Momma Says the F Word

Better late than never

2009-11-12T14:21:00.006-06:00

Allrighty, so, the retail world long ago decided that it is the Christmas season, totally skipping over the lovely holiday that is Thanksgiving. But despite being behind the times, I wanted to share a few Halloween pictures with you. Because my kidlets were really cute, methinks.

First I must share with you that both kids were totally into the pumpkin gutting this year. Bigsy was all in it to win it.

Phook was also onboard this year, after years of trepidation. She pretty much solo gutted her pumpkin, then requested that we carve the face of her gymnastics instructor into the thing. Alas, Big K carved her second choice, a cat.

Big K rocked his classic maneuver of absurd pumpkin art by carving a chupacabra within a pumpkin as designed by Hode. I didn't even know what a chupacabra was, which apparently makes me really lame.

For costumes this year, Big K desperately wanted us to go as The Flintstones, because he thought Bigs was the perfect BamBam. Well, he was on point on that count, however I couldn't figure out how to get us all in costumes that are essentially scant animal-print rags without making a major investment in insulated flesh-colored body suits, so we went with two witches and two mad scientists. I think it was hott.

I really loved the mad scientists:

And this was supposed to be the witches-only picture, but a mad mad scientist snuck in:

Let's check out the cutest mad scientist in close-up:

And my favorite witch:

Man, this Halloween was really, really, really just fun. It was the first time for Phook that the holiday was all fun, no fear. She was into trick-or-treating bigtime, had the whole routine locked up, and really enjoyed herself. Bigsy was his jovial self and ate like 19 pounds of candy before we even got home. Just a good old time. I hope yours was fun as well. Now get out there and finish that Christmas shopping, you slackers! (Eff that noise, I say.)

Quote of the Day x 2: The Potty Humor and International Relations Edition

2009-11-06T19:06:00.000-06:00

Quote of the Day - Potty Humor Edition

So the other day we were driving to gymnastics. I asked Phook if she needed to go potty or if she could hold it all the way to gymnastics. She said, "No, I don't need to go potty. The potty at quastics (her adopted word for gymnastics) is real big. And all the kids fall down the hole into the poop and into the pee. And then they get real mad."

And I said, "Really buddy, they do? What kids do that?"

And Phook said, "Nobody. I just teasin' you."

I thought that was good bathroom comedy.

Quote of the Day - International Relations Edition

Today we were in the car in a nearby town. There is a camo-painted Army tank permanently parked and displayed in sort of a town square area in this town. Phook spotted it and asked what it was. I found myself struggling to give a reasonably detailed answer, because reasonably detailed answers are what she is going for these days, to the point where I sometimes have to invoke the "We'll have to ask Daddy when he gets home" response because we're getting to some grade level in science that exceeds my personal knowledge base. What I ultimately came up with was something like, "Well, Phook, that's a real big 'chine that's like a big tough car. And sometimes countries, like the big place where we live, get in fights with other countries. And those big fights are called wars. And when our country is in a war, we need to use big 'chine cars like that to help us win our fights."

And Phook said, I shit you not, "Those guys need to change their attitudes. They need a new attitude."

Seriously. My recently minted three-year-old is able to figure out what the world's heads of state are incapable of realizing, based simply on the most ridiculous, most elementary description of the concept of war.

That made my day. Maybe my year. Phook, budding diplomat?

And one step back...

2009-11-03T15:45:00.000-06:00

In parenting circles, you hear the term "regression" not uncommonly. People talk about their kids regressing after the birth of a sibling...wanting to use a bottle or sleep in a crib after they've graduated from these things. Or regressing in their potty training when they move to a new house. Or something like that. I've also heard about kids randomly regressing in some way in conjunction with a growth spurt or some developmental leap. I dunno. I kind of thought all that was bunk, since I'd never witnessed it here in the House of K and I'm narrow-minded like that. I mean, I've witnessed ear-splitting naughty and maddeningly emotional outbursts and all those joys. But I've never seen one of my kids very markedly go backward in their behavior. Until now. Let's discuss.

Phook. Phook is mid-regress. It's weird. She is not being especially naughty or especially confrontational or especially difficult. But she is definitely doing some things that are so 6 months ago. Or maybe even a year ago.

Not the pottying. Thank everybody's god, not the pottying. The pottying is intact.

The first thing I noticed was that she was asking to be carried, particularly up the stairs to bed. And not just in a random way, but she wants to be carried slung across the front of the carrier's body, "over the threshold" style, let's call it. This is a child who has been walking miles on her own since her first birthday. Also a child who is a big fan of the "I want to do it ALL BY MYSELF" school of fun. So I noticed this. She does it with me and with Big K. We simply comply. No harm, no foul.

The second thing is her language. Now Phook has never been known for her pristine diction. Not by a long shot. But she had gotten to a point where there was less than one percent purposeful gibberish in her speech. I would have called it a rarity. I would go so far as to say she was at the all-English all the time phase of linguistic development. But the last few weeks, we have gibberish again. Yesterday, she was sitting against the wall waiting for her turn at the gymnastics class she's taking, and all of a sudden she just burst forth at me across the gym with a not angry but not entirely pleasant streak of something resembling, "Jock a pee a pall a peen a pop a pood a pep!" I smiled and nodded, looked around for her real parents, shoved a handful of craisins in Bigsy's mouth, and moved on. She is spouting a streak of gibberish at least 15 times per day at this juncture.

Her overall pronunciation is intact with the exception of her brother's name. When he was first born and she was 21 months old, she still had a significant amount of difficulty with the ending consonant sound in words. For example, she would say "ca" instead of "cat" and "cu" instead of "cup." Her brother's name ends in a hard sound and when he was born she couldn't say that ending consonant. A couple months later, that part of her pronunciation developed both with Bigsy's name and with other words. The last few weeks, she is back to calling him just the first sound of his name about 70% of the time. So odd.

She has also been very, very clingy with me. Today at storytime at the library, she chose to sit with me (I was on the floor monitoring Bigsy's ill-conceived attempt at squishy juice box consumption anyhow), instead of on her carpet square. When I left her with my sister last week to go play volleyball one evening when Big K had an evening meeting, she for some reason thought I hadn't given her a hug and a kiss before I left (I had) and launched into a meltdown the likes of which I could not even imagine her engaging in as my sister described it. Really. And this child, while healthily attached to me, has been able to casually wave and say "bye" when I leave since at least her first birthday. If I am sitting on the love seat and she on the couch, she comes over to sit by me...something I would normally have to beg her to do. Very, very odd.

So I can't figure it out. Heaven help us if it's a growth spurt because between her two-year and three-year checkups she jumped from 75th percentile in height and 50th in weight to off the charts in both measures. The child just turned 3 and she is wearing a 5T. So I think the growth spurt has to have already happened.

My only theory, and it is a shaky one, is that it has something to do with her social development. As I mentioned, she started taking a weekly gymnastics class about two months ago. She really likes it. There are like 5 kids in the class with an instructor. They do all sorts of cool stuff. Headstands, somersaults, launching themselves onto foamy pads, getting in a harness and jumping on a trampoline, walking on a beam, etc. All lovely. A couple weeks ago, Big K got home from work early so I was able to take her by myself and leave Bigsy at home with Big K. On the way there, I was making conversation about the class, asking her if she liked it, etc. She does. I asked her if she liked her teacher. She does. I asked her if she liked the other kids in her class. Her response stunned me. She said, "I like Jake. Not the Sarahs." (There are two girls named Sarah in the class.) Maybe for those of you with kids in daycare who have formed little friendships since they could crawl, this is not noteworthy. But for Phook it is. She has met and played with about 9 billion little kids - kids of my friends, playgroup kids, etc. It always goes pretty much fine and without incident. This gymnastics class is the first time she has been engaged with a consistent group of other kids regularly, so maybe that's what has her forming firm opinions on her peers. Whatever, it is new. She informed me that she does not like The Sarahs simply because they are "real weird." She will not elaborate.

But I know she does really truly like Jake. She is worried that he won't arrive if we get there first. Yesterday, she didn't want to play in the warm-up area until he got there. Halfway through the class yesterday I looked up to see her very gently clasping his cheeks with both hands, staring into his face. When she left, they hugged each other warmly. I would say it is the first time she has formed--or has had a chance to form--what seems to be something of a meaningful relationship with another kid.

So I'm wondering if this new development of friendship outside our family has the other half of her wanting to cling to her family more than usual. It is the only big change I can see when I sit around and theorize about this.

That's probably a crackpot theory. I don't even really believe it. I just thought I'd throw it out there. Big K simply says, "Child development is not linear" and dumps an entire bag of M&M peanuts from the kids' trick-or-treat candy in his mouth. I sit around and think about it. Of course.

So tell me, have your kids gone through seemingly random regressions? What did they end up being linked to, if anything?

(Let me be clear than I'm not hoping to "fix" this or even lamenting it so much as I am just feeling curious about it. I don't mind extra snuggling. For all I care, I'll carry her up the stairs when she's 16 if she asks me to. I'm a sucker like that.)

XO,
Big W

your daily nonsense

2009-10-28T09:46:00.001-05:00

People ask how the cats are getting along with The Hound.

Fine. Just fine.

***

Also, my son can fly.

Word to Big Bird.

Wiping Noses

2009-10-18T10:17:00.000-05:00

A huge part of caring for little children is tending to their personal care. Clothing, feeding, dressing, brushing teeth, bathing, all of it. I spend a huge portion of my day physically caring for my children's bodily needs. It's a huge amount of work, obviously. And you have to do it every day, all day. It repeats constantly. They're clean and then two minutes later they're dirty again. So you clean them again. And on and on and on until you realize that the crux of your life has been a cycle of these repetitive, mundane tasks for years on end.

A lot of moms I talk to talk about how difficult this is. And it is.

