Good Old U.S. American Fun

Too tired to actually write. Can only type in brief phrases. With inaccurate. Punctuation. In fact, I can't promise anything! In regards to spelling either. Read the captions below. At own risk!

The beautiful Columbia County Dirt Grounds, I mean Fair Grounds, as viewed from the Ferris Wheel.A picture of Steve and Matilda. Also from the Ferris Wheel.
They don't DO the Ferris Wheel. Apparently.

That's Matilda and her bestest friend Aurora in the third row there. You see them, right? Clinging to the bar on the really really scary mini coaster? They didn't meet any boys, but other than that they're ready to be 14 - right. now.

We were also accompanied by our friends Sheela and Cecelia.
So obviously taking the baby on the spinning tea cups was a given.
The whole point of taking any child to the fair: learning them right: how to balance a corn dog and a bucket of fresh lemonade. Why did you think it came on a stick?

"Look, Freya's following us!"

Poor Freya, all alone. all. the. time. Gotta get that girl some friends.

Of course not sharing has its advantages as well.
Like motorcycles. Make her daddy proud!

Not pictured:
cotton candy
fried dough
the haunted house (dude, don't take five-year-olds in there btw -
it freaks them out - who'd have thought?)
the occasional meltdown by Freya
the incessant bouncing and begging from Tilly and Aurora

...In Other News

Today I have for you a post full of random bits of information, both mine, and borrowed.

If any of you have not yet viewed Miss South Carolina's answer to one of the most important questions of our time, you should go do that first. It's worth it. I mean, it might be. It's hard to to tell. You'll see what I mean. It's already posted all over the Internet, so I'm not going to re-post, but you can go over here to Kevin's blog and see it there.

* * * * *

Yesterday was my 29th birthday and most of the day was just sort of normal, but with jet lag. But then Steve took me out to a fancy dinner at Pearl's and we had a wonderful kid-free evening with creme brulee. There was other food too, but really, the creme brulee was the important part.

* * * * *

The rest of my L.A. trip was good, we went to Venice Beach and saw a freak show with Andrea. Chupacabra skeletons are awesome! And my flight home was fine, but let me just tell you so you know, United is WAY better than US Airways. The food is better, the service is better, the blankets and little pillows are better, I mean, neither plane crashed, so they both get points in that department, but still. United=yummy organic food, US Airways=plastic cheese.

* * * * *

The Panel will not be making an appearance this week since things just got a little crazy what with Mac's world domination plans and Nancy being away on a big case. But next week they'll be back in force, and you can help choose their topic! Just check whichever ones sound good in the little poll up there in the corner.

* * * * *

Since I promote "sharing" in my house (even though I don't always like to do it myself) I just have to tell you all about my "favorite" new blog: the "blog" of "unnecessary" quotation marks. Dig it. It's really "awesome!"

* * * * *

...And Coming Soon:

• The Columbia County Fair!
• Matilda's First Day at Kindergarten!
• Freya's First Day at Preschool!
• Lunchboxes!
• Blog changes!
• Stay tuned! for More! Exclamation! Marks!

edited to add: Oh yeah, and I finished 100 pages of Paradise Lost while I was gone. Remind me to tell you about it some time.

The Lap of Luxury and Why I Deserve It

So far:

The view from the plane as we taxied into the terminal.

The view from Tim's office, lots of little houses and they look all the same!

The pool at Tim and Andrea's awesome party house. This is where I'm staying while I'm here. Plus, it comes complete with drinks and kids to play Marco Polo with. How cool is that? There's one more picture over here. The kid is way cuter than me, as you can tell, and don't ever say I never showed you how hot I am in the morning.

Now here's why I deserve all of this luxury, at least according to Cathy. I'm nice! You didn't know that did you?I used to have this whole complex about being "nice." People called me "Nice Nellie," how lame is that? Seriously. Worst adjective ever. This was why I had to drink whiskey straight from the bottle for a few years - I had a lot to prove. But now, now it is all changed. I can be nice and it's a good thing because I'm not the only one. Here's who I think is nice:

Well, Cathy for sure, but also Andi who is like my bestest virtual friend now and I'm so glad I found her. She's always thoughtful in her comments and even when her children are forcing her to pull her own hair out, she's still nice. I just know it.

Andrea, because it is about time she got herself some bling and she's not just nice in real life, her blog is nice too. Hostess extraordinaire! Andrea, I know you're ready for this, just trust me.

And of course there's Blue Momma who is very nice and even though I am new to her blog, I like her already!

Problem Girl, who invited me to join Paperback Swap so long ago and I really don't think I ever thanked her properly. (How rude.) So thanks, Jen!

And last but of course not least, Megan, whose posts about lead paint have really made the interwebs a better place. Good work, dude.

And then it gets hard because I really want to give this to everyone I read and everyone who reads me, but I can't. So that's it for now. Kisses.

Oh God, she's doing it again.

The title is a quote from Steve as I imagine him in my head – wearing a flowery apron, washing dishes as the children tug on his pants and beg for scraps from the leftovers crowding the fridge. In my imaginary vision, Steve is imagining me (you with me?) reclining by a stone patio in my bikini, sipping a creamsicle and laughing coyly to myself as other people's children frolic in the pool. Of course, in Steve's imagination I weigh only 110 lbs and have a certain glow about me... you know how it is.

