A Family Chat on Global Warming

“Honey, I’m home! What a brutal day out on the field! Did you hear it snowed? I know! Craziness! I don’t quite get it myself. I asked Frank about it and he said it had something to do with Global Warming? I thought we got away from that moving to LA. That’s not just some silly European thing? Anyway, then Landon chimed in and said it was really just El Nino. Global Warming isn’t real. Then I said to Landon, “Look, I don’t mean to be a total prat, but what the hell is El Nino?” He said it literally translates into “the child”. Now that cracked me up. Just think a tiny child blowing snow and cold winds into LA. Ha! Funny, huh? It was bloody hell though running up and down in slushy, snowy mud. I hope this El Nino/Global Warming thing is just a fluke. It must be a Hollywood thing we haven’t figured out yet. I asked Tom about it and he invited me over for a screening of some ‘Inconvenient’ film or what have you. Katie, err I mean Kate was there and she seemed to like the movie or at least Tom said she did. Anyway, the whole thing seemed a bit dull, then a tad scary when I started to think about all that we own and power we suck up daily. I’m thinking that just to be on the safe side we should start conserving a twinge. Maybe drive the Bentley vs. the Escalade on more occasions?”

“Hon?” “You’re awfully quiet. What’s the matter? Am I boring you? Did you and Kate already watch this movie on Girls Night?” “ Hey Brooklyn !”

“Uh, hey Dad. You know that’s not Mum right? That’s the wax figure of Mummy that the museum sent over today.”

“Oh, right. Thanks son. Where is your Mum then?”

“She’s at Neiman’s with some church people. She’ll be back later.”

“Right, that’s right. She meets them at Neiman’s each week. Funny that. Well, just in case this whole Global Warming isn’t something else Al Gore “invented” let’s unplug your mini-Hummer for a while and hope that helps. Shall we?”


This blog post is brought to you by the letter, V, as in Vicky. Vicky is normally found ranting on her site, The Mummy Chronicles, each day. Please head over there to check out Amanda’s environmentally conscious take on this Blog Exchange day.

Blog Exchange was created by Kristen of Motherhood Uncensored. Head over there to get the full list of bloggers exchanging, well, blogs.

All Better Now

Elmo lifted us up in a crimson embrace. Briar's rapture made all of our worries float up into the rafters like the $8 balloons they were hocking at intermission.

Trust

Parenting is trust. Trusting your instinct. Trusting your partner. Guarding your children's trust. Encouraging them to trust friends, but cautioning them not to trust too much. Teaching them to trust you. Trusting them to achieve milestones when they are ready.

It is sacred, this trust within family. I look at our girls and find myself living and breathing by my ability to deserve their trust, to be worthy. Don't use the phone in the car, don't make empty promises (or threats). Let them test and explore. Let them become acquainted with their own instinct. Trust that they'll forgive me. Trust that they'll come back to me.

This heightened awareness of trust gives me pause in every day life. Spending so much of my time working to be worthy of our girls' trust, worthy of Sean's trust, worthy of my bosses trust as I work from home, I wonder:

What to do you do when trust fails? When your trust is shattered? When someone you have let in spoils it. Soils it. Destroys that delicate balance, this thing of trust. What do you do? How do you rebuild trust? How do you know when to take the leap and try again and when to close a door, protect yourself.

My grandfather is coming up on nearly a year of intermittent hospice care. A year of dying, a year of living. Either way, the reality of death and end are right there, nipping at our heels, swatting us in the face. Taunting us. Have you lived? have you done what you wanted? Lived the life you wanted to live? Have you been true? Have you been worthy of trust? Have you been worthy of the life you have been given?

How do you answer that? How do you watch some clinging to life and relishing the twilight with diminished freedom, compromised abilities but a wholly undeterred spirit? An indomitable zeal for living. How do you witness that and not vow to eliminate anything that is not worthy?

How do you say I'll take care of it tomorrow? Let's wait and see. What value is there in waiting? Waiting, yes, there can be wisdom in waiting. Prudence. But there is a line, a time when it is clear that waiting is not gathering wisdom, but postponing discomfort.

Honestly, I am feeling a bit broken in spirit, by death and uncertainty. The things I have are my family, my center of trust, and my own instinct. I have to trust that this circle and this instinct will see me through. But I am afraid. I am so afraid of trusting. Trusting that I know. I hope that I can summon the courage to carry me through what feels like a free fall.

I will be caught.
I will not fall forever.
I can do this. I hope.

Ahem, Mom Can Do Stuff Too

It's no secret around the house that Mom is not quite as talented as Dad in the art department. Just last night I was giving Briar a bath as Sean put Avery down for the night.We were using Crayola Bath Tub Crayons to deface the lime green tiles of the shower surround. (Technically since the bathroom is as old as the house - 115 years- I don't think it's really a shower surround, but bear with me, I am trying to pretend it's not a 4 x 4 square of inadequacy.) Much to Briar's chagrin we were plum out of pink, so I was using green.

"Mommy draw a Mickey."

"Umm, ok. Hang on. Ok. Here we go. Let me smear this on. Ok, let's do an ear. Mickey has a round ear. Then let's do another ear. Ok. Umm, then Mickey has a kind of a round head and his nose kinda swoops out sort of like this. There. There's a Mickey."

She cocked her head and looked at the wall. She leaned in closer, then craned her neck back, tilting her head the other way. It was clear that in looking at my green smear she saw no Mickey. I looked at the smear and could not even remember how I could have said aloud that the misshapen blob I was drawing was Mickey. It looked like a Sesame Street rendering of a CSI crime scene where Oscar knocked his head on the wall after washing his hair with cilantro paste.

"Umm, Mommy draw Goofy?"

"Hoo, let's ah, let's wait for Daddy. Daddy is going to finish any minute and he'll come in here and draw you Goofy. Daddy can draw anything. He's going to come back. He'll be back any time now. Sean? Daddy? Ok. How about a heart? Want Mommy to draw you a heart?"

