Not Everyone Lives In A Castle

Brynn's Christmas morning was laden with Baby Dolls. And Disney Princesses. And Barbie Mariposa. And Tinkerbell. And pink. And my dreams of creating the “Best Christmas Ever” in spite of the whole economy thing.

Everything was all “Oh, just what I wanted…a new baby doll…and Tinkerbell, she’s so cute…and My Little Pony panties…oooh.” And then, within seconds of the last present being unwrapped, and I bet faster than ol’ Santa Claus could lay his finger aside of his nose, the inevitable interrogation begins.

“But what about the My Little Pony house? And the Barbie Diamond Castle Doll & Carriage? Why didn’t Santa bring me those? I really, really wanted them.”

Huh? What? Were those on the list?

Of course they were. With about 63 other random toys. How do you even begin to decide between the My Little Pony Ponyville Pinkie Pie’s Balloon House and the Littlest Pet Shop Get Better Center playset with its kinda creepy little dogs and cats that have enormous heads. And unreasonably large eyes. And disproportionately small bodies.

And then there’s Barbie and the Diamond Castle. Did you know that Barbie is the star of her own hour long movies? Barbie as Rapunzel. Barbie in the Nutcracker. Barbie of Swan Lake. Barbie Fairytopia. Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses. Barbie as the Island Princess. Barbie Mariposa. Barbie and the Diamond Castle. Ummm…at what point in my life did I let Barbie make it to my list of “Movies I’ve Seen”? And why can I recite the movies that she stars in from memory? Oh, Barbie, why do you haunt me so?

Anyhow, on the never ending list of desired presents were the "Barbie and the Diamond Castle Doll with Horse & Carriage" marketing castoffs from the movie. Because, hey, if you’re Barbie, you can’t be the star of your own Drama-toon without having some hard, plastic toys with lots of sparkle and dazzle to back you up.

I knew in advance that disappointment was sure to prevail if Santa made a visit without leaving Barbie and the Diamond Castle Doll & Carriage. But Target was sold out. As was Toys R’ Us. And even (dare I say I even looked), the Walmart. This is ironic, considering the fact that for the entire 6 months preceding Christmas, Princess B has spied this toy sitting graciously on the shelves, begging for it with each visit to Target. And we do a lot of Target visiting. A lot. So this toy must have been requested at least 403 times over the past 6 months.

But, I didn’t buy it 6 months ago. Or 3 months ago. Or even 5 weeks ago. Because it cost $47.99. Really? $50 for a Barbie? My Peaches n' Cream Barbie from 1985 only cost $8.05...and she was pretty fancy-schmancy for her time. Excessive price tag aside, the real reason I didn't buy Barbie and her Diamond Castle Carriage is that I didn’t know where in the world I would hide it, because, guess what, Barbie, not everyone lives in a castle.

So, I waited. Oh, I now see the error of my ways. For 3 days now I have been badgered about Barbie and the Diamond Castle and the My Little Pony house. Persistency reigns at my house. And employing the You-Should-Be-Thankful-For-The-Toys-You-Did-Get or the How-About-We-Just-Give-All-Of-Your-Pretty-New-Toys-To-Some-Little-Girl-Who-Didn’t-Get-Anything-For-Christmas techniques fall unheard upon material girl’s little princess ears.

It's times like this when I envy those single, 20-something girls out there who don’t have to spend all of their hard-earned money on things like My Little Ponies and a $50 Barbie. They can buy useful things. Like clothes. And shoes. Things that won’t be forgotten about and shoved under the bed by week’s end, never to be played with again…

575 Pieces Later

It's an obsession, really. The Y-ego Master has spent the last 9 hours 16 minutes and 39 seconds working diligently on the Star Wars Jedi Starfighter with Hyperdrive Booster Ring. He has only stopped for the basics. Food. Water. A trek to Aunt Shannie's house in which he was itching to get back home to return to his project. Watching Indiana Jones & Raiders of the Lost Ark. Mama insisting he go to bed. (However, I did catch him sneaking a peek at his work-in-progress long after he was supposed to have been asleep). He has hardly even glanced at his other toys although he got some really cool stuff. Mini Remote Control Helicopters. Nerf Dart Guns. Light Sabers. And really cool stuff like clothes. And shoes. And toothbrushes. And underwear.

I think his love for Legos is only outweighed by a compulsive need to consume mass quantities of sugar. Cookies. Candy canes. Jelly beans. It gives him that nice burst of energy to see it through to the end.

If only I could afford a $54.95 box of Legos every week - it would offer a little bit of quiet time for Mama, but more than anything, it would bring me such joy to feed my little boy's passion for building things. Albeit just a little bit obsessive-compulsive. My little Y-ego Master...gotta love him.

Confused I Am

Have you ever wondered what language Master Yoda speaks? I think it's the same one as my husband. Strange he is. Strange is he indeed. And he has passed the gene on to my son. Strange, too, the boy is. Fascinated with Star Wars legos my son is. Yessss.

The bulk of his Christmas Wish List consists of pretty much every single Star Wars Lego set out there: the MagnaGuard Starfighter, the Hailfire Droid, the Hoth Rebel Base, and last, but not least, the coveted Starfighter with Hyperdrive Booster Ring (I snagged the last one off the shelf at ToysRUs today just as I heard the elderly couple behind me saying "...and Aidan wants a Starfighter Lego Ring..." - oh, that poor lady, she doesn't know Starwars-ese, either).

All I know is that trying to remember the names of all that Star Wars stuff is confusing. Why can't they just call it the "White Airplane with the Big Circle Thingy on the Back"? Or the "Bad Guy Plane"? Or the "Really Mean Robot"?

Why does it have to be so complicated? Why is it like learning a foreign language?

Wise, Master Yoda is. With Mama the force is not. Lo siento, mijo, no comprendo el Star Wars.

Conversations with a Preschooler

Me: "Why are you taking your shoes off? We'll be to Trader Joe's in like 30 seconds."

Her: "Because there's sand in my feet."

Me: "Well, don't take your shoes off and dump sand in our new car, just wait until we get there."

Her: "Noooo! Anyways, there's no sand in my shoes. Or in my socks."

Me: "Well, I don't really want any sand in my car, so please leave your shoes on."

Her: "There isn't any sand in my shoes or socks, Mama."

Me: "Okay, then why are you taking them off?"

Her: "Because there's something between my toes."

Me: "Really...like what?"

Her: "Sand."

When Your Favorite Pen Is Gone For Good

I've officially called the search off. I've searched high. And low. And under. And in. I've even searched the chair. But that beautiful, beloved Pilot Dr. Grip Ltd. Gel Pen in Platinum has eluded me now for weeks. The trail has gone cold and I don't think it is ever coming back.

There's this secret little place inside of me that mourns for the loss. Is that strange? Yes. Yes, it is. I admit that it is a little bit odd. But it was such a good pen. And it cost $7. That's alot of money for a writing utensil. I could have bought 96 Crayola Crayons (with built in sharpener) for that price. That's a lot of color. With fascinating choices like "Atomic Tangerine." And "Unmellow Yellow." And "Razzmatazz." And my favorite, "Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown."

96 Crayons. 96 colors of Crayons. A much better choice than some silly, smooth-writing gel pen that made my penmanship *shine* with precise, flourishing strokes. Some silly, little pen that just took off, and is gone for good. But I'm not bitter. Nope, not at all.

