Rubbed the wrong way

This weekend, CC is in Louisville, KY to support her husband as he participates in a triathlon. Not an Olympic, or "Intermediate" triathlon of 1.5 km swim, 40 km ride, and 10km run; but an unholy trinity of the Ironman triathlon of 3.8 km swim, 180 km ride, and 42.2 km run. I wish him luck.

I was gonna participate this year, but y'know, I'd die.

However, I DO appreciate the efforts towards fitness and healthy living. And, since I'm suffering through an hour-plus long carpool every afternoon, I've run out of excuses why I can't exercise. I can easily park my car, walk for 40 minutes, and return before the line moves an inch.

But my inertia is of Herculean strength. Being of good sense, I decided not to a) rush into anything and b) set reasonable expectations. I am totally one of those people who, in the event of rain and a missed walk, tosses in the towel, claims all is lost, and eats two dozen cookies. My goal is to walk three days a week, which I consider a very modest exercise goal.

Also, being of good sense, I had to do first things first: buy some clothes in which to take my walks. The Spring Hill Walker's Uniform is standard issue to women in the 36608: visor/cap, formfitting v-neck or tank top, black and white running-type shorts, ipod, shoes. Being both anti Spring Hill Women, and not a walker, I had only the ipod and the shoes. I have a cap from when I was at Northwestern. It'll do. I bought a cute walking skort, v-neck shirt, and made the shopping trip Monday's exercise.

Next, I had to actually walk. I parked my car and, indeed, walked for the designated time by myself through the streets surrounding the boys' school. Despite heat rivaling Satan's sauna, things were progressing satisfactorily.

Except. Except for one mortifying detail. My thighs, having not been exercised regularly in the last 35 years or so, rub together. And, in this devil's steam room of a climate, there is substantial sweat. After a brisk walk, my thighs boasted giant strawberries from chaffing. That was nearly it. As I said, it doesn't take much to discourage me. And certainly matching rashes on such delicate skin and so perilously close to my under-manicured nethers, are no small matter. Wednesday was out.

Thursday, on my way to carpool line, I stopped in at the drug store because I'd heard tell of a new product that reduces chaffing. Embarrassingly, I had seen it on TV. I think it's made by Gold Bond and the ad features heavy-set people happily throwing up their arms, skipping, and moving their limbs jauntily, freed from the discomfort of chaffing. Maybe, though I lack significant creases and folds, the anti-chaffing product could work for me.

Unfortunately, drug store did not carry said product. HOWEVER, they did carry a similar product, made by Massengill (?!?) that might suit my needs. The product isn't with athletic products like Icy Hot, or with skin remedies like Caladryl, or even with lotions. It is conveniently located with the feminine hygiene products. So, there I am, scouting past Astroglide, powders, douches, condoms, lube of all varieties, remedies for ewwwww, and lo, there on the bottom shelf. Silky gel to reduce chaffing in the "delicate bikini area." My bikini area cheered with optimism.

I lubed up my thighs and prepared for my walk. In the heat. Alone. But then, I saw SB and LE, and suddenly my lone trek was a laughing, upbeat trio. The walk was less boring, the company enlivening and I was (shh, it'll ruin my rep) having fun! And my lady bits didn't complain at all.

Friday, however, rain prevented me from achieving the hat trick I was aiming for. But I'm not giving up hope. Monday will come again, and I will oil up my thighs and start anew.

Time travel with the Beav

Note to 21st century self: tablecloths, linens, and other merchandise are available online. All the time.

Note to 18th century self: you'd make a shitty bride. You carry no dowry, you can't carry a tune, and you can't sew worth a lick.

I haven't blogged since Sunday for many reasons, but mostly because I have gotten crafty. Sadly, I don't mean Fantastic Mr. Fox crafty; I mean hunkering down and trying to make crap myself crafty.

Project #1: Fix pillows. Annoyingly, I ordered custom pillows when we moved here (Aug 2007?) and they took 6 months to make (economy was better then, EVERYONE had custom pillows). Not long after I got them, the seams split. I mended them. They split again. (See memo to antique self). I finally got tired of stuffing the stuffing back in and repaired them. They're SO FLUFFY now. Check.