"No thank you Mom. Goofy? Mommy draw Goofy?"

God bless her faith in my ability to one day pull some sort of artistic skill out of my ass.

"Sorry baby. Mom doesn'twant to waste any more of you green stuff. How about I get you a cool washclath, maybe the butterfly one and you can wash the wall?"

She bit. Thank god.

Luckily I am a whiz at the craft store. Over the summer I picked up a couple of "sun catchers" for a rainy day. I can best any artist if given the right gear.

Behold, the wonder of a famous form, paints, glitter and the oohing and ahing only a mother can do.

I've Said it Before

...and I'll say it again:

There's something about Dads and daughters. Like a Hallmark Hall of Fame special,mixed with a Lifetime movie of the week when you're sick, to a box of fluffy little puppies, it just gets me.

Sean and Briar spent some quality time painting at the dining room table -

This must just be riveting from the non-granddparents readership of this humble little blog. Fear not, I'll be back to my slightly less gushy in love with my husband self soon...though behind each snarky or child adoring post is a series of eyelash batting, hankie waving thoughts about the incredible guy I married, except of course when he mocks me and breaks into some Flock of Seagulls song.

A few pictures from the Sunday afternoon arts and crafts with Dad session.

Sniffles, Hissy Fits & Life Lessons

Gone are the days of trying to project a serene, 1950's everything's perfect facade. No more exclamations of smooth sailing and fluffy angel kisses. We've hit two and we have hit it hard. Our sweet little cherub, our downy haired first born, our wonder of wonders daughter has morphed into a curly haired bomb, a blue eyed, hair trigger tempered little spit fire. There are days when we find humor in the explosivity of her temper. How can you not snicker just a little when her own capricious whims send her into a raging nose dive of a tantrum:

"Boo-nana. Briar havin' a boo-nana."

"Ok, honey. Just a minute. Mama's feeding Avery."

Boo-nana!"

"Ok."

"BOO-NANA!"

"Ok, here you go."

She looks at the proffered banana. She pauses. She reaches for it and then:

"No want it boo-nana. Away. Mommy! BRIAR NO WANT THE BOOOOOO-NANA! Take away!" Followed by gasping shrieks and howls.

"Ok. Honey. What do you want?"

"Da, boo-na, umm, Briar want uh, boo..." Frustrated screams, hands pounding on the desk and feet kicking violently against the chair.

"Owwweee. Mommy, Briar's feet hurt. Owwee! Eat cereals. Briar eat cereals. No boo-nana."

Cereal it is. I put a dish in front of her. She looks at and then looks at the banana in my hand. Hmmm, confused, but she chooses not to flip out again. She eats the cereal. For now, we are safe.

And then there is Avery. Sweet natured, eager to please, infatuated with Briar and affectionate to her parents, Avery. We both seem to be intensely attuned to her sweetness, perhaps because we see the writing on the wall. Can it really be possible that in a year's time she will turn into 32" of perambulating demonic impetuosity?

"Mommy. No want it the cereals. Briar hungry. Briar needs it the boo-nana! Mommy!"

Definitely possible.

So we tend to Avery. We nuzzle, we kiss. We cheer her budding achievements. We try to guide her to things that will make her happy and prevent the arousal of Briar's anger. Unfortunately there is that one little thing that parents of babies must face and there is simply no way to address it without seriously distressing the little ones.

Enter: the nose sucker.

Damn if it isn't the most effective, yet disturbing aid for the early months of sniffles. Briar had tremendous nose problems early on and Sean took the lead, assuming the role of hateful, wielder of the nose sucker. Back then we didn't know about the Little Noses gentle bulb, so we used the light blue hospital issue bulb with the 4" lance of horror. Briar would look up at Sean, her blue eyes wide with fear pleading silently with him. Then she'd look to me as I held her hands at her sides while tears streamed down my face. It wasn't that Sean enjoyed doing it, he was just better able to assess the situation and accept that in order to help her, suck we must.

I have tried to be more just this time around. Instead of just providing the life sustaining breast milk, cuddling and cooing, I am taking my turn with the nose sucker. It truly sucks in every sense of the word. This morning, day 5 of a vicious hanger-onner of a head cold, Avery simply could not nurse, so full was her nose with stuff. I got the saline spray and the nose sucker (the much gentler, smaller Little Noses version). Sean held Avery as I sprayed the saline. She gagged and coughed, tears streamed down her face and her little eyebrows furrowed in the most pathetic way. I inserted the sucker and began to clear her nose. Four times I had to do it. And four times her sweet natured little self writhed beneath Sean's arms. There were no tears this time for me.

I think one of the most bittersweet things abut this second time around is the diminishment of intensity. I am still overcome at times by the exquisite ache of loving Avery, of having my devotion to her seep into every corner of my being. However the every single moment of the day and most of the moments of the night rapture are not there like they were with Briar. I am less terrified about doing something wrong (I have accepted the inevitability of that), I have less time to watch sunlight catch in the sheen of saliva on her rosy lips, I can't just stop to trace the rolls on her thighs. Luckily for her, I also don't sit by and let her snort because I am afraid of upsetting her with the bulb.

She is having a different experience than Briar, but for every all encompassing fascination that I don't get caught up in, I compensate for with something I have learned. Avery is delighting in a food odyssey that I never would have allowed for Briar. Briar was by the book, to the letter I tell you. Avery, well Avery is coming along with us as instinct dictates. And I think, for all the afternoons Avery has not gotten reclining on my knees while I weep and take 37 photos an hour, she has gotten many more walks with us (outside at 4 days? Why the hell not, she's 8 months old now and has lived to tell the tale.)

Instead of two googly eyed parent breathing down on her at every turn, she has a sister challenging her, demonstrating how to do it (or please for the love of god, how not to do it), she has better toys, more books, chill parents and someone to share the backseat with on car trips (cause boy, Dad sure loves to take the scenic route and mom is always lost).

