm available for Middle East negotiations...

2009-01-12T16:35:00.000-08:00

After Lucy's ballet recital last night, her teacher, Miss Judy, gave her a snack bag of candy. "I'm going to have this one," she announced, gaily waving a grape Blow-Pop. "And the babies can share this one," she said, pointing to a Kit-Kat. "Lulu! It is so nice of you to share your candy with your babies!" I said.

"I don't really share," she said matter-of-factly.
Pause.
"You make me share."

One more thought: I love the way the babies run. Margaret bounces along, giggling and flapping her arms like Liza Minnelli. What a goose! Josephine tucks in her elbows and tushie -- and skedaddles on her short little legs. Zip zip!

Confessions of the ill-groomed

2009-01-12T10:17:00.001-08:00

Like my friend KC, over at Where's My Cape?, I kicked-off the new year with a gift-certificate trip to the spa last Friday. Oh, hello hairless ladies!! Yes, it's me. Please provide with dew and white robe.

I had signed up for the "European" facial, which I have had before, but did not clearly remember. As in, I do clearly remember with great appetite last year's post-facial lunch: fried fish with Marie Rose sauce, hot chips with vinegar, and a Cadbury Flake bar at Eamonn's in Old Town.

What I could not quite recall was the choking mist machine. (I'm sorta more comfortable in a fog.) Nor the blinding interrogation light, the near-endless extraaaaction of useful facial oils (hello! now the evil ozone can penetrate my pores!), or the very uncomfortable conversation between moi and Madame.

Her: Tell me about your skin care regimen.

Me: Umm, well...

Her: You just use a regular cleanser and moisturizer.

Me: Oh, well, sometimes, maybe...

Her: Sometimes... Like last night, how did you prepare your skin for bed?

Me: Giggle. Um, we just said good night and went to bed.

Her: Silence.

Her: And this morning, what did you do?

Me: I took a shower.

Her: And you used??

Me: Um. Water.

Aie! Here is the awful truth: I don't wash my face. There! I said it! I don't use a "cleanser" or a "moisturizer" or anything else with "essential oils." But I swear I do take a shower. And I *think* my skin looks okay... I haven't gotten any notes from HR that says something like, "Re: Personal grooming. Meeting 10 a.m., please." And I do like shampoo! I do wash my hair!

Her: Does your skin itch?

Me: No.

Her: Do you break out?

Me: Never.

Her: Silence.

White light goes on. She grimly studies my skin. Sigh.

Her: I believe you have conditioned your skin to this treatment.

On Thin Ice

2009-01-08T12:47:00.001-08:00

So, what with the beautiful weather here today -- all chilly and bright like a Thomas Kinkaid painting -- my colleague and I decided to sneak out of the office and go ice-skating.

(Wait a second...who reads this blog?? Some of you should understand that this ice-skating stuff is obviously a metaphor. By "ice-skating," I mean sit at my desk and move my mouse around its pad in wide graceful circles. oh! Triple-axel Google search!)

Anyhoo, off we went to the skating rink on the Mall, past the new bleachers for the fabulous Inauguration that I am afraid to attend. (One port-o-potty for every 3,000 visitors?? Ha! I've had three children -- I can't hold it for that long!!) We lace up, do a few laps, and then... who shows up?

The evening news.

Thank God I've just been sitting at my desk.

Margaret 1, Mommy 0

2009-01-07T11:06:00.000-08:00

I am looking for a used Ergo...you know, the baby backpack carrier favored by women who buy organic sleepers and wooden toys?? Margaret -- and her outrageous, butter-fueled war demonstrations on my filthy kitchen floor -- has worn me down. And now, I will wear her -- all over Creation.

Personal records

2009-01-05T17:46:00.000-08:00

There's this running blog that I like to read, the appropriately named "Not Born To Run," mostly because it's not so much, "Had a fabulous run today! 6:32/6:12/5:54 -- passed a Ford Mustang like it was stalled!" But more like: "I thought I had about half a mile to go (NOT) which I figured I could do in 5 minutes IF I KILLED MYSELF. 'What's the point,' I thought, 'you've already lost.'"

But...aha! Jeanne (I don't actually KNOW her, but I'm using her first name anyway) already has set a personal record in this new year! Go Jeanne! Interestingly enough, she's not the only one setting PR's (that's runner talk) in 2009.

To wit:

Three (3): Visits to the Smithsonian over five days. That is, dinosaurs, Monet and naked mole rats. Eeeek! Give me that piece of broccoli or I'll bite your tushie and step on your head! (Isn't it great to live in DC?? Or the suburbs of DC, where the parks and libraries are much better funded.)

Four (4): Consecutive days that I have poured whipping cream into our dinners. That's right, WHIPPING CREAM. Featured in turkey tetrazzini, mashed potatoes with roasted garlic, au gratin spuds, and New England clam chowder, which, it must be said, also featured a great deal of bacon fat...

Fourteen (14): The number of slices of salami that Lucy ate, as a bedtime snack, the other night at 9 p.m. "I'm hungryyyy," she called. And I figured that was about right, since she refused the mashed potatoes with roasted garlic, pork chops and spaghetti squash. (Love, love, love spaghetti squash!) She wanted salami, which maybe isn't a great snack before sleep, in terms of GAS PRODUCTION, but eh, she WANTS it (I'm going crazy with the caps tonight) I figured, so okay. "Another one?" I asked, over and again. "That's probably enough," I said, a little queasily, after Slice 8. "Five more!" she insisted. And then, oh what the hell, maybe just one more, please?? "That's it! It's gone!" I lied.

I Resolve...

2009-01-02T18:07:00.001-08:00

Well, I've got some good ideas:

Reduce computer usage; master foreign language and chocolate souffle; stop squinting; learn to make fancy sausages?? quit my job and sell them to restaurants?? rent canal boat in Wales; give more hugs; tell more interesting bedtime stories (not so much about the children who get trapped in the grocery store overnight...); try bicycling to the office; conquer fear of cars??

Oh! Oh! I know, write book!!

Ha.

Okay, based on last year's success, I think I've got the key to resolutions. First, don't have too many. Second, make them sort of measurable, you know, like restrictive and soul-crushing public policies around education.

So, here goes:

1) This has nothing to do with the rights of animals, which aren't actually mentioned by George Mason in the Virginia Declaration of such. Nonetheless, because meat production consumes so much energy, I resolve to be meat-free at least once a week. (Recipes welcome!!)

PS -- My friend Mary at The Eleventh has actually gone ~~off the deep end~~ and tried a vegan diet! I'm not doing that. Just so you know.

2) Run a 10-mile race. I think this is doable, the only problem is finding one. The Cherry Blossom is already full, and the next one happens to fall on the only weekend in 2009 that I have plans for. Then there's the Army 10-miler in October, but that's perilously close to summer, and the last time I ran too far in the heat I went blind for 14 minutes and my neighbor had to guide me home, hand on elbow, so embarrassing, plus somebody died in that race last year. So we'll see... Could possibly substitute some other appropriate physical challenge. Ten-course dinner at Restaurant Eve? Or mini-triathlon?

3) Double current freelance workload. Last year I did a single freelance story and it was a nice diversion. (This blog is also a nice diversion, but it doesn't actually pay, except you know, in kindness and laughter.) So maybe this year I could try to do two?

And, not that anybody has asked, but let's think of some resolutions for the other adult in this house...

Let's see... reduce computer usage; give more hugs; master chocolate souffle; conquer fear of cleaning? Oh, I know!! Take wife to the Inn at Little Washington. Order "Marriage of Hot and Cold Foie Gras with Ice Wine Jelly and Grilled Black Mission Figs" for self. Remind Mary Ellen of 2008 letter-writing campaign, when 2.4 percent of the country's wackadoodles wrote to her to protest her published recipe for foie gras appetizer. (This is actually true...) Insist ME try beet mousse. Then go wash the minivan.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T15:51:00.000-08:00

I am watching the babies eat Pringles. First they crumple each chip into 112 tiny pieces and then they stand on my new crockpot box to stuff the tiny shreds through a big hole in the pantry door where there used to be a doorknob. They unscrewed that weeks ago.

They are crafty, these babies!!

Must go vacuum. Be back in a sec.

Hahaha. The girls like to sit on the back of the vacuum canister, like tobogganers, and say, "Chooooochoo!"

So, we're back from Christmas break!

The highlights:

Snow! Of course I forgot to bring the children's boots. So I scrambled to Wal-Mart at 2 inches deep with my lovely niece. ugh, Wal-Mart! You can't provide health insurance to your employees, but you can charge $22 for stiff boots with Disney crap on them? Back home, 4 inches on the ground now, they don't fit!? so now we must find Target (5 inches), grab two pairs of too-big Hello Kitty rain boots and rush home (6 inches) to play in the backyard for exactly... four minutes.

Antipasto: Sopressata, fresh ricotta, squid salad (not as good this year), tiny green Sicilian olives and big fat red ones, Asiago, marinated mushrooms, roasted red peppers, Italian table cheese, and mozzarella salad with sun-dried tomatoes and capers.

Parties: One Hanukkah (latkes!) and one Christmas (cookies!) Margaret bossed around my cousin's dog. "In! In!" she scolded, holding open his cage door. ahahaha! The funniest thing ever: At the same party, we met my cousin's new girlfriend, who is a very nice and very pretty African-American woman who runs a hospice down in New Orleans. On the way home, my niece exclaims: "I didn't know we were part-black! I can't wait to get to school and tell my friends!!"

I swear to God, if I'm not invited to his wedding, I am going to go back to New Orleans and dump a whole fried fish on his doorstep.

Speaking of Margaret, which I was, way back there, she was the victim of a drive-by slap at the Peabody Museum in New Haven! Some little hooligan (red hair, age 2) tripped over his feet by the T. Rex and fell to the floor. Then he jumped back up, looked around, and slapped Margaret!

Needless to say, because I have frequently documented my craziness in this particular department, I half-lost my mind, bent over and yelled, as close to his snotty little nose as possible, "What are you doing?? You do not hit other children!" (My father totally backed me up with a very angry bellow. My husband, on the other hand, was wandering blithely around ocean fossils.) Then, as his mother swept in and ran for minerals and gems, I shouted to their disappearing backs, "And you should say you're sorry!" I hoped she brought him home to think about his naughtiness, but we spied them in dead birds later that morning. I do not like dead birds. And I do not like naughty children.

Oh so, speaking of naughty children, which I definitely was, Margaret again!! David says to me yesterday, "Do you think Margaret is going to be one of those children who has fits on the sidewalks?" "Ha! She already is!" He sighs. "It's just so embarrassing." "Whaat?! I'm not embarrassed! Margaret should be embarrassed! She's the one throwing herself on the floor?" He sighs again. "Honey. Margaret is not embarrassed."

(Feel free to advise, although know I probably will ignore you: When the crazy curly-haired child throws herself on the ground, most likely because her so, so mean mother wants her to actually walk the 13 feet to the car, should that mother just stand there and probably say something like, "Margaret. You look nuts." Or should the parent pick her up and carry her the 13 feet to the car?)