Project #2: Recover box valances for guest bedroom and S's room. Since I painted and redid these rooms, I thought I'd pick a more unifying fabric for the valances. Besides, S was not going to abide Lightning McQueen much longer. I found great (CHEAP!) fabrics. Unfortunately, I got a stripe for his. Do you have any idea how freaking hard it is to work with stripes? Grrr. The downstairs got a big floral with a cute trim. It's SO FLUFFY! S's went up easily with M's help and we got super cute black roller shades, that cost marginally less than the arm and the leg required for roman shades. His room turned out super. Downstairs will require husband help this weekend. It's almost transformed, that effing bedroom, from usable bedroom to flood zone to storage hellhole, to usable bedroom again. Sheesh. Check.

Project #3: cute tailored tablecloth to cover world's ugliest table. My Columbia friends might recall WUT. It was in in the living room, had a marble-ized top, and 3 fugly goldfish-tattoo-y looking things on the base. I chose a neutral burlap fabric for some texture and started out on my quest to hide the WUT.

For those of you who (wisely) do not craft or sew, here are some lessons learned.

1. Who the hell managed to invent the sewing machine like a hundred years ago? (Actually, prior to that, per Wikipedia. Howe patented his in 1845, and since he's American and that's all that really matters, I'll go with him.) Seriously? It's so freaking complicated, I can barely thread it and run it. In fact, sometimes I can't do that. Bobbin? What kind of sadistic accessory is this? It tangles, unwinds, frays, jams, and just when you think you're sewing, the mother is out of thread.

2. Sewing is tedious, detail oriented business, best reserved for people with patience.

3. Sewing requires math skills. I lack math skills.

4. A seam ripper should be purchased at the same time as any sewing machine purchase. Expected ratio is 3 rips for each seam sewed. But, as you can see from #3, that estimate might be off.

So, one day this week, 21st century me and 21st century friend, MT met for some decidedly mid-20th century activity. She brought her sewing machine, I dragged out mine, and we parked them at opposite ends of my kitchen table. She sewed on Brownie patches for her troop. I wrangled with the effing burlap. MT is incredibly neat, well-organized and patient.
I am not.
I was cursing and sweating, and MT, with the exception of slight frustration of her clear thread, had her machine humming along smoothly. I mean the woman bought CLEAR THREAD, for pete's sake. That way, she wouldn't have to change thread for each patch. Hello? They're Brownies. Use brown thread. Their den leader isn't Martha Stewart is she? Are 8 year-olds going to notice? Care? But, no. MT struggled through her frustration and had 6 or 7 neat little vests with perfectly stitched and tidily arranged little patches on them. Fittingly, all the patches represented all the crafty little skills her daughter's troop had mastered.

I wrangled with the effing burlap. I was not a Brownie.


We ordered pizza and ate and visited. MT ironed her little vests, and for a moment, I swear I was hallucinating in black and white

Annoying. I mean, I am sewing, and ripping and sewing and ripping, and cursing and sweating. And MT is sewing on patches like June Cleaver. Dammit. I nearly broke down and ordered online:

But, I thought, if a 12 year old in Malaysia can make this for $194, then I can make it for $3 a yard. As it turns out, the 12 year old Malaysian would make a hell of a 17th century wife.

Today, two days later, and lots of cursing and starting over, I finished. I'm not photographing mine. It'll have to sit right under this professional photo, and I won't subject myself to feelings of inadequacy and failure. To sum up, I approximated the results for $12 and 16 hours of my time.

MT, I salute you. You make a rockin' wife in any century. Me?



And can't sew a lick.

It's all about perspective

This has NOT been a good week for me, as you know if you have Facebook. There were missed appointments and failed chemistry, over-schedules, under-schedules, nourishment mishaps and general chaos.

By Saturday, I was nearly fetal, rocking in the laundry room, wondering what the hell had happened. The week started off okay. Boys went to school, things were good. And by Saturday, the laundry had clearly embarked on a breeding program that pandas should learn from, the domestic Lego factory has exploded, S is drawing on walls, and my brain chemistry is about as stable as Chernobyl.