Hi everyone! I'm in Los Angeles! Without! My! Children! Yay!

And guess what? I haven't even felt guilty yet. I think it helps that Steve didn't just twist his ankle as I was walking out the door.

And while I'm technically here on business, Tim cleverly arranged things so that I arrived on a Thursday and am leaving on Monday, which gives me the entire weekend to Par-Tay! Woo-hoo! I'll keep you posted, yo. I mean dude. I mean homes. What do cool California chicks say these days anyway?

Ask The Experts: "I Need To Go Pee"

Ask the Experts:

"I Need to Go Pee" - Legitimate Request or Calculated Power Play?

Transcript of panel discussion: 21 August 2007.

Welcome! I spent several days making phone calls to organize this event for you all and I'd like to begin by introducing our panelists:

From left to right:
Jane Austen, author of such manipulation manuals as Persuasion and Emma, Machiavelli, former child and internationally acclaimed role-model to successful fascists, Nancy Drew, girl sleuth and perceptive person in general, Freya, alias The Little Evil One, two and a half year old veteran potty trainee, and Joy Assmunch, bestselling author and advocate for potty training your two one month old.

Me: First of all, I'd like to thank you all for joining me in attempting to answer this very important question. I believe it is one that almost every mother or father has asked themselves when dealing with a potty training child. When they tell you "I have to pee," is it always for real, or have they discovered the source of their power and ultimately, your destruction? Why don't we begin with you Mac, may I call you Mac?

Machiavelli: I haven't been called that since I was a boy.

He breaks down in tears. I move to put an arm around his shoulders, but he stops me with his recently patented Look of Death™.

Machiavelli: I'm fine.

Joy Assmunch: If I may? I believe it is the mother's job to let the child know that their needs are being heard and addressed appropriately. In my bestselling book How to Potty Train Your One-Month-Old in Less Than 24 Hours, I recommend that mothers strap a potty to their thigh every time they leave the home.

Me: I'm sorry, who did you say invited you?

Joy: (mumbling) ...potty...expert..need me...fucking infants...

I offer her a tight smile and move on.

Me: Ms. Austen, how about you? You have experience in the field of conniving...

Jane Austen: Well, if I was writing it, I would certainly allow the character the freedom to make their own mistakes. A few accidents on the floor would soon help them to see the error of their ways.

Me: Um, yeah. Here's the thing, I'm trying to avoid the puddles.

Machiavelli: It is called training, is it not? You must train the little beasts, keep them close to you, let them think you believe them, then WHAM!

He slams his palm down on the table. Everyone jumps.

Nancy Drew pulls a gold thread from the cuff of Mac's sleeve and makes a little "O" with her mouth, quietly tucking the thread in her purse.

Freya: I need to go pee.

Me: Just a second honey.

Freya: I need to go pee, NOW.

Me: One second.

Joy crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows at me - higher than I thought eyebrows could go. I am momentarily flustered.

Me: Okay, okay, come on. Sorry about this everyone, we'll be right back. (then to Freya) I thought I told you to go before they got here.

Freya: I did. I have to go again.

We leave the room. The panelists adjust themselves in their seat. Machiavelli slides a hand under the table onto Jane Austen's thigh. Her skirts are too thick for her to feel it.

Joy: (to no one) A child needs to feel that their mother understands him or her, can relate to him or her. For his or her own security.

Machiavelli: Where if the boy's father? He needs to be taught the arts of war, deception and diplomacy, his mother can not be expected to provide these-

Nancy, Jane, and Joy turn and glare at him, all speaking at once.

Nancy: She's a girl, you idiot.

Jane: Well, actually in my experience women are naturals at each of...

Joy: Jackass.

Machiavelli: The child is a girl? But the short hair... the clothes...

The room settles into an uncomfortable silence. Machiavelli puts his hand back on Jane's thigh. It seems to comfort him just having it there. Jane looks down and sees it. She does nothing.

Freya and I return. Freya slips back into her seat at the panel.

Me: Where were we?

Joy: You were denying-

Nancy: I've got it!

Everyone turns to look at her.

Nancy: The potty wasn't really a potty at all, it was just a clever cover for an elaborate candy smuggling ring! Look!

She whips out a piece of paper and sketches a quick diagram of the secret passageway located behind the toilet.

Me: But, that's impossible. There's just not that much space in our bathroom.

Machiavelli takes his hand off Jane's leg and scoots closer to Nancy.

Nancy: You see? Here is where she hid the candy when you weren't looking.

Me: That's the toilet tank.

Nancy: (eyes shining) Exactly!

The rest of us glance at each other, confused.

Me: Listen, can we please just focus.

Freya: I need to go pee.

Me: Are you serious? How is that even possible?

Freya: Or maybe poop.

Me: Dude. Can one of you take her?

The panelists study their fingernails and/or the drapes.

Me: Fine.

Freya: Never mind. I'm good.

We all turn to look at her.

Freya: I just wanted to see if you'd go with me again. (She shrugs.)

Machiavelli leans behind Nancy to whisper something to Freya.

Me: Hey! Hey, stop that! Mac! Cut it out, she's already evil, she doesn't need your help!

Jane looks up from the book she found under the table.

Jane: He hasn't told her anything she didn't already know.