Best presents: "I got a makeup table!" Lucy whispers, twisting her fingers in excitement. "And it has real makeup. Not fake makeup!" The babies unwrapped new orange ninnies and went absolutely crazy. They are ninny addicts. "Ninnnnnyyyy!" They got hooked on these pacifiers in the NICU in Arlington, and now I have to order them from a medical-supply company in Boston.

What else? Lucy cried the whole way home (okay, not the whole way...exit 7 to 8, NJ Turnpike), "I need Gigi! Gigi, gigi, gigiggigigiiiii." Then she woke up the next morning and said, "Where's Liam?" It is so sad to be just one of three children with semi-attentive parents. She needs adoring grandparents and cousins too. Of course, when Gigi calls, she refuses to take the phone. "How come, if you miss Gigi, you don't talk to her?" David asks. "I don't want to talk to her! I want to see her!"

And what else else? I could not finish John Updike's new book. Blah-blah-blah. It is possible that I am not as smart as I used to be. But I did really like Richard Price's new book about gangs. Pow!

Okay. New Year's resolutions to come later...

The Cookie Monster

2008-12-19T09:56:00.000-08:00

Margaret does NOT like it when you break a pizzelle into two pieces and hand her one.
"Big, big, big, big, big!" she shouts.
Give her a whole cookie and she walks away happy.

Lucy says to Margaret, shaking her head ruefully, "Santa Claus is watching you, Margaret! Won't it be sad when you don't get any presents."

Margaret goes into the family room with two sippy cups. She takes a swig out of one and then offers it to Josephine. Josephine says, "Neh!" and points to the untouched one. "Noooo!" Margaret says, and tries to hide it in her armpit. Josephine reaches out, grabs it, and runs away to the corner, where she perches on a stereo speaker and looks down with a grin. Margaret looks at the one sippie cup in her hand, the one that she's already drank out of, and throws it on the ground in disgust.

Fa-la-la-la...

2008-12-15T18:00:00.000-08:00

Really, I have not felt so busy in a long time.

First, there was my birthday -- which was so long ago, it's almost not worth mentioning, except I did get a gift certificate from my oldest friend on Earth to Restaurant Eve, my favorite restaurant on same planet. And then, as if that wasn't good enough, a certain other somebody delivered a hand-knit pair of socks with appropriately named Three Irish Girls yarn. (All right, truth be told, the girls are mostly Italian. And that's why they stab each other with dagger eyes and then hug each other to the floor.)

Tonight, Margaret got her finger stuck inside her pacifier.
Then the babies got into a fight about something or other.
"Baby!" shouted Margaret.
"Noooo! Baby!" shouted Josephine.
"Mine!"
"Mine!"
"Eeeyeh!"
"Eeeeeeyeh!"

And then, after my birthday, I got a little obsessed with cookies. You know, because of the rat holes on our front yard, I have been convinced that our neighbors think we're... rat people. But we're not!

We're cookie people. The kind of nice, non-rodent-like, jolly neighbors that will invite you over on a Sunday afternoon for 10 varieties of cookies. To wit: pizzelles, chocolate hazelnut crinkles, honey-pecan snowballs, strawberry jam thumbprints, chocolate oat bars, cherry-hazelnut biscotti, coconut macaroons, cornmeal cranberry circles, Italian almond cookies with special candied cherries from King Arthur's Bakery, and cut-out sugar cookies hand-painted and sprinkled by the three little girls.

The chocolate-hazelnut crinkles were best, I think.

Then there's the Christmas shopping, which I can't believe I'm still doing!! What's wrong with me? Lucy and I have been writing -- and re-writing -- her Christmas list for weeks. It says, "Dear Santa, I need some presents. I have been good. Number one, trampoline."

I'm not getting her a trampoline. Years and years ago, I met a fat little boy in Florida who had fallen off a trampoline. He came home complaining of a headache, his parents took him to the hospital for X-rays, where they discovered an enormous brain tumor that eventually killed him. He was a fifth-grader at Bayshore Elementary. And no, the tumor had nothing to do with the trampoline, but I have a bad feeling about the whole thing.

She's getting a "jump-o-lene," which is inflatable, sits on the ground, and has 45-inch high walls.

Speaking of Santa, Lucy continues to get mail from Katie the Elf! She whirls around the kitchen when it arrives, grinning, "Katie the Elf!! She is so, so, so-so nice!" Katie the Elf sent her $5 today.

The other day, I asked Lucy if she wanted to try soccer this spring. She said, "No." I said, "Why not?" She said, "Too much work."

Meanwhile, I ran the Jingle Jog 10K yesterday -- 61 minutes, which is fabulous! (For me.) Mostly, the running has been fine. I found an old pair of tights last week, which I actually remember buying from The Limited in Georgetown Park in 1993. I thought, "Oh! How nice! They still fit!" But it turns out that 15 years exceeds the life span of waistband elastic, and they started falling down after the first block. Imagine running four miles while holding up your pants...

What else? Lucy passed her hearing test. Yay for Lucy! Josephine has reached the 5th percentile in weight. Did I already tell you all that? Yay for Josephine! And Margaret is Margaret. Bossier than ever. She pats the ground next to her and says, "Mommmmmy! DOWN!"

A Girl and Her Butter

2008-12-04T10:31:00.000-08:00

This is not a story about me, although it's true that I really do like butter, especially now that we get it delivered from the farmer. Oh butter! You are so good and creamy and salty!

This crazy book that I've been reading, off and on for a whole year now, called Real Food, encourages people to buy REAL BUTTER. Not crappy yellow-tinted margarine or fuzzy spray stuff. The author swears it won't make you fat. (And this might be true -- because I've been eating it for a year now and I'm not any fatter.) And she also claims it prevents cancer. (Which might also be true, because hey, I don't have cancer either!) (Thank God.)

Anyhoo, this is actually a love story about Margaret. And her butter.

I think it's best told through pictures...*

"You can't take it away from me!"

*Note our horrible kitchen floor. I really do want to replace it ASAP, but I'm glad I haven't yet... since you might also see Josephine's signature in ballpoint pen on the lino.

Are you there God?

2008-12-01T12:51:00.001-08:00

The other day I was driving home with Lucy, who says to me at a red light: "You know, you can't just call God on the phone."

"Nope, you certainly can't," I agree.

"He hears you! Whatever you say, he hears you...In fact, he hears us right now, talking about him! Isn't that funny?"

Lucy learned about God's super Verizon plan at her daycare, which is run by a bunch of nuts. Oh no! I meant Baptists. They're actually very nice -- and I do not object at all to their spreading this idea of a super playground spy named God. That could be quite helpful.

But it all sounds a lot like somebody else we've been talking about...Santa Claus! Who has the same super-sensory hearing. "Do you think Santa Claus brings toys to whiny children?" I ask. "I don't think so. And you know he hears you." Last night found Lucy pointing a flashlight into the night sky: "Santa Claus! Are you there? I want a trampoline!" And then, when that didn't work, she spun into the air: "God? Are you listening? Tell Santa Claus to come see me!"

There is a new Holy Trinity in our house: God, Santa Claus and Poppa, who, like I may have said before, went to school with Santa Claus and now, it turns out, is also good friends with God. Or so says Lucy.

I'm not anti-God, by the way, I'm anti-Catholic, which is a completely reasonable thing to be. (They were anti-women first.) Original sin? Please. Purgatory? Limbo? For unbaptized babies?? Who makes this stuff up?! My grandmother, Nan, used to say that she didn't have a problem with the Church, it was just the men in it. And I see her point.*

But I am thinking about becoming a Unitarian. As far as I can tell, it's a religion that mostly has to do with helping the homeless and learning to Morris dance. I do think the first is a very worthy endeavor. And I might be able to do a book club or something instead of the latter.

Anyhoo, back to Santa Claus, Lucy got the most fantastic letter in the mail last week from Santa! (Or maybe one of his two buddies, see above...) He was delighted to get her old nipple! He was thinking about giving it to a new baby, but then Katie the Elf got her hands on it and now she squeaks all the time in the workshop. Everybody knows where she is! Katie tried to sign the letter too, but she doesn't know how to write yet. She just made a squiggle.

*Important addendum: I do think they've got some things right: for example, demon possession, miracles, liberation theology, Flannery O'Connor, Walker Percy, Graham Greene, and grace in everyday life.

First bell

2008-11-29T12:30:00.000-08:00

So now Lucy wants to be a teacher. And this is the way her lessons go:

"Josephine. Josephine. Say duck."

"Duck!"

"Good job!! Say headband."

Silence.

"Say headband. Headband. Head. Band. Headband. Headband. HEADBAND!"

Silence.

"Okay. You don't want to say headband? Okay. Say blueberry."

Josephine does love a K word. Book. Duck. Cookie.

What else is going on with my Lucylu?

I told her about how I took a spill on my run this morning. "Oh no!" she said. "Did you cry?" "Noooo, I didn't cry." "What did you think?" "I thought, 'Oh no! My hands hurt now! Ow! Ow! Ow!'" "Um-hm," she said. "When I fall down I think, 'Oh no! Where's Mommy and Daddy?' Because that's what children think."

More about what I think...I've been searching and searching the house, which is not that big, for a Haitian sequin tapestry that David and I bought in Key West a long time ago. It's a voodoo mermaid. (A good one, I hope?) I've decided to have a Christmas cookie party for my neighbors and I'm pretty sure I won't have to clean or anything, if I could just find and frame my sequin mermaid. Who would notice the dirt on the windowsill?? But I couldn't find it anywhere! Eventually I decided that maybe I had already brought it to the framing shop and just forgot about it. I sort of vaguely remembered standing there at the counter, talking about black wood. But then my sister and I had just had a conversation about real and imagined memories, and I wasn't sure which this was. The only option was to call:

"Um, hi. This is Mary Ellen...Uh, is it possible that I left a Haitian voodoo mermaid at your shop?" "What?" "Yes, it's a Haitian voodoo mermaid, made out of sequins. It's, uh, a rather unique piece. I can't find it and think that maybe I already brought it to you? But it's also possible this is an imagined memory." "We don't have anything like that." "Are you sure? Do you want to look?" "No ma'am, I'm sure."

In a box, people!! In a flowered box marked "Grandma's china," which I can assure you none of my grandmothers ever were called or owned, I found it yesterday -- wrapped in a plastic grocery store bag. So I brought it to the frame shop today and the guy said, "Ohhhh, you're the one who called..."

Hope everybody had a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Oh! Oh! One more Lucy story, speaking of Thanksgiving. I made a turkey last weekend, well... just 50 cents a pound! And we had it twice, or thrice, and then Thursday, of course, and then Friday... "We just ate this," she wailed last night. "Mommy! We just ate this! You do this ev-er-y time! We had this yesterday!" (Isn't she ungrateful? I slaved over those leftovers...) "Well, when you grow up, you can make dinner and it can be different every night. I, for one, can't wait! Won't that be nice?" Silence. "Yes. But it doesn't help me now."

The check's in the mail...

2008-11-24T16:54:00.000-08:00

I had to do a little business on the Aetna website tonight... (David has lost some of his receipts for medical expenses and needs them to get reimbursed from his flex spending account.) Anyhoo, just for fun, I added up Margaret and Josephine's medical bills to date...