Getting to total insanity isn't an instantaneous leap. It's a journey. Wednesday certainly represented stop 1. At that point, it finally became clear that E needed a haircut. Unlike S, whose hair is fine and wispy and curls only at the ends in a most charming 1970s, Greg Brady sort of way:

E's end-of-summer hair is all thick and unruly and not so much attractive, and may have some sort of avian nesting in it, a la high school Greg.
I always cut the boys' hair. Usually, everything turns out ok. But, I think because the cut involved a total reshaping of their hair, things got out of control. In a hurry. The boys look like they encountered a strung-out Flowbee in a back alley.

Flowbee 1, Boys 0.

Unfortunately, the bad haircut epidemic spread like Swine Flu. M's normal easy-peasy clipper 'do looked more like Wrigley Field's checkerboard outfield than hair. While a groundskeeper would have been proud, M is not terribly fond of the effect for the first day of classes.

In the end, they'll have to do what everyone with a bad haircut has to do: wait. Wait. WAIT for it to grow.

At least I learned my lesson for the week. I pretty much gave up after that. I started no projects, undertook no crafts. Because, apparently, when you're off, you're really OFF. The bad news for E is that I didn't figure it out until his hair looked like a cross between Adam Lambert and Calvin.

Yup. That's about it. Poor thing. Oh, well, I don't feel TOO bad about it. And this probably makes me the worst woman, mom, human in history (well, maybe not worse than Hitler, or Attila the Hun, or whoever invented reality TV) but It's not my hair, after all.

If it were MY hair, this would be a MAJOR EFFING TRAGEDY.

Julie P: Live from the sandbox!

We are all trying to settle in to our new school routine. Things are different, not only from summer, but from last year. Obviously, there is only one carpool now: instead of dropping of E at 7:50 and S at 9 and picking up S at 1 and E at 3, M is taking the boys to school in the morning. Together. I stay home. That's a big change, kissing everyone goodbye and then turning back to pick up the kitchen. I don't have carpool responsibility until 2:15, when I go and sit in line for an hour. And, according to experienced moms from our school, even that is going to improve.

I have lunches to pack now. We are going through A LOT of snack-type food. I have less laundry as uniforms are the order of the day. Lots of small differences, but the biggest is that chunk of time I have to myself (sorta) in the middle of the day.

People have begun to ask me what I "do." Unfortunately, most of what I do is menial and not so mentally engaging: after the kids leave, I make beds, blog, pick up, run wash. I have been meaning to get on the treadmill for 15 minutes, but the pile o' crap testifies to my inactivity. I go to the grocery for dinner (yes, daily), run an errand while I'm out. Come home, eat a lunch, chop and prep whatever for dinner, pack the cooler for the kids in the car, and go sit in carpool for an hour. I usually take a nap during the carpool wait. I grant you, when someone says she has time for a nap during her day, it's not world's most stressful existence.

But, I think what people mean, is what do I "do" to bring meaning to my life. What do I plan to do now that I have two school-aged children? This is a challenging question. What is my next step? It is an identity crisis for sure. Am I likely to get all into working out and develop a rockin' body and run a marathon? Not so much. (Stop laughing, CC). A lot of my friends have creative or professional careers which have allowed them to go back to work and dictate their own schedule. I do not have a professional degree, and it's really hard to demand a 10 to 1 schedule at the Gap. Plus, I am lucky enough not to HAVE to go back to work just for the salary. If I found something rewarding that would still allow me free afternoons and summers, I'd be curious. But I'm not desperate. And I'm not complaining about that luxury, believe me.

I could become overly involved in my children's lives. I could stay home all day and make homemade pasta and homemade sauce and home baked bread and wear an apron and be chained to the stove. The only one who would appreciate that, though, is M and even he'd be like, "uh, you might wanna go out some more. This is great and all, but you're lookin' pasty." And, the kids STILL wouldn't eat their dinners, and I'd be bitter and fat from tasting.