I hope that both girls will appreciate the first years that they had, Briar with her sole ownership of the spotlight for nearly two years and Avery with her shared spotlight but heightened privilege of experience. I hope that they'll understand that we were not trying to lessen the size of their slices of pie, but rather trying to ensure that as they grew they would have one another, be it to commiserate about our failures, share the burden of eventually losing us or simply to know that they had someone out there who really understood where they came from. And that, the place where they came from, I can honestly say is a place of intense love, wonder and gratitude. I wouldn't trade the snot, the rage or the responibility for all the riches in the world.

Take 20, Get 2

My photo taking sucktitude knows no bounds. I thought when I reviewed the photos tonight that surely there would be enough to post a series of Briar and Avery shots. How wrong I was. I've got two folks, and I was tempted to post the bad ones because they seemed to have more merit somehow. I shall try again tomorrow, for now, here're your two.

The New Food Pyramid Flatline

I am, to some, a bit of a health nut. I like to think of it as being an informed consumer and a responsible parent. I am taking the new information we have with regard to nutrition and using it to create the healthiest options for my family. A few years ago when I started talking to Sean about trans fats and high fructose corn syrup he barely concealed his exasperation with my blind faith in the health blurbs in magazines. And I realize as I write this that that last sentence sounded a bit like somone who goes door to door selling religion (or Kirby products.)

"But do you understand that if you are eating things with partially hydrogenated oils you might as well start slurping scoops of shiny Crisco?" I'd cry passionately as I opened up packages of organic, baked, low sodium versions of Ritz crackers, or as Sean calls them, cardboard disks.

"Uh-huh."

"And the high fructose corn syrup? My god honey, it's everywhere. It's in everything! We have to avoid it."

"N'k."

"Sean?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Don't you feel better eating the things we are eating?" I asked as I sliced jicama.

He looked across the table and I think I saw the faintest glimmer of despair.

"Yeah babe. It feels great." And he took a pull of the Mich Ultra I'd given him. I think he might have winced.

But seriously, it's been six years now and everyone from Men's Health to Nabisco has gotten on the anti trans fat band wagon. Sean came to me the other day with a jar of Smart Balance peanut butter.

"Do you know they put the same ingredient that goes into cake frosting to sweeten regular peanut butter? Cake frosting! We're using this stuff from now on."

I got a little lump in my throat and looked around. I wated to clap someone on the shoulder and say,

"This is my husband, the father of my girls. Did you hear what he just said? Did you hear it? The man is brilliant. I love him!"

Over these six years of blissful cohabitation (perhaps there was the occasional exception, such as the summer of unemployment in '02 that demonstrated the awful things that happen to me when I am underutilized...) we have met each other in the middle on just about everything. (again, I might be able to cite a few exceptions). All of that has prepared us for what is arguably the most pathetic, gut wrenching and ulitmately futile disagreement:

Meal time with a toddler.

Oh my holy hell, there are just no words. Briar lulled us into a false sense of

Neener, neener, neener our kid eats produce, dairy and a healthy balance of meats and carbohydrates, while other children subsist on fried shit from a carton.
She would attack cucumbers with zeal, devour fruits, and cheese at each meal. Snacks of whole wheat bread with peanut butter, chicken and rice for dinner, oatmeal in the morning. It was a fairy tale. Oh, how I miss the fairy tale. The sweet pudgy fingers that lifted bright red peppers to her mouth, the delicate palms that kept the cheery yellow and white hard boiled eggs from falling out of her mouth.

Now the color selection is confined to whether the nacro I make comes from a red, blue or purple box. Where she used to polish off two bananas in a sitting, she know barely finishes a single bite. Her appetite for water and milk is gone, replaced by an insatiable, and dare I say borderline hysterical desperation for orange juice.

She would survive on orange juice alone if we let her. She is a better snacker than she is an actual meal eater. We try to get her to eat cheese and fruit or vegetables along with chips and nuts...yes, I know. Nuts and hot dogs. Choking hazards. The biggest. The worst. I get it. I bite cashews in half, split the halves and then feed them to her under my watchful eye. Back off and set down the Oreo, you break the rules of your choosing, and I'll do the same on my end. Did I mention we gave her a a knife set for Christmas?

She has recently discovered that cream cheese is to food, what orange juice is to drinks. If she is not demanding nacro, and oh yes, she does demand it, she is squealing for cream cheese. We're taking baby steps and mini nibbles as we work our way to something resembling a balanced diet. The best we can do is hope that when she does one day decide to eat a meal, that she'll choose to eat one of the many things she has seen us eating. Until then, looks like we'll be buying cream cheese by the wagonfull.

"Hey Briar, what would you like to eat?"

"Cream cheese."

"Do you want some apple?"

"CREAM cheese."

"How about some fruit?"

"CREAM CHEESE!"

"Ok, cream cheese and what else?"

"Aw, cream cheese?"

"You have to have something else."

"Cream Cheese, please."

"Ok, honey, but what else?"

"CREAM CHEESE ON A CRACKER!" She says it all in one breath like a Shakespearean actor, complete with frothy spittle and whipping hair.

""Ok, then. Cream cheese on crackers with some apple."

"Cream cheese and orange juice." She says affirmatively with emphatic nods of her head.

"And apple."

"With cream cheese, mommy."

"You got it."

My Favorite

I have decided my two favorite things right now are:

Avery giving kisses. She knows her name and the word kiss, so I say,
"Avery, das my Avery? Avery give mama kiss."(Totally teaching her to speak like english is her second language. Yeah, go mom.)

Her eyes get really big, she opens her mouth wide (Like fit a marshmallow in her little mouth big.) and then leans in. Her mouth opens so wide sometimes that she actually covers my entire mouth with hers. Then she stops. She just looks at me, slowly blinking and holding me in an open mouth to closed mouth kiss. It's he best I tell ya.

Second favorite thing? Briar saying:

"Oh, thank you so very much, mom! Thank you so much!"

When she says it she squints her eyes and tilts her head for emphasis. It is perhaps the cutest precocious quirk I have ever seen. I was gushing about it to Sean.