Freya: Mommy, I have to throw up.

I glare at Machiavelli and scoop Freya up, stashing her under my arm like a football.

Joy: She probably wouldn't need to pull all of these tricks if you just paid a little more attention to her. What is it you do all day that makes it so hard for you to be at her side constantly? I think you'd be surprised how far a little constant attention would get you.

I glare at her. Freya taps my shoulder.

Freya: Mommy, I'm done.

A pool of vomit lies at my toes.

Nancy Drew gets up and kneels beside the puddle.

Nancy: Just as I thought, she even...

Me: Shut up! Okay, you're all un-invited. Go home! Right now! I don't even care any more! Just go away and let me clean this vomit in peace!

Slowly I sink to the floor, but the panelists remain: Jane and her infernal reading, Mac and his evil thoughts, Nancy with her conspiracy theories, and Joy, who the hell is this "Joy" anyway, and why is she wearing a bikini to what was clearly advertised as a formal panel discussion?

Me: I give up. There clearly is no logical answer to this question. Because even when she only says she has to pee, I have to take her at her word. (I throw up my hands.) She's won. Only two-and-a-half years old and already she has figured out a way to make my her puppet.

Mac: Aw, come on now, it's not as bad as all that. She still hasn't figured out how to tell time...

Jane: Or pull the chair over to the freezer for ice cream...

Nancy: Or access the secret passageway from under her bed...

Joy: Don't look at me, I think she's just rebelling since you didn't potty train her two years ago when you should have.

I throw my shoe at Joy's head. It makes a satisfying clonk. She falls over backward as if made out of cardboard.

Me: Yeah. I guess that's all true. Thanks guys. Same time next week for the panel on Why Children Will Eat a Food Enthusiastically One Day and Refuse That Same Food the Following Week?

They stand, nodding and mumbling excuses.

- - - - -
End transcript.

Yes, I know this discussion made very little sense. Clearly trying to wrap my head around this issue has addled my brain. I'm sure you all understand. Maybe next week's panel will be better. Here's hoping.

Coping with Apocalyptic Chaos

There are two ways in which I sometimes feel incredibly inadequate as a mother. One is that I frequently lose patience with my children and snap at them, realizing only moments later that it has far more to do with me than with anything they may have done. The other is the playroom and its constant state of disarray.

I have tried everything that I can think of to keep the toys organized. We have plastic bins for each kind of toy - doll clothes, Playmobil, Legos, animals and figures, dress-up clothes - but still they get all mixed up. There are baskets for the miscellaneous toys that don't belong with a group - the etch-a-sketch, the cow pull-toy, the handful of cardboard nesting blocks. There is a single long shelf for books, almost full, and a closet with shelves at the back for the less-played-with toys like the lincoln logs, bristle blocks, and cardboard puzzles.

I have also tried everything I can think of to encourage the children to clean up after themselves. I have bribed them with candy and trips to the playground, threatened starvation and the End of Toys, made lists, and created elaborate chart and point systems. I have even tried that which is completely against my own parenting nature: Making it into a Fun! Game! Nothing works with any kind of consistency - in fact, most of it doesn't work at all.

When everything is actually where it is supposed to go, the playroom is nice: bright and sunny, open floor space for playing, the wooden kitchen in the corner, ready to cook up some bat stew or chocolate smooze, the wide table is great for projects, and the doll house always seems to be home to a fabulous party or Playmobil head boutique.

But the room seems more comfortable in a near-apocalyptic state: toys everywhere, plastic bins full of things that don't belong, dress-up clothes mixed with actual clothes, crayon masterpieces on paper strewn across the floor, chairs overturned, teddy bears tied to the hooks for the clothes, clothes tied to the chairs chairs tied to each other, Barbie dolls in various states of being, makeshift tents for homeless Calico Critters, and small, sharp plastic pieces of things constantly underfoot.

A few months ago I bought a lock. Nothing big or brassy, just a little latch that I installed on the toy closet out of reach of small hands. I spent an entire day and a half organizing, sorting and cleaning the playroom until it looked like it could belong in a mildly classy home magazine (maybe one for do-it-yourself-ers on a budget). I passed a house-wide decree that only one bin of toys could be removed from the closet at a time and that bin must be put away neatly before another could take its place. And this worked... for a while.

But before we even knew what was happening up there, Matilda had figured out how to unlock the closet and the toys were everywhere again. I was not particularly surprised by this development - after all, she is a smart girl, and it was not a difficult lock - but I admit that I was mildly disappointed.

Fast-forward to this past Saturday: While I was out running errands, Steve and the girls did a wonderful job cleaning all of the toys that had accumulated to the point where I'm pretty sure they had been breeding in the corners of the room. I was very pleased and grateful not to have to deal with the mess, and was looking forward to not having to deal with it again for at least a couple of days (at least not on the scale it had been at before Saturday).

Yesterday: In a little less than two hours, the girls had completely transformed the room back into its natural chaotic state. At four o'clock, we asked them nicely to clean it up. A royal battle ensued. Steve and I were on the losing side by a long shot, and in the end, we admitted defeat and I negotiated a settlement with the children in which they agreed to clean up the playroom the following morning if Steve and I would feed them before sending them off to bed.

This morning: After breakfast, and what I considered a reasonable waking up time (an hour or so) I reminded the children of the bargain they had made the night before and told them to go upstairs, which they did without too much fuss.