Quote of the Day, Revisited

"No."
-Anonymous

Bringing Up Brynn, Part I: Birth

So, rather than a novella-length post about my extraordinary little girl, I'm going to dole out my "Ode to Brynn" in segments. For your reading pleasure, of course.

Um, actually, let's be honest here...it's because I no longer have time to just let the thoughts flow freely. My life is now lived in segments. School here. Work there. Kids now. Laundry, housework, dinner...soon. Sleep....none. But it is now something like 45 days past Brynn's 4th birthday, and I haven't lived up to my promise. So here is her story. In segments.

Anyone who has been graced with spending any length of time with my daughter knows that Brynn is an individual. She does not fit into any shape, size,or color of box. Unless it's a pink box. Maybe then. For like 5 seconds. After that, she's outta there. Even if it is pink. She is her own person. And always has been. Right from the day she was born.

If you ask Brynn where she was born, she will assuredly reply, "at Aunt Lori's house." And she's right. She was born at home. Our "home" at the time being Aunt Lori's guest house. I did not plan on having a baby at home. Or in a guest house. Or with out a medically trained individual present. She decided. After hanging out in her baby cocoon a week-or-so past her due date. And giving me fairly gentle contractions for hours. And hours.

But, when the clock struck midnight - just like Cinderella - she decided she was going to make a run for it. Quickly. And as I was telling Tommy it was time to load things up and make our way to the hospital, that little bugger initiated a change in plans. Quickly. A *911 call was made to request an ambulance. Quickly. By the time the paramedics finally found their way to the house, Brynn had already blessed us with her presence. Quickly. Caught by Aunt "Ro-Ro." Quickly. Now laying in my arms with a pair of gym shorts hanging off the umbilical cord running between her and I.

Yes. Gym shorts. We were told by the lovely *911 operator-lady to find something to tie off the cord. The shorts were there. Tommy was there. They had a string. Seemed logical to him. Whatever.

I, being a practical woman and all, probably would have spent the extra half-second or so to find something "prettier." Like a hair tie. Or cutting off a strip of the sheet. Or the pretty little bow tied around the teddy bear's neck. But definitely not dirty, sweaty, gym shorts. I will never, ever, EVER understand how efficiency can possibly ever outweigh the benefits of aesthetics. Even in the immediate seconds following birthing a 7 pound baby. Naturally. In a guest house. In the middle of the night. I still would have passed on the gym shorts.

Gym shorts aside, it gets worse. Never mind the unplanned nature of the home birth. Or the associated hodgepodge of messy that comes with it. I also had the opportunity to have three - or four - or twenty-five of Tucson Fire's finest Paramedics grace me with their presence. In the glory of less-than-three-minutes-after-giving-birth. Fantastic. Words simply cannot describe the amount of discomposure I felt at that moment. Oh, and when I say Tucson Fire's "finest," I'm pretty sure I mean just that. Not as in "skilled" or "well-prepared" because that they assuredly were not - at least in the whole labor-delivery thing. But if you're rating them on looks, they fit the good-looking Firefighter stereotype. To a "t." A nice tight, navy blue tee. All of them in a 12 x 12 room. With postpartum me in the bed. With newborn and her former home all hanging out for the world to see. Awesome. Awesome. AWESOME. All. Kinds. Of. AWESOME. (read with as much sarcasm as you can muster, please. For my sake.)

Gym shorts. Hot paramedics. Home delivery. Not only was this not going as planned, it quickly became apparent that, other than (maybe) a five-minute condensed, crash course in L&D that came somewhere between learning to operate the jaws-of-life and getting to do some training on the really-cool-ladder-truck-thingy in firefighter school, the only time these young men had been anywhere near a birth was their own.

But they had a "newborn kit". Great. At least we have a kit. With a laminated instruction list (complete with pictures, I'm sure). But somebody must have used the kit before. No scissors to cut the cord. Isn't this probably one of the more important components of said "newborn kit"? No problem, let's grab Tommy's mustache trimming scissors. Again, practicality reigns. Umbilical cord clip. Check. Blanket. What, no blanket in the kit? No worries - there's one on the changing table. Cool. Cap. What? We need to put a cap on the baby (rummage, rummage, rummage). What? It says we need to put the cap on the baby. *sigh* There's one in the right side of the top dresser drawer. Cool. Oh, dear Lord, please let this be a really bad dream. What about me? Can I please have a blanket? Can I have cap? Or a big, brown paper bag to put over my head? Can you please take me to the hospital now? Thanks.

To their credit, I am sure that these young men could have flawlessly rescued me from a burning house. Or extracted me from the wreckage of a car. Or resuscitated me if I had accidentally drowned in the toilet. But labor and delivery, or postpartum care? Not so much.

So this is Brynn's birth story, and my new little baby girl arrived healthy and with spunk. She came into the world on her own terms. With chaos. And confusion. And me just wondering what the heck is going on. And she continues to live life as such every day. And I wouldn't trade it for the world. But I do like a vaction from it every now and then. It helps preserve my sanity.

Me? I got over the whole 25-hot-young-paramedics-in-the-guesthouse-turned-birthing-center-thing. I am just forever grateful that not a single one of them was someone I knew or went to high school with (there most certainly is a God).

One

I've always heard that "love" is a universal language. Or, if you're a left-brained science geek like my husband, you might be a proponent of the "math is the universal language" debate.

I learned today that grief can be added to that short list of what unites us as one. Words of sorrow and pain and suffering can take a fast track to your heart - even if you have no idea what words are actually being spoken. Sorrow trancends all language barriers.

Korean is not my first language. Or my second. Or my third. Oh, wait...I don't actually know any Korean. But I do know this - that my heart goes out to the brother who lost his sister, the father who lost his daughter, and the mother who lost her child. I am not able to translate their words, but I understand the grief that came through a language foreign to me. It is not always the words we say, but the meaning that is behind them.

One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters, brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to carry each other
One life
One
-U2, One

Life is fragile. It is a gift we are given each and every day. I lost one of my fellow nursing students to a tragic car accident this week, and am reminded of this.

I sometimes get so caught up in work and school and activities and errands that I forget about what matters most. If I don't get the laundry done, what's the worse that can happen? If the dishes don't make it to the dishwasher after every meal, are the kitchen police going to arrest me? If I let my kids (or colorblind husband) pick out clothes for the day and they aren't really what I would have chosen, is anyone going to judge me? If so, so what? If I can't be supermom and make it to the PTO meetings and volunteer at every school event, will those women come after me and make me feel horrible? (well, maybe there's a little bit of truth to that one!) I have to constantly remind myself that most of it doesn't matter when all is said and done.

What matters is living in grace. And doing the right thing. And hugging your children at least 10 times a day. And telling your husband that you love him and appreciate him each and every day.

Dawool - I pray that your family finds peace and that you rejoice in your eternal life. I'm pretty sure I saw that huge smile of yours shining down with the stars last night!

The Secret To Creativity Is Knowing How To Hide Your Sources

Oh, Albert Einstein...you're amazing! Speaking of creativity, I have hit one major blogging block. So, please excuse my temporary absence, oh blog of mine.

I'm filling my mind with syllabi. And due dates. And reading maybe a 1,002 or a 1,003 chapters a day. Learning all about nursing skills and fundamentals. And medical terminology. And pathophysiology. And diseases. And proper handwashing technique. And...what? You're bored already? Yea, I understand. But, me...I'm overwhelmed. But optimistic. And overwhelmed.