Ready??

Three hundred and fifteen thousand, four hundred and thirty-three dollars.

On the whole, little Josephine has not been such a big bargain.

Can you imagine if we didn't have health insurance??? Like more than 45 million Americans??

Totally unrelated, Lucy just picked up a random photo of her and her friend Anya and said, "I just got married in this picture... (pause) I am such a grown up."

Repeal Prop 8!

Quack!

2008-11-20T18:28:00.001-08:00

The day I moved to Ireland, bags packed and ready for the trip to JFK, my mother stood in the driveway with a new roll of silver duct tape in her hand. "Just take this!" she said. "You might need it."

With that in mind, I certainly wasn't surprised when Homeland Security recommended a few years back that Americans prepare for biological terrorist attacks with a stash of duct tape and plastic sheeting. Duct tape could probably stop climate change, if we could just figure out how to stick it to the sun.

But, a more pressing question: How can I keep it stuck to Josephinie??

My teeny-weeny Josephinie has a plantar wart on her foot. I took her to our lovely pediatrician this week, who referred us to a dermatologist who will almost certainly freeze it off with liquid nitrogen. Aaieee! Since I still have a gigantic scar on my foot from that same procedure, I'm thinking... NO.

My older sister, who is not a doctor, but is sort of bossy, says, "Duct tape!!" (Lucy, by the way, says "Duck tape!!") And, in fact, a 2002 Harrrrvard study found that duct tape -- stuck to your foot for six whole days -- actually works better than freezing! yay!

The problem is, first Josephine takes off her shoe. Then she yanks off her socks. And then, after giggling in delight at the sight of her silvered heel, she picks at the edges of the tape with a tiny little finger, until she can peel it off and stick it to her knee.

Lucy is 4.

2008-11-17T17:43:00.000-08:00

Like Lucy says (to her father, never to me...sniff): "Where have you been? I have been waiting and waiting and waiting for you? It was so, so, so, so, SO LONG!"

Ah. You didn't even notice...

Well. Lucy is 4. And between all of that excitement, plus lots and lots of work, work, work, I've been like a bee. Busy. Not stinging anyone. Or dying with half of my butt in some kiddo's calf. But just busy all the same.

Lucy is 4!! The other day, she picked up a Maxfli golf ball and slowly turned it over in her hands, reading the letters very carefully: "This...ball...can be thrown...by 4-year-olds!"

For weeks before her birthday, she'd stand in front of me, posture perfect, and ask, "Do I look four now?" And I'd say, "Almost!" Now she balances on her tippiest-toes and asks, "Do I look five now??"

It's hard to believe she's 4. That's pretty old. I remember 4, which makes me think: 1) That it's almost the beginning of real life. and 2) I better watch what I say and do around her...

Today, with a little help, she read a word: MAP. Then MAD. And then, she ran into the bathroom, surprising David in the shower, "Where's my Clifford book? I need to see the letters in DOG."

You see what I'm saying here?? She's brilliant!!

She still says she wants to be a doctor when she grows up. But, at the same time, she refuses to accompany the babies to any appointments where they might suffer a shot. She can't stand the crying.

Her favorite book: "I Want to Be an Astronaut."
Her favorite song: "Baby Beluga."
Her favorite, most annoying thing to say: "I tole you!!"

At school, we hear, she is quiet and watchful. She likes to draw big-headed people and put together animal puzzles. But at home, she climbs on the dining room table and leads her crazy little sisters in a stomping tarantella.

Mostly, she is a kind, diligent sister. "Josephinie! If you don't eat your dinner, you'll never get big and fat like Poppa!" or "Margaret!! No taking! You are a very naughty girl!" She wags her finger at her babies and they wag right back, chattering in excited tones, "Nenennenee!" (I swear they're exactly like the monkeys in Caps For Sale.)

Everything that Lucy does, the babies want to do. Exactly. Especially Margaret. Lucy convinces Margaret, at least once a week, to collapse perfectly still on the floor so that Lucy can undress her. The idea is to redress her in some crazy costume, but that part is much harder.

At the same time, of course, my Lulu-love is still likely to fall to pieces when some injustice is committed against her, which happens all too often in this Congo-like state of ours. At those times, she needs her... wait a second! The nipple is gone! Oh, sweet nipple...

"I tole you I needed it!!"

Oh, how Lucy loved her dying Dr. Brown's nipples. One was bad. It had a hole. One was good. More than good, it was like strawberry milk and cuddles and Dol-fin and chicken nuggets with ranch dressing and everything perfect in this world. Back when she was 3, she gave up the bottle. But she clung to the nipple. Squeak! Squeak! It was kind of convenient to be able to hear her, all through the house. But bad for her bite. And we had been telling her for months -- as did her pediatrician and dentist -- that it would have to go at 4.

So we boxed it up and sent it to Santa Claus, who it turns out went to high school with Lucy's Poppa! What a coincidence. Lucy figured it out -- two white-haired heads and two big jolly bellies. They must be friends, right?

Anyway, we celebrated Lucy's birthday a big moon bounce party. Except... through bureaucratic incompetence (what kind of nincompoops work for Arlington County???) the moon bounce never showed up! I wrote a letter, sent it to the county board chair, county manager, etc. Me, at my meanest: "In tight economic times, perhaps the county should focus its resources on services that it actually can deliver to county residents."

Aha! That was mean, right? But I still haven't gotten a response.

In the meantime, life goes on. We bounce around just fine without it.

(Did you see the cake?? Eight turrets!!)

Mission Impossible

2008-11-06T17:56:00.000-08:00

From: M
To: Agents

Re: Trouble on Spy Hill

It is with great regret that I must inform you that Agent 009 has been compromised. On 14:00, 2 Nov 2008, The Woman made a positive visual confirmation of our comrade in arms. Just nose and whiskers, it must be said...but, of course, Agent 009 must be reassigned to another battleground, as soon as his hearing is restored.

This is an unfortunate development for several reasons. One, The Woman had begun to doubt our very existence. Psych ops by The Man, our secret Double Agent in The House, had been so effective that The Woman had nearly been convinced that our extensive tunnel system belonged to chipmunks. (As if! Our idiot cousins couldn't dig a grave!) Consider this: On the day of Agent 009's unfortunate exposure, The Woman was wearing her running shoes without socks -- just inches away from headquarters. Two months ago, she insisted on those ridiculous knee-high rubber boots.

Now, it's likely that The Humans will strike with renewed vigor. I heard The Child ask, "Can Daddy hit them on their backs with Poison Ivy? Then they will die?" (I got chills! What are they developing in their labs??) The Woman is talking about Poison Cookies. Be vigilant, comrades! Do not eat anything that smells good! I am talking to you, Agent 006! Put down the Golden Oreo!

We must expect that The Man will go along with her plans. He is no Philby. But, to date, there appears to be little suspicion around our other secret Double Agent, The Cat. She has effectively tamped down any talk of "Rat Terriers," (good god! doesn't the very name give you the shakes??!) and she should be rewarded with the bodies of chipmunks. Send out cousin Alvin. I am tired of his singing.

Take heart, comrades! We will prevail!

At the polling place

2008-11-05T10:40:00.000-08:00

4:30 a.m. -- Alarm goes off. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pack my breakfast, lunch and dinner, plus two tea bags and three Advil into a shoulder bag and walk into the night.

5 a.m. -- What?! There's already voters here?? And, oh dear... the precinct captain left half of our machines in her living room. Quick! Give the oath! Get back in your car! Hm. I am not the youngest poll worker. There's a girl here with funky glasses and green suede shoes. She screams Democrat!! Mr. Robinson is 81 and he just took a class in computers. I like him the best. James also is retired and has a fake Irish accent. I like him okay too.

The captain is back: Quick! She needs six volunteers to set up the machines. I hide. Machines? Really? Probably not my strength. I hang the signs (very competently!!) and try to figure out who is a Republican. The polling place must have at least one. You, church lady in the red sweater and ugly shoes. It's you, I know it.

6 a.m. -- The line is down the block, past the playground, around the corner. My new job, since I did so well with the signs, is making sure people aren't supposed to be voting in the Lutheran Church a half-mile away. "Hello! Have you voted here before? No? Mind if I look you up?" Some people are insulted. "I've voted here for 36 years!" I see some neighbors. They tell me they have a motion-sensor camera in their backyard and they have a fox and a deer! I have a rat, I tell them. What? Did I just say that? I think I did not sleep enough.

I meet the Republican Party rep. He has long hair and a North Face rain jacket. Even with more sleep, I wouldn't have guessed it. Is this what Northern Virginia Republicans look like? There is a whole bunch of people here from "Protect the Vote" and the Civil Rights division of the American Bar Association. I think they are watching me. I might try to intimidate voters! Stop talking about rat, I think to myself.

After a couple of hours, I come back in.

Aw shit. It's 7 a.m.

8 a.m. -- Lucy is having a moon bounce party, I tell the guy from across the street. Y'all want to come? It's a princess moonbounce party. No need to bring a present. The captain is giving me nasty looks. You can work a machine, she tells me. Machine?? Aie.

9 a.m. -- We are not supposed to push the vote button. If somebody walks away from their machine without pushing the last button, we are supposed to tell the chief and throw their vote away. I think this is mean. I resolve to break state law and help stupid people cast their ballots. I am waiting and waiting for somebody stupid!! But everybody figures it out.

10 a.m. -- Coffee cake. Pumpkin bread. James just got back from Ireland. He loves the Aran Islands. So do I! Phil just got back from China and Tibet. Fascinating. Mary is very sweet. But I think she might be a know-it-all. Her husband John -- sourpuss! (Is it him??) Hal works in the theater. He is offended when I say $80 is too much for the Lieutenant of Inishmore, even if it is great. Still, he can't possibly be the Republican. In theater?? Ed is 81. He used to do the lights in the Smithsonian American history museum. Bob was in the Peace Corps in Minnesota? What? No, North Africa. We figure out we went to the same college. He is amused. We didn't have girls when I went there, he says.

11 a.m. -- We are not supposed to look at people's screens while they are voting. But how can you figure out what they're doing wrong if you can't peek? They say, "It's not working! It's blinking!" and you say, "Um...what's wrong?" And they say, "It's not working!" I peek. Oh, it wants you to vote for two school board candidates, I say. And Obama. Oh no, I don't say that! Ha. "Do I want to vote for a new CRA?" one lady asks. "Well..." I say. (No!!) "If you're not sure, maybe you should just skip it."

noon -- Oh my God. I have been here seven hours.

1 p.m. -- I resolve not to take my three Advil until 5, at least.

2 p.m. -- Where are the voters?? I have a rat in my front yard, I tell somebody. Where exactly do you live, they ask.

3 p.m. -- There are quite a few first-time voters. We cheer for all of them. One lady comes to the polling place straight from her neurosurgeon's office. Something is wrong with her spine and Ed takes her arm, helping her to a voting machine. Another guy shows up and he has the hospital nursery bracelet around his wrist. He just had a baby, I whisper to James. An old man comes in. That poor guy has scoliosis, says Ed. He is bent practically in half and has to raise his head to meet our eyes. And we are sitting down.