When you run into grandmas in the grocery store, a lot of them say, "Enjoy it, because it goes so fast!" Some days, there is a temptation to say, "Thank God for that!" But when I embarked on this mom gig, I somehow managed to take to it with the understanding that this phase of my life would be a very difficult span of exhausted years, but that it is the blink of an eye in the span of my life. That knowledge is what got me through Bigsy's difficult first months. The months I can barely even remember only a year later.

I don't know if you read this famous blog, written by a mother of four who takes great joy in motherhood but is now working to build a new life for herself after she and her husband were horribly burned in a plane crash a year ago. Or this awesome blog, written by her similarly-minded sister. If you don't read them, you should. You should start at the beginning, and read every word they have said. The word "inspiring" is overused. But if anything you can read is truly inspiring, you will find it there. It is particularly inspiring for a mother. Her outlook on mothering prior to her accident was inspiring, in and of itself, because she utterly delighted in it. All of it. Even the mundane, the repetitive, the draining. She knew how wonderful her life was and she cherished every moment of it, even before she was given the cruel reminder of the precariousness of life.

I try extremely hard to mother in that mold. I try not to get bogged down by the constant cook-feed-clean of my day. When I pick a child out of a high chair and they leave an avocado smudge down my shirt, I try not to let it frustrate me. When I am trying to accomplish something around the house and there are little people undoing everything in my wake, I try to power through and just eventually get it done and not attempt to figure out how quickly I would have been able to accomplish the task if the children weren't around. When I'm trying to get out of the house and a child removes the shoes I just finished wedging onto their feet, I try to just calmly get the shoes and put them on again. The simple fact that this is my goal and that I usually get pretty close to succeeding is something I am proud of.

But sometimes I fail. One occasion on which I fail to appreciate my children and the gift of my ability to care for them is when they have colds. Runny noses. It is hard to derive joy from tending to children's runny noses. A kid with a good head cold seemingly generates a gallon of slime per day from their various orifices. Two children = two gallons. And every drop of it has to be handled by me. I walk around with tissues or other wiping devices wedged in every pocket, up every sleeve, tucked into the waistband of my pocketless pants. (I now know why my mom always has a stash of Kleenex on her person, and always will.) Having children with colds makes the grossness of my day even grosser. It makes the endless cycle of keeping the children even modestly tidy even more of a chore. And I don't like it. At my worst, I even resent it. I think smugly about how damned smart I am, and I get a little huffy that my purpose on the earth seems to be Snot Patrol.

But she reminds me.

It is a gift. Wiping noses is a gift. I am not being melodramatic. I mean that, completely. Caring for your children, even when they are sick and nasty, is an incalculably huge gift. It means you were blessed with children. It means that you are able-bodied. It means that your children are healthy enough that a cold counts as a sickness. In my case, it means I am lucky enough to be the person who cares for them all day long. I do not need to worry that someone else is letting their nose run, or wiping it carelessly, or wiping it too harshly. I am the one wiping their noses. The noses I grew within my own body. The noses God gave me to care for.

Recently, she was featured on Oprah. They did a piece where a weary mother followed her through her daily struggle to care for her children. How she couldn't pick them up out of the bathtub because of her burns. How hard it was to open a bag of carrots for their lunches. The weary mother predictably lost it and realized how much she takes for granted in her own life. And Oprah, with whom I have a volatile relationship, said something that actually rang very true for me. She called the mundane tasks of caring for little children "sacred." That is the perfect word. They are sacred. Because in the grand scheme of raising a child and then being their parent after they reach adulthood, the moment during which you carry them up the stairs to bed exhausted on your shoulder after a long day is a grain of sand on the beach of their life. And it is an honor and privilege to be granted that moment.

I need to remember that.

I need to remember it always. Not just when Phook is feeding Bigsy ice cream off a spoon and we're all laughing and enjoying each other, but every time I pull a tissue out of my pocket. I need to remember.

All clear

2009-10-09T13:36:00.002-05:00

To those of you who read my post about Bigsy's health scare before I pulled it down on Wednesday, I am writing simply to say that he got a clean bill of health yesterday. For those of you who knew about this and sent your thoughts and prayers our way, thank you.

A letter to Phookie on her 3rd birthday

2009-09-27T20:41:00.002-05:00

Dear Phookie,

Here we are. Three. Your momma has been so busy the past couple weeks and is so tired and is so sorry that this letter may not be able to express much of anything of value. But here we go.

Phook, Phook, Phook. The "terrible twos" officially came to a close for you today, but I'm pleased to say that for you, it was the "terrific twos." Sure, you went gonzo your share of times and we've had our highly unpleasant battles of wills, but all in all, this year has been pretty awesome.

There was a shift this year. In the past, I've written about your shyness and your "slow to warm up" tendencies, but that has begun to fade away. Two weeks ago, storytime at the library started up after the summer break, and the lady who reads the stories could not believe you were the same child. Rather than quietly sitting on your carpet square sipping your juice box, you were leaping up to answer each of her questions. "That's a hippopominus!" you shouted in one of your awesome mispronunciations. You were eager. You were confident. You were engaged. You knew all the answers. You were something so very different than you were a year ago. And I was so proud.

This year, something also shifted in the way I viewed you. Rather than viewing you as vulnerable, I came to view you as strong. So incredibly strong. And you are so incredibly responsible for your age. And sensible. And reasonable. And thoughtful. And empathetic. And observant. And funny. And beautiful. You, my little girl, are amazing. You are amazing as a person who has just turned three. I do not know exactly what you will do with yourself as an adult (other than your proclamation that you will be driving airplanes), but you will be something. Something fierce. Something fantastic.

I do not worry how you will turn out. I think about your future all the time, but I don't worry how you will turn out.

I know.

You are an incredible little person with capabilities and traits that don't belong on someone your age. You will never be anything other than amazing. So I don't wonder. I know.

I love you, Phook. I am amazed by you, Phook. You are three, which is mind blowing but somehow not as devastating as I once felt the loss of your babyhood was. I am just loving watching you grow. Watching you learn. Watching you soar.

I was so lucky to have you be my baby. But I am far luckier to have you be my daughter.

Love,
Momma

Quote(s) of the Day

2009-09-10T08:52:00.000-05:00

Phook went to the dentist for the first time yesterday. Our plan was to have her watch me get a cleaning, and then she'd get hers done. We had talked a lot about what to expect at the "tooth doctor" over the previous couple of days. I had told her that if she wanted me to, I'd hold her hand while they put the little 'chines in her mouth.

So yesterday, I was lying in the chair, having my teeth scraped at by an instrument of torture while Phook looked on from Big K's lap. At one point about halfway through, she hopped off his lap and came over by me and said the following:

"I have an idea. How 'bout I hold your hand?"

And then grabbed my big meat mitt with her little paw and stood there holding my hand for several minutes.

First time my eyes ever teared up in a dentist's chair for a good reason.

And if you're curious, Phook did great during her cleaning. Her teeth looked great and her incessant finger-sucking hasn't jacked up the alignment of her teeth; the dentist said she was not concerned about it. This of course gives me something of a license to continue my bad parenting by allowing her to keep on keepin' on with the finger sucking. Maybe I'll put that on my list of fun winter projects. ;)

****

I think it's also only fair that I share Bigsy's quotes of the day, because after having exactly zero words (other than mama and dada) at his birthday, he has been adding 1 word per day this whole week. Totally weird. So let's all enjoy a look at what I can discern from Bigsy's vocabulary, in the order in which he acquired the words:

1) all done
2) bubble
3) Elmo
4) up
5) bye

Okay, really, Elmo? The 3rd word my child acquired in the English language was Elmo? Woof. (In all honesty, both "bubble" and "Elmo" came from this little book I read to him every day which shows the baby versions of Bert, Ernie, Cookie Monster, and Elmo taking a bubble bath. We go through it like 3 times before each of his naps because he loves it. So let's attribute it to that rather than the omnipresent din of Phook's Elmo movie that addresses the important issue of opposites, m'kay?)

And that's all for now. See ya, suckers!

Forty-two and a half

2009-09-04T14:53:00.003-05:00

Along with Phook's quotable quotes, I would hereby like to share her favorite number. Because it is hilarious. Friends, my child has been obsessed with the number "forty-two and a half" for a solid six months. I find this really interesting, because the child can currently count to 9.

Upon stepping on a scale for recreation, when I ask her how much she weighs, it is always, always, always, "forty-two and a half." Not accurate. But she's getting close.

Upon asking me what time it is (another favorite activity of late) and upon hearing my response that it is 5:30 or something, she inevitably says, "No, I henk (Phookspeak for "think") it's forty-two and a half."

Upon being asked how many deer are rambling around in the field, she replies, "Forty-two and a half." That's especially interesting to contemplate.

Upon carrying armfuls of stuffed animals from one location to another, she reports, "I've got lots and lots of guys. Forty-two and a half of them." Okay, Phook, it's your story.

So there you have it. Yet another example of the absurdity of Phook that I think the world is better off knowing. Gotta love her.

You dog people are some real weirdos

2009-09-02T14:17:00.002-05:00

I believe I've mentioned that I'm a dog owner now. I have 2/3 of a post written talking about how nicely the dog is fitting into our routine, how much I enjoy the dog, how relieved I am that our lives have not come to a screeching halt with dog ownership, even though my mother warned me that the earth stops orbiting the day you bring home a dog. So someday I'll finish that post and share it all with you. Until then, I just want to say that dog people are nuts.

You know, as a lifelong cat person crossed over to the dog-walking dark side, I officially need to go on record and state that cat people are getting a raw deal. The whole "crazy cat lady" stereotype. The notion that only a mindless tool would prefer a cat, what with their boring tendency to laze around all day, refusing to follow basic commands. The notion that cat owners are, at their core, weirdos.

It's you dog people that are crazy.