"And then she tilts her little head."

"She gets that from you."

"What do you mean?"

Sean pops his head around the corner, looks at me and then bends at the kness, cocks his head to one side and says,

"Oh thank you, so much Briar!" Echoing the emphatic Briar with a rah rah cheerleader type clap on his thighs all with his eyes squinted shut.

"Really?"

"Oh. Thank! You! So! Much! Briar!"

The Dumbest

"Hey honey. Why don't you go get some stuff done on the computer? I'll play with the girls."

"Really?"

"Sure. You haven't had much time to blog lately. I'll push them in the dolly."

"Ok."

Five minutes later I was blissfully ensconced in the Bluefly dress section looking for images for an entry on getting an outfit for a special event. Sean rounded the corner with the girls propped on the dolly. I quickly popped out of my chair and ran over to him.

"How's it going?" He asked breathlessly looking over at the computer.

"Fine. It's great. Ummm, I'm not shopping." I stammered as I sidestepped to block the computer.

"You're not shopping?" He craned his neck to look past me.

"No, I'm just searching for images for a post about trying to find a dress. I'm not shopping."

"That is the dumbest thing you have said all day."

"You haven't been with me all day!"

That threw him. He actually laughed and shook his head and then said,

"You are writing a post about finding something to wear for the Annual Dinner and you are not shopping?"

"Right."

"I stand by that being the dumbest thing you have said all day."


It's so annoying when he's right.

Remarkable I tell ya, remarkable

These girls are brilliant.

Briar is watching the "ball" on the tv. She is standing so close her nose can almost touch the screen. The ball, if you are not familiar with it, is the dancing DVD icon that occupies the screen until the disc is inserted. Yup, she picked the amazing dancing ball over the princesses.

Avery is sucking the bag of wipes again. The cat is swatting at her head. The dog continues to keep her most private part clean, every so often threatening to love the skin off of Avery.

My afternoon work at home mom approach sometimes rivals the brilliance of the Montessori style.

Feel free to forward your parenting advice queeries to me at:

obliviousmom@chaoscentral.com

Stop Automating

I understand that there are certain technological advances that have made life easier.

Internet

Climate control in cars

Cell phones

Online bill paying

Wicking work out clothes

And many other things, but like the rest of the world I could do with a hell of a lot less automated phone systems, automated telemarketing - generally anything that prolongs a phone call or keeps me from getting something done.

However, I think I would take a few more telemarketing calls a day if I could eliminate something from my daily existence.

The touchless paper towel dispenser. WTF?!

I like to think that I am a fairly normal person. I care about the environment. I wash my hands after going to the bathroom. I recycle. Apparently though, when it comes to paper towels I am a waster. Waster, waster,waster. Because there is just no way in hell that the amount of paper that the machine doles out to me is enough to even stop the dripping on my hands, let alone dry them. Every time I have to get a second and third peiece, but of course I have to wait.

You have to remove the piece you are given and then it gives you enough time to really think through whether or not you really need another piece.

I do.

So I wave my hand underneath the machine, at first I do so slowly and smoothly. The room is quiet except for the soft dripping of clean watere from my hands on to the floor. I wait. After what feels like three minutes I move my hands in front of the machine again, but this time I wave them a bit more energetically.

Nothing.

I am now invoking my special word, Jesus, and saying a silent thanks that Briar isn't present to soak up the angry blasphemy. The little square stays dark, no red light flashing to let me know to prepare for the 4" square of non-absorbent paper towel that will soon shoot through the slot.

I step closer to the machine and hold one hand inder the slot and the other in front of the darkened square.

"Come on. Come on. Just give me another damn piece."

It mocks me, the little button a dark, unforgiving shade of,

"You ain't gettin' nothin' outta me sucka."

I press the darkness, knowing full well that it does not respond to this.

Continued darkness. I glower at the machine and turn to look at my reflection. The front of my pants and blouse have wet droplets all over from my maniacal hand waving.

Fine. Fine I'll wipe my hands on my pants, just like I have done every day since your blasted installation.

"I hate you paper towel un-dispenser, I hate you," I growl thrusting an angry index finger at it (this I must have picked up from Briar.)

I open the door, the automatice light shut off kicks in and the room goes dark. As my heels click against the tile of the kitchen I hear the dispenser...

Brrr-plllt

Doling out a sheet of towel to a dark room.

Jesus.

Vacuum Cleaners Suck

Our vacuum cleaner kicked the bucket. It is a fate shared by every vacuum we have ever owned. Sean and I have lived together since 2001. We have had no less than 5 vacuum cleaners in that time. Each was purchased new. And after valiant service during tours of duty lasting less than 12 months, each has fallen with one explosive and dusty tubercular hack. I don't know quite what the hell I do to them, but whatever it is, it appears to be fatal.

I once found myself thinking that maybe the daffy, scantily clad saleswoman (girl, really) from Kirby might have been on to something as far as the hundreds and thousands of dollars she said you spend on other cleaners. I have spent $75-$280 each time...which, gulp, could almost have paid for a Kirby by now. But then I remembered how she tried to relate with me as I fretted (after 60 minutes worth of demonstrating that amounted to no more than ten 3" square areas being cleaned) about needing to go and nurse Briar who Sean had in another part of the house.

"Oh, yeah. My mom breastfed me and my brothers and sisters until we were each like four. You see these things? Those are mites. You are sleeping with them every night. I can remember breastfeeding. Do you want me to clean another bed?" She asked as she rotated three filter discs on my bed like some sort of street hustler.

"Nice. And gross. The mites I mean, not your family. Ah, I really need to go and feed my daughter." I said trying to back out of the room. She was sitting on my bed.

"Oh, ok. Well they dropped me off here and didn't leave me a number, so I'll just have to wait. Might as well clean while I am here." She fodled the filters, sprinking who-knows-what onto the bed and then wiped her hand casually against the quilt.