4 p.m. -- Oatmeal cookies.

5 p.m. -- I would like the Advil, but I think I should wait. We think there's going to be a post-work rush, but who? This precinct has 2,400 voters -- 700 voted absentee, 700 voted before 8 a.m., and the day has been steady...

6 p.m. -- People come in, shocked that there's no line. One couple says they hired a babysitter for two hours so they could leave their kids at home. Go out to dinner, we say. One more hour!

7 p.m. -- Polls close!! We had nearly 90 percent turnout! The doors are locked. I am trapped inside with 16 old people, one girl in green suede shoes who takes out a book in Latin, and three poll-watchers. James tells me one is a Republican. The guys in the suit. Really? He looks so nice. But he is wearing a suit. I think the Italian kid in the sweaty golf shirt must be some kind of liberal. The old people get to work on tabulation. I am asked to take down the signs.

8 p.m. -- The old people are still tabulating the machines.

9 p.m. -- The old people are still tabulating the machines.

10 p.m. -- The old people are still tabulating the machines. Meanwhile, results are coming in on the suit's iPhone. Virginia is 50-50! Wait until they get our precinct, says James. They're going to call California before they call Arlington, I snip.

The gloves are off. James says that this part of the county is so Democratic because we are so well-educated. The guy in the suit says he's not a Republican, he's an Independent. But the Italian kid in the sweaty golf shirt is a Republican! I would never have figured that. Staten Island, I muse. I want James to straighten him out. Donna says she works for a labor union. But it's just a job. Goddamnit, she is the Republican! The guy in the suit shares more results. Green suede shoes stifles a shriek. You need to try, I whisper. Game face, she whispers back. At least until the sweaty Republican leaves.

10:30 p.m. -- We're done! James drives me home. He lives just one block away and says I must join the neighborhood's coffee club. He says my yard looks much better. I bite my tongue. At home, David is studying the NYTimes map. Virginia is blue! Virginia is blue! And they don't even have Arlington's results!!

Now I can rest.

Look! Three...animals!

2008-11-03T08:17:00.001-08:00

Sharing is such sweet sorrow

2008-10-30T17:23:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, there's lots of conversation in our house. Josephinie calls for "book" -- with a real K! And she yells, "Loooloooooo." Meanwhile, Margaret strung together two words (and two urgently waving arms) when I walked into their room this morning -- "Up! Baby!"

Ball! Baba! Baby!

Cookie! Up! Down!

Mommy! Dada! Kitty!

Meow... Woo-woo!

Still, their favorite word remains NO, and lately I have been getting the feeling that they're using it to mock me. For example, tonight Sweet Josephine grabbed a handful of Israeli couscous and flung it on the floor. "No Josephine!" I shouted. And she says, "Nooooo!" and throws another handful down. "No, no, no!" I repeat.

Does that sound funny? Because Margaret certainly thought so. Although she doesn't usually like to part with her food (seriously), she followed up with a few tossed grains, screeching, "Noooooo!"

For the record, I DO NOT SCREECH.

I think I'm firm! Not amused! "No, NO, NO!" I say. And the echo is deafening! "Noooo! NO! NONONONONO! Neeeeeeh! Nah! Nah! NONONONON! NOooooooOOOo!"

So, basically, I have no control over any living thing in the house. Josephine writes on the wall! (Years ago, when Lucy was a baby and friends would give us Mr. Clean and Magic Crayons and all that kind of stuff, I would laugh (on the inside, in a superior tone), thinking that, please, no child of mine writes on the walls! And now God is punishing me for my condescension. Yes, He is.) Tonight, they spread brown rice on the carpet. Isn't that some kind of torture in Southeast Asian countries? Being forced to kneel on rice? Are they setting traps for me??

Margaret has these fierce little bouts of foot stamping when she doesn't get her way. She kind of reminds me of one of my sisters. I'm not sure I should say which one... You really only have to say, "Margaret! You need to share." And as soon as she hears that SH... she yells, "NO!" and stamps her foot. And then I take away the (harmonica, Goldfish crackers, Dora ball, cell phone, Dole fruit cup) and she falls to pieces, burying her head in the couch cushion and crying. "It stinks not to have everything your way," I sadly agree.

Lucy says, "Poor Margaret. You have to share."

Josephine grins. Then points, and occasionally will bring Margaret a pacifier.

In other news, tomorrow is Halloween!

David carved a Dick Cheney pumpkin!

One skunk, one bride, one blogger

2008-10-28T08:32:00.000-07:00

Information overload! Too busy to blog, too scattered to remember what I want to write about... and who suffers? Not me. I have chocolate on my desk. You? Probably not that, either.

1) We went to Boo at the Zoo on Thursday night with some friends. Lucy surprised all by deciding not to be a princess, instead preferring to be a skunk. (I said nothing!) Josephinie was a kitty cat; Margaret was a dog. But it sounds nicer to say puppy. She was a big hit, either way. Total strangers said things like, "Look at that cutie-pie!" The dog costume has a whole lot of padding in the tushie and I think people like fat squishy things. (This is my personal theory and I am sticking to it. Fat babies, fat puppies, fat pillows, fat slices of pizza, etc. I know I am right.) Funniest thing we saw: A sign in the farm that said, "The donkeys are scared of your costumes. Please exit here."

Do I have pictures? No.

2) Then a whole bunch of old friends came to town on Friday, and I couldn't have been happier to see them (especially since I was weaseling out of a ticket when they first arrived. Thank God! Alex, tell the officer I'm not a bad person) These are people who I go waaay back with, pre-children, pre-husband, pre-any sense in my head. The way it is now, I mostly pretend to be a non-judgmental, not-so-bossy, mostly sensible kind of gal. But they all know me well enough to just such things as, "Just tell us where we're going to dinner."

Do I have pictures? No.

3) The wedding of the new century! It was absolutely luffly. The bride was stunning. The mini-beef Wellingtons were delicious. And the setting? We were overlooking Barack Obama's new house! Inspiring. And then the d.j. played Sweet Caroline! What more could you ask for? Oh, I know, another piece of cake, please. This time, chocolate. Thank you! (Wait! Oh no, we can't leave now. They're playing Journey!!) I'm hoping I did not embarrass myself when I screamed, "You Catholic girls wait much too late!"

Do I have pictures? I don't! I am a lousy blogger! I'm hoping maybe somebody will send me some and then I'll post more...

Addendum

2008-10-24T14:27:00.000-07:00

#3: We do not write with toothpaste on the wall! Thank you.

Two things I've said today

2008-10-24T12:18:00.000-07:00

1) We don't stick crayons up our nose!
2) We don't touch poop! No, no, no, we don't!

Millenials: Listen to me

2008-10-20T18:51:00.000-07:00

I spent much of yesterday afternoon at a local university, talking to would-be interns for my office. Almost all were delightful! Plus, they catered pattypan squash and baby zukes with artichoke dip...

Some advice for the job seekers:

1) I love your sequin scarf! I really do. And I think the nose stud is... inevitable. But your exposed belly? Honey, it was 41 degrees this morning. Now I think you don't have any sense.

2) While we're talking about clothes -- I can't wait to tell my husband that I met a boy with a 28-inch waist and a 34-inch inseam. He will be jealous, I know it! (Not because, I hope, he wants to meet a boy with a 28-inch waist...) Wait a second! How do I know your waist measurement?? Hm. New pants, huh?

3) Finally, you -- the volunteer EMT -- you're creeping me out with your rapid, loud insistence that the job is "so much fun." And interesting? I ask. "Oh yeah, and really fun," you say. "Probably very rewarding too," I hint helpfully. "Yeah, it was just really fun," you repeat. Okay, really? Because when I call you because my beloved is dazed and bleeding, I don't want you to show up and say, "Wow! What a fun call!" But I'm such a downer that way.

4) Shake hands firmly. If your hands are sweaty, go wipe them on a cocktail napkin over there by the artichoke dip. (I'll let you in!) Don't give me that creepy fish handshake. I hate that!

5) When you say you're Greek, I think about hummus. Not Alpha Zeta whatever. And then, when I figure it out, I'm not nearly as excited as I was when I thought you might bring tabouli to the spring potluck.

6) If you eat all the artichoke dip, I'm not giving you nuthin either.

While we were gone...

2008-10-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

The other day, Lucy said to me, "While you were away, Gigi was very very nice. She gave me strawberry milk whenever I wanted it." Pause. "That was very very nice."

"I'm sure it was," I said.

"Yes. It was. Very, very nice," she wistfully agreed.

With that, I began to sense that our trip was more sweet than sour for the girlies. Then, this morning, Gigi herself, also known as Ma, called. "I forgot to tell you! I know what the girls really really like to eat!"

"What's that?"

"Pound cake! You cut it into cubes and top each cube with a squirt of whipped cream. Just pop it into their mouths! They love it!"

"I'm sure they do!"

"Yes! They do. They really really do," she agreed.

In the meantime, Josephine has broken another cell phone! She threw mine on the floor last night in a fit of pique. "Harooo? Harroo?" "Goddamnit! Nobody's there! Stupid useless phone. Eh. Give me those scissors instead please."

Hola!

2008-10-16T11:31:00.000-07:00

Barcelona was lovely.

The highlights:

A "hopeful" cod (English menu translation) swimming in ink. ("Please! Come rescue me! I can not see my fate through this squid's pee! Are you heeeee....") One plate of buttery garlic cockles, served at a cramped bar with a bottle of vino rioja. (Says David, glumly: "I know something is really good when you forget to share it...") One plate of pulpo and fried papas, i.e. octopus and potatoes.

And a fabulous dinner, start to finish, of things I could not possibly describe because I was pretending to speak Spanish to the waitress and didn't understand a single word. A tiny glass with an anchovy anchor, a layer of pear paste, and a sea of frothy cream? A slice of corazon with blah-blah, blah-blah? (I nod, as if to say, "Of course! Delightful!" David pauses. "Um, corazon? Like heart?" The waitress nods and says, "Is... uh? Goat cheese??" Hm.)

We took an elevator to the top of La Sagrada Familia, Antoni Gaudi's great unfinished cathedral, and walked down through sickening spiral staircases, in front of a Spanish family. For 400 feet and fifteen minutes, all I heard was, "Fernando! Aie! Fernaaaando!" I told David, "Never would we take our girls up here." Lucy would insist that she be carried the whole way (crying) and the babies would gambol away. (Did I use that word right? It sounds right.)

One day, in Montserrat, I rode in a cable car! Eeeeeee!

Every other store is a chocolate store, a shoe store, or a women's underwear store. The first two were incredible. The third? Eh. Really? That much? For something my friends at work can't see??

The markets! Eight kinds of clams, still waving their wet feet in the air. ("Save me! Save me!") Next to big bloody fish, their skin stripped back and eyes glistening. Next to a school of gaping sardines. Next to a long row of beautiful cheese! David and I bought some Manchego and a crumbly fresca, and then a leg of dried salami and a bunch of pears, to picnic at Parc Guell.