I could hover around the school all day, and while I sincerely want to be helpful to my kids' teachers as well as to the moms who ARE dedicating themselves to the school, I can't bring myself to do it. I want the kids to have some domain of their own.

I could become a lady who lunches. One of those women who takes like 3 hours to get dressed in the morning and then meets her equally well-coiffed friends for a luncheon (with martini, natch) that takes 2 hours and then goes and gets her kids and does drive thru for dinner because she's "exhausted" read: "drunk." But, while that's a great once in a while activity for me, it's hardly my day-to-day.

This morning, at breakfast, though, I had a glimpse of what could become a career path. First, some background: Sunday night, M and I watched the Comedy Central Roast of David Hasselhoff. Mental note: No matter how much mock-celebrity I attain, I will never allow myself to be roasted. And while the whole thing was amusing, most of the show featured stand-up comics making fun of one another. Destroying each other, really. And while it was funny, M and I had to continually check the doorways for little eavesdroppers. Because funny, yes. Family-friendly, really Really REALLY no.

Back to breakfast: the boys and I were sitting around talking about whatever, and I mentioned it would be funny if Wolverine went on vacation. He'd pack, and then he'd get to the airport, and he'd put the 33 cents change in his pocket in the little tub at the security checkpoint. Then he'd go through the metal detector, which would freak out. He'd take off his belt, and then go through again. The alarm, of course, blaring. Then, he'd be subjected to the manual wand scan. The little wandy thing would start smoking as it moved over his entirely metal skeleton. He'd try to take out the TSA dude, but then there'd be a security breach, and the boys and I would be looking at our gate information and all the flight status would flicker down the screen, Delayed, Delayed, Delayed. Just our luck, we'd be at the same airport as our bezerk Adamantium-boned super hero. And I'd be all, "hey choppy hands. Wanna slice some limes for my margarita? We're gonna be here a while."

The kids LOVED it. They were rolling. So, I'm thinking there's a niche market for a kid-friendly stand up comedian. I could start with birthdays and bar mitzvahs and work my way up to my own prime time (the coveted 5 PM slot) Disney Network special. I mean, I KNOW I'm funny about pubic hair-dos, and martinis. Maybe I could be funny about Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers in a non-ironic way. I could open with some Phineas and Ferb references. Make fun of Grover, a total washed-up Sesame Street Has-Been. Get 'em rolling with my Gru voice. Do a little physical comedy with my "It's so FLUFFY" remix:

I mean Eddie Murphy went from "Raw" to "Dr. Doolittle." And Patton Oswalt does some FILTHY work, but also voiced Remy from "Ratatouille." I could be the next kid crossover star.

Friends with kids who have September birthdays: I will be testing some material and offering free shows through the end of the month. And to my friends, I'll be sampling some stuff with your kids. Tell them to be honest though, because I don't wanna bomb to an audience of 6 year-olds. I'll take on bigger audiences and maybe work the public school circuit during rainy days. Eventually, I'll be doing gigs for those parents who host first birthday parties and bat mitzvahs with $1000 cakes from the Ace of Cakes.

Then, one day, maybe I can host the Kid's Choice Awards. Trot on stage to cheers and applause. Give some gentle, no cursing ribbing to Spongebob. My kids will be all, "that's my mom. She totally wasn't room mom, but she ROCKS it." So, please. Book your birthdays now. When I'm big on national cable TV, I'll thank y'all. The Little People.

A lesson on appreciating what you don't have until you have it

Stop me if you've heard this one before....2 kids walk into their bedrooms....

(Drum Roll)

...And don't sleep!

Last night, I slept so hard, and so thoroughly, that at one point I had to pee, and did so without completely waking up. My dreams were epic-length, and good (for a change) involving Hawaii and mai tais. When the alarm went off this morning, I felt stoned, deep in sleep.

All of this, of course, is refreshing. But it only happened because of the hellish night before:

At around midnight, I hear S coming down the hall. He is pulling his gigantic down comforter across the floor. I can hear him dragging it, not because goose down is especially noisy, but because it is laden with Lego pieces and it is slowly shedding them on the hardwood. I hear S awkwardly open my door knob (door knobs are tricky when you should be asleep) and proceed into my room, thumping down on to the floor by my bed. I hear Clooney sigh in confusion? annoyance? fatigue as S tackles him, reels him in and grasps him in a headlock.