Now (4:55 pm): They are still cleaning. It is the most tedious process I have ever seen. But they are making progress. Sometimes it is imperceptible, but they can see it, and if I wait long enough between surprise inspections, I can tell that they are trying.

I know that full 8 or 9 hour days of picking up are not the answer in my quest to find an easy, no-screaming-required way to get the children to clean up their toys, but for today it's what I have, and it is good (enough) for now. And so my quest continues. If, by some miracle, I do find the Holy Grail of playroom cleaning, I solemnly swear to share my secret with the world.

The Playroom (in a mild state of confusion):

Sunday Project

Here's what I did today. Despite a huge, long list of of other things that I should have been doing (and Jenn, I swear I will get those good habits started soon, really) I started a new project, one that I've been putting off for even longer than Paradise Lost.

I reupholstered a chair. Here, look:


See all that stuffing exploding out of the arm and back of the chair? Yeah, the cats and the girls both liked to help it along. But now that the penalty for messing with the chair is death, I figure that should serve as an appropriate deterrent.

Here's what I did:


Not bad for a first time, right? I was pretty proud of myself. One of the reasons I'd been putting it off was because I was so sure I'd screw it up completely. But I managed to make all of my mistakes on the back! Where no one but me will ever see them!

But really it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, and if any of you are considering giving it a try, just go for it. I ripped the fabric off one section at a time and used the old pieces as a guide for the new ones. The best part was nailing all of the seams onto the chair without having to sew them, it felt like cheating.

The couch is next. Next year probably...

and now for the poison petits fours...

Here is what happens when you allow your girlie-girl daughters to watch Disney's Peter Pan:

Freya striding around the house after Tilly, dressed to the nines, with a plastic sword, saying, "Touche, my dear," in a very high and haughty princess voice.

Coming soon to a playroom near you: Evil Pirate Tea Parties!

Turning Back the Clock

I've been laughing and muttering to myself thinking about Jennifer's two recent sex posts since she posted them of a few days ago. And then, last night, an opportunity presented itself and I thought, why not lead by example?

The girls requested peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. It was only five-thirty. It only took me five minutes to make them. By seven I had both girls tucked in bed reading quietly and I had started an actual nice dinner for myself and Steve, who would be home in half an hour.

While I was cooking dinner I went into super-mom mode and picked up the day's debris and got out the vacuum. It was the vacuum - in combination with sex on the brain - that did it. But actually, I think about sex a lot, so it was mostly the vacuum. It's a very sexy vacuum.

With only five minutes until Steve arrived home from work I leaped through the mystic time portal (did I mention the mystic time portal?) and arrived safe and sound in 1953. I quick changed into a soft velvet dress and a new pair of heels, poured Steve a drink, and set the table.

Upon arriving home, Steve didn't immediately realize what was happening. After a single appraising glance he set down his things and asked wearily, "Where are you going?"

Once he caught on, it didn't take him long to get into character. And once that happened it didn't take me long to set the mood for the future. As we sat eating our grown-up dinner, I gazed across the table at him. "What're you thinking about?" I asked, and immediately realized what a foolish question it was. "Never mind. Just don't get too used to it."

I Have the Will Power of a Slug

I've been blogging an awful lot about my kids lately, because, frankly, they're more fun and interesting than me. But now it's my turn because I need your help.

This past May I finally finished my BA and made a New Plan: I will spend this year getting myself into a really good English Lit/Creative Writing PhD program for next fall and then move my whole family to wherever it is. I spend the next five years working to become a professor while Steve supports us.

Sounds pretty sweet, right? It's got Steve's stamp of approval and everything, and yes, I know how incredibly lucky I am to have him.

Now, I almost always have a Plan, and the Plan is subject to change at any time. But here's my problem, I don't want to change this plan. This is a good plan, I know it, you know it and the American people know it. So why is it so hard for me to buckle down and do what needs to be done?

Back in May, when I was still all gung-ho about the plan, I started reading Milton's Paradise Lost, but after a while I just lost interest. I put it down. I got distracted by Zadie Smith's novel On Beauty (which is really good). I read another page of Paradise Lost. I put it down again. I read the new Harry Potter in about a day and half (children? what children?).

I know what I need to do.

1. I need to read all of the books that I will need to know in order to get a decent score on the GRE English Literature Subject Test.
   
2. I need to keep writing, and not just on my blog. If I'm serious, this should also include submitting things for publication. I like to think I am serious.
   
3. I need to learn Italian, which is the only thing I have been actively doing and even in this case I've heard that practicing kind of helps.

Why can't I do these things? There are only three of them, that's it (at least until application time rolls around). So why is it so hard for me to stay focused and motivated?

The only excuse I can manage to come up with for myself is the old I-have-two-small-children-and-work-from-home excuse, and despite it's obvious validity, it still feels like an excuse, especially when all I am able to do once the little ones are in bed is push the buttons on the remote control.

I want someone to tell me what to do, except, I already know what I need to do, and watching TV is not it.

A Day of Twirling! Cutting! and Low Temperatures?

Yes, I am still alive, as are my children. No one has starved to death and they still have all of their toys. What's that? You were hoping for more drama? Well, I'm afraid I don't have much to offer in that department, but here are some pictures from today that cover most of what the girls did while I was busy working. Matilda practiced her hula hoop off and on all day and she is now officially better than me.