"Let's go to another room. Breastfeeding is just so good and healthy. We were like really better off because we got that closeness for almost five years each." She stood up and started toward Briar's room.

"That's great. I just, really, umm, could you just stop?" I asked meekly. I was afraid of this person, with her flimsy clothes, pushy approach and dirty hands, nails bitten to the quick.

"No more?" She had a look that was part shock and part disgust.

"Please, I just, I really need you to leave." I was shaking.

"Well, I don't have a ride and you say you love your daughter because you nurse her, but what about the bugs you are letting sleep with her? Crawl on her?"

I began to cry.

"Please, could you just leave? It's been over an hour."

"Sure, but I wouldn't do that to my kid." She began packing her things up and going downstairs. When we got downstairs I was going to offer her a drink and a seat on our porch, since she had told me she would have to wait. There was no need, because she reached somewhere (The outfit was seriously tight, I don't remember pockets.) and retrieved a cell phone which she used to call her boss. He arrived at our house within minutes and began the hard sell.

It took another 45 minutes to get them to leave. I only managed to do so by standing up, raising my voice and flatly stating that they could not scare med into buying the machine and that they needed to LEAVE. MY. HOUSE!

I was going to link to a Kirby complaint site but they are all rife withpop-ups.
Let me just share this rebuttal from a Kirby salesman to a complaint like mine that I found on one such site:

Michael of San Jose CA (11/9/03):
I am a dealer rep from Kirby Company. All of you idiotic homeowners disgust me. You make un-intellectual remarks like we frightened your children or we used up your phone bill. You people make me sick and if i was there now i'd put my kirby in upright position, attach the leaf blower and cram it so far up your ****** ***** and blow out the few brain cells you people have.

Kirby has been rated #1 for over 90 years for its performance, reliability and quality. Maybe not for its price but please ask yourself why you should get a cheap price on a vacuum with multiple uses and that is also much more health improving. Once again we will continue to enforce these demos in your home and if you don't buy it, then that is totally fine with me. There is no obligation. But just like a car salesman, he brings you to a car and says there is no obligation to buy. But then he sits you down and runs his never ending sales pitch to intice you to buy.

That's our job. So f*** all you dumb consumers who want to trash Kirby or anyone of the people who are hard-working Americans striving to make an honest living.

Yeah, kinda thinking I'll never buy a Kirby.

I spent the better part of an afternoon disassembling our Hoover or Dirt Devil or whatever it was, they all start to blend together, to see if I could unclog a clog, unjam a jam, unstick a...you get the idea. No dice. The motor would whir, no weird sounds or anything and it actually picked things up, but the compartment was not filling with anything. Literally. I would pass the vacuum over a visible pile of dirt and witness the dirt going away. Then I'd check the compartment to find it empty. Perhaps my panting from the exertion of kneeling and playing vacuum cleaner mechanic had me actually inhaling all the different canine, infant and miscellaneous particulates, but I really hope not.
Sean being the eager to please husband that he is, offered to try and resuscitate the thing.

"Ok. Thanks."

I tried not to appear too enthusiastic. It's not that I doubted his ability, I didn't. It was more that I was too keenly aware of my own effect on vacuum cleaners. I let him try. And he did get it going a little better, but the whole empty waste container issue continued.

"Screw it. Let's just go buy a Dyson." He said matter of factly.

"Are you serious?"

"Why not?"

Who am I to argue. I have coveted a Dyson since first hearing that clipped accent talking about how he thought things should suck if they were supposed to suck.

Yes, by god, vacuum cleaners shoud suck! Where do I sign?

We packed the girls up and headed to the mall. The girls slept and Sean waited in the car as I dashed into the store, chest puffed up with purpose and excitement. A Dyson. I found the vacuum cleaner aisle and examined my Dyson sucking options. There were four models that spanned a range of $400-$600. I admit I went with the base model, which was actually amrked down. It came with the same 5 year warranties that the others did, so I figured I was being 5 year's worth of quality scking for less than $100 a year, which is clsoe to what we have been spending for mediocre sucking.

Am I over thinking this? I don't think so. I get pathetic trying-to-keep-my-family-healthy-and-safe joy from vacuuming. It is second only to providing wholesome meals. And despite what you may think based on those two things, I do not own a single denim jumper of holiday themed sweater. As a matter of fact one of my favorite things to do is come home dressed for an important day at work and vacuum all dolled up.I mean come on,how often do we moms manage to get the house looking great while we look great?

Now look at this beautiful machine:



Can you picture yourself navigating this baby in a fantastic sweater and jeans? A sleek pencil skirt and crispt white blouse? Tell me that doesn't make you feel just a little bit giddy!

Mama is purring. So is her Dyson.

She Has Arrived

Briar, Abbie and Sean September '06

I was telling Briar this morning as she struggled with the reality that Avery, her newly mobile sister, is actually not going anywhere and that she is going to have to learn to deal:

"I am a big sister, too."

She just looked at me from her time out perch on the steps.
Blink.
Scowl.
Blink.

"Auntie Abbie is my little sister, just like Avery is your little sister."

She gave me a look that clearly said,
"Avery is nothing like Abbie. Can we trade? You would never have to put me in time out if Abbie was my younger sister instead of Avery."

"Listen, I know it's hard right now, but you have to learn to enjoy having Avery around. There are going to be nights when you don't go to a dance because the boy you asked went with a different girl. It's going to really hurt, especially because you asked first and you really are prettier than her, but then you'll find out that he was gay and it really wasn't you."

Bewildered blue eyes watch me. Was that a nearly imperceptible shake of her head?

"Perhaps I am being too specific." I backpedalled as she gave me that look of,
"Mom, you're doing that thing when you start to look lost and slightly demented."

"Ok, what I meant to say, what I really mean, is that while you are 2 and half and she is 8 months old it's hard to tell, but Avery is going to be the one person on earth who gets you. She'll be there for you when you are sad, when you are mad and like today, she'll be there for you when you do the wrong thing. Avery came right over to you while you were in time out for being mean to her. She still wanted to be with you and to cheer you up."