All this technical material has killed my writing mojo. It's sucked the life right outta me.

And it was Brynn's 4th birthday this past week. Along with pizza night at Peter Piper Pizza, I wanted to celebrate it in style. And by style, I don't mean a ride on the kiddy merry-go-round between eating some low-grade pizza and racking up tickets playing skee-ball. I kinda meant in writing. But, alas, it's a no go. At least not right now. My special little girl deserves a birthday post with all the creative flair I can muster. And I'm just not feeling it.

So, when my left brain stops being all dominant and demanding, I will be back. Oh, yes...I'll be back. And I know that you, my loyal blog, will be waiting. Thank you for that. I'll most certainly need to exercise my right brain very soon, and you'll be the first one to hear all about it.

Such Is My Reality

My life the past two weeks...First day of kindergarten. Search entire city of Tucson for a "KinderMat." First day of preschool. First day of preschool meltdown. Pink lunchbox. Blue lunchbox. Don't put the blue ice pack in pink lunchbox. Don't put the purple ice pack in the blue lunchbox. Wake up. Get the-not-a-morning-person-till-she-gets-her-morning-"milky"-little-girl her morning milk fix. Shower. Scramble eggs. Get kids dressed. Turn off Clifford. Brush kids teeth. Comb kids hair. Leave 2 minutes and 32 seconds to get myself dressed, put on makeup, brush my teeth, make sure my hair is doing whatever it does without being too crazy. Leave the house. No later than 7:41 am. Otherwise the kindergartner does not get there before the first bell. And he must be there before the first bell. Mama don't make me miss the first bell. Wade through morning traffic to the sweet little preschool. Drop off mostly grumpy little girl. Go to UA bookstore. Lug 100 pounds of textbooks over a mile to my car. Pre-employment drug screen. Pre-employment physical. Pre-employment paperwork. Show needy real estate client her 48th house. Pay my bills. Pay some more bills. What? Didn't we just pay the water bill? Trader Joe's. Target. Costco. Target, again. Nursing school orientation. Write needy client's third contract this month. Wait in a mile long line to pick up kindergartner. Take chihuahua to Auntie's house for a sleepover with cousin Mia. Pack for weekend camping trip to Mt. Lemmon. Notified by child that I have forgotten chocolate for s'mores. Trip to Walgreen's for Hershey bars. Came out with chocolate bars, bug catching nets, bubbles, facial cleansing cloths, apple juice, some velcro tennis ball and mitt game thingy. Waiting for Granny and Grampa to pick us up for camping. Try to squeeze in 10 more emails before I am sans technology for the weekend. Put tent up in the dark. Without husband. He's still in Tucson waiting for his paycheck. Paying more bills. Didn't grab the sleeping bags. It's kind of cold at night when you're at 8,000 feet - even in Arizona in the middle of summer. Thank goodness the well-prepared grandmother had a comforter. Little boy with tummy ache. Little girl who kept rolling off the air mattress. Mom in a tent in the mountains not getting sleep. But nice to get away before it all starts again. Full day of hospital orientation for new part-time job. Still need to get three more 20 pound textbooks. And a PDA. And some other stuff that I can't even remember at the moment. Realize little girl's 4th birthday is only 2 days away. Presents. Yeah...need those, too. Pink frosted cookies from Safeway bakery to share with little friends at preschool on birthday. Store-bought because parents are no longer able to take fresh-baked goods to school. Or cut fruit. Or fruit that requires slicing prior to serving. Or anything that is not commercially processed. With each and every ingredient labeled clearly on the package. So store-bought it is. At least it saved me from staying up until 1 am frosting little pink cupcakes. Now I have time to try and find a little bit of free space in my brain to even begin processing the thought of planning a birthday party. Worry that someone will make me feel guilty for not being on top of things. Oh, yeah, that person is me. First day of nursing school tomorrow. And my brain already hurts. Such is my reality.

Oh, Haiku - I Love You

I don't know if you noticed, but I wrote my recent post Blink as a series of haiku. Haiku are fun. Haiku are great. I might just start conversing in haiku prose from now on. That would be fun.

Here are a few for your reading pleasure. You can join in if you want - it's kind of addicting. What? What's that you say? What is a haiku?

haiku are easy
but sometimes they don't make sense
refrigerator
**this one is not my own - I found it while I was Googling haiku

tucson city street
potholes strewn like Mia's pearls
tires scream in pain
**this one is my own, and just for the record, Tucson streets leave a lot to be desired.

At least now you will understand what is going on when you see one of these little gems in the future instead of saying, "Hey...Candace has kinda lost it, dontcha know."

Barbara Bush Called - She Would Like Her Pearls Back

This is my niece-dog Mia.

She's pretty darn cute.

But she wears more jewlery than I do.

And she owns a cashmere sweater.

And I don't.



This is Josie.

She's pretty darn cute, too.

She lives somewhere amongst the 10 pillows on my bed.

She does not wear any jewels. Or clothes.




This is my nephew-dog Killian.

When he was a few months old.

Back when he weighed more than Brynn does now at the age of 4.

He does not need jewels. Or clothes. He is a MAN dog.




This is Killian all grown up.

He is big and handsome. He can be ridden by small children.

He is 6'2'' when he stands on his hind legs. His feet are like bear paws.

And he would LOVE to hang out with Josie and Mia.

He could wear them as accessories.

It's Like "Blades of Glory," Only Better

Men's Springboard Synchronized Diving.

Really? Are we sure this isn't a contrived competition that serves the sole purpose of promoting Will Ferrell's next movie? Something along the lines of Talledega Nights meet Semi-Pro meets Blades of Glory? Oh, Olympic Committee, what will you think of next?

Blink

gray december skies
platinum crown of silken hair
my heart grew tenfold

blink.

a sweet sleepless spring
tiny hands and clear blue eyes
you relied on me

blink.

ready to explore
held my breath and let you go
my heart walks around

blink.

little man, size 2
a wisdom upon your brow
you bring me purpose

blink.

independent boy
exact, precise, curious
my heart follows you

blink.

compassionate soul
butterfly kisses we share
you make my heart sing

blink.

across the schoolyard
that hair just gives you away
my heart skips a beat

blink.

a grand adventure
on your own - kindergarten
I blink and your gone

Let My Love Grow A Child That I Want To Hug & Kiss One Mintue And Then Flush Down The Toilet The Next

It is with much regret that I announce the quick departure of the congenial creature formerly known as Brynn. It was a lovely, soul-soothing 19 hours, 34 minutes, and 12 seconds. But as with all good things, they must come to an end. A turbulent and bitter strife.

If the transition were played out on the big screen, we might have the Beatles' "Helter-Skelter" accompanying the pandemonium that is Brynn going from my "sweet little bean" to the writhing creature that has arrived straight from the depths of the fiery pit that is borderline-toddler-personality-disorder. Oh, I kid. I think.

Yes, I kid. Brynn just likes to exercise her control. And independence. And obstinance. And tenacity. And control - did I already mention that? She throroughly enjoys testing her parents coping skills. And patience. She likes to enforce the strict rule of keeping us on our toes at all times by delivering inconsistency 24 hours a day - that's our Brynn. And we love her. To no end.