Today it was Halloween. Matilda and Freya made little pieces of candy out of paper for me to give them when they came trick-or-treating to my room. (Her costume is from last Halloween - she was half-and-half Cinderella, her idea. Freya was Mulan, but refused to have her picture taken today.)


Not long after that picture was taken, the temperature dropped sharply to something like -4 degrees Fahrenheit, and so the girls dressed more appropriately: in bathrobes and fleece lined hoods.


And while I was trying to be respectful of Freya's wish for anonymity, Matilda had no such reservations and snapped this one, for which I am grateful.

These are the paper dolls that Matilda made today, that's me on the left and Matilda on the right. There was a Freya doll too, but she was afraid that the scanner would steal her little paper soul, so we left her out of it.


Finally, here is some death, I know you've come to expect it from me.

Small Red Playmobil Girl was slain during a break-in at her lower Yellow Living Room apartment early this morning. The culprit remains at large.

Medusa V. Large Eyed Sad Girl and The Little Evil One

Drama - it's not just for blogs anymore. I lost it yesterday, completely fell apart. Here I give you a dramatic reenactment of the events that took place at my house last night between the hours of four and seven-thirty pm.

Medusa v. Large Eyed Sad Girl and The Little Evil One

ACT ONE: Ultimatums

Medusa, Large Eyed Sad Girl and The Little Evil One run around the stage, screaming and doing some kind of very bizarre modern dance portraying distress and despair - the colors are dark, greens and blacks and browns, mud colors.

The lights dim and single spot center stage seems to pull the two girls in as Medusa continues to run around them in circles, screaming and pulling at her hair.

Medusa: I will throw away all of your toys!

Little Evil One: Fine!

Medusa: I'll do it, I'll take them to the Goodwill right now!

Large Eyed Sad Girl: Why?!

Medusa: So children who know how to clean can enjoy them!

The three of them repeat this section twice, then the girls break away from each other and collapse in two heaps on the floor.

Medusa: Fine, you can go straight to bed then, no dinner, just go to bed!

Large Eyed Sad Girl: But we'll starve!

Medusa: Well your choice is simple then, what's it going to be - clean up your toys, or starve?

Long, long pause. Not such an easy choice after all. Some more yelling, then the girls are magically air lifted via Medusa's magic powers to their beds.

As soon as the children have gone, Medusa feels remorse, she cries, feels sorry for herself for a while and regrets her attempt to starve her little children.

She picks up the phone and dials a number.

Medusa: I need- I don't know, but bring me - I need something - help... I need, I don't know what... just - something!

She hangs up.


ACT TWO: Remorse

Medusa crawls through the narrow tunnel entrance to the children's lair. The floor is strewn with toys, small sharp plastic toys. She joins the children on Large Eyed Sad Girl's bed.

Medusa: I'm sorry I tried to starve you and throw all your toys away.

Blank stares. The children put their arms around each other.

Medusa: I love you both very much, I'm really sorry. Can we talk about some ideas? Things we can do to make this work better? (Waves hand vaguely in direction of toys.) Because really, if we can't, then they have to go.

Large Eyed Sad Girl: (shakes head sadly) I don't think I could love you anymore if you threw away my toys. I just don't think I could ever hug you or kiss you again.

Medusa: You wouldn't love me anymore?

Large Eyed Sad Girl: I just don't think I could.

Medusa looks at The Little Evil One.

The Little Evil One: I'm going to make you sad again. (She crosses her arms in front of herself defiantly.) I'm not going to clean my toys.

Medusa: Well, this is clearly not working. What can we do? I don't know what to do.

She starts wringing her hands and pacing. The children watch her - Large Eyed Sad Girl with concern, The Little Evil One with the aloofness of someone five time her age.

Large Eyed Sad Girl: How about if you ask us nice?

Medusa: (her eyes look a little wild again) I did! I did! I asked you nice and that never ever works, ever!

Large Eyed Sad Girl: But you didn't ask us like this - (she makes her voice high, artificial and saccharine sweet) please will you clean up your toys?

Medusa: Really? That works? Are you sure?

Large Eyed Sad Girl takes her hand gently and strokes it in a patronizing kind of way.

Large Eyed Sad Girl: Try it, Mother.

Medusa: (in the sweet, high voice) Girls, will you please clean up the toys that are downstairs, darlings, please?

Large Eyed Sad Girl and The Little Evil One smile and tilt their heads to one side.

Large Eyed Sad Girl: Of course, Mother, thanks you for asking so nicely.

Holding hands, the children leave Medusa alone in their bedroom cave of toys. Medusa clasps a hand to her head and collapses backwards onto the bed as violin music engulfs the stage.


ACT THREE: Anti-Climax

The children have cleaned half of the mess to which they were assigned. Dust balls and scraps of paper float around their feet. Medusa moves slowly, as if her feet were encased in lead, picking up toys and putting them away.

Large Eyed Sad Girl: We're done! Can we go outside now, Mother?

Medusa: (clearly dispirited) Okay.

When the children have gone, Medusa vacuums the floor, pushing hair out of her face distractedly. When she has finished, she exits stage left and returns with an open bottle of wine and a glass. She starts to pour, but changes her mind and drinks straight from the bottle. The lights dim as the sounds of children's happy, carefree laughter can be heard from outside.