She looked at me and then down at Avery who was patting Briar's toes. I waited, knowing that if Briar got angry about the toe thing I would support her, but it would demolish what I had just tried to do. Briar looked back at me.

"Give Avery hug?"

"You bet." A huge lump took up residence in my throat as tears welled in my eyes at the sight of Avery giggling in the near suffocating embrace of her older sister.

My little sister, Abigail aka Abbie, aka Abba-dabba-doodler, aka Uncle Abbie is abroad... (and a broad despite the "uncle" thing.)

She flew out from Seattle a couple of days ago.
This is totally not Seattle, but I am working with the photos I have.



She is in Rome.



She will be going to Paris.



She is a spectacular aunt. And sister.



Have a blast, Abs!

Crawling & Cursing

Avery has officially found first gear.
And 2nd.
And 3rd.
Girlfriend can crawl. Fast.
I think she took umbrage to the twisty scooter comment. Ever since then, when we set her down -
Ka-Boom
- she is in another zip code.

Our house is carved up in a series of small, perfectly square rooms. The doorways are strategically placed, as if the design were rendered by a toddler and her devious younger sister, to make it utterly impossible to see any nefarious deeds that might be going on in the next room. Keeping Avery from scarring her esophagus with popsicle stick shrapnel and small, metal mini-kitchen utensils may just prove to be the death of me. And I won't even begin to go into the fear I have of the things that Briar feeds her little sister. Let's just say that I stop often to thank all that is good and holy that Barnaby no longer does his business indoors.

And speaking of foulness...Briar's favorite term continues to de...drum roll please.

Damnit!

A damnit to Cinderella here.

Damnit to a sandwich there.

Damnit to the toilet and damnit to the dog.

I do not say damnit. Or at least I do not say it as often as someone else here at Chez Magee.

I say Jesus.

And apparently I say it often, because coming in at a close second to damnit is Jesus.

You're welcome grandparents, just trying to make you proud.

Actually it's getting a little embarassing. But as any good child rearing book will tell you, do not ever give added attention to negative behavior. Hushed tones of, "Now we don't say that. That's not a good word." Are met with wide blue eyes peeking from beneath a waterfall of blonde curls...Oh but you do say that mommy and daddy. You say it so much. It must be a good word.

In our defense, she says "bless you" to a sneeze, "please" and "thank you" for quite a few things and is very helpful. She doesn't bite other children, maliciously destroy things or tell strangers hateful things. Our plan for now is to continue the hushed admonitions and work on our own swearing.

Jesus that's going to be hard.

Speaks Many Tongues

Secrets

It's great. It's totally natural. It's what we wanted.
But man, you can still feel left out when these two get going.

They absolutely delight in one another

(Except of course when they don't, but they work it out. I realize it looks like there is a wide screen tv suspended in the neighbor's trees, that's just more Amanda camera magic. If Jim were to have something suspended in his trees, and I think it is entirely within the realm of possibility, it would not be a good thing. In fact it would be a very bad thing. The man wears leather dusters and carries shot guns for pete's sake.)







Luckily Avery throws me a bone every once in a while.

Ice Cold, Baby

She's Busy, This One

Avery is active. She is on the move. She is non-stop movement, chattering and mischief. Ok, maybe it's not mischief that she finds every piece of popsicle stick shrapnel and raw hide waste that Ella leaves on the floor. Perhaps that's just my failure as a mom or the miserable fact that no vacuum cleaner has ever lasted more than 8 months before abso-posi-lutely crapping the bed. I kid, one made it 14 months with duct tape and prayer. And I know I am not a miserable mom, just a mediocre housekeeper. Or why don't we say a sporadically fantastic housekeeper? Eh, how's that for a positive spin in '07?

The Kid's Got Great Hair

Even when it was only on top and startlingly bare in back, her hair was cute.

Avery and her irresistibly, untamable mane.

With Love

I realize this isn't really fair. You have a job to do.
You are charged with taking this little creature
and guiding her to becoming a person. A woman. There are wrong ways of doing things, and right ways. Times when shouting is ok and times when whispering is the thing to do.

It really does matter that she eat a little of everything on her plate. That she not push her sister off the chair. That it's not ok to touch the cat there. Mustn't get in the bath until someone is there.

I understand that you need to teach her to do it herself. Help her to know boundaries, to live by a certain moral code. To overcome distractions, avoid temptation. And it's not that I am trying to undermine all the good that you are trying to do.
But you must understand that I have a job to.

I am hear to soften the edges, a golden sparkle playfully piggy backing on pink ears. An unexpected ray of sun reflected on flaxen tresses. An impish tickle, catching in an eye lash. I am your distraction and your temptation.

I, sweet parent, am the balance that lets you laugh from time to time, though you want to scream.

Love,
Her Curls

Left to Their Own Devices

I am sick.
Miserable, ugly, whimpering call home to mom sick.
I feel so unwell that I want to curl up in a dark corner and be alone.
Of course I want there to be a ring of 3 to 7 people on the edges of that ring offering back rubs, hot tea, eggs with toast with little caps on the yolks and much head nodding about how sick I really am and how awful it is and how brave I am to soldier on.
Ironically, I am home alone, hunched in the cold glow of the computer, sipping a lime seltzer because oh-my-holy-god I could not choke down more than two shuddering sips of apple pedialyte. Yeah, I know it's for kids, but not having Gatorade or any other ade in the house I figured I'd give it a shot. I am now celebrating in my quiet, miserable sick way the advent of the last fucking time I will ever let Padi-lyte pass my lips. I don't think I'll be able to administer it to either girl with a clear conscience either. I don'tthink the world will need if they get Gatorade instead, their ratio of natural and wholesome to awful and processed will still be toelrable.
Since I have no wit or wisdom to impart thank to this bitch of a whatever
(Cards, calls, emails and bouquets happily accepted...)
I leave you with these photos of my family. They are just fine with me at less than 100%. Look for yourself.