While the child may cause me to have severe panic attacks and raise my anxiety levels to disproportionate levels, I know that one day she will be a strong, independent young woman. That is if I don't flush her down the toilet first.

Let My Love Grow A Spark

don't you ever ask them why
if they told you would die
so just look at them and sigh
and know they love you
-Crosby, Stills, and Nash; "Teach Your Children Well"
The boys have gone fishing, and I've had the pleasure of spending a day in the life of Brynn -without her big brother. There have been no meltdowns, no screaming, no aggression. It has been a beautiful day. Her love really does shine through like white light when given the opportunity.

But daddy and T.J. can't stay away forever. I'll just have to wrap these few days up in a little corner of my mind, keeping them tucked away for when the road gets rough. Just to have them there for safekeeping. To pull out and remember I need to have a little faith in the girl. I know the love is there and I know she loves me - even though her actions and words often say quite the opposite.

Sweetie, I will hold you up, forever and always. I love you my little "bean."

Greatest Inventions Ever

1. The Refrigerator - what would our lives be like without it?
   
2. Indoor Plumbing - need I say more?
   
3. The Television - only like the greatest babysitter ever! oh...I'm kidding ;) (I think)
   
4. The Washing Machine and Dryer - does anyone else have a child that changes clothes five times a day? What? No, you say? Well, can I send her to live at your house for a while so that I can have a break until my long-awaited Laundry Fairy shows up? Do any of you internets have her cell phone number?
   
5. Crayola Color Wonder Markers - seriously...invisible writing utensils that don't leave a colorful, permanent mark on the furniture, walls, or body? And keeps the kids busy for more than 2 minutes? Amen to that!
   
6. The Internet - could care less about how it works as long as I got me some high-speed!
   
7. Trader Joe's - hey, this is my list. If I want to call a commercial enterprise that supplies at least half of my household's groceries at a reasonable cost an invention, then I will!
   
8. Air Conditioning - in the home: fabulous; in the car: a precious commodity; absolutely necessary when it is 108 degrees outside; absolutely a tragic loss if it stops working at the end of July when it is a 108 degrees outside. I don't roll so well with all four windows down in the middle of summer - honestly, how did they do it pre-1960's? Oh, yeah. They didn't live in Arizona.

The One In Which He Attempts To Capture His Prey With A Rope, A Slingshot, A Booby-Trapped Ladder, and A Pile of Rocks

"Mama, did you know that Roadrunners catch and eat Rattlesnakes?"

They do? (No, really, I did not know that).

"Yea, they're so fast that they just run around in circles and the Rattlesnake keeps trying to strike at the Roadrunner and then the snake gets tired and then the Roadrunner pecks him with his sharp beak until he's dead."

Really? I would have guessed that Roadrunners just eat a pile of "free" birdseed that just happens to be sitting in the middle of a deserted highway somewhere in the barren American southwest desert. The delicious pile of seed would be conveniently located at the base of a ginormous cliff while a 1 ton anvil hangs precariously above him. The Roadrunners will devour the seed, oblivious to the peril above, and then just dart away at the last second, while the Coyote is foiled yet again.

Isn't that how all Roadrunners survive? That's what I learned growing up (and I live in the American southwest desert). Either that, or I just assumed all Roadrunners just get together and order a bunch of crap from the Acme supply company to capture their prey. Just like Wile E. Coyote. Who knew there was an actual biologically sound method of Roadrunners securing their food source.

I do find it amusing when my five-year-old knows more than I do about certain subjects. Kudos to Ms. Pam - that teacher is a gift straight from heaven. In just one year of preschool, he learned about the forest, ocean, and desert - the flora, the fauna, the ins and outs, and everything in between. They learned about the human body - how nerve cells talk to each other, how the blood flows, how our bones move. They learned about our solar system and took a flight through the solar system in a rocket ship manufactured from a refrigerator box, complete with space suits and ground control.

The Y-ego Master continues to inform me at least once a week that the sun is something like 93 million miles away from earth and names all the planets (including the planet formerly known as Pluto) in order. (yea, I can do it now, but couldn't a year ago without Googling it). Thanks, son. And thank you, Ms. Pam. Not only are you teaching the beautiful spongy minds of four- and five-year olds, but their parents, too.

And isn't it funny how a short lesson on Roadrunner trickery from my son makes me realize how much I now remember forgetting over the years.

Sister Scuba

Through my daughter's eyes, I am reminded that it is not what you look at, but what you see (Thoreau). Do any of us still have that wonder that is a child's imagination?

Being able to turn a pair of smashing, funky, diva sunglasses and a pastel pink kitchen spatula into a scuba mask and snorkel, and then proceed to execute a frontward roll entry off the side of the couch into the depths of the laminate wood ocean to rescue "Lil' Brown Puppy" from her awful demise is a beautiful thing.

Things We Lost In The Chair

Important discovery last night: nothing irritates a slumbering husband more than being nudged awake at 12:52 am to perform emergency surgery on a large piece of furniture that may have... kind of...accidently...and inadvertantly swallowed the wife's cell phone.

Not that I didn't try to rescue it on my own. For like an hour. Because there is nothing I hate more than committing an obviously careless act and then having to enlist the man of the house to help. And then on top of it, having to endure a mini-lecture at 1:00 in the morning on the proper way to take care of a cell phone. Detailing why men are more responsible with important things. Like keys. And rings. And cell phones. They always have them physically on them or in an exact location on the kitchen counter that never changes. Blah, blah, blah.

Even when a sometimes random, slightly neurotic wife goes on one of her cleaning sprees - keys and cell phone stay where they are. Because "we must have order!" Order, I tell you.

I'm not so good with order. I like to change things up every now and then. Just for fun. Actually, it's because I have this thing with repetition and routine. Case in point - the movie Groundhog Day. It drives me crazy. Especially the beginning of each scene that keeps repeating the day with the alarm clock turning to 6:00 am and Sonny & Cher's "I've Got You Babe" playing...ughhh it's driving me crazy just thinking about it! And there I go digressing, again.

So, back to the cell phone being eaten by the chair. I tried all the basic cell phone rescuing techniques taught by the American Red Cross. Shoving my hand into the dark, scary crevice of the living room chair that is filled with crumbs and hair and dirt and a juice box plastic straw wrapper and goldfish crackers. That lasted about 1/2 a second as I just could not stand the thought of all that nasty touching me and getting underneath my fingernails. I then moved onto the turning-the-chair-upside-down technique. I realized later that this is probably what caused my little black cell phone to end up wedged in what can only be described as the Bermuda Triangle of the La-Z-Boy.

So, if the turning it upside down technique didn't work, then the next rational technique would be rotating the chair through various positions - on the side, on its back, on its side again. That would surely do the trick, right? Not so much. After about an hour of such effort, a little bit of cell phone clunking sounds, and at least 30 calls to myself to try and pinpoint the exact location of the phone in the chair, I realized it was time to call in the big guns.

The big guns that were sawing logs like a bear in hibernation. The big guns that would not really understand the importance of getting a cell phone out of a chair in the middle of the night. The big guns that would rescue a damsel in distress. I hate being the damsel in distress, but my phone is a part of me. Like my arm. Or my legs. Or my sight. Or my hearing. Absolutely necessary. Even at midnight.