Silence returns.

Moments later, I hear E's door open, E's "stealthy" footfalls on the floor, traipsing into my room, attempting to climb over his brother, and into my bed. I whisper-yell him onto the floor, "down there, with your brother. No room up here." The Clooney sighs again, S scoots to a side, E tucks in under the comforter.

Silence returns.

Clooney begins to whimper and cry. He is hot. He hates being stifled under a giant dead goose, and wants to be set free. I whisper-yell to S to set the dog free. His paws click click click over the hardwood, mute as he travels over the rug, and click click click again as he looks for a cool place to stretch out.

Silence returns.

I have to pee. Navigating the bodies on my floor, I proceed to the bathroom, slam my shin into an open drawer, and stare confusedly at the empty toilet paper dispenser. Half-sleep is no time to be looking for refills. Kleenex it is, then.

Silence.

S wakes up and panics when Clooney is no longer in the broiling death grip. He rises, and searches the room for his furry sidekick. His whisper calls to the dog increase in pitch as he begins to panic, and whisper-yells at me: "Clooney's gone. He ran away."

While I am too befuddled to explain that Clooney lacks apposable thumbs and therefore is unlikely to have escaped from a house where the only exits have door knobs, I stammer through a guarantee that in fact, the dog surely must be home.

Stumbling. Searching. More looking for the dog. "HERE HE IS." As expected. I hear, in the dark, Clooney's put-out sigh as he is again captured and returned to his own personal sauna.

4 AM. Suddenly, I am awake. Very awake. I remain this way for 35 minutes before dozing off again.

6 AM. Alarm. My sleep, awkward, interrupted and shallow, is over. I round up dopey children to start another day. Another in a seven-year-long string of cranky days caused by irregular, unreliable sleep.

The children are difficult to rouse. There is a Hansel and Gretel trail of Legos leading from the floor-comforter back to S's bed. The night of musical chairs has taken its toll. Perhaps, but not necessarily the most annoying thing happens as M rises:

M goes into E's room and calls, "E must have slept in S's bed last night." M's footfalls proceed down the hall to S's room: "Wait. There's nobody in here, either. Where is everyone?"

Not only had he not heard the night's busy goings-on, he managed to walk by the little bodies on his way to rouse them. While I can't quite put my finger on why, that seems unfair.

What's your style?

I don't venture into this territory often, but it seems to have come up a lot in conversation lately. When you start reading this, you're gonna be like, what the hell conversations have you been in lately?!? I'm thinking this might be a poll, which I haven't had in a long time, either and that's fun. Finally, I know my parents read this. And worse, M's family reads this. So, ew. Anyway.