EPILOGUE

Medusa and Hercules sit on the couch in the living room which is passably clean now. They are surrounded by food and wine: platters of grapes and cheese and crackers, strawberries and cream, legs of lamb, and whole ducks glisten. Bottles of wine stand silently breathing, waiting to serve Medusa's whim. A long agave plant sit apart from the rest.

Medusa sighs and leans back against the couch, contented now.

Medusa: I tried to starve them.

Hercules: I know.

Medusa: I tried to give all of their toys away.

Hercules: I know.

Medusa: I think I'm getting my period.

Hercules: I figured.

Medusa: Thanks for the food, and the wine, and the plant.

Hercules: You're welcome.

Medusa: It helps.

The lights start to dim, and Medusa stands.

Medusa: I better go turn out their lights.

Hercules nods and Medusa exits stage right, then returns.

Medusa: I love them.

Hercules: I know.

The End.

I'd like to thank the Academy.

Now that the dust surrounding my very own blog-drama has settled, I'd like to thank Blue Momma from Life in the Fish Bowl for a new Rockin' Blogger award. It was very sweet of her, in the middle of the chaos that my blog had become, to tell me that I rock.


Excellent timing, Blue Momma! And although you have asked those Rockin' Bloggers you nominated to say a little something about what makes a Rockin' Blogger, your list is pretty hard to beat. So I'm going to suggest that all of my readers hop on over there and check it out, and when you come back, I'll tell you who I think meets all of those standards.

And actually, there are a lot of you. Of course there are the bloggers who I have already established as rocking, and now we have Jennifer from Playgroups are No Place for Children, who completely rocks because she has two babies (I know, I know, Carson's big, but still, he's little) and manages to tough it out every day, and still share her parenting adventures with humor and wit.

Megan, from Velveteen Mind, whose last post made me cry and I am so glad that she is taking the time that she needs, because really, if all of us could just do that, the children of the world would be better off.

Jenn, at Bucolic Scribblings, who lives so far in the country that even though I am living in the country myself I get jealous of the country life when I read it the way she writes it.

And finally for Kristi, from Here in Idaho, who probably doesn't know who I am, but is one of the funniest bloggers I have ever read. Go, go right now and read all about how she has driven her children away.

And since I know that some of you have already received this award from other stalkers fans, I have made you some new blog bling. Yes, it's a Barbie.

The Would-Be-Killer-Turned-Sex-Changing Tree

Meet Ferdinand.

She's a regular around our place, a spirited little thing, always causing some kind of ruckus. Ferdinand's mother doesn't make her brush her teeth, or make her bed, and apparently she does let her eat candy and stay up very late, every night. Ferdinand speaks several languages and has traveled all over the world. She is five.

Mostly, Ferdinand is pretty well behaved, and very brave, like the time she nearly lost an eye. She didn't even cry after the surgery when we told her she would never again have eyelashes on her left eye. Poor little thing. But she hardly seems self-conscious about it at all now. There are, however, times when I am inclined to think that perhaps our Ferdinand is a bit of an exaggerator.

We ate dinner on the porch tonight, just the girls and I. (Steve was still at work.) When I had finished, I set my plate on the railing, sighed and leaned back to stare at the huge tulip tree that sits right behind our house.

"I love our tree," I said, feeling peaceful and content.

"Ferdinand told me that tree ate one of her cats once," Matilda announced mater-of-factly.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, it was a cute little boy kitten, orange with white spots. See that circle up there?"

She pointed to knot about twenty feet up the trunk.

"Uh-huh."

"That's the mouth."

I absorbed this information, "Ferd said that, huh?"

"Yeah, and then after it ate it, the tree farted it out the bottom and it wasn't a boy cat anymore it was a girl cat and she was brown with white stripes." Again with the nonchalance.

"It was a girl cat?"

"After it got farted out." She shruged, "that's what Ferd said."

My Bi-Lingual (read genius) Children

Sunday in the car, driving to do laundry... ah, is there anything more eternal than laundry? Forget diamonds, laundry is forever. Sigh. I am so easily distracted.

Freya and Matilda are in the back seat, buckled into their car seats (see? I'm not totally irresponsible) and playing happily with their Polly Pockets (or mini-Barbies, if you will). Steve and I are eavesdropping from the front. When we're lucky, they forget we're listening, but if they catch us, they stop.

Matilda: Okay, now it is time for your Spanish lessons. Say mariposa.

Freya: Mariposa.

Matilda: It's Spanish for butterfly. Now say hola.

Steve and I exchange a glance - the brilliance of our darling off-spring has never been more evident.

Freya: Hola.

Matilda: That means hello in Spanish. Now say como es da?

Freya mumbles it. This time Matilda offers no translation, but barrels on with didactic enthusiasm.

Matilda: Now say alla su etti biscotti.

Freya mumbles: Aa set bisughta.

Matilda: Good. That means, the sauce is very good. Now say habb duku ana wetta.

And so it goes. Just when I think that my little angels have reached the height of their staggering potential, they invent their own languages, with an authority that I am sure would be the envy of any third grade teacher.

There's Idiotic, and Then There's Wrong, Here We Have Both.