Long story short, after 20 minutes of intricate surgerical procedures, Dr. Laz E. Boy (and he sometimes is) extracted my beloved cell phone from that mean, hungry chair. Really. We needed a scalpel and suction. Okay, okay...really just kitchen scissors and a vacuum, but let's just say that I performed some extaordinary surgical nurse techniques. Like making sure the chair didn't fall on top of the doc. And sterilizing the O.R. by sweeping up all the debris. And continuing to repeatedly call the cell phone so we could tell if it had moved. Primitive techniques, people. No x-ray or ultrasound machines needed here.

And there's a bonus (or two, or three) to this random, middle-of-the-night event - we are now $0.41 richer, found the fluorescent orange Polly Pocket shoe that has been missing for like months, and since I didn't make it to the grocery store the past few days, now have some goldfish crackers for snacktime!

Score! Now I have some "Mommy Points" to offset the "Dumb Blonde Points" that I sometimes accrue through little things like leaving my cell phone sitting next to me while I watch TV and then having it accidently be eaten by the chair. Or something like that.

A Snow Shovel and a 50 Gallon Bucket are Absolutely Necessary

Me: "What was your favorite part of the Circus last night?"
Him: "The mertercyles in the cage."
Me: "That was pretty cool, wasn't it? What was the funniest part?
Him: "The elephant poop."
Me: "I'm glad you enjoyed the poo - that's why we came."

I Have Always Believed that My Children are Destined for Greatness

Honestly, what in tarnations is going on here? Any of you who know me (or my husband) can't possibly believe that these children are truly in possession of our genes.

I would rather take two tired, hungry, and ill-behaved children to Costco on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer than pose for such pictures. Oh, wait - that Costco thing? I already torture myself with that on a regular basis. So, I guess I would rather lie on a bed of nails or something, than pose for such pictures. Really. Even as a kid. Wouldn't do it.

Odds of my husband committing such an act: 1 in 6,230,000,000,000,000.

Peace out!

PS - do you notice the translucent quality of my children's skin...weird, huh? We actually don't need nightlights in our house. We all glow in the dark. No, really. If we were all standing out in the middle of the woods without flashlights or lanterns, moths would start flying around us all confused and like "hey, these guys aren't porchlights or lanterns, what's going on here?" And I would be like "hey, sorry Mr. Moth, but the Celtic genes hit us full force. Now, go away because I really hate flying insects actually touching me, let alone talking to me. Seriously. Shoo."

Quote(s) of the Day

"No."
"Nope."
"I said no."
"Please don't ask me again."
"No."
"NO."
"NO."
"The answer is still no."

And They Ate Wheat Thins & Pink Bubble Gum for Breakfast

There are those rare mornings that I just need to sleep in past 6:13 am for mental stability and rejuvination. So, I will choose to lay in bed for an extra hour. The purpose of "rejuvination" and mental rest are quickly overcome when, at 7:13 am, I am finally ripped out of my slumber with an earpiercing shriek and a dramatic cry of "Brrryyyyyyyynnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!" Alarm clocks are just not really needed in our house. Unless you are attempting to wake up before the children, of course.

Here are just a few of the things my children can accomplish during my hour of sleeping in:

1. Scatter a herd of My Little Ponies from one end of the house to the other (I guess we practice pastural grazing in our house).
2. Make a sweet blanket fort between the two living room chairs, complete with a Disney Princess roof and an every-pillow-in-the-house-except-the-two-that-I-am-sleeping-on protective wall.
3. Place small stacks of books in random locations throughout the house. Why? Mail deliveries, of course!
4. Unroll half the roll of toilet paper. And then try to roll it back up so that Mama won't notice.
5. Post an entire stack of Post-It Notes on the bedroom doors and living room coffee table.
6. Review our collection of DVD's (for the 456th time) and leave the movies precariously stacked 23-inches-high in front of the TV.
7. Leave scribblings and love notes on the the stack of bills Mama left by the computer at 11:45 pm last night.
8. Break out the box of Wheat Thins and eat twice their weight in crackers.
9. Follow the breakfast of champions up with a shot of pink Bubble Gum.

All before 7:13 am. Amazing. Truly. Sleeping in for an hour may not be the wisest parenting decision I made this week. It seemed like a fantastic idea at the time. Now, in light of the aftermath, not so much.

Places I Would Rather NOT Be

Death Valley, California - average high temperature of 134 degrees Farenheit
Kebili, Tunisia: 131 degrees
Tombouctou, Mali: 130.1 degrees (that .10 is a killer and definitely the tipping point)
Tirat Tavi, Israel: 129 degrees
Ahwaz, Iran: 128.3 degrees

All I can say is that I am infinitely grateful not to be in any of those crazy-hot places!

Note: Today's high in Tucson: 110 degrees, highest record temp: 117 degrees in 1990...still way to flippin' HOT for me to function at a normal level. 74 degrees is more my speed.

It Keeps Me In a Continual State of Inelegance...

The trouble with the heat is that it's hot. 108+ degrees hot. And it's only mid-June.

Which means that over the next 60 days, my intolerance to heat will continue to build to an astronomical level until one day my husband will come home to find me sitting in a bathtub full of ice cubes. And frozen vegetables. And those little ice packs shaped like smiley faces that are supposed to help make scraped knees and boo-boos feel better.

The thing about Southern Arizona summers is not necessarily the fact that walking barefoot on the sidewalk at night is out of the question. Or needing to slather 6 layers of SPF50 sunscreen all over yourself and your translucent children before stepping outside. Or being required to complete all outdoor activities before 7:03 am. It's the overall feeling of irritation. And a constant disagreeable disposition. And every so often, a little bit of heat-induced rage. But that's just me.

In my book, summer is highly over-rated. Probably because, as a Tucson native, scorching heat is all I have ever known. Next summer, I'm going to Idaho. Or Montana. Or Greenland.

We've Got a Great One at Our House...

Marketing Geniuses

I don't know if any of you are aware, but two great marketing geniuses have formed an alliance that is making mom's around the world jump and shout with joy. The kind of joy that inside is really a mixture of dismay and a handful of repulsion, and just a little bit of awe and admiration.

That's right, Campbell's SpaghettiO's meets Disney Princessess. Really, who are the ad wizard's who come up with this stuff? Little, slimy, gooey noodle-heads in the shape of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Belle - swimming in an red-orange sea of high-sodium synthetic tomato sauce. Yum.

I don't know which is the bigger marvel - that SpaghettiO's can actually be made into the shape of a Princess head and/or crown, or that the Disney empire has actually aspired to infiltrate the canned goods market.

All I know, is that every few weeks, I now receive special requests for "Princess Pssketio's, please..."

Time Traveling Bunnies

Quote of the Week:
John Locke: "Was he talking about what I think he was talking about?"
Benjamin Linus: "If you mean time traveling bunnies, then yes."

Gotta love good dialogue - thank goodness the writer's strike is over!

Have you ever been so into a TV show that season finales just drive you CRAZY?!?!?! I want to know what is going to happen to my friends on the island! I can't wait until next season! I need to know now!

My biggest concern, however: Who is feeding Claire's baby, Aaron? And why is a "five-week" old baby so freakin' big?

Anyway, I am all about instant gratification. If Lost were a novel, I would have stayed up all day and night reading it until I was done. And if there were a series of Lost books - oh, would I be in trouble. Actually, it would be my family that suffers. The real victims of Oceanic Flight 815. There would be no clean socks. Or underwear. Or dishes. Or dinner on the table. Or anyone to break up squabbaling children. It would be a little bit like living on the island without any kind-hearted survivors. Just savages.