I base this assertion on my experience as a dog owner these past two months. I cannot begin to describe the amount of attention...the absurd amount of absurd attention...I get thanks to this hound. But I'll try.

First off, there is the segment of the population that will slam on its brakes while driving on a state highway to yell out their window, shooting queries at me re: the hound. "Hey lady, is that a basset hound?" "Yes." "Really? No way. That's the longest basset hound I've ever seen." "Um, it's a basset hound." I'm not kidding you. A good portion of my walks occur on my local sidewalks which line two state highways. And people scream out their windows at me re: the hound at least 3 times per week.

Also, I can state quite definitively that pushing a double stroller stuffed with two really cute children will get you a lot of attention, commentary, and the like. Typically, comments on Phook's curly hair, Bigsy's big fat smile, or, the ubiquitous line, "Well, you've got your hands full!" And now I can state just as definitively that the amount of attention I receive with the two children absolutely pales in comparison to the amount of attention that damned hound receives. I am telling you, if Big K ever goes up to the big World of Warcraft convention in the sky, the first thing I am going to do when I get to itching for a fresh spouse is take my hound out for a walk. Really. He is the ultimate conversation starter. Every bastard I see wants to discuss this hound. People dart in front of oncoming traffic to see the hound. Old ladies and random mutterers bust out of their stupors to discuss the hound. It's as if the stroller full of children has been covered by a magical cloak of invisibility and people can only see THE HOUND. They don't even comment on my poor kids anymore, even if I dress the little clowns in coordinating outfits. (Actually, I'm not sure I've ever done that. But I'm guessing it would be worth a shot.) Dog people are off the chain. I never knew this before, but now I do.

And here's the other thing. Dog people have dog knowledge. They can guess the hound's age based solely on the way he trots about. They talk about dog behaviors. Dog training. Dog habits. The care and feeding of specific dog breeds. Things to look out for with each breed. Dogs with motion sickness. Dogs with separation anxiety. Dog boarding. Spraying PAM on your dog's paws in the winter so ice doesn't get built up around their toes. (WTF? Is that legit or did I run into a nutter?) I dunno. Dogs. Dogs. Dogs. The only thing I know about dogs is that I don't know shit about dogs. But DOG PEOPLE DO.

Dude.

Sure, you'll get the crazy crotchety old man (my dad, for example), who treats a cat like an extension of the self. But generally, I think that cat owners, while they love their cats very deeply, are somewhat more able to view their cat as a pet who inhabits the same living space. Dog owners are insanely bonded to their dogs. When they are talking about their dog, they are talking about their child. Or perhaps in some cases, a creature they are even closer to than their child. Dog people are DOG PEOPLE. I don't even think they can be classified as pet owners. It would be more accurate to say they are part of a family, some members of which happen to be canine in nature.

I'm not saying that any of this is bad. I'm just saying that I feel really defensive on behalf of all the crazy cat ladies of the world, because they are not the weird ones. It is you people who are nearly slamming into mail delivery vehicles because you are ogling my hound and hollering out the window to determine his name. It is you people who are completely capable of lavishing my hound with a solid 15 minutes of attention, barely speaking to me at all, and completely disregarding the 1-year-old and 2-year-old sitting 9 inches from your face who are wondering why you are molesting their dog. It is you people who see me juggling snacks, beverages, and amusements for the aforementioned children, all while trying to make a dentist appointment on my cell phone, push the stroller, scoop the hound's poop into a baggie, and shove a letter in the mailbox, and STILL, STILL, STILL think that now is a good time to engage in a 10-minute chat on the beauties of dog ownership. You are the crazies.

I've talked to cats a lot in my day. I've dressed cats up like Smurfs. I've invented richly detailed stories about the luau-themed parties my cats are secretly throwing while I'm on vacation. I've been labeled a crazy cat lady. But now....now I know the real deal. It is all a ruse. A giant ruse orchestrated by the dog people of this world to make all of us cat people feel self conscious about our cat love. The dog people...oh, those dog people...they are sitting in their glass houses throwing giant ass stones (or milkbones, probably) over at us cat people...all to disguise the simple fact that they are the true crazies.

So here it is, I've officially busted out my conspiracy theory on Momma Says the F Word. And I hereby absolve all the crazy cat people of the world of any sense of personal weirdness. You rock on with your semi-normal selves, you cat-loving S.O.B.'s. You ain't got a thing to worry about with all these dog people running around.

Teddy

2009-08-26T16:51:00.003-05:00

Ted Kennedy died today, in case you missed the news. I can't remember if I've told you this before, but I have a long-standing, flaming, intense obsession with the Kennedy family. I've read so many books on the Kennedys, I may have a graduate degree in Kennedy Sciences and not even know it. I am fascinated by them. I love them. I feel like I hung out at their dinner table and sparred with them intellectually long before I was born and well before they started dropping like flies. In my dreams, I sail with them off the coast of Martha's Vineyard.

Eunice died August 11. That ripped me up. But now Teddy? I mean, he's been sick for forever and a day, so it's not like I'm shocked.

But I am a little bit devastated.

Obviously, this family had a dark side...and to say that is to be charitable. But they deeply valued public service and dedicated their lives to improving the world they lived in, even if what went on in their private homes wasn't something we can call exemplary. I just feel like they were a huge net positive for the world, and I mourn them.

I am sad today over the loss of my buddy Teddy.

When something like this happens, I am thankful for my Christian faith. Because I can tell myself that he is up sailing around the skies, reunited with his brothers, sharing their company for the first time in far, far too long...and really believe it is happening. Think what you want of that, but I really believe it. Teddy, Jack, Bobby, and Joe Jr.. Up there, sailing together. It makes me happy to think of all the fun they must be having. I sure am glad I believe that heaven is there, because it makes earth a lot more manageable.

Quote of the Century

2009-08-25T14:12:00.004-05:00

I'm having a terrible day today. A terrible day with my kids. Bigs is whiny and deucing his drawers constantly (I suspect teeth). Phook is hell on roller skates. (I suspect 4 days of jacked up sleep while we were camping, her spontaneously skipped nap yesterday, and the fact that she senses her mother's own short temper and fatigue.) Phook is currently in the process of potentially skipping another nap. I am really, really excited that I get to blow this pop stand at 4:30 to go meet a dear friend an hour away...a town mid-way between our homes where we can get a burrito and bitch.

But on this day when I have looked out the window and bellowed, "God save me!" in complete sincerity, I wish to share with you Phook's quote of the century, which she uttered while we were camping this past weekend. I hope it cheers me. Especially because I can hear her wandering around upstairs again, and I might lose my mind in the next 8-10 minutes.

Anyhow, we were camping at Copper Falls State Park in northern Wisconsin. We were all hiking. Bigs on my back. Hode and her boyfriend RFL. Big K trudging along, each step bringing him one minute closer to the inevitable double knee replacement he's going to need. And Phook. Gamely walking multiple miles through the woods. So we were on this particular trail that takes you near some beautiful waterfalls, but includes some moderately treacherous terrain. The trail is extraordinarily well-maintained, but you are doing a fair amount of uphill walking with a very deep, rocky river gorge on one side of the trail. So we're all on the trail, and we're climbing this gigantic flight of stone steps that is in place at one point on the hike. My sister and I began reminiscing about our journey on this trail last Memorial Day...a trip which included my parents. We were laughing about how my mom was convinced that my father would be unable to continue at some point on the hike and how she was sure he'd need to be "airlifted out of there." My mom is pretty much positive my dad is going to need to be airlifted out of somewhere at any given moment, and my sister and I enjoy snorting heartily at my mom's copious claims that he's going to require said airlifting. I'm not saying the man won't at some point require a chopper to haul him out of someplace or another, but she's prone to make this claim even when they're going to Target. So it's kinda funny.

But I've digressed. Again.

So we're climbing this gigantic flight of sharp-edged stone steps. My sister and I are claiming we're going to need to be airlifted out of there. And Phook has taken to crawling up the stairs. She's hands-and-knees going up this treacherous multi-story flight of stairs with the aforementioned river gorge on one side. She's clearly working really hard at this physical task. And all of a sudden, she says this:

"Man, we all gonna die out here!"

Allright, seriously, we all laughed so hard we were screaming. It was so well-timed...the child's a comic genius. (In retrospect, she may not have been kidding...)

But anyhow, that's it. I hope it brings you a chortle and some good cheer.

****

During the composition of this post, I have put Phook back to bed 3 times. I'm considering vodka. Not sure if it would be more effective if applied to me or Phook, but someone could surely benefit. I've got to have a 9-year-old bottle of $3 vodka lying around here somewhere.

I just want to complain

2009-08-18T15:10:00.000-05:00

This will likely be the most boring post ever. I just need a moment to really whine like a child, and no one is here but you, internets.

I just want to say that I am very angry at the technology in my life. This crap is supposed to be helping me, not sucking away time I don't even have. Really, if I spend a few minutes letting my mind go unchecked, I can just about get behind those theories positing that technology will get smarter than humans and eventually computers will hold us all hostage. I mean, they practically do now, at least metaphorically.

It started with the fact that my wood-burning cell phone, the one I've had for like 300 years in cell phone time, was officially dying. I ran it over with the stroller in gravel, Phook spilled a sand pail full of water on it, the battery didn't hold a charge, it cut out at inopportune times, it has been on life support all summer. So last weekend Big K schlepped off to find me a cheap/free replacement. And unfortunately, due to the water damage to my phone, they couldn't do that thing where they impregnate the new phone with the old phone's contacts. So I need to manually enter all my contacts into the new phone. With my wee job and all my sundry associates, I do in fact have quite a few contacts. So I've spent the last couple days toying with the phone, entering a contact here and there, and generally screwing up something...usually related to saying it's a mobile number when really it's the home and not being able to figure out how to change it once it's entered. I am not clueless really when it comes to technology, but I'm no 16-year-old who can text with my tongue ring either. Really, I'm annoyed. I'm putting off sitting down and plowing through the project. Today I had to turn on the old phone to get the number to the pharmacy, because I of course didn't have it in the new phone yet. This process is cumbersome at best. Ugh. I don't know why, I'm just angry about this time suck annoyance.