I was watching Wanda Sykes' HBO special, which by the way, I LOVED. She does a shtick where she describes a trip to a day spa. And the cosmetologist gives her a bikini wax. And Wanda describes in great detail the process of the bikini wax, and how the pain was so intense as the woman ripped off the paper, she reflexively smacked her hard.
So, this gets me thinking. I've never had a professional bikini wax. Odd? True. Not to say that I don't think personal grooming is important, just can't imagine a stranger ripping out my pubic hair.
Then, on HBO's Entourage (perhaps HBO is a bad influence), Turtle is attempting to hook up with a woman, sees that her nethers are shorn like a summer sheep and balks. At our house, the completely shorn nethers are known as a butterball, because of their similarity to a raw, plucked turkey. Turtle explains that he's familiar with the landing strip, and the Hitler, but not the butterball. Johnny Drama then informs us that the landing strip is SO 1990s. The butterball is now.
I am of two minds when it comes to crotchscaping: the 1970s porn afro is surely out. But, it's easy maintenance. The butterball requires daily upkeep with razor or frequent upkeep with wax. Ugh. Plus, there's always the possibility that the tacit message of the 1970s porn afro is, "look baby, if I don't have time to take groom myself, trust me, I don't have the effort for whatever you're after." Which sometimes, after packing lunches, running errands, cooking dinner, bathing kids, cleaning up dinner, all with a headcold/allergies/PMS is really the message you really want to be sending anyway, so it's convenient that the message requires no prep time.
Don't get me wrong. Before I had kids, I did the bikini wax thing. Not a professional one, as I mentioned earlier. I enlisted M's help. And in retrospect, I think that maybe the only thing worse than having a stranger rip out your pubic hair is having your husband do it. I would put on the wax, no problem. But, I, not being a masochist, couldn't bring myself to rip off the paper. M would stand behind me, grip the paper in each hand and RRRRRRRRRRIP. This is the ultimate relationship test. If you can allow your husband to inflict physical pain in your nethers and then invite him back for a social visit, then truly, you are meant to be.
But then, there's summer and swimsuit season. NOBODY, but NOBODY wants to see your razor burn, or the alternative. I, myself, take to the swimdress in part for this reason, but others feel compelled to trim for this outfit. Because, no matter the tropical atmosphere, dreadlocks are not appropriate.
In informal surveys of my friends, I have found the full spectrum of bodily coifs. From the hirsute to the follicly challenge, I've got them all. And it's not always who you'd think. Very upright, conservative friends have gone ahead with the full monty, and other single, (and I'm not judging here) loose women have cultivated a more natural landscape.
So, there's a poll here. Go ahead, spill the beans. It's anonymous.

SWAGGER WAGON

On a more realistic note, I find this funny.

When Mother Nature calls

First, I'd like to attribute my absence to something interesting or dramatic. But, mostly the reason is lame: it's hard to be funny or creative when it's hot and my baby went off to kindergarten, and I have a cold. Poor me.

On the other hand, now that the boys are liking school, I am feeling funny and creative again. Laugh, dammit.

Recently, M and I have been discussing the vehicle situation. His car, at 11 years of age, is ready to be sent to the bullpen for back up use. It is going to be used in middle relief for his dad when he comes for the winter. M is going to be using my car for the winter since a) it's leased, and could use fewer miles b) I like new getting new cars. Let's be honest, it's mostly b.

In our effort to reduce costs, reduce our carbon footprint, and set a good example for our children, we have been looking at smaller vehicles. Jetta Sportswagon (oooh. It has sport in the name, it must be zippy!)

However, this last week of carpool has me changing my mind. For example, if I want to pick up 2 kids (a pair of friends' siblings, maybe, or a friend for each boy), I couldn't do it. And more important, if carpool continues to involve ME waiting on the street for an hour before school lets out, I don't want a small carbon footprint. I want comfort!

I want to watch TV, take a nap, snack, maybe play solitaire, listen to music, organize my photos, really anything that will keep that hour from being a galactic waste of my life:

Yah, that's more like it. I could stretch out, snooze. Catch up on some DVD watching. Maybe check in on Oprah. Much more luxurious.

But, today, I was in carpool line and had a different thought. What I REALLY needed at that point was luxury of an altogether different variety:

So, I have proposed to M a different type of utility vehicle, I'm setting a new trend in mom-mobiles. I say screw carbon footprint, screw less-is-more, screw the planet. There are some certain necessities I should have while sacrificing my time for my children. I should be able to utilize that wasted carpool hour to live life to the fullest.

I mean look at this, I can enjoy a fake fire on rainy days, check out my widescreen tv, have some wine, start dinner, enjoy the view, whatever. I mean, hell, I could VACUUM if I were so inclined. My friends and I can visit, let their babies play on the floor. THIS is the vehicle of the future for moms of the USA. No more stinky gyms to wait in, no more cramped waiting rooms at doctor's offices, no more unpleasantness, no more coolers to store groceries while you run other errands--use the fridge! Schlep your kids in luxury. One child can do homework at the table while the other finishes piano lessons. Prepare dinner while watching a live HD feed of TBall practice. The versatilty, the convenience.

I'm sold. Look for me around town. Honk and wave. I'll be in the cockpit of this bad boy:

Parking could be a bitch, but it's totally worth it.