Really. Savages. And if you have never placed a meticulous, overly scrupulous five-year-old in the same room as a free-spirited, rather intense three-and-a-half-year-old, and left them loosely supervised, and just let the rivers flow where they may, you would agree. Savages.

It is really an experiment of sorts. One that every now and then I subject myself to. Just to see what will happen. It's not pretty. Not at all. It involves a lot of shrieking (making dogs cower at such high decibels). And a lot of wailing. And whining. Some physical aggression. And lots and lots of incomprehensible language. And a mom who just wants to shut her eyes and cover her ears. And count to 623. Good times. Stop by and I'll show you this marvel sometime.

So, all that being said, I guess I should be very thankful that Lost is just a television show that doles out the plot one week at a time, two seasons per year so that my family does not self destruct. Or disappear. Like the island in the finale.

But Who's Really Counting?

Only 31 hours, 19 minutes, and 55 seconds till the season finale of Lost...but who's really counting?

Minute Maid 100% Apple White Grape Juice Box Trivia Questions

• Question: If you were a 3-year-old, how many times would you ask for a juice box before you finally gave up?
• Answer: 623

• Question: And if you were a mom of a 3-year-old who would ask you 623 times for a juice box before giving up, how many times would the 3-year-old have to ask you before you would finally give in, just begging for her to please leave you alone already?
• Answer: 9

• Question: And what if you were the mom of a 3-year-old who starts asking for cupcakes at 9:45 am, using the same juice-box inquisition tactic she achieved success with 7 minutes earlier?
• Answer: Lock yourself in the bathroom and curl up in a ball on the floor with your hands over your ears and your eyes shut tight. Counting slowly. To 623.

Did I Really Just Say That

If you had asked me 5 years ago, these are 10 things that I thought would NEVER come out of my mouth:

1. Stop using the Ranch dressing as fingerpaint right this instant!
2. Eat two more carrots and then you can have a chocolate chip cookie.
3. Do not sit on your sister's head.
4. Please do not put your shoe in your mouth.
5. Who left a piece of cheese on the bathroom counter?
6. Why is there a trail of pink nail polish in my bathroom at 6:30 in the morning?
7. Is there a reason an entire roll of toilet paper is lying in a pile next to the bathtub?
8. We do not lick people....it's not polite.
9. Do I really have to make you a bologna sandwich with ketchup on it?
10. Why are there are rocks under my pillow?

It All Started With a Chihuahua

Have you ever started one project that turns into about three or four or seventeen others? Yeah...that happens to me all the time. And then my usually dormant OCD kicks in and I just can't stop. Even as I am typing this, all I can think about is cleaning grout.

This time, it all started with a Chihuahua. A peculiar little thing named Josie. She has a penchant for keeping her nose warm by tucking it directly under the attached end of her tail (gross) and leaving "Josie trails" on fiberous surfaces (read: peeing on every single carpet and/or rug in the house). So, I asked my wonderfully kind and patient husband (six months ago) to please remove the carpet in our bedroom before I set fire to it the very next day. Six months came and went, and I just could never bring myself to light the match. I am sure that if I had, I would not have been happy with the results.

So, finally, a few weeks ago, the joyous day came when the husband just woke up one day with only one thing on his agenda (well, two if you count being a lecherous dork): to pull that carpet outta' there.

(Shhhh...don't tell him, but really I stayed awake all night whispering a hypnotizing chant in his ear: "I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out..." You should try it sometime. Sure, you're tired the next day, but when you've got your husband doing all the chores and taking care of the kids for the day, you can sneak off and take a nice little nap!)

Now that the carpet had been exterminated and laid to rest, I could proceed to the next task - paint. It started with the ceiling in that ever-daring hue of Roadster White. Which is really just a very light cream color, but Ralph Lauren wants you to think it is fun and exciting by throwing in the "speediness" of Roadster. RL is very cutting edge like that. I'm sure he is always thinking about the salability of a can of paint. His niche in the paint market is probably the bulk of his retirement plan. That, or the dozens of other home lines he endorses. Or that genre of clothing called fashion design. That area of culture that I know nothing about or have any interest in. I was born without the fashion OCD gene. Sorry, RL, but I tend to prefer jeans and cotton t-shirts. And your color palette in the paint section at Home Depot.

So, back to my paint. Everyone knows that when you paint the ceiling, you are going to have to paint the walls. And when you paint the walls in your master bedroom, you are going to have to paint the master bathroom. And when you paint the master bathroom, you are going to have to paint its ceiling, too. And when you live in a house whose previous owner loved high-gloss paint in the bathroom, you are going to have to put a minimum of two coats on. And while the two coats of paint are drying, you notice that, boy, the grout in your floor tile is really gross. So you go to Home Depot. And you buy some heavy-duty, burns the skin on your hands and knees grout cleaner. And everyone knows that after you have spent an hour scrubbing grout lines with heavy-duty grout cleaner and a toothbrush that it MUST be sealed to prevent such grossness from ever occuring again. And just for safe measure, two coats of sealant with a minimum of 1 hour dry time between each application must be used. Just for safe measure. And when you get to the doorway of the bathroom, you realize that it looks great, but makes the rest of the tile look even worse. So...if you just keep going, things will be just fine.

Except that it is 10:30 pm on a weeknight. And you have finals to study for. And final projects to work on. And the rest of the house is a disaster. And that unreliable laundry fairy didn't even feel the need to stop by to help out while I battled my compulsive behavior. Obsessive compulsive behavior. And it all started with a Chihuahua.

And What About a Pink Roller Coaster?

What about a pink roller coaster???

Random.

Even more random as an interjection to the conversation about the fishing trip with Daddy this weekend.

And completely irrelevant to fishing. Unless maybe it's a three-year-old's attempt at an elaborate metaphor for fishing. Yeah, that's it. You know, "pink" to represent the breed of fish known as the "Pink Salmon". And "roller coaster" to represent said "Pink Salmon" swimming upstream?

Pink Roller Coaster = Pink Salmon Swimming Upstream

I know, I know, it's definitely a stretch and I'm attempting to make my daughter sound like some sort of child genius. That, and the fact that they are going nowhere near a river that has Pink Salmon. Rainbow Trout, maybe. Catfish, possibly. Pink Salmon, definitely not.

So, I guess we should just call it what it is: random.

Can't See The Children For The Weeds...

So, I think I may have to rescind my recent post regarding the telephone poles in Tucson overshadowing the glory of nature seeing how the weeds in my side yard are capable of partially concealing small children and completely swallowing a chihuahua.

Tips on Love, By: TJ

The lessons we could all learn from a five-year-old about Love...

Yeah...9 is definitely TOO young, T. Wait until twenty-NINE. Or, thirty-NINE. Please.

Great idea on the date thing...much cheaper than dinner and a movie (especially since paying a babysitter for that 4 hours can set you back close to what it costs to have, say, ELECTRICITY in your house for an entire month?!?!). Definitely more fun. Will you go on a date with me? Will my tush still fit down the slide? I might get stuck. Maybe we should just stick to running around. Or, walking. Really fast walking. Yeah, that's more my speed. What's that you say? I'm a boring date? Hmphf.