Also, we are users of Microsoft Money. Not that I'm good at budgeting, but I do at least track our finances. We put everything on a rewards card and then pay it off every month, and I even track all those credit card transactions individually. A lot of data entry. The primary reason I do this is that Big K fixes computers on the side and I am technically a contracted employee for my job, so we have various business expenses we need to get the computer to puke out at tax time. Really, sitting down and hammering all that data into the computer each month is one of my least enjoyable jobs here as CEO of K Enterprises. So imagine my glee yesterday when I went to put in the previous month's transactions and found an old version of Money where the usual one should be. I wasn't super-worried, since we have a server at home and my laptop does a regular backup to an external hard drive and we upload crap to online storage locations and occasionally burn crap to CD to have in an alternate location and we require a retinal scan when anyone logs onto our computers. (That's all true except the last part...my husband is a bit nerdy.) So Big K was covered in seeping wounds from unwise sliding and really sore and tired from a weekend marathon of a softball tournament...which means that when I called him for tech support he was all too eager to knock off a bit early to come home and find my data.

Except he couldn't find my data.

Basically, he had opened some crank yanker version of Money this past weekend to make an invoice for my dad's company for whom he'd done some computer work. And then he closed Money. And, yippee, Money backs up automatically upon closing if you have this setting enabled. So it backed up the old version, overwriting all my other backups. And then in my attempts to find it, who knows what version of what I restored on top of what and basically it was a data disaster and after 2 hours of attempts Big K declared us screwed.

While he was dicking around trying to find the data, I propelled my energy into rooting through 9/10 of my home, covering my entire dining room in things to sell at my mom's upcoming garage sale. I didn't think I had much, but then I got pissed and that led to some quality purging. Come on over if you're a size 16 with a pituitary problem. I've got shit with the tags still on with your name on it.

So I mourned my losses by jettisoning my childhood keepsakes and then I sat my ass down and recreated the last 10 months of our finances, one stop at the convenience store for a 73 cent coffee at a time. The kids' accounts, our accounts, the dog's account...it just seemed like there were a trillion accounts to go through. It was hell. Hell because I sat in the recliner with laptop burning a hole in my thigh entering data for 9 hours and hell because I got to relive every dumbass purchase and every unexpected car repair bill and dental visit ALL OVER AGAIN. Really, truly, torture. By the time I was done at 1 a.m., I had to hold the credit card statements about 2 inches from my face because I could no longer tell the difference between the numbers. Seriously. Disaster.

We've disabled the automatic backup feature.

I am upset.

We're going camping for 4 days and I have a ton of crap to do to get us ready. (I certainly shouldn't be compounding the problem by blogging.) And, really, I have PMS. If I thought I could reign in my propensity for too much detail, I'd do a great post about how it feels to have your body attempt to restart its "normal" hormonal engines after 44 consecutive months of pregnancy and nursing. That'd be a hoot. But I'm not going to do that (at least right now). Instead I'll tell you that it means I have no energy (especially infuriating given that on an average day I feel like I could hike the AT while hosting a toddler's birthday party and making something with phyllo dough). It means my patience with the humans I have created is not what it ought to be. It means I have acne. It means I am falling off the wagon on my one pop per day promise to myself. It means I should not have been challenged by the universe with this kind of colossal annoyance. It means I just want to complain.

So there you have it. Technology can really suck the big one. I want it to work for me, I do. I just do not want to work for it. Ever. Ugh.

And that is it. Just a boring complaint. I have to go now. I have 200 contacts to fumblingly enter into my new cell phone. Woof.

Quote of the Day

2009-08-15T09:29:00.003-05:00

So this one is more touching than funny, but still worth sharing.

Yesterday, on our morning walk (lots happens on our morning walks), Phook sees a cop car. She notes this, since she's into law enforcement. She says that it's a big one. I agree. Being a dusky color in the bright morning sunlight, Phook says, "It's a brown one." I say, "Actually, Phook, it's a gray one." She thinks for a minute. And then she says:

"Yup, it is. Just like Shib."

That one brought tears to my eyes. I haven't talked about Shib with Phook for several months. But I've been missing her a lot lately.

Aw, Phook. I love you.

Quote of the Day

2009-08-13T16:10:00.003-05:00

I'm thinking I could do a pretty hilarious regular feature on this here blog by posting Phook's quote of the day. There always is one...it's usually the first thing I tell Big K when he walks through the door. Really, truly, the smack that Phook runs can really brighten my day, especially when I'm considering selling her. So I'm gonna share one with you to brighten your day.

The scene is around the corner from my house on our regular morning walk. Phook has determined it is time to get out of her seat of the double stroller and start running ahead of me - I am of course pushing Bigs in a bigass stroller while also walking Turbo on a leash. (It probably sounds a bit horrifying, but I enjoy this part of our walk because it really speeds us up and gets us home in time for Bigs' morning nap on most days. Essentially, Phook is the mechanical rabbit that we are all chasing. The dog runs, I run, the stroller does unspeakable things to Bigs' c-spine.)

So anyhow, Phook is running ahead. All of a sudden Turbo decides, mid-sprint, that it's time to stop and pee. (Dude, dogs have insane bladders.) My part of the parade slows itself to wait for the hound. Phook has gotten a decent distance ahead. Sensing this, she turns around and asks what's going on. I tell her that Turbo is peeing. She thinks about this for a minute and looks annoyed. And then says this:

"Man, he's takin' his sweet time."

I am still snorting unattractively every time I think about it.

All in a day's work

2009-08-12T08:21:00.000-05:00

Ha! I don't know what you bums have been doing this summer, but my husband has been up to absolutely no good. A prime example would be the fact that he's been spending time hobnobbing with Wisconsin's governor in the course of his daily duties. Something about the governor coming to say "Yeah!" about some program he's in charge of. Don't believe me? Here...I have proof:

(He asked me to pick him out an outfit for that day, something that has only happened about 4 times in about 11 years, so I knew he was really pissing himself.)

If you're you, you see Big K and the gov'nor in the above picture. If you're me, you can see that Big K is shitting himself. He's got that uptight draw to his face, his chest is puffed out a bit like a rooster, and he's not breathing enough. (He really was excited about this.)

Here they are, discussing the world's problems. Maybe they're setting up a poker game for later. Who the hell knows. Once you bust out of the junkyard and onto the international political scene, the sky is the limit. He might have a lunch date with Hillary Clinton this afternoon. Who knows. The Woods can't keep this guy down. Oh no.

I can nearly guarantee that while these photos were being taken, I was personally handling the bodily fluids of a human or animal other than myself. Some stars rise, some stars fall. 'Tis the way of the world. :)

And in completely unrelated news, I had a funny moment this morning where I realized that I am definitely no longer anything resembling a new mom. (I could (and should) write a really hilarious post on new mom vs. experienced mom tendencies...that would be a trip.) But anyhow, I don't know about you people, but my kids (as babies/early toddlers) like to scream as if they are being slaughtered when you try to wipe the food off their face and hands after they've eaten. Bigs sees that rag coming at him and he turns away like it's a sledgehammer. So when this was Phook, I felt really terribly about how much she hated having her face wiped. I dreaded it on her behalf and was overcome with compassion after every meal. Today, when Bigs was having his morning wipe-down after breakfast, he of course threw his head back in a howling, militant rage. And my thought, rather than a wave of compassion for my child's plight, was this: Geez, it sure helps me get the food out of your neck fat when you throw your head back like that.

I thought that was tits.

So anyhow, my husband is a pimp. The only way this would have been cooler is if we were Alaskans a few weeks ago, and then these pictures would have portrayed him shaking hands with a crazy, heat-packin' MILF. That would have been epic. But we'll take what we can get.

XO,
Big W

Mother of the Year

2009-08-03T14:55:00.000-05:00

Does your kid go to a great daycare or preschool? Do they spend their mornings learning to speak Spanish and play the bongos, all the while noshing on 100% organic snacks prepared by a monk? Or maybe your kids stay home with you, and you live in a really great metro area absolutely brimming with children's museums, kids' music classes, and amazing gyms filled with toys that teach 2-month-olds to walk. Maybe you spend your mornings taking your kids to marvelous places like those, stimulating their little minds and generally enriching every moment of their lives.

Not Big W. No. Instead, I allow this sort of thing to happen:

This photo was taken at 10 a.m. today. My daughter is undressed, unwashed, uncombed, untoothbrushed, eating Cool Whip directly out of the tub, and (although you can't see it in the photo), she is also watching a DVD of the movie Happy Feet. This sort of happened casually. I tend to be busy on Mondays, planning meals for the week, dealing with correspondence, housework, and laundry that has piled up, generally getting our act back together after the weekend. It's actually pretty much identical to walking into your office on a Monday morning. There's crap all over the place and you've got to hustle to get yourself back in the swing of things before your first meeting. (In our case, that meeting would be a playdate.) So, I got busy during Bigs' nap, and this is how Phook ended up in such a state at 10 a.m.

So I was sitting here entering Pampers points or tending to some other pressing matter on my computer, and I looked over at her, and I just started laughing. When gestating my first precious bundle, I truly could not have imagined the day that I would let her hygiene go completely by the wayside 4 hours after she rose, let her tuck into an entire tub of Cool Whip as a morning snack, and let her watch entire feature-length films with alarming regularity. Holy balls. How quickly I have fallen. How quickly I got to this point. How the hell did this happen? Woof.

I can't really tell if I'm actually beating myself up here or if I really am just flat amused. I think we're gonna have to say it's 50/50. Either way, my kid really enjoys Cool Whip. We can positively confirm that one.