I received this comment yesterday on the Anointed Barbies post and it took me a moment to decide what to do with it. My first instinct was to delete it immediately, but then I thought that maybe I should just reply to it in the comments section, which I did, but then I found that it was still bugging me, so I thought I'd post about all the reasons why this person is wrong - about me, about my children, and about many of you, dear readers.

Posted by Anonymous, 3 August 2007.

It is pretty irresponsible of you to force your adult views of Barbies onto your young children. I found this entire "burial" highly disturbing on many levels. It seems to me that you and your fellow "blogging mommies" are a bit too bitter that you're mommies at all...

It's not mean, just...wrong. The reasons are too many to tackle in paragraph form, we're gonna have to go with bullets:

• My views on Barbies are complex and not even close to represented in this post. The idea for the mummification and burial - while I would love to take credit - were not mine. Eden had been reading a book about Ancient Egypt and wanted to do the project. She knew we had done art projects with Barbies in the past, so it just seemed to make sense. Naturally I was enthusiastic about the idea.


• I am not bitter. It just doesn't suit me.


• None of the "blogging mommies" who I read daily (I'm guessing you don't) are bitter either. Being a mother may not be all sunshine and roses, but we all love our children. And I think I speak for most of us when I say that if the stories on our blog tend toward the whiny, or the I-can't-believe-my-own-spawn-did-this-to-me, it is merely because one of the joys of blogging is the knowledge that we are not alone. Being a mother, especially of young children can be isolating, and blogging takes the edge off.


• I'm not sure what these "levels" are of which you speak. But if the idea of death freaks you out, don't worry, you're not alone. However, while death may be a hush-hush topic in many households across our relatively repressed nation, it's not in mine. I'm not saying my views of death are healthier than yours, just that to deny the possibility of alternate views is naive and close minded, that's all.

• Oh, and just so we're clear, one more thing on my "adult views of Barbies." It doesn't matter that you know nothing of what those views actually are, the point is this, if my views are different than those of corporate/commercial America (and they often are) wouldn't it be "irresponsible" of me to conceal them from my children? Pretend that the messages delivered to our children on an almost hourly basis are all just fine and good? I have many, many issues with the corporate culture in which we live. In fact, my children don't watch TV (except for videos), is that irresponsible as well? To deny them free access to all that Hasbro and Mattel and Fox and Disney have to offer? I don't know if you have children (I'm guessing not) but to unquestioningly accept everything that the world has to offer and not temper it with your own views and beliefs, that's not parenting.

All right, I think that about does it. Unless you all can think of anything else!

Open Letter to the People Who Are Concerned About the Eternal Well Being of My Soul

Dear People Who Are Concerned About the Eternal Well Being of My Soul*,

Thank you so much for the generous efforts you have been making lately, I feel truly blessed to have you in my life. So often I have wondered whether others will be saved due to the persistence of People Like You and worried that I would not be bugged frequently enough. But there is hope, I think it may only take six or seven hundred more of your mass produced letters or gimmicky newsletters stuck to my windshield, before one really gets through to me.

Before we reach that point (together, as I know we will) I have a few suggestions to make that might help you improve your outreach efforts. They are only suggestions and if you feel that I am overstepping, please feel free to disregard them. Just know that they come from the bottom of my heart, impure though it may be.

When I came out of my doctor's office this morning, there was nothing that could have pleased me more than your propaganda stuck to my windshield as I pulled out of the parking lot on my way to pick up some life saving antibiotics. But perhaps sticking things to people's windshields in doctor's office parking lots is not the optimum way to reach those of us who have yet to see the light that is Jesus. In my distracted state, I thought perhaps I had received a parking ticket or inadvertently discovered a new species of dead bug.

Your next mistake was disguising your religious flier to look like an innocent list of clever riddles "for the thinking mind." I read through the first five riddles before I realized that number six was ten times as long as the others and all about saving my soul! Next time? Maybe just get right to the point. The riddles weren't that good.

Also telling me that God sees me as a "lying, thieving, blasphemous, adulterer-at-heart," doesn't really make me want to read on—that and the fact that you wrote this on a faux-million-dollar-bill, cute, but not so effective. I'm not really sure what you're going for here unless the 1,000,000 and the print of President Cleveland were intended to keep me from throwing the whole thing in the trash the minute I pried it out from under my wiper.

Maybe it all comes down to Cleverly Disguising God's Work As Other Things, because when I got home and found a letter addressed to "Resident - To A Friend" with the return address "God's Holy Spirit instructed us to loan you this to start turning things around for you. So, here it is," of course I hoped it was money and knew that it was not. But don't worry, I opened it anyway.

The really exciting part was receiving what I thought was a piece of cheap pink stationary from your "56-year-old Church" but was in fact an "anointed prayer faith Bible handkerchief." Wow. Thank you so much. I really am not sure what to say except: what? Don't you do any kind of market research before you send these things to your "friends?"

I'm sorry, I'm trying to help you, really I am.

I get that you want to make your mass market mailings stand out from all of the others, but just work with me for a minute here. A paper handkerchief might give me a good laugh, but do you really think that I am going to put it in my Bible and leave it under my bed tonight? Okay, maybe I will, but don't you see? It will only be to prove you wrong.