Winter's here and Briar took it upon herself to bundle up princess style.



Sean is exercising the dog.


And Avery is just chillin' like a mermaid.


G'night.

Mama

Avery is on the move, literally. She is rapidly becoming the world's fastest cross-legged, twisty scooter. What's a fast cross-legged, twisty scoot? It's the method of movement Avery has selected since dabbling in the whole life after stuck on your back and involuntary tummy time. She quickly tired of pushing herself backwards military style and finding herself wedged under sofas, hutches, tables and chairs. She did get up on all fours and experiment with forward motion but found it not quite to her liking after a few face plants. Thus, the cross legged twisty scoot.

She sits, legs crossed, hands to her side or out front. She moves a leg as if to stand and then begins to twist. Her second leg begins to come up, but she never quite achieves a full rotation before dropping back down to a sitting postion. She repeats this combination move over and over again. It's pretty amazing how fast she moves across a room without ever looking like she is moving forward.

The other day Sean and I silently acknowledged two things:
Life as we know it is about to change as we graduate to parenting two moving, chewing, adventurous girls. But life is also going to change for Briar, because Avery is going to be all over her. Seriously. Avery catches sight of Briar and begins bouncing, patting the floor and squealing. And if Briar is within reach? Forget about it. She yanks her hair, grabs her extremities or just puts her mouth around whatever body part she can. Briar is Avery's favorite person, toy, distraction and reward. I think, I hope, that the same will quickly becom true for Briar.

But that's not why I started this.

Avery, my sweet May baby. My punk maned angel called me mama. She looked up at me giggling while I changed her diaper 3 nights ago and she said, "mama." I gasped and asked her what she had just said. She watched me with dancing eyes, her dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks and her mouth open in a silent laugh, her four teeth bright white against the pink of her tongue,

"You know," her eyes said. "This is our secret. I love you and yes, I know youare mama. Now kiss my little neck!"

And with that we went back to coos and kisses and giggles. She's only said it once since then, but I hear it every time I look into her eyes.

Spell Cheque

It doesn't mean squat if your typo is a word. The following is brought to you by the letters: S, E, A, and N,

That comma is optional. I choose to use it. You can abandon it, but I like it, so leave my commas before ands alone.

I received an email at work today, as I often do, from a sales rep at a newspaper who will never come to my town. He will never pay a visit, never even make a phone call. Yet this twerp thinks that by sending me an email I will bite on a 1x3 ad for $1020. No, I did not write that wrong, one thousand and twenty dollars for an ad bigger than a match book, but smaller than a pack of smokes, in a community that has likely never heard of Glens Falls. Yeah, I'll take three. My organization has no ad budget to speak of, unless of course, you call the energy I create running on my hamster wheel as money, in which case, sign us up, this rodent can run.

I opted not to be a heartless, sarcastic hag and to reward his email with a response. The response was going to include an offer to share the "special rate" with our member ad agencies, which really meant I'd send it to Sean, a member with an ad agency. I figured he could see if it would work for a client, or he could mock it,

I figured wrong, he did neither. He mocked me* and my pointless spell checking ways.

Behold:

Subject: Nice ass.
From: sean@designtramp.com
Date: January 8, 2007 4:05:50 PM EST
To: amott@nycap.rr.com

Greg,

I do not have an ad budget, but I will ass this on to our member ad agencies.

Thanks and happy new year.
Amanda

Sean Magee
Principal, Brand Strategy • Trampoline Design, LLC


When Sean got home tonight I said, "Were you just being a smart ass, or did I really type that?"

"I just copied what you typed." He said with devilish delight.

"Oh. Well he wrote back and said thanks."

"I'm sure he did."

"Hey!"

"What? Let me just ass you something."

"Sean."

"Well, did you? Ass it along?"

To say I am mortified that of the 20 something words I typed, the one I messed up just had to be a word that, when not typed correctly, could spell ASS doesn't begin to cover it. The ass. The magnitude of my sorry-assness. Gawd!

Have you ever had this happen?

*Given the chance I would totally mock him, so quietly, I give Sean huge credit for catching my error and for rubbing my nose in it. Well played Magee, well played.

So Dang Cute

I won't ruin these with any words or trying too hard captions,
other than to say they are from Saturday at Deb's in Pownal.
Enjoy!

Pownal

I'll spare you the leaving the house trauma (late, house a wreck, dropping crap en route to the car while the family looked on, etc etc) and just say that we drove to visit our dear friend Deb in Pownal, Vermont today. Poor Briar was confused because we have several Debs in our life.
There is Debbie from work who she sees or speaks to on an almost daily basis.
Then there is Auntie Debbie who is her Nana's sister, and who we have seen mostly at the hospital visiting Mimi.
And then there is Deb who has come to visit us, and we her, and who's "rabbit" Briar fell madly in love with a year ago.




"We're going to see Deb."

"Ooh, yeah, goin' seein' Debbie at Mommy's office. Say hi Debbie."

"No honey, we are going to see Deb. Remember Deb and the furry book?"

"Debbie'n Nana. See at hospital. See Mimi sleepin'."

"No, sweetie, Deb with the rabbit at her house."

"Debbie in'a closet?"

"Closet?"

"Goin' seein' Debbie at Mommy's office."

"No honey, we're going on a drive by the mountain and we'll see Deb."

"Debbie."

"Deb."

"Debbie. Debbie. Goin' and seein' Debbie at...by the mountain."

"That's right, by the mountain. And it's Deb, but I bet she'll let you call her Debbie."

And let her she did. We arrived with flowers and Briar quickly bonded with Deb(bie) as she shared her flowers and what may be the largest strawberry I have ever seen (you'll see the strawberry through several photos.)