Arf.

So, I did eventually get the children dressed, and we moved our dicking around party to the second floor. I was putting away clothes or something while Phook and Bigs were hanging out in her room. After two minutes, she yelled to me, "Mommy, I made a big book train!" I went in there, and indeed she had.

Phook is entering an extremely imaginative stage, where everything is something else. Books as train being a great example. The other day she was eating a curly noodle at lunch and she said, "This a fish." And then she bit it in half and said, "See, I bite his tail off." Today she was eating a square carrot chunk from a serving of frozen mixed vegetables (the resident monk is on vacation), and she said, "This one is a house. I gonna eat it." I am loving this. It is so, so, so fascinating to hear what she is imagining. I have (against all odds) enjoyed her year of being two. I think that three is gonna be totally awesome. I really do. I mourned her babyhood SO HARD, but I love few things more than sitting back and watching her become a kid.

Also, I'd like you all to really look closely at the photo above. If you do, you'll notice that I captured Phook about to put a basket on Bigs' head. You'll also notice half of a hound sticking out of a tent. You'll also notice a stray Swiffer, because it's Bigs' current favorite toy. I don't know, fuggin' Waldo is probably in that picture if you look closely enough. Man. It ain't the bongos, but it's good times nonetheless.

Speaking of good times, I am pleased to report that I officially completed my cherry pie filling canning operating this past weekend. Cherry pie filling is one of my favorite things that I can, and I am feeling rather satisfied that this task is complete. I'll be enjoying many a darn good pie in the coming winter months. See?

Mmm. I bet that'd be good with some Cool Whip.

XO,
Big W

Ink, mayhem, etc.

2009-07-28T23:52:00.000-05:00

Dudes, I have been out of town. So many exciting/crazy things have been happening and I just haven't had the time to sit down and spew it. I regret this. And while I should have been in bed 400 hours ago but instead spent too much time dicking around on a certain social networking site, I am going to throw up a few sweet pics as a tribute to my loyal reader who is about to get fired for bringing up my deadass blog on her workplace computer only to find herself still staring at that godforsaken Hoff pic which is clearly not related to any function of any working person on the planet.

So here's the speedy update...

We went cherry picking:

We dicked around on Lake Michigan:

My sister took this picture that I totally love (and boy oh boy was I surprised we needed that much gear in the middle of fuggin' July!):

The one thing I really must blog about in greater detail is the fact that my sister and I got inked (again) and I took my kids along to the tat place. Dude. Big mom badge of honor, that is. You don't see this every day:

I captured a shot of the Pig looking like I think he will look throughout his college career. I can totally imagine him egging on his buddies to do bad things while rocking this face:

Something happened and my baby no longer appears to be a baby. I appear to be the mother of two kids. This picture really freaked me out when I came to that realization:

My sister made me the raddest b-day cake ever. Here's proof that we really do call each other "Hosedog." Proof in fondant/scrabble tiles. Dude, she made me this cake with no cake-decorating knowledge/experience to speak of. Holy balls, right? (Yes, those are the correct point values on the letters. Do you really think she'd dick around with fondant and the correct colors for each square and assign the wrong point value to the letters? I didn't think so.)

And also, I am wondering if you people would be offended if I changed the Pig's blog name. The thing is, I really do call Phook the name "Phook" in the meatworld. I also call her 57 other things and occasionally reference the name on her birth certificate. And I used to call the Pig the name "Pig" as well. However, he's becoming less Piggish to me and I now refer to him as "Bigs" or "Bigsy" here in the meatworld. I kind of like my blog to reflect an actual nickname and the Pig no longer fits quite right. Is it offensive to change his name? Will it confuse passersby? I don't know. Help me.

Also, my hair is now officially straight. I was in denial for a long time but I can deny no longer. I couldn't be more pissed. I had a really nice natural curl for the past decade or so, and now it is straight again. I blame the Pig, although my sister threw out an interesting theory re: the use of hormonal birth control which I won't get into in detail but which holds some water. Whatever, I'm just pissed. What do I do now? Cut this straighty straight crap off and get an actual hairstyle? That sounds like hell. (And I guess technically there is still some wave.) But, shit, why did this have to happen? That curly hair was one of the few things I prized about my physical self. Anger. (Perhaps I should be more angry about the fact that my feet, in all honesty, jumped from the commercially-generally-unavailable size of a 12 to the absolute freak show drag-queens-only size 13 while pregnant with that dude. Hmm. It's a toss up.) Whatever. What kind of product do you put on hair that you just want to wash and wear when your hair is just wavy? Someone tell me. (If it matters, it is rather thick, full, and generally in some state of unmaintained color-treatedness.) Shit, help.

This post makes very little sense.

More later. Perhaps you'd like to see my ink?

Happy Birthday to The Hoff

2009-07-17T10:26:00.000-05:00

I just want you all to know that it is David Hasselhoff's birthday today. He is 57. Let us revere him in all his intense lameness (and reflect upon his incomprehensible status as a German megastar) and join in a moment of silent admiration.

There.

It is one of the supreme tidbits of amusement in my life that the celebrity with whom I share a birthday is David Hasselhoff. Yes, buddies, today is the day. The day I say goodbye to my twenties. Yes, suckers, I am 30. (But not until 5:32 p.m., so I have a few more hours...)

I'm not disturbed that I'm 30. Things are good, I'm happy to be on the right side of the grass, etc. It's just that I am shocked. Totally and completely shocked. I remember being 15 very clearly. It was only a few minutes ago. When I was 15, I would have considered a 30-year-old completely ancient. So what has me mystified is how I got here so quickly. How did I go from classifying this age as decrepit to being this age without much more than two or three moments passing? Dude. The passage of time is absolutely incredible. I cannot believe I'm 30.

One of the things I am doing for my job right now is organizing this little youth sports night thing at our city park. Big K and I have been playing volleyball with teenyboppers on Thursday nights. One night, we were marveling at how young they seem, how old we seem in comparison, etc. And then it occurred to us that those kids are closer to Phook's age than to ours. Holy balls. Teenagers are closer to my toddler's age than to mine? Really? When I was just a teenager a few minutes ago? Woof. And last night, we were talking about birthdays, and this kid busts out with, "I was born the exact same day that Kurt Cobain died." It was really embarrassing when I pooped my pants after that. I mean, really? Didn't that just happen? I mean, seriously. This kid running around with his parents' car and his fancy magic texty phone was born the day Cobain died? Holy shit.

To celebrate today, I'm parenting my children and tending to a hound and doing dishes and laundry and chores. You know, like 30-year-olds do. But I am throwing myself a party on Sunday at the city park. I invited all my hoodrats and some of them are coming and we're going to play pin the tail on the donkey and bob for apples and shit, and it'll be swell if anyone actually shows up. (I'm lying about those activities. Or maybe I'm not. We'll see.) So I'm really looking forward to that. And tonite I might eat a pizza. And drink a big pop. That'll be wild. Oh Lord, I am so 30.

So that about sums up my reflection on the matter. Tomorrow, I think that just for fun I'm going to make sincere statements to every stranger I meet that include the phrase, "Back when I was in my twenties..." You know, just to see how it feels. That'll be rich.

David Hasselhoff, you have a good one, you crazy bastard.

A good day revisited

2009-07-10T11:39:00.000-05:00

Well, you're visiting it for the first time. However, I'm revisiting it, since I just did my monthly trip through my photos to sort out the good ones for printing, and I found a ton of fun ones I wanted to share with you from a sweet day we had in June. A few weeks ago, I got this mega-coupon for a waterpark...$5 for adults and $3 for super-short shorties. I corralled Auntie Hode into going, and we packed up some contraband sandwiches and off we went with my two creatures. Let's review...

Phook got serious right away. The "slow to warm up" tendencies in her are fading. Sometimes they still surface in really new situations or with people who freak her out (read: heavily bearded men). But in more and more settings that are just fun kid things, she is becoming inclined to dive right in. Here she goes, just randomly jumping with excitement:

And some sweet dicing out on the slide:

Pig was a little bit undernapped and consequently a little salty on this day, but he got his pool groove on too:

Now my sister is probably going to rip my eyes out and piss in my dead skull for posting a full body shot of her in swimwear on the interwebs, but I had to post this because she and Pig are rocking the exact same squinty farmer expression (inherited from our father and presumably a lot of squinty farmers before him). Plus, she looks hott.

After dicking around in the kiddie pool for awhile, we took the opportunity to eat our illegal sandwiches. During this time, I captured a shot of Phook which completely portrays her personality...peeking out of the corner of her eye and looking like she is up to absolutely zero good:

There's also proof I was there, which rarely happens:

Then we hit the wild and exciting thrill rides. I put my kid by one of those little measuring stick things and realized that she exceeds the 36 inch minimum (by a few inches, sheesh...) for the littlest of solo rides. Which meant I could put my frickin' kid on a contraption operated by a carnie and just hope for the best. As lame as it probably sounds, this felt like a milestone. My baby is big enough to get strapped into a carnie contraption and just go sailing around without me? Why is there no spot in the baby book to record that? After I made a mild scene about asking if we could stop the ride if she lost her shit, she of course climbed on that ride and loved it. When she got off, I was freaking out about what a big girl she was for riding "all by herself." She corrected me quickly, saying, "No, no, no, I go with pink bahnkie." Of course.

We then hit the train, which she loved. She rocked her squinty skeptic face:

And I just have to take this opportunity to add that we went to this waterpark last year too. Reviewing that post, I had to notice that I had a shot of her on the exact same train making the exact same face. It's strange how you don't immediately notice the physical changes once your kid is past babyhood, but a year still makes so much difference. Here she is, being a squinty skeptic a year ago in a picture I loved:

After some rides, we hit the water stuff again, except the Pig was pretty well cashed out, as evidenced by his jacked up hair and zombied demeanor:

Phook had some energy left to burn, so she went to town:

And then she spent half an hour repeatedly pressing herself up and out of the pool, ignoring all other stimuli. You know, standard 2-year-old workout behavior:

Finally, it was established that everyone was cashed, so we hit the road. Everyone passed out about 4 minutes after exiting the park. Pay no attention to my child's blue face, which may or may not be evidence of a exit gate rendezvous with a ring pop:

And the poor overtired Pig out like a light:

And on that note, my work here is done.