Many people see me as an optimist, but somehow I am just not able to bring myself to believe that if I follow your very specific instructions and write my name and my "most pressing problem" on the pink paper handkerchief, and then put that handkerchief inside a Bible in the Book of Acts, Chapter 19, Verses 11 and 12, and leave the Bible under my side of my bed tonight, and then mail you the handkerchief tomorrow morning in the postage paid envelope you so thoughtfully provided, that "something good is coming to [my] door."

It is entirely possible that my lack of faith in mass mailings is somehow directly connected to my lack of faith in God, but I don't really think so. In fact, until I received your letter tonight I had honestly not given the connection much thought, so thank you, for bringing it to my attention. Oh, and by the way, I'm glad that it worked for you, I'm sure that your parents are much happier now that your mother was able to use the handkerchief to end your father's bad drinking habit, congrats.

I would also like to congratulate you on appearing so flexible in the letter. I do happen to own a Bible, but it is good to know that if I did not, God would see and understand, and I am gratified to know that He will understand why I cannot sleep over the handkerchief tonight as well.

One other note on the handkerchief appeal (if I may call it that), I think it may be a mistake to include a multiple choice form for people to return with their handkerchiefs explaining the areas of their lives that need prayer and/or God's divine help. I have to admit that "A New Car" and "Pray for God to bless me with this amount of money: $__________" are pretty hard to resist, but is this really the message you are going for here? It's really great that your 56-year-old Church wants to pray for people, but should your efforts really be focused on this kind of materialism? Perhaps your 56-year-old Church should pray for some spiritual guidance on this matter.

I realize this is a lot for you to handle right now, so if it is too much, feel free to go ahead and sleep on it. Or if you can't right now, don't worry. God sees.

Yours in faith,

The Woman Whose Soul So Obviously Needs Your Help That You Must Attempt To Reach Her Multiple Times A Day

* I wrote this a couple of months ago, but didn't post it then for several reasons. I am posting it now because it is as good a time as any, and because you just never know when you yourself might the proud new owner of your very own prayer faith Bible handkerchief.

Additional disclaimer: While I myself do not believe in God in any traditional sense, I have only the utmost respect for the faith of others. It is the bizarre commercial and impersonal nature of this appeal that I find ironic and, frankly, hilarious.

Illegitimate Day Tripping

Somehow whenever I'm able to leave town without my children (which is not often) I feel as if I have committed a breach of contract. Some invisible contract that stipulates my presence at all times. The consequence of this breach is that there always seems to be some kind of crisis that accompanies my departure. It is the price I must pay for some time alone in which to feel guilty about taking time alone. Right. Because that makes sense. I'm not even Catholic! Where does this guilt even come from?

Last week I was able to join my father and brother for one day at Lake George during New York Yearly Meeting (I was raised Quaker). I was deliciously sans-children for the entire day, during which I kayaked, swam, and read Harry Potter with only the occasional adult disruption. But as I was leaving the house, literally as we were walking out the door, Steve twisted his ankle and it instantly exploded into a kind of soon-to-be-purple balloon ankle. Why, you ask? Because I was leaving, that's why.

Two days ago I was all set to leave home yet again to help my dear friend Riva find an apartment in Boston. Amazing, I know, I am rapidly filling my quota of mom vacation days for the year, but this trip had been planned for over a month. Steve was scheduled to pick up a group of kids from the airport the same day (a work thing), and return home in plenty of time for me to catch my train. Then their flight was delayed. No problem, minor inconvenience, I'd still have time. Steve took off for LaGuardia (a 3 hr drive), and I packed up my things, humming a happy tune.

Turns out my train was going to be almost three hours late. I changed my itinerary to leave first thing in the morning. Better to get in at 10 am alive, than at midnight as a zombie.

Then their flight was canceled. After Steve had already arrived in New York City. He called me from the airport near midnight, exhausted, with no idea what was to become of him. He promised to call me back when it had been sorted out, but he never did. It got too late.

I woke up at 5:30 to call my mother and tell her not to come get me, I would have to put off my trip yet again. But my father is one of those, we'll-make-it-happen-just-tell-us-what-you-need sorts of people. He's good under pressure, maybe a little too good. He and my mother would watch the girls, and don't worry it'll be fine. So I let him talk me into leaving anyway, despite having no idea what had happened to Steve.

Eventually I got in touch with Steve, who came back and picked up the girls from my parent's house late yesterday afternoon. He sounded a little harried on the phone and I tried not to let that make me feel even guiltier, but it did. Sometimes my mental powers of self-persuasion work perfectly, other time I feel disabled by my inability to change my perspective.

Now I'm in Somerville, in Lauren's apartment, wondering how Steve is holding up and feeling guilty when I should be reveling in my solitude. I seriously doubt that Steve felt this kind of guilt when he was in Peru for two weeks and all hell was breaking loose. Not that I'm blaming him. I'm not. I'm just saying.

What is the matter with me? Clearly the only answer is to do this more often. Right? And tell me, because I want to know, do other mothers feel this way? Knowing that they shouldn't and that they have just as much right (maybe more) to be "away" without the pitter-patter of little feet all over the place? It's not just me, is it?

And while we're on this topic, shouldn't guilt be one of those shared parental responsibilities? Like diapers and making peanut butter sandwiches? Isn't this what women have fought for all these years? Feminism, why have you betrayed me thus!