A little background on this last shot. We walked down to the river after lunch. Along the way we passed a set of train tracks, which Briar actually walked on
(Ok, are you getting this? Vermont, big red barn, strawberries the size of your hand, a river, train tracks, 65 degrees in January, it was nothing short of a story book Saturday.)
By the tracks Deb found a big old rusty railroad track nail. And then another. And then another. I offered to carry some for us to keep. They are so cool. I have no idea what I'll do with them. For now I just think they look kinda cute in my backpocket, kind of like little ducks or something. I know, I'm weird.

Gasp!

I blew it. At least I think I did, if I already shared this please forgive a suddenly up at 3 in the morning 4 nights in a row mom's brain. Ladies and gentlemen, it happened. On Sunday, December 31st, Avery Adams Magee spoke her first real word.

Daddy.

Yes, indeedy. Daddy. I walked into the dining room and the three of them were giggling and saying,"Daddy, daddy, daddy."(Sean with "that was my daughter" tears in his eyes.)

I paused in the doorway, Sean looked back at me with a mixture of pride and guilt. "She did it. She said, Daddy." He beamed.

I looked at Avery, then at Briar and I felt their presence in my heart. As corny as it may sound I saw all the months we've lived since Briar said that very word while Sean held her in his arms. I remembered telling Sean one morning while we were camping that we were going to have another baby. I felt all those months of wondering about the person inside of me. My reverie was broken as Briar squealed, "Daw-Dee" which Avery quickly followed with a slightly less clear, but no less vigorous, "Dah-day." Sean put his fist over his mouth as he quietly snickered.

There was much ado when Briar said it and I remember being a bit stung. This time around it feels so right. I have had the profound gift of being able to carry these two girls inside of me and then feed them from my body. A natural and inpenetrable bond. This milestone seems to punctuate forever the journey from pregnancy and delivery to family.

"We're pregnant."

"Daddy."



I love my girls. I love their dad. I love my family.

Briarisms of late

Oooh, oh no. Mommy toe broken. Is toe. Is brokend.
This in response to seeing that the red polish had come off of my pinky toe.

Sleeping Dooty.
Nothing fancy, just Sleeping Beauty. However when she says it as she tries to use the toilet*, it adds a whole other wonderful dimension.

I frowed a big one.
A delicate reference to a BM on the toilet*.

Nacro.
Why, Macaroni and Cheese of course...
What would you like for dinner? Nacro please mommy.

*Yes, I am typing toilet, but what I am saying in my head is, "potty." We are still tip toeing into the realm of body and bathroom language. Sure, Briar knows some words. She in fact said the gasp ef word the other day after I dropped the same piece of chicken three times (it's a gift, really). We made it through.
But bathroom language, well it's another post entirely- toilet/potty, poo/big one, pee/peepee it almost seems easier to just take the Smurf route and talk about goin' potty on the potty.
And penis and vagina? Let's just say that what seems straight forward and natural, isn't. I don't know the last time I said vagina. 2 pregancies and2 natural deliveries, 33 years. I think I can count on one hand how many times I have said it and still be able to snap my fingers. My dear, sweet husband, he is trying. And I love him so very much for it. But you know what? The reality is I never would have married someone who was super comfortable saying, "Vagina." Just weird if you ask me. And on that truly, "Oh my god I so didn't want to read that," note I'll sign off.

Not the napping sort.

I wish I could nap. I know people who take power naps. They just find a spot to sit, lean back and poof, a ten minute power nap. Right. Ten minutes of that would get me nothing but a kink in my neck and scratchy eyes. And I have tried, because napping is something that would come in handy for, let's say, the parent of a problem sleeper (shouldn't that really be nonsleeper?)
Briar was, and continues to be, a challenge in the arena of sleep. And it is an arena, sometimes we give the greatest Greek spectacle a serious run for its money with the late night histrionics. I have been unwilling to let her cry it out, though we did try it a few times. I ended up in the fetal position with body wracking sobs. I think Sean assumed the fetal position as well while he tore out bits of his hair. Sometime around 15 months she did start sleeping. It was a revelation. Before that the only times we could really count on her sleeping were Saturday and Sunday mornings at 10 when Sean would hold her on his chest for a nap. He'd tell me they were going to nap and I would let fly a derisive snort. Sleep, sure. But sleep she did, and so did he.
They would lay on the sofa, bathed in the late morning sun, a blanket covering them, Briar's perfectly pudgy little hand upon Sean's chest, one foot poking out of the blanket with a sock dangling from her toes. The look on Sean's face was always a blend of satisfaction and I told you so. I envied him that time, not just the sleep, though I would have loved that too. I longed to have Briar rest with me like that. Watching the two of them, the rhythm of their breathing, the similarity of their profiles brought me to tears more often than not. Now it is Avery on Sean's chest. Her dark hair catching on his weekend beard, her hands, so different from Briar's, occupying that familiar place against his chest as her face burrows in the blanket. He has the same beatific look. I am so grateful that Sean has this time with the girls. Yet I still feel a deep longing to have that chance to disappear into the whisper of a baby's sleeping breath.
This weekend Sean took Briar up for a nap. While he was putting her down I held Avery. It was an endlessly dreary day, with fog and mist so thick you couldn't see across the street. I slipped into Sean's leather chair as Avery snuggled into my chest to nurse. Looking out the window I felt a chill. I pulled a blanket over Avery and wrapped another 'round my neck and shoulders. My lids grew heavy but I knew I couldn't possibly sleep, I waited for Sean to come back. Avery rubbed her fingers against my neck, I pressed my lips in her hair, while the sound of cars passing through puddles whirred outside. The room grew darker and I let my eyes close. Just for a minute I thought. Avery continued nursing as I lost myself in the waves of her breathing, the chill slipped away as my body warmed from her body out. I opened my eyes and all was dark. Avery still slept on my chest, the fog lifted and street lights shone on the wet pavement. I shivered as she stirred, closing my eyes to etch the moment forever in my mind.

Sitting here tonight I can still feel her in my arms, still see the mist as I slipped away in the whisper of her breath.

Home Alone

Just a daffy mom, a camera, and one fairly willing model...



And another slightly less willing, but still cooperative model.