Of course, I missed the girlies. (Need it be said?) I ducked into every Imaginarium in the city... But it also was nice to travel exclusively in the company of adults. Don't people say the test of a relationship is travel? Hm. I would say my honey and I do okay. First, he lets me pick all the restaurants. Second, I don't particularly mind trekking around neighborhoods and ogling such thing as "bicycle lanes." (He does drive me crazy with picture after picture of intersections!!)

Here, my kind of photo essay instead:

Hasta la vista!

2008-10-06T07:03:00.001-07:00

We're off to Barcelona! All three girls have been left in the capable hands of Gigi and Poppa, which means there will be lots of meatballs, fried rice, and hair-combing for them and lots of tiny sausages and fashionable shoes for us. (Well, me.)
See you in a week!

Gifted. For sure.

2008-10-01T18:11:00.000-07:00

Back before the babies were born, in the days of specialists and death threats, there was one particularly bad day that still stands out. I had gone up to Baltimore early in the week for the usual battery of Doppler forecasts, which always pointed to some kind of Category 4 hurricane churning in my belly. And then, I went to see the pediatric cardiologist at Georgetown, who did his own measurements.

I came to like and respect both of these doctors very much. (And I'm pretty nuts about doctors. And schools. My two pet peeves.) But the latter, the cardiologist with awesome toys and Vineyard Vines ties, had some not-great news. One of the babies, he said, wasn't getting enough blood to her brain. Well, what the hell does that mean?? Eh, I'm not a brain specialist, he said sadly.

Quick: On to the phone with Baltimore. Where Dr. B. said confidently, "Absolutely not!" The blood flow was fine, he insisted. And he added, a little snarkily, "It's very difficult to get accurate measurements." Between the two of them, we never really got a straight answer. But, of course, we were able to imagine (say, at 4 a.m.) just exactly what it meant: One of the babies would have brain damage.

So, now they're here, and they're what.. 19 months old? Good grief. And the thing is, I can't remember anymore who was supposed to have brain damage. It could have been Josephine, since she was pretty much deprived of everything, but it also could have been Margaret, since she did have more significant heart issues.

Anyway, of course I have been watching them closely for any sign of stupidity. And it has been somewhat troubling that Josephine refuses to speak. While Margaret chatters on and on and on -- Coooo-KEY? And sings her ba-ba song: BaaaBA! Babababa! And her Mommy songs... Josephine does not. The other day, David said to Josephine: "Josie, say something!"

And she stuck out her tongue.

So, she does understand... yes.

But then, last night, at 3:10 a.m., I heard a loooong wail. The sound of a baby with a wet diaper. I opened the door, Josephine popped up and said, as clear as day (which it most definitely wasn't): MOMMMMMY!

She speaks!

And Margaret... well, yesterday, David caught her talking to her reflection in the chrome garbage can. She popped her pacifier out of her mouth, offered it to the funny Margaret in the mirror, and said, "COO-Key??"

We're going on a bear hunt!

2008-09-29T17:50:00.001-07:00

So, we took the girls on a camping adventure this past weekend! To a "rustic cabin" in the woods, about 30 minutes from home. Let's see... aside from the battalions of killer mosquitoes and the constant sound of gunfire, I'd say it was great fun.

Yes, gunfire. Little did I know that Bull Run, the campground, was next to Bull Run, the shooting center. "I think I hear fireworks!" Lucy said excitedly. Hm. The "rustic cabin" had a microwave and mini-fridge, so we weren't exactly roughing it. But it did require a walk through the woods to pee. "Are there bears in these woods?" Lucy asked.

"There are no bears in Virginia!" I said. "They live in New Jersey."

"New Jersey..." she repeated thoughtfully.

We joined some friends from the old neighborhood, who left us briefly on Saturday afternoon to go to Target and McDonalds. (Just our kind of campers!) I think our au pair, who is German, and consequently, most resourceful, was sort of horrified that we cooked our dinner in a crock pot. But we did make s'mores over the fire (which she very capably tended.) I'd say Lucy's favorite part was the camp store (which sold out of bug repellent in 3.5 hours) and offered rubber snakes, but no real ones. (Rats! I know you're there! And I'm going to hire a snake to kill you!)

David took some pictures... To come, I promise!

In other news, I have new evidence that I need to clean the house more often. Tonight I took out the Bissell carpet cleaner -- damn you, ranch dressing! -- and Lucy and Margaret spread out a blanket a few feet away, sitting and sipping their respective milks (warm baba for M, strawberry sippy for Lu), while watching with fascination. "Look! We've never seen this before! She's cleaning!!"

Where were we?

2008-09-23T17:22:00.000-07:00

Better question: Where was I?

In Nebraska!!

I know. That was a tricky one. I flew out Sunday for a whirlwind work-related trip. The highlight: A visit to this lady's house, where I got to meet such a sweet little bunny, who hopped to the door with a big toothless smile and chocolate on her face. What a cutie pie! I hope my three crazy girlies will be so delightful when they hit the big old 5.0. (The secret, I suspect, is that the little bunny has such lovely parents, who so warmly welcomed this stranger (in inappropriate shoes) on their doorstep -- and even fed her bacon pizza.)

It's a funny thing to read somebody's blog and think, oh wow, she's so witty! and smart! and thoughtful about the world that she lives in -- and then actually meet them in person and think -- well yes, I was right.

Anyhoo, to recap, I went to Nebraska wearing my red huaraches. I meant to bring my Clark Artisan sandals as well. I forgot.

But everybody in Nebraska was so very nice that I think they didn't notice. Either that or they figured I was some kind of East Coast hippie who thought it appropriate to wear bright red Mexican sandals at ALL TIMES. (I also forgot my deodorant, which probably didn't do much to dissuade said impression.)

What else? I saw prairie grass. And corn fields. I did not eat a locally famous cabbage burger, but I did devour homemade tres leches cake with confetti jello on the side. I went 36 hours without eating a single fruit or vegetable, unless you count tomato sauce. (Reagan would. I would not.) I gained four pounds. (How is that possible??) I met one darling 5 year old (see above), and a whole classroom of darling 4-year-olds. Said one little fellow who sported a whiff of cologne and a thin gold bracelet: "I'm Giovanni. I'm funny."

All in all, I was feeling pretty good about Nebraska until I got on the plane ride home and ended up sitting next to a lunatic old lady wearing five shirts (at least three of them spotted with yogurt??) who talked my ear off for nearly 3 hours. She told me, more or less, that she didn't like immigrants. But I do! And not just for the cake. Native-born Americans are hardly clamoring to work the kill floor at her local meat-packing plant, I pointed out. Then I couldn't hear her, mumble mumble, "of course the Jews owned it."

What?? I exclaimed. "Well, it was a kosher plant, so of course the Jews owned it," she explained. Hmm. She went to the bathroom for a long time. (A heroin addict??) But once back, she immediately launched into national politics. She loves Sarah Palin. She's so straight-forward! So personable! "You're not having her over for dinner!" I shouted.

"I have to take a nap," I said calmly.

I close my eyes. She tugs my sleeve. Seriously! "But what about the 190,000 Iraqis dead because of this stupid war?" she asks.

Two hours later, I find out she's really from Iowa.

The girlies were delighted when I returned. Margaret says, "Mommmmmy! Mommymommymommy!" Josephine giggle giggles and bit my shoulder. And Lucy sat me down in the big chair for a quick read and snuggle.

But I love my little changeling

2008-09-19T09:29:00.000-07:00

The other day at dinner, after Josephine bared her teeth at David, then giggled ferociously, and then sweetly gave a single green pea to Margaret, he said, "Do you think she's an elf?"

Well, this is certainly a possibility.

"Do you think maybe they thought, 'Well, they won't really notice?'" he asked.

While it is true that the two babies look an awful lot alike, especially with the crazy hair, they also are different in significant ways. And much of it could be explained if we were to believe that the fairies came into their room (the windows are often open!) and dropped off a changeling.

Her pointy little chin, for example. And her ability to speak to the animals. Her scant appetite and penchant for shoes. Fairies love shoes! Also her funny little way of suddenly appearing with contraband.

"Where did you get that nickel???"

"Neh!"

"That's right! No money for babies!"

Giggle, giggle.

Her lack of conscience! Fairies are notoriously guiltless.

There is only way to find out for sure. Throw her into a fire. If she's a changeling, she'll burn up. (This is what people say! It's not my idea!) But no, no, no. No. NO. I don't want her to burn up, changeling or no. We love our little fairy baby. (A good Halloween costume? Hm. I was thinking monkey instead.)

How'd I get on this mailing list?

2008-09-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

I got a new clothes catalog in the mail yesterday -- Tracy Porter? Ever heard of it? It appears to cater to middle-aged mothers with lots of money, flocks of white geese on their big green lawns, and a penchant for olive silk and silver sequins. (This is not me. Geese?? Try rats. Oh yes, I know you're still there. And I'm going to kill you.)

For example: See right. Tracy Porter herself tell us, "Yes, those little wild men are ours...And yes, it's a ruckus when they're in the tub! Does the bathroom get soaked...? Pretty much. As for me in silk blouses...Let's just say I'm quick on my feet." And she should be, since her "notions of rapture silk blouse" is $225. (I swear, she uses the ellipse nearly as much as I do... and I don't like that!)

Even better: See left. "date night... ...[two in a row?? really??] when John & I steal a moment away from the divine racket that our sweet spirited boys so gleefully blast us with while we are home. I know you know....." [Yes, five dots.] Like Mrs. Porter, who changed her name, I see...I do like date night. But I rarely wear a $265 glimmering tunic, paired with $185 silvered jeans and $290 "star-gazing stilettos" to the movies.

As far as I can tell, Tracy Porter is a real person(a) who lives in Wisconsin with her husband John and four sons, and designs her own clothes. (And models them in videos on her website! That part is kinda cool.) But I'm not sure. Is Ann Taylor a real person? Is Johnny Boden?

Ha! So how did I get on this list?? I just know my subscription to Ireland of the Welcomes is the reason we're hearing from St. Vincent de Paul and his peeps. And I suspect that my Cook's Illustrated magazine is the reason we get all that mail for those poor people with obsessive-compulsive disorders. But this... Did they purchase a parent list from our overpriced DC-area music for toddlers class?? Hmm.

I'm just jealous, of course.

Turn those machines back on!

2008-09-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

With the recent news of Lehman Brothers' bankruptcy and the dismal reports that my own 401K sends me periodically, I'm wondering if I should try reading Business Week instead of People. I mean, is it bad that everything I know about the markets I learned from Trading Places??

