Saturday, March 18, 2006
What's Another Word for Dolt?

After a dinner date I had with my husband and one of our good friends, it became glaringly, embarrassingly clear to me that I have yet to regain any of those IQ points I lost between my maternity leave for 2003 and, oh, today. My friend - let's call her Tara, since that's her name - was chatting me up about her talks with other moms, and how they feel like they lost the cognitive skills that made them a formidable contender in any snotty coffee clatch/cocktail hour/dinner soiree that forced visitors to one-up everyone else on the latest book read, latest military coup one is appalled/elated with, etc.

It's true, I don't have that knowledge at my fingertips, anymore. It's sleep deprivation, pure and simple. Well, it's sleep deprivation, plus lack of alone time with which to ponder, peruse and otherwise piss away time (and by that, I mean that of course I am jealous - I vaguely remember having time to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, finish a book, pluck my eyebrows, write crappy novels during the month of November). These days, I can recite to you the lexicon of "Snow!" and "Five Little Dinosaurs," but ask me about what's happening in the world, and I struggle. I recall the salient points, sure, but I have neither time nor energy to argue any fine points about - erm, anything.

I don't pity myself, because I am having a blast (though I wouldn't mind another 70 or so extra hours of snooze time. However, I would like to sharpen my conversational/cognitive skills, so I decided to take a freelance gig with my old paper for a subject I would have normally cringed at, had I still been regularly working there.

But should I be embarrassed to admit I am actually enjoying myself, writing a BJ piece? I am. I enjoy it. It's over in a week, which probabl helps with my overall attitude towards it, but yeah, I enjoy talking to people about something other than my kids. I can yammer on about them until sthey close up the joint, but still, it's not all of who I am, and so, I am enjoying exploring some other sides of life through this interview/writing process.

Not getting into specifics in case this blog is found by one of the interviewees. I'm sure you understand.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 7:51 PM
0 comments  
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Month 10 - The Girls Stands Alone

DSC00603
Originally uploaded by Rubberpants and Erpy.
Happy ten months, Little One.

Do you realize you are edging toward toddlerhood, and do you realize that I have been cuddling and kissing you relentlessly while I still can? In a few short weeks, I can tell you will be taking your first stpes, and then it's all over for awhile, as far as me getting a chance to carry you around or just have you snuggled in my arms while you settle down or drink a bottle.

For now, I am reveling in you growing and babbling and crawling toward me and using me as a jungle gym. I am watching the moments as they happen, and I am aware of the fact that the moments will be gone right .. there, there's one gone.

This last week, I watched you figure out that the sticks we use in music class are really for banging together or banging on the ground, rather than as a couple of chew toys. I watched you levitate in time to the music while sittiing on the ground. I listen to you try and match both your brother's babble and the volume. I watched your hair grow and start to curl around your eyebrows a mere two weeks after I cut the bangs. I watched your eyes turn even more green-blue. I watched the first three of your teeth pop through your gums all at once. I watched you eschew baby food in jars for bite-sized big people food at all meals. I watched you grow out of shirts and pants.

I watched you sleep.

I listened to you say "mama" for the first time when you weren't upset or humgry; you just wanted to find me, so you crawled around on the floor and called out for me, and then grinned your still (nearly) toothless grin when I popped my head from around a corner.

I watched you put a crayon in your hand and try to make lines on construction paper (though you still prefer using these objects mainly as chewing devices).

I watched you finger paint for the first time, then watched as you got anxious and tried crawling up my legs with hands full of green, blue, red, and purple glitter paint.

I watched you figure out how to open a book and (sometimes successfully) turn the pages. This led to me watching you (finally) get really excited about all the books you see your brother with.

I watch you watching Kane, and how you are memorizing his every move. You adore him.

And I adore you. I never thought having a daughter would be so much fun. I thought I wouldn't be able to contribute to your happiness, because I wasn't a typical girl, and I didn't like typical girl things. But you, by virtue of your brother, I think, aren't a typical girl, either. You prefer trains and trucks and things that make noise, over dolls. That's not to say you don't love your Grover and Cookie Monster plush toys in your crib; I hear you talking to them when you go to bed and night, and when you wake up in the morning sometimes. You also love Kane's stuffed cat, and grab it and shove its face in your face as you smile.