A letter to Snuffle Pig from his mom

2009-07-04T00:01:00.002-05:00

Dear Snuffle Pig,

Oh, child. Really, writing you a letter with English words feels a little awkward. It really ought to just be a string of letters approximating the sounds I make while I spend three hours per day blowing bubbles on your neck(s), your cheeks, your belly. Really, little man, I'm going to be perfectly honest...I gnaw on you a lot. I can't help it. You are my baby snack. Oomph.

Here's the thing, little guy. I love you. It is so terrifically uncomplicated. Nothing in my life has ever been easier than being a mother to you. Sure, there were a couple months of howling at the beginning and I sure am glad that the body's friendly little defense mechanism that makes it so difficult to recall pain kicked in to wash that water under the bridge, but really, my boy, other than that nonsense, this whole Mom 'n Pig thing has gone just unbelievably well.

I'm struggling to be profound here as I write you this first birthday letter. To offer some insights into your first year. To say things that might someday mean something to you. But I keep coming back to this: you are just so happy.

You are quite possibly the happiest person that has ever been placed upon this planet. The earth's energy crisis would be instantly solved if we could harness your incalculable wattage. You are just so happy. And watching you cruise around your world has become my favorite activity. Nothing makes me happier. I could watch you play...well, I should say I could watch you bash things with heavy objects...all day long. I could watch your chubster fingers maneuver hot dog chunks into your mouth for an entire weekend. I could watch you chase our pets and collapse on them with glee for the rest of my life. You remind me that there can be joy in anything. In everything. You make me happy. Happy. A very basic word. A simple adjective that people tend to skip in favor of fancier ones. But it can be so hard. Happiness. So many people spend their whole lives chasing it like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Those people do not have a Snuffle Pig. Because once you have a Snuffle Pig, the chase is over. There it is. Happy. Right there, reaching out to me to pick it up. All I have to do is bend over and snatch it. Nothing has ever been easier than being your mother.

Surely I have had to do the physical work of caring for you. A billion feedings. A billion diapers. A billion spit-ups. A billion trips up and down the stairs with a giant baby on my arm. A billion steps to fetch something you need. A billion little things that I have done for you that no one will ever know and no one will ever count and no one will ever concern themselves with. But ever since you could, months and months and months ago, you have thanked me for each of those things with a smile. Every single one. No one has ever done that for me. No one has ever convincingly thanked me for the little things. And certainly no one has ever thanked me for each and every one of them. But there you are. Smiling. Thanking me for everything I do with that giant gap-toothed grin. Oh, little man, I can't figure out how I got so lucky. I am just so happy I did. Happy. Happy. Happy. I don't need a fancy word. Happy does the trick. Happy. Thank you so much for being so happy. Thank you so much for sharing it with me.

And Happy Birthday to you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

~Mommy

Meet Turbo

2009-06-29T23:23:00.000-05:00

You know, I just got one person in this house potty-trained, and I found myself feeling a little empty inside. I was up all night fretting about how much less time I was able to spend physically toting another being's poop about. Really, I just felt I couldn't go on unless I found an additional creature whose poop I needed to personally handle on a daily basis. Meet Turbo:

Um, yeah, that's my fuggin' basset hound.

I should start at the beginning. The beginning was in approximately 1995 when I came into possession of a cardboard coin-type thing about the size of a 50 cent piece with a picture of a basset hound on it. It said the name "Jeb" underneath it. At that moment, I decided that a) I should start calling my high school boyfriend "Jeb," which I did for several years, and b) I wanted a basset hound.

As time marched on and I met Big K, we did what young lovebirds do and started talking about the trips we'd take (check), the well-muscled children we'd have (check), and the dog we'd have (freshly inked check). He agreed he was down with the hound. And he agreed with my choice of ironic dog name, Turbo. (It was either a lazy-faced hound named Turbo or some wee dog named Jumbo. Those were the only options in my dog plans.)

Now, after the well-muscled children came along, my desire to become a dog owner dampened considerably. As you might imagine. It would be fair to say that in recent years I'd rather have been shot than become a dog owner. And really, friends, I'm going to tell you something. I don't really love dogs. I am definitely a cat person. I like to look at dogs, I like to talk to dogs on the street, I like to claim I know the names of various dogs when I'm really just making it up, but I do not love dogs. We had a really jumpy one when I was a little kid and I think it sort of warped me. And really, I don't like filth or stink and dogs seem inextricably tied to those two items of business. I'm a cat person. I just am. But the idea of a Turbo...some day a Turbo...that was my one potential dog plan. I've been friends with a local basset hound named Otis for a few years now (I don't even know his owners' names, but I socialize with the dog quite a lot when I'm out prowling around The Woods with my double stroller). Otis sort of kept the dream alive for me. The far-fetched dream of Turbo.

All right. So fast forward to a few weeks ago, when we had some friends over for dinner one random Sunday. Out of the blue, they said to us, "Do you want a dog?" And we, resoundingly and in unison, replied that we'd rather take a taser to the naughty bits than get a dog. But then I said, "Unless he's a basset hound." And our friends said, "He is a basset hound." And I said to Big K, "We could name him Turbo." And our friends said, "HIS NAME IS TURBO." Then I started freaking out and Big K got out the taser and shot himself in the beans and then said, "Well, we'll have to think about it." Any crack in Big K's steely exterior, such as that statement, is basically akin to jumping up and down in acquiescence.

We (I) then spent a few weeks having panic attacks about whether or not this was the right decision, blah, blah, blah. I talked to the owner, got my questions answered, etc. Basically, the dog had been in an outdoor kennel 24 hours a day since puppyhood without nearly enough attention. He barked a fair amount and the neighbor got pissed. (And I heard a rumor that the owner's girlfriend has an unexpected 3rd bun in the oven and that may have been that straw that broke her personal barking dog ownership back.) The dog has been climbed upon by the family's two kids, roughly the same age as ours, and is very jovial about the whole business. He's a real nice dog. And that was about it.

So we made a date to meet the dog at a ballpark where his owner (Fuzzy is his name, because of course I got a dog from a guy named Fuzzy) plays ball. We walked up. I saw the dog. I crumpled onto the ground and began seizing, because I knew I was screwed. And then the Pig ambled over and made friends, best friends, with Turbo. At one point, Turbo sauntered over to a picnic table, put his paws on the bench, stood up, and casually sniffed at a spectator's hot dog. Pig followed Turbo, pulled up on the bench, put his hand upon Turbo's paw, and then the two of them mutually sniffed the hot dog. And that pretty much sealed the deal. Pig needed a dog. It was just so obvious to us. A boy needs a dog.

So last night we picked him up. We brought him home, had him pee in the yard, hosed him off, and hauled him in the house. The cats gave a hearty "WTF?" but were reasonable, and that idiot Growler was nose-to-nose with Turbs within about 7 minutes. Big Chuck remains the most pissed, occasionally hissing but improving steadily, and Joey is less pissed than I thought she'd be. All in all, Turbo was the most frightened about their meeting. He hid from them. I wanted to mention that he is a fairly large dog and should not be afraid of some mere felines, but instead I just acted casual. I didn't want to give him a complex right off the bat.

My sister has been around a bit, and she decided to spend the night here to help ease the transition. She is a raging dog-hater whose boyfriend has declared he will be getting a chocolate lab (her least favorite dog), but that she can name it if that helps ease her "reservations" about dog ownership. She plans to name it "Resentment" and call it "Rezzie" for short, and has mentioned antifreeze poisoning on more than one occasion. However, within 5 minutes she was snuggling with Turbo and spouting off nuggets of canine wisdom like she's the fuggin' dog whisperer. I'm not kidding. I was doing my standard overthinking, "What do I do when X happens?" and Hode was just very calmly responding like some kind of expert dog behaviorist. She also referenced getting a she-hound and naming it "Turbinato Sugar." Hode is just like that.

So this morning, the kids got up, and we brought them downstairs and Phook came in the living room and excitedly said, "Turbo's here!" And then the Pig went batshit with glee and reunited with his hotdog-sniffing buddy. It went beautifully. And this damned hound apparently remembered being potty-trained as a puppy, because he has had no accidents and seems rather inclined to just drop his deuces and mark his territory out of doors. He likes to go outside and take walks at a spritely little canter, and has yet to do anything dickheaded. I think he's a gem.

Of course, he stinks like hell and my house is already covered in fur. There is also occasional drool and I don't know what else excreting from him. He's a hound. And he's in my living room. Stinking. And I'm pretty sure I am okay with that. Which is weird. I really like saying, "Look, there's my hound." Or, "Hey, there's a hound over there!" And other sentences that include the word hound. Apparently I took advantage of this new vocal tic enough today to pass it onto my daughter in less than one business day, because as I was taking pictures of him this afternoon, she came over to my camera and said, "Let me see the hound!" and then when I showed her the photo display she said, "Dere's the hound." So, yeah, Phook's even onboard with hound references, which is nice.

So, my biggest concern at this point is leaving him. I don't think he'll wreck shop in the house or have pottying troubles, but I am a bit worried about him getting scared and barking. He is following me very closely at all times and I can tell he's just nervous and has been left alone too much. So I'm not sure how he'll do when I leave him. If you have any recommendations on getting a dog used to being left home alone when he's not inclined to enjoy it, please let me know. I need houndvice.