Lucy plans ahead

2008-09-13T10:28:00.001-07:00

"Maybe someday we'll get a dog," I say to Lucy. "A dog?" she repeats with great interest. "But not now," I hurriedly add. "There is somebody in this house who would not like it at all! And that's Kitty Cat!" "Oh yes," Lucy agrees. "She would say, 'oh no, oh no, oh no!'" Lucy pauses. "But maybe when Kitty Cat dies... then we could get a dog." "That's true. Maybe then," I say." Silence. "But I think I'm going to die when Kitty Cat dies because we are both 3," Lucy points out. "Oh no! You're going to live a lot longer than Kitty Cat! She's a cat and you're a person. She might live to be 15, but you'll live to be 100!" I tell her. "And then you'll be dead," Lucy adds. "Yes. I will be dead," I say sadly. "And then I will be a Mom," Lucy says. "Yes! You will be a mom!" "And the babies will be big sisters!" Lucy continues. "Wha? No, the babies will not be big sisters. They'll still be your little sisters." "No. They won't." "Yes, they will." "No, they won't." "Yes, they will, Lulu. Even when you're 42 and they're 40, you'll still be their big sister." Silence. "But, when you are dead, I will be their mom. I will take care of them," she explains. "Ohhh. Well. What a relief! I'm glad you'll take care of them," I say. "But you need to show me where things are," Lucy says. "You mean like where the grocery store is?" I ask confused. "Yes, and where the shoe store is. They will need shoes," Lucy says. "Okay. I'll show you. And you're going to cook dinner then?" "I don't know how to cook dinner!" Lucy protests. "Well, you can go to restaurants," I assure her. David steps in: "Mommy can teach you how to cook!" "No," Lucy says flatly. "We're going to restaurants."

And I had the veal.

2008-09-09T17:42:00.000-07:00

What's wrong with me? Every Christmas I take the girls to the UConn cow barn, where we let the babies suck happily on our cold fingers, and chew on our sleeves with gummy mouths, and leave their foamy white breath all over our LLBean fleece. Oh, that one is a frisky one! Ooh, and this one is so shy... What a sweet little cow!

And then. And then! I eat them. Yes I do.

Usually just once a year for Christmas Eve dinner, which is sort of like a native whale hunt. Special dispensation for tradition. So I don't feel guilty. I'm basically ordered to participate by the tribal Chief, who is known regionally as Ma. But this year, oh-ho! David and I went out last weekend for our anniversary (that would be the sixth anniversary, traditionally celebrated with candy, iron and sugar -- please see: molten chocolate cake with artichoke marmalade and sugar-spun mountain. Yes, artichoke marmalade!)

Here.

I had the radicchio salad with gorgonzola and pears. And the aforementioned chocolate cake with artichoke marmalade. (yummy. really!) And, in between... the tender baby cow stuffed into raviolini.

Anyway, I don't feel much guilt -- mostly I am proud that I haven't descended into real cannibalism. Because, if I could, like not so much if we were in a plane crash in the Andes, but more like if I were crazy, I might actually eat Margaret. She has such nice meaty thighs! If a baby cow is delicious... wouldn't she be even sweeter? Braised? (or has her delicate milky flavor been ruined by Oreos and tomatoes. Maybe so. yes. definitely. Oh! What a relief!)

"We'll eat you up we love you so!"

Name that quote and I'll give you a smelly marker.*

Lucy is too big to eat. And Josephine is too skinny. She's like the goblin in "Hungry, Hungry, Hungry" -- a book that we bought in Ireland a couple of years ago. "Why have you got such skinny wee thighs?" asks the wary little boy. "Hungry, hungry, hungry!" shouts the green goblin. Then, when the goblin threatens to eat him, the child kindly offers him a jelly bean instead. Answers the goblin: "That will do nicely. Thank you very much."

Oh, what polite company!

Anyway, back to the cows...

We also had the olive oil ice cream. V. nice!

*I won't really give you a smelly marker. One, that's a really easy quote. You haven't really earned it... Second, I use them to self-medicate for work-related ADD. A little yellow is quite invigorating.

More from Lucy

2008-09-09T12:30:00.000-07:00

"My batteries are dead!" she says, as she bicycles up the *slight" incline around the corner from our house. "You have to push me!"

"Your batteries?? Where are your batteries?"

"Inside my legs! In the bones. Right in the middle. And right now they're dead," she concludes sadly.

More on poop

2008-09-05T10:04:00.000-07:00

Uh-oh! I smell something stinky! "Margaret! Do you have a poop in your diaper??" She shakes her head, says, "Neh!" and points to Josephine, who is climbing on top of the Dora kitchen to sit in the sink and rattle her pots. "Josephine! Margaret says you have a poop in your diaper!" Monkey jumps down, grabs her tushie between her little hands, and skedaddles out of the room, giggling wildly.

And she does have a poop in there!

The babies have colds. I have to put them to bed with their headbands on... otherwise they wake up with that crazy hair glued to their cheeks with snot. You curly-headed people know what I mean, right?

And here is what Lucy says, "If you don't make me strawberry milk, I won't be your friend." Oh really?? Girlfriend...

Things I have learned about Germany:
They don't eat cookies.
They like whole-wheat bread (of course!!)

odds and ends

2008-09-03T11:20:00.001-07:00

Let's see.

Lots has happened since August... Margaret has a new favorite word. It's coooKIE! And Josephinie has a new favorite word too. It's WOOwoo! (Like the little barky pugs who live next door.) And Margaret has a new favorite song, which goes like this: Baaaa-BA! Baaa-BA! Bababababbaabba! BABA! And Josephine has a new favorite song too, which goes like this: Neh! Neh! Nenehnehenheh!

Still no sign of conscience from her.

We spent a little time over the long weekend with friends at the hippie-dippie pool. Who are these people who let their kids run around naked?? Shame on them. And I know, even though they're making noise about diaper rashes, that they're just lazy with red sangria.

Finally! Our not-so-secret suspicions that Margaret and Josephine actually ARE the cutest babies on the earth have been validated. We let them out of our sight for a minute. or two. And they're surrounded by paparazzi!

What else? We celebrated Mema's birthday with mini-muffins and crepes. And we -- that is, *I* -- continued my assault on the English ivy in the front yard. Don't worry. I wore my hurricane boots, which are impervious to sewage, acid and rats. I think, THINK, that maybe when our yard looks better, our neighbors will talk to us.

And... Lucy started a new class at school yesterday, one where she says, "There are no naughty boys." Well. Thank goodness for that. (Last week, I went to pick her up and there was a boy on the playground who announced, upon my arrival, "Where's MY stupid mother?" Um. "Excuse me, do you know which class that naughty boy is going to be in? Is he going to be in Lucy's class? Because I would prefer not," I patiently asked THREE teachers, before one reassured me that no, he was going to be in a special class for naughty boys who disrespect their mothers and who shouldn't be anywhere my sweet Lucylu with that kind of attitude. We don't need that in our house! No we don't!)

Okay. That's it.

Well... I hope you're happy now.

2008-08-29T11:12:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to update my iPod (any recommendations?? Cynthia came through with quite the running mix the other week. Lots of great new stuff to keep me going... although I have to ask, "Michael Jackson?? Really??)

Anyway, like I was saying, while I was updating my iPod and looking through our music library, I noticed that somebody (obviously our former au pair) listened to the song "Misery" by Pink exactly 192 times between March 9, when it was added to the collection, and June 26 at 4:38 p.m.

Wow. That's a lot of misery.

Mothers behaving badly

2008-08-28T11:57:00.000-07:00

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming, my favorite show: "Good Mommas Gone Bad."

The first segment will feature the hippie-dippie mom who yanks her pre-schooler from the Waldorf school -- the Waldorf school! -- when a teacher tells the child that she can not push kids on the playroom. Protests mother, "She has a Constitutional right to push other children! This is not Guantanamo!" Next, mother announces plans to "unschool her child" (I swear to God, I have this on good authority, namely my friend Meg), which means she will not be forced like some kind of factory worker to show up on time, sit at a desk, and learn addition. You don't hardly need that anyway if you decide to pay for dental services with more genuine commodities, like whole-wheat bread.

Second segment: Sort of like the hippie-dippie mom, but more likely to wear leather, this segment features the wealthy suburban mother who wishes her nanny could be forced to work more hours because, goddamnit, she just doesn't know what to do with these kids and she's trying, really, to use what she learned in last month's parenting workshop... Set on a North Arlington playground, we watch as the suburban mother's son bops his friend in the head. The friend cries. The son sceams vindictively. The mother approaches and says to her little felon, "You sound frustrated." [Step one: Acknowledgment.] And then asks, "Do you want to tell me why?" [Step two: Supportive inquiry.]

Third segment: Mothers who think they're perfect, sit back and talk smack about their peers. The worst! (Note to producers: Make sure we get them with Miller Lite in hand. And the dirt on their children's faces!)

Happy Half Birthday, Babies!

2008-08-26T11:50:00.001-07:00

The babies are 18 months old! Someday soon, it may no longer be appropriate to call them babies, as in, "Bath time, babies!" Or, "Hey babies, want a snack?" Or, "Babies! Stop eating the cat food! I mean it! I am making dinner!"

I think they might be the babies for a long time.

Anyhoo...what's going on with these girls?? So much. Except weight gain. The stats: Margaret weighs 23 lbs., 8 oz. and Josephine weighs 20 lbs., 4 oz. (That would be the third percentile...) On the bright side, that means we can finally turn Josephinie's car seat around! Yay! (Truth be told, we turned it around last month. All the other babies were making fun of her. "Nyah-nyah, you're backwards!" Sigh. It really wasn't very nice.)

I wish I knew how to attach music files to these kinds of things, because we all could listen to My Girl Josephine by Super Cat. It goes like this, "My Girl Josephine! Don't be mean! I know that's your bite mark on your sister's shoulder -- because, even though she can't talk, I recognize those teeth marks from my own shoulder! Yeah, yeah, yeah. Diddy-dum."

Josephine gives love bites, I think. She crawls up to the tippy-top of my shoulder, with a big right-foot boost on my left boob, and then she squeals "I made it to the top of the world!" and... chomp! Aie!! No biting! And then she just giggles. Giggles! Really, she has no empathy. And she doesn't listen. And she doesn't feel bad. Even though she is tiny, I think she is secretly in charge of everything. And she's a little like Kim Jong Il.

She's still more cautious than Margaret. She looks at people like, "Okay. I'm looking at you... and I'm not sure I like what I see." Until she does, and then she giggles like crazy. She's a wacky little monkey. Proof: she climbs and she likes fruit. She likes fruit more than cookies! Oh, Josephine, you'll never get fat if you stick to strawberries...

She loooves the animals. Goats, sheep, cows, doggies, kitties... She and Margaret have been trying to say, "Meow!" But they can just manage, "Owww! Owww!" And when they see Kitty Cat, they strike up a chorus of injury. Owww! Owww! Owww! Our neighbors just got a pair of pugs (cute, but barky), and Josephine stands by the chain-link fence... come on, puppies! I love you! I just want to... Puppies!! Come here!

Her second favorite thing is books. She'll carry one over -- current fav is My First Kitten, Touch and Feel -- and dump it in my lap.

Margaret thinks all that stuff is interesting too... But eh, not that much. Here is what Margaret likes best: ME! Finally! Somebody sees how wonderful I am!! This means I can not leave her sight (which is difficult -- what with work and all). She even claims my lap while I sit on the toilet. (Too much information?) The other day, she waited outside the shower, weeping pathetically until I emerged dripping. Oh, big blobby baby!

She stands in the kitchen, wraps her fat arms around my knees, and rests her head between my thighs. I have to pick her up. I have no choice. It is not easy to make dinner with a 23-pound baby in your arms, but it is probably good for my biceps. (Maybe I can wear a sleeveless dress to Cynthia's wedding in late October!! Yes! Can I? Or will it be too cold...)