For the birds

New house rules: if you have a place to sleep, you sleep in it.

Last night, the usual suspects paraded through my sleep. S came and got me to cuddle with him. This was around midnight. Then, at 1:15, the most horrible sound: like animals pacing? Burglars burgling? Serial killers sharpening axes? I was awakened, and tiptoed out to the hallway. Not to worry, though, because apparently, if a serial killer makes the slightest sound, S will instantaneously wake, rise, and greet him in the hallway with his blankie as his only defense.

S was already in the hall when I got there. We looked around, dumbly, wondering what had brought us here. Suddenly, one of our brown bellied barn swallows ( although some googling of images suggests we might have the slightly rarer Northern Rough Wing variety. But, honestly, what right minded northerner would roost here? Wait a minute...) rose from behind the chair, flapping, flopping, floundering into the wall, the ceiling, the light fixture, the window, drunken. S/he was the most recent BBBSwallow of the week. We have had either the same uncoordinated visitor, or the entire extended family over the past months.

Finally, he ran out of gas and collapsed in a heap of Legos. (not the most comfortable place to collapse, I think) I picked him up, and went downstairs to release him out into the sweltering night. As I opened the front door, Cat came running from across the street. Of course Cat makes it impossible to set Bird free.

I learned this little nugget LAST BBBSwallow season. One of the babies fell through the chimney (which is where their nest is) and into the house. Wrongly, I assumed he could fly. I cradled him, cooed over him, and delicately took him outside to set him free. I gently tossed my palm skyward, and instead of launching into the peculiar, angular flight of the swallow, he kinda flopped a little. Cat swooped out of nowhere, and Baby Bird was No More.

Despite the late/early hour, I did not want Bird to die. I let Cat in the house, closed the door, went back outside and tossed my palm gently skyward. BBBSwallow launched and rose into the black night like a bat. I turned, went inside, tracked down Cat, picked him up and then put him out into the inky night.

I returned upstairs to wash my hands of avian flu and cat scratch fever and S was waiting for me. He could not go back to sleep after the BBBSwallow incident, and required cuddles. I cuddled, cradled, and cooed him back to sleep. I returned to my own bed, sweet bed, and fell asleep again.

At 4:30, S was back. Wanting to play Wii. 4:30 is NOT an appropriate time to play Wii. Or to be in my room. Or to be conscious in any way. I went BACK to his bed, to soothe and cuddle, though I accidentally nearly crushed Clooney. Somehow Clooney had already been delivered to S's bed. I know S had to have crept in and dognapped him from his cushion, because Clooney is too small to jump up onto S's bed. So, there we were, a non-sleeping threesome. The sky's first lights were slicing into the room, and I knew I was doomed: there really is a limit to how many times I can ask my body to go to sleep in one night.

Eventually, E could be heard karate fighting his invisible demons, and so S went off to find his brother, a companion in Wii.

I toddled off one last time to bed, this time in the well lit hall. I left birds and boys and dogs behind me, and hunkered down under the nice cool covers of my own bed.

And fell asleep one last time for the night.

A pain in the neck

I just made a great phone call: I called the hair salon to make an appointment. Availability starts next week. "What time would you like?"

ANY TIME IS GOOD.

Ah. True. I get goosebumps when I say that. And while I am certainly psyched that the kids will be in school from, read it and envy: 8:15 to 3:15, I of course have ambivalence about their departure.

Not that this has been the most amazing summer ever, or anything. The kids have fought like cats and dogs. They have whined, argued, and made road trip travel hellish. But, they have also had MOMENTS of sweetness and cuteness, and overall, I like my kids' company well enough. This is a new school, and new school has with it all those stresses. And I just hope that they're happy there.

They're ambivalent, as well. S is worried that he isn't smart enough to go to a magnet school. Or that he won't have time to play Legos after school. E is worried he won't make new friends. Their ambivalence, of course, heightens mine. But mine is in some degree of control. I have decided to just let go this week, let them have this last unmitigated joy of summer, and then I can really feel as though it's time to buckle down and enjoy school.