Now, let's enjoy some houndcam. First, let's look at Big K enjoying the hound last night. I must admit that second only to Pig's enjoyment of the hound is Big K's enjoyment. Big K had dogs growing up and seems very at ease with the creatures. And frankly, Big K deals with an immense amount of stress and pressure, always but particularly since his promotion. It is extraordinarily difficult for him to relax and get into a mode where he can shrug off the work shit and just enjoy things, and seeing him with the hound makes me think that perhaps Turbo might have the power to unleash a more carefree Big K, which is something I am always praying for, for everyone's sake. I captured a moment of it here I think:

And here we have Mr. Pig walking about in the presence of his new hound in this morning's sun. Did you folks catch the verb there? Yeah, my Pigster has mastered bipedery. Check it out:

But really, why would you take casual laps around your hound if you could dive over the top of your hound?

And when that tires you out, you can use your hound for a chaise lounge and just do a little chillaxing and thumb-sucking before you gray out for your morning nap:

And here we have a quick shot of Growler the tool meeting the hound (you have to look hard to see the hound in this photo):

And, finally, since I didn't get a great Phook v. Hound shot, let's just enjoy a cute one of her yelling like her crazy mother:

So there you have it. We have a hound. His name is Turbo. He is smelly and lovely. Just as with the Pig (also smelly and lovely), I spent so much time freaking out about how he could possibly fit into our already full home, but now that he's here I realize there had been an empty spot all along. Aw, Turby, welcome home.

Check out my new spaceship!

2009-06-13T22:52:00.000-05:00

Yo, yo, yo, yo....check this out!!! I got something new. Something brand new. Something brand new and awesome. Something...life changing. No, no, no, I didn't let some random dude with tattooing aspirations cut loose on my forehead after I got a little crazy with the jello shots. No, friends. But something almost as wild, reckless, and off the chain. Yeah, I got a new washer and dryer.

Wait, what? Did I just hear the collective steam hiss out of my readership, after I made it sound like something cool had happened and then it turned out to be something really lame..the very epitome of lameness...an announcement regarding the appliance I use to launder Big K's jockey shorts? Well, let me tell you, ya suckers. THIS IS COOL.

Let's discuss.

First off, I have a pretty huge appliance boner. For example, my sister got me an immersion blender for my birthday last year, and that was pretty much the most awesome thing she could have come up with. For fun, let's just enjoy a picture of her putting the little lady to use while looking a bit like a psycho, since I happen to have one on hand:

Okay, so, appliances. I just like shiny things with buttons that enhance my already raging domesticity. In the small appliance department, I've got to admit that I have some pretty pimped out equipment. I've asked for KitchenAid mixer attachments pretty much every holiday for about 6 years, and it's working pretty well because I think the lady who enters product registration card information for them is probably able to enter my data from memory. (Granted, I don't have the attachment that allows you to link your own sausage, but since Hode insists she wants to get into charcuterie and I do have a birthday coming up, it will probably happen.) But anyhow, the major appliances, not so much. We have an okay fridge which we bought solely because it was short enough to fit under a weird cabinet in our house. We have an okay electric stove that came with the house. We have no dishwasher other than the sad, shriveled stumps at the end of my arms. (Go ahead and process that for a minute, ye fellow members of the sippy cup fan club. Shit.) And then there was our washer and dryer.

Okay, so we bought the washer and dryer from my parents several years ago when they went to a stackable set. They had had the set for several years themselves. Run-of-the-mill top loading washer with 3 water temperature settings - worked fine and I conned some dude out of $75 for it today after Big K and I wheeled the thing out into the front yard on Phook's wagon with hand-penned signage that included the elegant phrase "inquire within." (We thought that was hilarious.) But the dryer. Oh shit, the dryer. The dryer started going to hell 45 minutes after we hooked it up. We already once paid way too much money to have the motor replaced, and for the 2 years since then, excepting the first 2 weeks after the repairman left, it's taken an hour and a half to dry a load of clothes. And that's a good day - she's a temperamental old broad. I don't remember when the moisture sensor thing in it even worked...only the time dry has been operational for a good long time. And then a few months ago it started shrieking when I started it up. My dad came over and diagnosed it with something I've since blacked out, I paid a little money for a part he replaced for me, and then it was back to its standard lackadaisical--albeit quiet--performance. When it started screeching again a couple weeks ago, I got out a baseball bat and went all Office Space on that thing. (PC LOAD LETTER.) No, I didn't really do that. I just kept adding another hour onto that load of towels in the hopes that they'd dry before they developed black mold.

But then Big K came home, and I got out a hacksaw and started to dismember myself in front of him, and I said, "Every minute you delay in authorizing me to drop an obscene amount of money on new laundry appliances, I get a little closer to not being able to wash the mountain of dishes you create every day." And he said, "Go ahead, honey." Or something like that. It was actually a more peaceful transaction than that but I'm sure it included some unnecessary threats on my part, since that's how I roll. If I can invoke a reference to a sharp object and my eye, it's going to happen. But, yeah.

So I went online and read a shitload of reviews and found a vendor offering 18 months no interest financing and I pulled the trigger and spent roughly the equivalent of the national deficit on a new washer and dryer. Because you know I was getting a high efficiency washer while I was at it. Just like that. I bought a hundred trillion dollars worth of laundering technology while sitting in the very chair I'm blogging at you from right now. How modern of me. (My mother was horrified.)

I'm tempted to launch into a very long-winded justification of this purchase right now. For some reason I feel like I'm financially accountable to the internet, but upon further reflection, that's kind of dumb. We're gonna save an assload by not running a dryer around the clock and not dumping an entire lake into the laundry tub 14 times per day. We can afford the payment. And that's good enough for me, so it'd better be good enough for you. And really, I have a huge appliance boner (did I mention that?), so money was no object.

I'm gonna tell you what I got, dudes. The Electrolux. Dudes. Dudes. Dudes. I mean, the name sounds kinda fancy so it's gotta be, right? I mean, Kelly Ripa zooming around looking distressingly fit while hawking the shit on tv...I couldn't go wrong. In all seriousness, I have never read such glowing product reviews as this stuff got. It was all e-tears and gushing love poems and just utter blathering nonsense. So I was into it. Now, I didn't get the tippity top of the line and I didn't get the pedestals to raise them up to a more convenient height (only because we were about an inch shy of enough height because of a shelf) and I didn't spring for the kelly green (only because it wouldn't match my current kitchen/laundry area or my half-baked plans for my future dream kitchen/laundry). But still. This shit is F-A-N-C-Y.

And let me tell you, I deal with lot of human leakage. You know, your standard daily leakage. Someone is sick leakage. And "let's go to the hospital" leakage. Pretty much everyone that lives here poops on themselves on occasion. Really, I need the fancy. But dudes, I also wanted the fancy. And now the fancy is in my ghetto unfabulous laundry room. Here, the Pig will show you:

Dude, the stuff chimes to life at the touch of a button and a little screen says "Welcome" to me. That's the most sophisticated message I receive all day sometimes. There are all sorts of laundering options available to deal with my family's leaked-upon clothing. There's even a "sanitize" option that like boils the shit or something when somebody gets into some tainted potato salad and spends a couple days wrecking gastrointestinal shop. I can customize this and personalize that and pause the cycle and add garments and lock the controls so little naughty people can't go accidentally launching my spaceship. It squirts like a teaspoon of water on the clothes and then spins them until they're practically as dry as my pathetic dishpan hands and then it kindly notifies me that the magic has happened with a friendly little chime that takes the sting right out of the fact that I am doing a chore. And there are little greenie options within the greenmobile such as the ability to lower the water temp a couple degrees for each cycle or add an extra spin to reduce drying time and a lot of other ways to help me do penance for the fact that my former dryer is the reason behind every single sunburn that the human race has suffered for the past 5 years. And then the dryer has magical tools and is also really nice to me and--get this--includes a stationary drying rack. So what I am telling you is that rather than setting a sweater out on a towel for my ill-mannered cats to bathe themselves upon for 3 days (decidedly undoing the fact that I laundered the stupid thing in the first place), I will be setting my sweater on a rack in my spaceship and gingerly removing it shortly thereafter, only to find it dry, intact, and unsullied. Dude.

I don't know. Maybe you people have demanding jobs that pay you money. Or lives. Or interests other than the removal of spit-up stains. That being the case, you're reading this post and finding that you now have definitive proof that aliens have invaded and are living amongst humans on Earth. (Perhaps those spaceship references aren't just my clever wit.) But at this juncture, friends, I have to tell you that the unending hell of being a laundress is just a hugeass part of my life, my day, my labor. I do so much laundry and I do not like it. So now that the Electrolux has landed, I feel like a social worker who hates paperwork and just got a secretary. (Oddly, that scenario also recently played out in the K House.) I guess what I'm saying is that this is a big deal and I'm really excited. The night they arrived, I sat on the floor in front of the washer and just allowed myself to enter a pleasing trance as I watched that laundry spin. I received total consciousness of the homemaker variety. This is the stuff dreams are made of.

Can you people even imagine how I would react if I ever got a dishwasher?

The sort of thing that happens here

2009-06-01T21:06:00.000-05:00

I've been meaning to mention this, but I'm just getting around to it now. Sorry. (Not that you knew I was holding out on you, but whatever.) So one day a couple weeks ago, Phook started to seriously dismantle our toy room. (It was ages ago, in fact, in that Phook is wearing a dipe in this shot and Phook, let me remind you all with a very large smile on my face, no longer wears dipes.) Anyhow, it's not that she doesn't wreck shop in there when playing on a regular basis, but this was different. She was purposefully removing every single toy from the shiteous old bookcases where a good portion of her toys normally roost, and chucking them into a pile. I believe I was assisting Pig with his breakfasting when I head the cacophony. I looked in the room and saw this scene:

(Don't you find the label on the storage basket in the lower lefthand corner absurdly appropriate?) So anyhow, I looked in there, I saw that a hurricane had occurred. I told her it was a nice mess and that she'd have to pick it up at some point, and then I went back to attending to the Pig. Big K was showering for work or something when this went down, so when he became available I told him there was some amusement for him to check out in the toy room. He did. He looked in just in time to witness absolute hilarity. Phook reached into the mountain of plastic shite that no child should ever be able to amass in a mere 32 months of life and pulled out the item she was apparently desperate to find. She grabbed it, looked up at Big K, and very casually but with no shortage of surprise, declared, "Oh, here's pink bahnkie!"