Margaret still mostly gets what she wants -- because she is BIG. Lucy says so, all the time, "Margaret and I are big. Josephine is not." But occasionally Josephine will steal something away from Margaret and run off, holding it tight to her chest, delighted! And then Margaret will howl at the injustice. It is terrible to be big and denied.

She likes dinner. But when she is done, she clutches the points of her high chair and says, "Duh? Duh?" But mostly she likes people. When we go to the playground, she wanders over to groups of children and stands there, looking all hopeful: "You'll talk to me, right? And we'll play, right? I will be a very good friend, I promise!"

She does not like to be yelled at. It makes her very very sad.

She's probably a better talker than Josephine. In fact, I think she even says Josie. It sounds like this: "Yo-yee!"

So, happy half birthday Yo-yee and Margaret!

Barbie, would you like some cheese?

2008-08-22T13:17:00.001-07:00

Dr. Lucy got her first real Barbie doll this week, a gift from, of all people, her preschool teacher! (Good God, what are they teaching her there?? I shouldn't be surprised. This is, after all, the same place that refuses to recognize BOTH of her last names.)

Anyway, our conversation went like this:

Me: I think Barbie is tooooo skinny.

Dr. Lucy: No she's not!

Me: Oh yeah? I don't think she eats enough.

Dr. Lucy: Yes she does!

Me: What does she eat??

Dr. Lucy: Hmm.... carrots.

Me: Carrots? Anything else?

Dr. Lucy: Carrots!

Me: Yes, I know she eats carrots. Anything else?

Dr Lucy: .... and mushrooms. She eats mushrooms too!

Video killed the radio star

2008-08-20T08:37:00.000-07:00

I've long wondered whether the NPR correspondents have fictitious names. I mean, come on? Snick Paprikash? Quetzal Levine? Now I am certain. This morning I heard Alistair Leafhead reporting from Afghanistan.

A note from management

2008-08-20T04:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Workers,

I'm the new boss. You can call me Dr. Lucy.

You all are very nice! Thank you for showing me pictures of your dogs and babies. Together I know we can accomplish great things! But first I would like to make a few changes.

1) Yesterday's staff meeting was a lot of fun. I really liked it when I made a yellow Play-Doh snake and then crushed it under a red smelly marker. From now on, everybody must come to staff meetings with their own tubs of Play-Doh and at least one smelly marker. We will all make snakes! We will name them after the old bosses! And then we will smoosh them!

2) Let's talk to the tech guys about switching our home page. I want everybody to be able to play that Elmo game, the one where he says, "Elmo has to use the potty!" And then you get to send him to the potty by pressing any key on the keyboard. (Which one is the any key? Which? Which???! No! You are not listening to me! Which one is the ANY key??? Okay, Mommy says it is L.)

3) More candy machines! And mandatory nap time for all. Mommy says we get smarter while we sleep. This will be useful, right? Let's make sure that guy over there, the one who doesn't understand why Mommy needs another four weeks of vacation this year, gets put to sleep for a loooong time.

4) I understand you all write stuff? For some kind of magazine? No more writing. Not everybody can read! From now on, all these "words" will be replaced with Highlights-style hidden picture games. And then we can use the smelly markers again!

Okay, that's it for now! Time for lunch!

One Long Island Iced Tea, please.

2008-08-18T18:00:00.000-07:00

I was reading the drink menu at Cafe Luna the other day and it offered, "Our take on the once-sophisticated Cosmopolitan..." Whaa?! Note to self: Do not order the Cosmo! You will appear to be a 36-year-old mother of three who hums Sweet Caroline to herself and reminisces about the Irish Times circa 1992.

Anyhoo, I got out of the house again on Sunday (two days in a row! good god!) and went to this place with the masochistic classics book club. (War & Peace: Page 512. Still not bad.) Again with the cocktail menu...what's this? Muddled sage leaves? Auntie Pamela scoffs. You don't know?? Public service announcement to the other old ladies: Sage leaves are the latest thing.

And I found out just in time, as our 14-year-old natural-gas fueled air-conditioning unit has totally crapped out, leaking fluid like a poisoned rat (not that we've seen much of those around here lately. Alas.)

The new unit: $5,800.

Oh, waiter?

The queen is dead! Long live the queen!

2008-08-16T18:18:00.001-07:00

Lots of change in the castle these days. Last weekend, our au pair fulfilled the terms of her year-long sentence, was allowed to leave the dungeon, and received parole to a halfway house in Maryland, which is probably new construction. Her new warden is a 27-year-old new mother with a French manicure and a husband named Josh, and I think they'll all be really happy together. Of course we will never forget her. (See: Giant coffee stain on the carpet.)

Aie! On the one hand, it really was a little bit sad. She'd been living with us for a year, which is not a short time, and I did very much appreciate that the babies loooved her. On the other, every single day I would come home and find a small round sticker 0249 Apple Washington State stuck to the side of the kitchen sink or counter top. I would scrape it off, carry it to the garbage, and think... not very nice thoughts. But that's petty, isn't it? See, I am petty. I should just be thankful. Practice gratitude!

Anyway, the new au pair is German. We may have discussed my insane preoccupation with the German people. Well, thankfully it turns out I was wrong. It's actually the French that I don't like. (I'm kidding! Kidding! Mon dieu.) Anyhoo, I don't want to commit myself to any hopeful feelings but so far I will say that I think she's lovely.

She likes: Green grapes, blue cheese, H&M, and bicycling.

I like: Oh, my God! The exact same stuff!! almost.

One interesting thing: We have had a little problem with mice -- mice! not rats! -- in the basement dungeon where our hired help is forced to live. We are slowly killing them with 50-cent snap traps and peanut butter. (Eight down... 149 more to go.) David is the appointed (but reluctant) executioner. To avoid accidentally touching dead fur during disposal, he ties a long piece of floss to each trap. Clever, huh? Anyway, this was a pretty disturbing process for the old au pair... But the new au pair? This weekend, she opened the sprung trap herself, shook a broken body into the garbage bag, and set it for Mickey #9 without blinking.

And she sings!

(My grandmother -- the Irish one -- used to like to talk about what a catch my brother was. She'd says, "He's so good-looking! And so smart!" and then she'd add -- with lots of emphasis, "And he sings!")

In other news, I went to the very best bridal shower on Saturday. Clotted cream! How lovely! When I got home, Dr. Lucy, Esq., asked all about it. "Did Auntie Cynthia get lots of presents?" Oh yes. She even got cake sprinkles! She nodded happily and then asked, "And was she running all over the place?"

"Yes! But there was no moon bounce."

"I know that!"

Pause. "She's a grown up!"

I said Eureka, not Leica!

2008-08-12T09:50:00.000-07:00

Faced with yet another awesome splatter of pink, orange, yellow, green, purple, blue AND brown Play-Doh sprinkled across our carpet like Parmesan, David picks up his camera and embarks on a new modern art project.

You tell me: Was that the appropriate reaction?

From the County Fair Board

2008-08-11T10:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Mary Ellen,

Congratulations on your second-place finish! Contrary to your wicked husband's report, there were many more than two entries in the fruitcake division. We think there were 200! More or less. In any case, the judges (except for the junior judge from Cherrydale, who was rushed to Arlington Medical after her face pretty much doubled in size, right there in the exhibit hall... perchance were there toxic sulfites in those apricots?) were truly delighted by your extensive list of dried fruits. Mangos are good luck, no?

We felt obligated to give old Mrs. McGillicuddy first place, but mostly because we know she has cancer. (Next year, it's all you!)

We also want to congratulate Auntie Pamela, who turned out to be the very best knitter in Arlington County!! (We understand she's never actually made anything for you, not even the felted ball necklace that you asked for TWO YEARS AGO, so you will just have to accept our word: She's very good!) We did hesitate to give her the biggest best-in-show ribbon (her health is quite good, after all...) but we felt rewarded when her screams of joy reached the top car on the Ferris Wheel.

Thanks for participating!

Lucy says...

2008-08-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

Dr. Lucy, Esq., has been vacillating wildly of late -- between a super-competent Miss Clavel on the one hand and the miserable victim of untold human rights violations on the other.

Every morning, she sneaks up on David and I, an old Dr. Brown's nipple hanging from her lips. Squeak! Squeak! Oh, good morning my little mouse! She demands a spot in the bed -- "in the middle!" And then she waits for sounds of life from the babies' room. Aha! Hop!

"Hello babies!"

The scream with delight.

"No screaming!" she says sternly. "Or I'm not coming in!"

But then, oh dear... Margaret pushes her down and Josephine steps on her hair and it's just too terrible to bear. The hysterics! On our way home from Cape Cod, stuck between the two tiny terrorists for hour after hour, Lucy finally exclaimed, "You are hurting my feelings!!" Dramatic pause.

"You are breaking my heart!!"

Another funny thing: While we were up there, Lucylu relied on my 18-year-old niece to carry her over the 6-inch deep tidal pools and then announced, "Sarah saved me from a watery grave!"

She hates to clean up. She loves lipstick. She says she has scary dreams -- last night it was about Ursula, who might be a seamstress?? She makes up her own songs, and can write her own name, and likes to play games with letters and words. But she can't possibly sleep by herself. "Do you remember when you stayed with me the whole night? At Cape Cod? That was amazing..." She still likes olive loaf. But she has changed her mind about squash. "I liked that when I was just a baby. I'm not a baby anymore."

She says she can't be best friends with her best friend, who is black. "I have to be best friends with somebody white," she says. But why, Lucy?? She can't explain. No, nobody told her that. That's just the way it is. Yesterday she took my hand at school and proudly exclaimed, "I got the elephant hose today! I did just what Daddy said. I said, 'Sylvie, it's my turn!' And I got the elephant hose!"

I wish I could remember everything she says because it's all so funny. I forget too much.

She's getting big. And she tells me so all the time.

But I hear your whispering just fine...

2008-08-05T09:01:00.001-07:00

Something is wrong with my ears. For several days now, they've felt... strange. Hm. Lucy's ears, on the other hands, after very minor surgery on Friday seem to be just fine.
Is this what happened to Vincent Van Gogh??

My weekend

2008-08-04T06:28:00.001-07:00

Before you jump to conclusions about Josephinie's sleeping habits and the benefits of a little Captain Jack at bedtime -- for me, of course! (Although I did have a friend whose mother admitted to spiking his baby with a wee bit of Guinness...) This wasn't for drinking.

Behold. The fruitcake.

Aha! Tricked you again. That's a professionally staged fruitcake. Mine is still under wraps (three layers of Saran to be specific) on the top shelf of our pantry, where I hope the sugar addicts who live in our house (i.e., the au pairs -- mine and one who was tossed out of her own house this past weekend) do not sniff it out. It will be delivered to the fair this week. And then, this weekend, it will be judged the finest fruitcake in all the land.

Believe!

Anyway, it's too late, but what do you think about the Jack Daniel's?? Should I have sprung for the Knob Hill? (Not to point fingers, but Auntie Pamela has a bottle of top-shelf Maker's Mark in her kitchen -- and she refused to share it! Unless I brought a straw.)