"How do you fall in love"?!?!? "How do you make someone fall in love with you"?!?!? Does anyone know the answers to two of life's most challenging questions? Apparently preschoolers do. Need marriage counseling? Talk to someone in the four-and-five-year-old crowd. It might be worth your while.

And, my favorite: "Love is...that you appreciate somebody." All you need is love, love, love is all you need. Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love. All you need is love. All you need is love.

(now you're singing it too, aren't you?)

My little lovebug - gotta love him!

Not Exactly What I Had In Mind When I Decided To Have Children...

Let me start off by apologizing. I have committed a major parening faux pas and for the very first time in my blog history - which has spanned a whole 1o months if you've been counting. Which I know you have. I am sure this here blog is read by at least tens of people every two years - oh, yeah, back to the "first-time-in-Candace's-blog-history-moment." To get the full effect of what went wrong when I decided to have children, I must include a "naughty" word. A "wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap" word. Sorry. But, it has to be done. I am just here to report the facts. And if a curse word is part of the evidence, then so be it.

Ok, content warning now out of the way. I am (still) so not getting the Mom of the Year Award. Ever.

So, let's set the scene: Loving Grandmother outside with her incredibely cute but sometimes ill-behaved grandchildren. They are doing the "green-hour" thing and are outside in Granny's yard watering plants and working on the lovely backyard fountain. A beautiful spring day in sunny Tucson. Can you picture it?

Said grandson is working diligently on the task at hand - cleaning out the fountain, wondering how much money he'll be able to talk said grandmother out of today. He has probably already asked her at least 17 times how much money he'll be making. He charges by the minute.

Said-granddaughter is doing the same - working that is. Or, more likely, just standing there trying to look busy and pretty at the same time, but really just plotting her next attempt to completely eradicate any and all attempts her mother has made to raise a well-mannered, gracious little girl. Don't worry, it won't take long. She's a mastermind at working out these evil schemes of hers in a matter of milliseconds. In fact, I think she came pre-programmed with an arsenal of them at birth.

"Granny," she says "this is a f---ing man's job!"

Oh, no...there it is. Seriously, when will she understand that feminist remarks like that are just not tolerated in this household? And how dare she call her grandmother "Granny." What was she thinking?!?!?

And I really do have a hard time understanding her pronuncitation of the the "---" sound. It kind of sounded like "uck" when everyone knows that hyphens really make an "ountain" sound. Come on, how could I have failed in teaching her that basic skill? I am afraid that speech class is in her very near future. That, and a bar of soap. In the mouth. For at least a minute. For Daddy and Mama.

Can't See The Forest For The Trees

Or, as our motto here in Tucson states: "Can't See The Beauty of Nature For All The Telephone Poles."

Telephone poles and telephone lines are one of my biggest pet peeves when it comes to living in Tucson. That, and the infinite number of potholes in our city streets. And the fact that no matter where you are trying to drive to in this town - whether it be just 4.8 miles away or in excess of 30, it still takes you 45 minutes, nonetheless. I know - it's baffling. I grew up in Tucson and still don't get it.

Oh, and the fact that you can start out on a street by one name, drive due east, and the name changes on you 3 times (really, who are the geniuses that came up with this one?!?!?). And what about those streets that abrubtly end, without warning, and then just randomly reappear 1/2 a mile away? Or, the four-lane divided streets that are traveled by maybe 10 cars per day, when there are still the ancient two-laners with no middle turn lane that are traveled by hundreds each hour. Do you see a theme to my Tucson gripes? I LOVE driving in this town!

Let's get back to those telephone poles. I meant to post these photos a few months back when I took them. And, yes, these are actual pictures, not Photoshop-ed to add the snow. It does occasionally snow here, for all you non-Tucsonans!

See, there's the snow. And the big, heavy clouds. And, look, the beginnings of a rainbow. Oh, isn't it all just so beautiful?



But, wait...

...there are those pesky telephone poles that I promised you. (I'll let you in on a little secret about the first three photos: I said that I didn't Photoshop the snow in, but you can be dang sure that I will most certainly crop those big ol' matchsticks out of my shots!)

It's weird, there is this profound concept of burying power lines so that they don't clutter up the streets and skyline, or detract from a city's beauty. I suppose they just haven't heard of that in Tucson yet. You know we are still a "small town," afterall. And by "small town," what we really mean is several hundreds of thousands of people, dontcha' know. With lots and lots of eco-friendly wanna-be's who want us to ride our bikes to work and go green by turning all of our electricty off for one hour on one night of the year, but yet don't mind looking at a majestic, snow-capped desert mountain through a cage of telephone lines. Weird.

If Only You Knew What A Pain It Really Is

I was reading my friend Jesusita's blog this evening in which one of her posts reminded me that we both belong to an exclusive club: The Order of the Natural Curl. Oh, I know that all of you straight-hairs are saying: "I wish my hair would do that," "It must be so nice to have curly hair, mine just lies there," blah, blah, blah, I've heard it all...

If only you were able to experience for just one month the wonder of naturally curly hair. You might not be so sure about committing to a lifetime worth of an extremely limited range of hairstyles (two, maybe three) . And always having to buy just the right shampoo and conditioner to "accentuate the curl" (read: tame, control, beat into submission). And the styling products that are not too heavy or oily or dry, and are able to give some hold, but don't make your hair crunchy or fluffy. If it's a mousse or gel - I run away. Fast. Serums and creams are my good friends - whoever invented these gems definitely deserves an award of some kind.

Oh, and frizz - definitely NOT a curly girl's best friend.

Please don't get me wrong...I am absolutely sure that I could NOT do the straight hair thing everyday. I do, or rather, have learned to love my curly hair - it has kind of physically defined me for many years. Although I will on occasion spend the 3 + hours to blow my hair out straight - just to have it start kinking up 30 minutes later, because, hey, I have nothing better to do with my time.

I guess the best part of natural curl is that with the wonders of humidity and frizz, it is pretty easy to blame the weather for a bad hair day, and women actually believe you. I mean, how can a straight-hair possibly question a curly-hair about the validity of such statement?

I must admit that, for the most part, curly hair is easy. Easy as in trying to hold a grasshopper easy. But, once you learn that it has a mind of its own and it (and only it) is in control and will ALWAYS win, you've got it made. That kind of easy.

Very easy. Until you need to get it cut. I think the number one rule of The Order of the Natural Curl is: Thou shalt not allow a stylist to touch your hair unless they are licensed, bonded, and insured and have a magic wand that can be used to replace the 2-inches of wet hair that was cut and now that it is dry appears more like 10-inches were removed.

I speak from experience - I have had one stylist cut my hair since I was 12. Not for the past twelve years, but since I was TWELVE! As I have moved around Arizona, I have found it necessary to find back-ups, but not without a thorough background check and a strict interview involving lots of questions like: Do you know who Bozo the clown is? Well, don't make me look like Bozo. Seriously, do you really know who Bozo is? Do you have a picture of him in your mind? What are your credentials? Is your hair naturally curly? What about your sister's hair - is hers? What about your great-great-grandmother - did she have naturally curly hair? Have you ever been sued for making someone look like Bozo? Do you own a magic wand?

Curly hair: it's not all it's cracked up to be.

Skunkhair Skunkpants

Is she Spongebob Squarepants hot new girlfriend? No, but she could be!