Maybe you had to be there. Probably. But dudes, it was hilarious. As if pink bahnkie had been hiding behind the Happy Meal My Little Pony toy she hasn't touched in 7 months. As if pink bahnkie had been hiding underneath a miniature Elmo Easter basket. As if pink bahnkie had been anywhere other than attached to her body as it always is. She declared with sincerity that she found what it was she had been looking for...apparently a difficult task given that she had to clear two complete bookcases stuffed with toys in order to complete it. Funny shiz.

So this mess persisted for awhile that day, and I decided we should just embrace the disorder and play in it. At one point mid-morning, I threw Pig in the pile. I also threw some Cheerios in the pile to keep the Pig extra happy. (And you should already know about how Cheerios function in my home.) So Pig was rabble-rousing about in a heap of brightly colored objects that were busy giving him lead poisoning when I noticed something looked funny about his foot. Specifically, he had grown a sixth toe. Not one to have a problem with innocuous physical deformities (I've always wanted a tail, you know), I was kind of excited. But as it turned out, the sixth toe he had miraculously sprouted turned out to be a Cheerio. You can see how I might have been confused:

Now I laughed really hard about this. I made a scene, actually. I got Phook in on the game and we all had a hearty chuckle at Pig's sixth toe. Really, this is the kind of shit that keeps me going some days. Phook definitely knew that the Cheerio-toe had pleased me. The reason I know this with absolute certainty is that approximately 7 hours after the initial amusement broke out, she came out into the kitchen to show me something "weewy funny." It was this:

How awesome is that? Very awesome, if you ask me.

Those kids, man. They're some kind of rad.

Okay, so I'm feeling vaguely self-conscious about this post, like you are all going to read it and think, "Woman, what are you on? That is not remotely funny." Well, I have an answer for that question too. Valium, friends, valium. I know, I know. But I've sucked helium out of the valium balloon or valium out of the helium balloon and the result is this post.

I should explain. Friends, my neck is freaking destroyed with muscle strain right now. I have a history of intermittent (and sometimes crippling) neck pain stemming from the car accident I had years ago that also blew up my low back. So I've had a few severe flare-ups since I started toting around a really robust baby. I'm mid-flare right now. I believe the word is actually conflagration. To make a long story short(er), I have long had a prescription for a muscle relaxer, but it puts me in a coma, so I can only take it at night...and even then I wake up the next day feeling like a trucker who has been on the interstate fudging his log books for 2 days. So I called my doctor today in a state of desperation - you know, not being able to turn my head at all in either direction and causing my husband to stay home from work to wipe butts because the task was beyond my capabilities - and she called back and prescribed valium, saying it is sometimes used to treat muscle spasms and that some people have less drowsiness with it than with my regular prescription. I was directed to take half a pill of the smallest dose they make. I did. An hour later, you could have landed an aircraft on my garage roof and I would have casually asked the passengers if they liked my geraniums after they deplaned. Granted, I didn't want to pass out, which was nice. But I did find that I was not exactly cogent. I can see why people enjoy taking valium when they do not enjoy what is really going on around them.

So that's where I'm at. I have no range of motion in my neck, I'm somewhat stoned, and I'm really excited about the new issue of Newsweek I just received, since its cover seems to indicate that it includes information that might help me solve the mystery of Oprah, which is perhaps the most burning question in my life. Also, the Pig is freestyle standing and I predict that his first step will occur on Thursday. I'll keep you posted.

XO,
Big W

A report on our camping trip and some photographic miscellany

2009-05-28T15:33:00.000-05:00

I have to tell you, we had a grand time camping over Memorial Day weekend. We went to one of our favorite state parks in Wisconsin, Peninsula State Park in Door County. It is truly a gorgeous place to be. I was a wee bit nervous about camping with 2 kids, one of whom likes to crawl through mud, eat rocks, and bash his head into things, and the other of whom was just learning not to piss herself. Plus my parents were involved, and it is fair to say that their enjoyment of camping is tenuous at best. And my sister was trying to drag her surly boyfriend out into the wild as well, even though he strongly preferred spending the weekend tearing down a garage. Really, a recipe for disaster. But all in all, it was a disaster-free time. The weather was lovely during the day but chilly at night (and we were prepared for the chilly at night part). Phook maintained her pottying skillz and marked a lot of territory in the great outdoors. Pig ate a lot of dirt but didn't choke on any pine cones. Sleeping in the wild went well, excepting one rough night for Pig. Overall though, it just went well and was a lot of fun. (It would of course be better for my blog if it was a disaster, but sometimes you just have to accept the positives that life throws you rather than yearn for how you could have made that train wreck sound really hilarious on your blog.) So let's have a peek, huh?

Let's kick this off right. Big K is a big eater. A real big eater. We made pancakes one morning on our Roadtrip Grill with the sweet tits griddle attachments we got for Christmas. (I've often thought of doing occasional product reviews on this blog, and that grill would be one of the items I'd like to expound upon...two fat thumbs up.) But anyhow, Big K made a griddle sized blueberry pancake for himself (note that it's larger than a standard size paper plate):

And then he wrapped the thing around a giant sausage. Not a breakfast sausage. A full-sized meal sausage from a previous dinner. It may have even been infused with hot sauce or something. He was disturbingly proud of having made the world's largest pig in a blanket:

While we were there, we were happy to discover that the campground offered some really nice playground equipment, which Hode abbreviates to "P.G.E." when she's trying to outsmart Phook. My kids really like to swing, so it came in handy. Phook, semi-pensively swinging:

Pig, not remotely pensively swinging:

And also, I at this point need to mention Pig's top teeth, which we refer to as "toppers" in this house. Yeah, he got his two top middle teeth. The unfortunate thing is that you could fit a third tooth between them. He is totally that kid. You know, the gentle giant hilarious headbutt kid with a giant gap between his front teeth. This picture captures it somewhat, but you'll have to probably click on it to expand it to see the true awesomeness:

And here we all are, happily swinging together:

We also took a couple of hikes. This consisted of Phook running ahead of everyone in the woods for approximately two miles or so, screaming, "You coming, guys?" I think I have a cross country runner in my family. It's unfortunate that those kids seem to puke a lot and cross the finish line covered in snot and blood, because none of that business is very becoming. But I believe she may turn out to be an adolescent trail runner who likes to elbow the shit out of her competitors when no one is watching. But I digress. We tried to capture a decent photo of us acting like woodland explorers, but it didn't work out. Instead we have Phook grabbing Big K's face to kiss him while dressed in one of her jacked up camping ensembles, Pig looking odd while clinging to his toy drumstick which at this juncture I think has the best chances of becoming his lovey, and me just looking like a tool in a track suit and a visor - but it's proof that we were there, right?

At the end of our hike, we were rewarded with a lovely view of the water. Phook regarded it thoughtfully with her father, and was quite excited about all the boats passing by. She told me that there were guys on all the boats lookin' for fish. I love listening to her observations about general shit when we're out and about. As much as it sucks once your kid is able to tell you off, the rewards of them being able to tell you what they are thinking are just unbelievably huge. Just listening to her chat about everything she sees is pretty much the highlight of my life.

While my mom does not necessarily enjoy the labor intensity of readying herself and my father for camping, or sleeping in a tent, or freezing her ass off, or being away from her deck, she's not one to piss in her grandkids' cheerios. So she was in high spirits the entire trip, and amused my shorties with tunes on the grass flute. She also looked a bit like the Unabomber, which was nice:

While we were there, we paid a visit to one of our favorite pit stops, the Plum Loco Animal Farm. It is a delightful mini-farm gig that is sized just right for toddler types. You get to feed animals, dick around in little kid-sized play houses, and generally have a lovely time. Here is Phook feeding a creature:

And here is Pig saddled up on a wild beast:

So that's what we did. We ate in the woods, we wandered around in the woods, we fed beasts for a reasonable fee, and had a great time.

Now, while I'm at this whole labor intensive business of posting photos, let's just continue on and regard some additional recent adventures. On Mother's Day, we went to the zoo. It was lovely. Observe Phook as she slides with glee:

Observe Phook as she pretends she's a gerbil:

Observe Pig as he enjoys his first carousel ride:

We finished up our day with lunch at a diner, which locals of the area will know as being famous for pie. Phook enjoyed licking the sprinkles off of a giant cookie there:

We also recently attended a wedding. Pig was very handsome and greasy at the dinner table:

Before I left for the wedding, I attempted to take a self-portrait of me and Pig. Unfortunately, a random serial killer snuck into the shot - and I didn't know it until I later reviewed the pictures, which was pretty dang funny to discover:

I also recently busted out the sandbox. The Pig loves it. More specifically, he loves to eat dirt. But whatevs. Have it your way, buddy.

One night recently, I had to cover up my plants on account of cold weather. Phook took the opportunity to nest in the covers I used - it was rather amusing to find her self-bundled in the blankets like this:

Also, Phook recently determined that she required another sibling. A green, overweight sibling who must sit at the table with us wearing a bib. And eat things like meals of salmon, asparagus, and roasted potatoes.

And finally, in this uncertain world filled with economic strife, climate change, raging nations, and my sister's phobia of hitting peak oil, I am going to leave you with one absolute truth. One indisputable nugget that I use as my personal bedrock for remaining sane in insane times. And that is this:

The Pig is ridonkulously cute.

The End.