The most glaring evidence of their anxiety is the number of people in my bed at night: it's like a parade. I put each child in his own bed last night. (I'm SURE of it.) At my bedtime, both children were in S's bed. By midnight, S was in my bed and E was in S's bed. By 2 AM, S was on the floor with Clooney and E was in my bed. At 2, I put everyone back. At 4:30, S was back in my bed, and by 5, was up for the day.

I have a terrible crick in my neck, as I was driven off my pillow by the invading hordes. S has never been a good sleeper, but now can only sleep if there's a human pillow next to/under/perpendicular/somehow adjacent to him. That's not comfy at all for the human pillow. And E is like a radiant heat source, and is faaaaar to big to fit in the bed comfortably with us now.

And yet, I hate to be hard on them. Clearly, this disruption is one of two things:

1. Anxiety about returning to school. They are regressing and anxious, and while they can't verbalize this stress, they are expressing it through needy behaviors and attention-seeking.

2. Like everything else in the world, this is my mother's fault. She spoiled them while we were in California and let them both sleep with her while my dad slept on the couch. Because laying on the bed, late at night, eating bon bons and watching Ace of Cakes is really what grandma's house is all about. And that's cool. I used to lay in bed with my grandma, eat popcorn, and watch The Love Boat. I get that. And yet...

Regardless of the cause, the kids are still all up in my sleeping paradise. After 2 weeks' vacation, in hotels and my parents' guest bedroom, I am ecstatic to be back in my own Tempurpedic Eden, and there are the invading hordes.

So, do I...
...get medieval on their butts and send them back to their beds the moment they cross my threshold?
...ignore and hope this goes away, suffering through cricks and heat stroke?
...offer to cuddle them in their own beds for a while, and then return to my own?
...try to talk to them about their anxiety/ask why they are ruining my sleep?

I need a 900 number to call for advice:
"If your child is making you insane, press 1."
"If your children are fighting constantly, press 2."
"If your children are failing school, press 3."
"If your husband AND children are conspiring against you, press 4."

God, I hate waiting through the whole automated menu:

"If your child eats too much/too little, press 5."
"If your child turns into a TV zombie, press 6."
"If your child hangs out with the wrong crowd, press 7."
"If your child's face froze like that, press 8."
"If your child doesn't sleep, press 9."

There it is.

"If your child has been abducted, and you think you're going to just wait it out, because surely no one would voluntarily steal and then willingly keep YOUR brat, go ahead and hang up and call 911."

The hotline would be swamped.

It's SO FLUFFY!

Yes. Shallow. Yes. Consumerist. Yes. Expensive. Probably. Unnecessary.





I know. But I've spent a bunch of moolah this past month on kids' rooms, kids' school supplies, kids' uniforms. And now that they'll be headed back to school next week (could the whole summer have already passed?), I've been thinking about totally extraneous and expensive crap I think I'd like to have.





1. iphone. It's not my birthday, and I'm not eligible for a phone discount until January. But it's shiny. And cool.





2. ipad. It's even less necessary than an iphone. I have fantasies of my kids being able to use it to watch movies & play games on the road...and it's big and SHINY.





3. To get rid of my guest bedroom clutter. OK. True, not actually a thing, but if I could get rid of that crap, I would be able to get new carpet, and a new dresser, which is really what I'd like to put in there.





4. All-matching kitchen utensils. Lame. I want my kitchen to look like a TV studio kitchen with all the organized stuff and beautifully labeled whatevers, and the nice crock filled with whats its.





5. Really chic sunglasses. Like what's standing between me and chic is eyewear.





6. Size 8 pants that actually fit. Shut up.





7. Free, painless plastic surgery. I want it tucked, hiked up, sucked out, and plumped. Now.





8. A piece of mirrored furniture. I love that stuff. I don't want a roomful or anything. Just one piece. So beautiful. Could actually statisfy wish #3, too.



9. All the super cute clothes I looked at at Nordstrom's BEFORE I fell.

10. Some one to come to my house and help me ruthlessly declutter. I am sick of stacks of papers, despite inboxes/outboxes/bins/baskets and all other means of attempted organization.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some Internet shopping to do.