Skunkhair Skunkpants (aka: Amanda Overmeyer on American Idol) was one of TJ's favorites and he was so disappointed to see her go: "I like Skunkhair. She's awesome." But, alas, another one bites the dust.

Which is o.k. with Brynn. She didn't particularly care for the un-princesslike "skunkiness" that was Amanda's hair. "Hey, girls don't have hair like skunks!" Oh, but some girls do.

Anyways, so long, Skunkhair Skunkpants...maybe the folks in Bikini Bottom would love for you to come do a show at the local sandbar!

By Smart, I Also Mean a Little Bit Odd at Times

He has the mental capacity to remember an event that happened 4 years ago. He can name and draw at least 7 different species of cacti. He can tell you today's date.

But, he has a shoe in his mouth. A dirty shoe. In his mouth.

In the meantime, while I certainly appear cool, calm, and collected on the outside, I am freaking out about the unquantifiable amount of germs that are happily parading from shoe to mouth. Has the kid never heard of "Foot-and-Mouth" disease?!?!? Well, I guess he wouldn't have since he is not a cow. Or pig. Or goat. Or sheep. Or any other variety of hooved animal normally infected by this virus...

But SHOE + MOUTH = eewww!




He is also notorious for tucking his shirt into his underwear.

Click On This If Your Screen is Dirty

Seriously, Click on This Link now...you'll thank me later! Oh, yes you will...

Grace: A Study in Contrast

My daughter is quite inventive. Oh, yes she is, that one. And, she is ALWAYS on the cutting edge of fashion. I am pretty sure that Prima Ballerinas all over the world (because, as I am sure you are well aware, they are my biggest readership base...is that a real term, readership base...oh, I digress again...) are shrieking in horror at the sight of this little girl in her soft, pale pink ballerina outfit and, um, are those Daddy's dirty, grungy running shoes?!?!?! Why, yes they are. Stylish choice in footwear, my little ballerina!

Why I Can Forgive My Children for No Longer Being Able to Have a Pleasant Dinner in a Restaurant (Fancy or Not)

1. Because of their endless fascination with an apple that can be both red and green at the same time.
2. Soft, sweet butterfly kisses as bedtime.
3. Endless admiration for their ability to wake in the morning smiling, laughing, and playing with at least 10 toys before their little feet even hit the floor.
4. Still being able to read the same books after five years and discovering something new about the story each time.
5. Having serious conversations about why we cannot have candy or ice cream for breakfast.
6. Being reminded each time we drive by one that "Oh...there is another palm tree that you don't like." Note to self: when expressing personal likes and dislikes to a four-year-old who doesn't forget a thing you say other than that pertaining to housekeeping, remember that he will keep said list of preferences and aversions handy to use at the most inopportune (read: embarassing) moments).
7. Being able to read "Where the Wild Things Are" on a regular basis.
8. Quick forgiveness of my short temper.
9. Being reminded that, in certain circles, the word "poop" can be the source of endless laughter and tantilizing conversation.
10. A big hug and "Mama...I love you" -- for absolutely no reason.

Reasons to Wake Up Before 6:13 am, Reason #16

And then there was the morning I realized that the Pretty Princess Make-Up Kit from Aunt "RoRo" needs to be kept under lock and key. At. All. Times.

I just know that Tammy Faye is so proud right now. I mean who wouldn't be envious of this stunning makeover? Soft, supple, smooth skin and creamy, bubblegum pink makeup - it's like a dream come true!

The Plague

I'm pretty sure that I have contracted The Plague. That, or just (another) respiratory infection. I think that my immune system has been subjected to just about every viral infection out there (plus a few bacterial ones) since having children. Oh...when will it every end?

Priorities

When one is faced with the decision of studying for Statistics class or making little-heart-shaped-mini-sandwiches for a Preschool Valentine's Day Party, priorities MUST be established: heart-shaped-mini-sandwiches trump stats every time!

Valentine Schmalentine

If you have a minute, check out one of my favorite "bloggers" and her commentary on Valentine's Day: http://bigmama1.com/2008/02/06/valentines-day-brought-to-you-by-hallmark-and-the-popcorn-industry/

Oh, how I understand...

What Is Love

I received a little bit of affirmation that I must not be too big a failure in the whole childrearing department when TJ took on the question of "What is love?" -- and why does that awful dance hit from the 90's pop into my head whenever I say that (and if you have no idea what song I'm talking about, then you are oh-so-blessed for never having heard this little not-so-great byproduct of the 1990's).

Tangent...Tangent...Tangent - back to the question at hand, "What is love" - it brought tears to my eyes when my little man said "Love means that you appreciate someone." Oh, if I could just wrap that little voice up and keep it in my pocket forever! I'm very sure I'll be needing it desperately in about 10 years!

Normally, I would say that the kid is just good at answering deep questions on the fly, but he was able to convey the exact same answer to both to his teenage cousins AND his teachers, so I think he definitely gets the concept! Yay - chalk one up for me! Oh - wait...

Today, on the very same day T's teacher doled out compliments on my parenting, Princess B's preschool teacher informed me she is still having "Anger Management" issues. In one fell swoop, she shattered my parenting pride. I am also pretty sure I heard a little bit of accusation in the tone of her voice. Or maybe that was my own guilty conscience.

Anyway, forget about that whole "in the lead with childrearing" thing. But, honestly, there are days I wish I could just bonk certain people on the head with a My Little Pony and get on with my day, too!

I Don't Know About You, But I LOVE Cake!

Bite ONE:

Bites TWO - TEN:

Yum, Yum, Yum...Delicioso!

Happy 5th Birthday, My Little Boy!

On the 29th of December, the Y-ego Master turned 5. FIVE. Five-years-old. Amazing how much your life changes in just five short years. Thank you, little man, for showing us that, as parents, our hearts are indeed capable of walking around outside our body.

You are our sweet, kind, and loving little boy - although I am sorry that you have inherited your mother's impatience and obsessive need for germ- and dirt-free living and your father's trait of arguing your point (regardless of whether it is right or wrong) to the very end. To. The. Very. End. The VERY End.

So, Happy Birthday, T - We Love You!

Y-ego Master

This year, in celebration of the birth of Jesus, the wise men betrothed our household not with gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh, but rather box upon box upon box of Legos - the Lego City Airport, the Lego City Rescue Helicopter, the Aquaraiders Lobster Strike, the Mars Mission Strike Fighter, the Police Helicopter, the Fire Rescue Truck, and the huge variety set, otherwise known as the "Big Blue Box of Legos" - I think there may be more, but they are mercifully hidden under the treasure troves of all the other Lego sets.

T has become a skilled Y-ego Master in the span of just one week. We thought we were going to have to spend big bucks on tuition for the International School for Lego Architecture, but alas, the boy is a natural! In fact, he is a lego-building fool...a Lego Ninja (see pic below)...a Lego Guru...the Swami of all Lego Builders...a Lego virtuoso, if you will.

Oh, I'm kidding - but seriously, the kid is obsessed with those tiny building blocks of rock-hard plastic that feel oh-so-wonderful on the bottom of bare feet. He goes to bed thinking about the Lego accomplishments of the day, and wakes up the next morning to finish the next big thing! Who knew that all it would take to bridge the gap of boredom was a $29.99 box of Legos?

Do they offer Lego insurance? I think the vast Lego collection now residing in our home has got to be approaching a net value of at least $250. Note to self: see if we can take out a second based on the value of our children's toys...