As it was, I shopped at three different stores for the ingredients -- four, if you count the new Williams-Sonoma lemon-shaped pan. (V. cute.) Originally I had hoped to buy the finest of dried organic fruits at Whole Foods, but then I realized that they don't look nearly as appetizing without the appropriate toxins. For example: Organic dried apricots look like those pig ears from PetSmart, while regular old poisonous dried apricots are a pleasing orange color. (The judges must assume their own risk.) Also, I couldn't find dried pears anywhere, so I threw in dried mango instead. And I didn't have a full cup of sugar (are the au pairs eating it with spoons??) so I had to use a wee bit of light brown. Additions, additions...

What else? The vomiting did stop on Saturday. It was prolonged somewhat by the appearance of super-boogie baby summer colds, which have caused all sorts of unseasonal nose-streaming, coughing and wheezing, but I think those are getting better too. (Again, you judge the fruitcake at your own risk...)

It's midnight: Do you know where Gigi is?

2008-07-30T12:48:00.001-07:00

Since we've returned to the Dickensian-style boardinghouse that we call home (thank you to Cynthia for pointing out the Victorian nature of my night-time parenting), we have had some... sleep issues.

While in that Eden that some people call "Cape Cod," Josephine and Margaret were gently rocked to sleep every night by a fairy grandmother with incredible patience for their leg-kicking, I-will-not-sleep, this-is-too-exciting antics. In the middle of the night, at the first whisper of hysterical crying, she'd gallantly appear: "I'll take her." And one little cuddle-bunny or another would settle into a cozy queen bed between Gigi and Poppa.

Sooo, yesterday, I'm sitting in a staff meeting. (Greenhead flies, I miss you. Even as your loving nips have barely stopped oozing, I admit: I'd rather bear your demon attentions than sit in this damn conference room.) Anyway, I'm sitting there and I realize -- I smell like baby puke.

Oh, Josephine!!! You need to go to sleep by yourself! I can not rock you and Margaret, and then also lay down with the ever-pitiful Dr. Lucy, Esq., every night. I have to wash the dishes. And scrape Play-Doh. And read the new New Yorker. Oh, and sleep! I need to sleep too, kiddo. But my smallest child, she doesn't agree. And, like some kind of tiny Buddhist monk with no access to matches, she stages these vomit protests.

Night-night, Josephinie!

Scream! Scream! Cough! Cough! Puke.

Three nights in a row!

Anyway, these kind of guerrilla tactics might work with the Chinese, but they're not working with me. Your kinder, gentler America ended at the Sagamore Bridge. (Seriously, please stop throwing up. You're killing me.)

Back from the beach

2008-07-29T12:22:00.001-07:00

The worst of the worst:
Did I say it would be a 12-hour car ride?? Ha. We tried out a new route, one that was intended to steer us away from bright lights and through the less trafficked roads of eastern Ohio (I am only slightly exaggerating), and it took 14 hours. We ate mushy peas in Scranton, PA. And the DVD player broke.

This is Lucy, asleep with Dolphin. I don't know why she's blindfolded, but I suspect it's because the traffic around her was such a disturbing sight.

The best of the best:
Who knew that the babies would like the beach so much?? When Lucy was a little baby, it was like she'd watched Jaws in utero. She refused to let her feet touch the sand. Aaah, it's killing me!! She screamed at the seaweed and she'd nearly climb on your head if you dared bring her into the surf. The babies, on the other hand, mixed their Cheerios with sand and gleefully ate it all. They charged into the water, grabbed hermit crabs and tortured them by pulling their little bodies out of their shells, and they kicked, kicked, kicked us as we tried desperately to keep them in our arms. "You don't know how to swim, Margaret!" Yes, yes, yes, if you'd just let GO OF ME, MOTHER! "No, you don't, Margaret! You are a baby!!!"

Margaret on the beach:

Josephine on the beach:

The food:
One lobster roll.
"Can I have more of that pink stuff?" says Lucy.
Two seared diver scallops with pureed celery root.
Three stuffed zucchini blossoms.
Twelve Wellfleet oysters on the half shell.
Lots and lots of fried eggplant. My favorite!
And here, the best birthday cake ever:

Yes! That is a gummy shark that you see!

The reading:
Oh, Maureen Dowd. I'm sorry I couldn't finish your book. I completely, whole-heartedly agree that the current trend toward anti-feminism is disturbing as hell. I do dislike (as much as you do) the new little Mrs., who traded her Yale degree for a cute apron from Anthropologie. (And can it be true? Did you really find an L.A. playgroup where the women introduce themselves with this question: "Tell everybody what your husband does!" Because that makes me a wee bit sick.) But still, you depress me. And I don't want to be depressed on vacation.

So, instead I read War & Peace. Not all of it, but I'm making good progress. It's for my crazy book club -- I had suggested Gone With The Wind, mostly because I thought we could go to Georgia Brown's for dinner, and it wouldn't take too long to read. Instead I got Tolstoy.

The biking/running/hiking:
David did a yeoman's job of carrying around three children on one bicycle. (What an ass! Get it? Ha? Ha? No, not funny. You're right.) But I carried the bag of snacks. Yes, I did! And juice bags are not light!

The running was quite nice. I had some sandy routes past big houses, and a paved route past the beach. I took the babies on one run and Lucy on another, and it turns out that it is possible to push them in the jogging stroller. So now I think I'm going to try to find a 5K (a flat one!) this fall to do with two out of three children.

I'm a little paranoid about ticks. I think Cape Cod is like the capital of the world of Lyme Disease, but we did get into the Audobon Wildlife Sanctuary one day and found all sorts of fiddler crabs, waving their arms furiously at us. (I have a joke about Rome in my head, but it's not worth writing down.) Anyway, Margaret thinks it's more fun to hike upside-down.

And here's Lucy:

Also, because I promised my niece, here's a picture of her with the girls, who do absolutely love her to death. This is not our boat! I wish.

And we're off!

2008-07-10T18:42:00.001-07:00

Yep, that's me. And that's my brother on the right. This photo is... oh, maybe 32 years old? And I know exactly where it was taken -- because I'll be there tomorrow! We're off to Cape Cod in the morning. First, we suffer 12 hours in the van. Then, we celebrate two blissful weeks!

The first week it'll be just us and my parents, and then my sisters and brother, and their respective spouses/children, will join us. Chaos! Seriously, I think it's fabulous for the girlies to spend time with their cousins. When I was a kid, when we didn't go to the Cape, we vacationed on this kind of dirty stretch of Long Island Sound, in a little beach community where we rented one house, my father's brother rented another, and his sister rented a third. We used to come and go between the houses, but mostly ours (because my mother is the best cook, hands-down). And the memories!

This was actually a private beach (they're all private down there) and it was known as the Irish beach. But a little further down the coast, separated from our beach by a little cove, was the state beach. You had to pay to get in, but it was public. One day, at low tide, we decided to wade across the cove. It took forever. And then when we got there, we were kicked out by a ranger, which is sort of funny when you think about it.

Anyhoo, by that time, the tide had risen. So I decided to walk around the cove with my little brother, and one or two of my cousins who also decided they would rather brave the railroad bridge (yeah... very Stand By Me) than try to swim across. But my cousin Ciaran -- who didn't know how to swim -- decided to go back across the cove! So there he is, neck-deep in the poop-infested water, screaming, "I don't know how to swim!" to passing boaters. And, of course, they thought he was kidding... He was very fortunate that my Uncle Bill happened by, in a little boat that sank a few days later.

"Uncle Bill, the Kerry Ann is under water in the marina. Again!!"

"Goddamnit!"

What else? We spent a lot of time trying to catch crabs with raw meat. My cousin Brian would beg his aunts for chicken parts, which he craftily hid in a garbage bag in his closet. When his mother finally found them one morning ("What the hell is that smell?"), she actually chased down the garbage men in the street, bag held high, Brian right behind her, screeching, "Maaaa! Not my bait!!"

We ate a lot of blueberry cake. We played some kind of game that involved throwing tennis balls at each other's butts, as hard as you could. We shot off bottle rockets. Once through our neighbor's window. One day, during a rain storm, lightning came through the window and rang our telephone! Oh, and another day, my brother and I were swept out to sea in a rubber boat, but fortunately rescued by Mr. Carbone, who owned an Italian restaurant in Hartford. (Why wasn't he at the Italian beach? Well, thank God he wasn't!)

We went fishing for eels, which was disgusting, and sometimes involved walking through the woods at night. Once, my father pretended to be a bear and Ciaran started crying so hard he had to go home. (And he still likes us! He really does.) And we made fun of my Uncle Bill because he would cut the sucker end off the sand worms before baiting his hook.

We avoided jelly fish. And hot pavement. It was possible, we figured out, to walk to the beach entirely on grass and cool water pipes. When we got sick of the beach, we'd bicycle to the video arcade and play Frogger. We begged our parents for quarters -- and then for 65 cents when the ice cream truck came. It was possible, back then, to get a Strawberry Shortcake bar for 65 cents. Ohhhhh...one day, I ate six Strawberry Shortcake bars and then I got covered in hives and had to go to the emergency room for a shot.

Good times, baby!!!

Anyhoo, I won't be here for a while -- see you all in two weeks!

My Heartbreaking Works of Staggering Genius

2008-07-09T11:18:00.000-07:00

Actually, I hated that book. Ugh!

But I'm not talking about Eggers and his self-indulgent muck -- I'm talking about Margaret and Josephinie, who stunned us all with their age-appropriate abilities today! We had another appointment with the "play doctor," as Lucy calls her, and she put the girlies through the regular battery of developmental tests.

How do they approach three Cheerios in a thin-necked bottle? With great eagerness. They love Cheerios. First they shook it. Then they brought it to me. No help there. Hm. Then they tried to suck them out! (That was funny.) And finally, after crouching down and examining the problem from yet another angle, they tipped it over! Woohoo! Tumbling Cheerios!

What else? They stacked blocks, fed their baby dolls, emptied cups and filled them, and carefully placed pegs into holes. They scribbled. They ate their crayons. (That was NOT so smart.) They turned the pages of Brown Bear, and Margaret even pointed to the Purple Cat and said, quite clearly, "Kitty Cat!"

With that exception however, their weakest abilities are verbal. (How could that be??) They're a bit better at receptive language than expressive, and apparently that's actually more important. (Again, how could that be??) But we'll see. Maybe they'll pick up a few more words in the next few weeks.

I'm aiming for Mama, Dadda, and chocolate.

Whirled Peas

2008-07-08T17:21:00.001-07:00

Tonight at dinner Margaret stuck a green pea in her nose. It was half in, half out, and of course I told David to get the camera, quick! But then she took her little finger and poked it in her nose, poke! poke! Oh dear... I tried to get it out. But no. She'd shoved it halfway to the medulla oblangata. She coughed and coughed, cried, eeeeeh! "Yes Margaret, I know! You have a pea in your head!" and then... ACHOO!!! That pea flew out of her nose like a giant gas-powered snot! (And then, because I really do care, I snatched it away before she could pop it in her mouth.)