You growl like .. well, like everyone else in the Tagami family. To hear it coming out of your little cherubic face is hilarious.

You give me reason every day to smile and thank whatever it is that brought you here.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 12:50 PM
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Monday, March 06, 2006
Forget the Academy Awards...

... What is going on with South Dakota?!?!? Are you joking me? The government wants women to keep babies from incest and rape? WHa-? And why hasn't there been a follow-up sotry (or a dozen) about the University of Colorado study proving the ice is melting in both Antartica and the North Pole? Why are there a hundred stories on whether or not Jon Stewart flopped and on the "gay heartbreak" over the Oscars' snub? IS EVERYONE ASLEEP?!

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 2:16 PM

Friday, March 03, 2006
I think that I shall never see …

Anything as cute as a babe with teeth just coming in.

The girl has two on the bottom poking through, plus one on top. She is gnawing through any and everything (except any teething toys we bought, which I got rid of anyway, being the plastic-phobe that I have become – not going to get into it now, but the soft plastics (phthalates) cause liver, kidney and reproductive system damage - go look it up). The first tooth poked through on President’s Day, and these other two followed since. It looks like she’s getting even more, but she won’t me near her mouth to check, so I have to try and make her laugh and look hard, instead.

She is having a rough night, right now, and I have already picked her up twice to comfort her. She’s like my own wiggly balm; my blood pressure instantly drops when I hold her. She just lays her head against my shoulder or my chest, and wraps what she can of her legs around my waist. We watched a bit of VH1’s Top 100 Heavy Metal Bands of All Time while Phil blew his nose and sniffed Afrin, and I rocked her while they played snippets of AC/DC songs. She’s going to hold that against me later in life, I’m sure, but it was perfect while it lasted.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 11:40 AM

Friday, March 03, 2006
I'm A Badger, Or, Why I Still Go To Whole (Hell) Foods

I’d like to say I have a love-hate relationship with Whole Foods market, but really, it’s just a hate-hate relationship with its clientele, and yes, I am aware that my omission is indeed strange, given I am one of its repeat (offender) customers.

For those of you not familiar with the Austin-based supermarket chain, it is perfect for product freaks such as myself who truly believe I may rob years of my childrens’ lives if I buy anything other than the chlorine-free diapers and wipes that they stock. I am also a hoarder of the organic baby formula (my stubbornly blue-collar dad, despite his extensive self education, continues to shudder at my “hippie” tendencies, despite my black nail polish fetish and my yen for bands like Air and The Verve and, if I want to get all old skool, The Cure and The Replacements), as well as the break-apart chocolate those bastards from Texas sell just so you can become addicted to it.

Back to my dad for a moment: We had a conversation about my “problem” when I flew back last weekend, and before anyone gets all huffy, there was nothing rigid or preachy in it, it was just a dialogue – or as much of a dialogue as my dad will have – in which he made it clear to me that he thinks I may go a little overboard on the body being the temple blah blah blah thing. This is a position I find perplexing, given that we were having this conversation with my mother, who was in the HOSPITAL for an infection caused by complications from her CANCER treatment. I started to talk about dioxins in bleach and how parabens in pretty much every cosmetic and “beauty aid” thwart your estrogen levels and nestle themselves in breast cancer tumors, but the dialogue, such as it was, petered off and wasn’t revived. I decided to end it on a light note by joking that I had indeed turned into the hippie from California. You understand, in New Jersey, I am considered a hippie for sure. I read the ingredients on things. I speak of using sustainable substances like bamboo in my impending kitchen remodel. I am trying really hard to do what I can to lessen the amount of toxins surrounding my children. And if I try (stupidly, reflexively) to regain some street cred with them by telling them that I still use the dry cleaners and buy Nabisco and Kraft products on occasion and that I like my leather shoes and I have no qualms eating cows and pigs and the occasional fish, it doesn’t matter, you see, because among my relatives (and you need to whisper the words I capitalize, because that’s how the word is passed around orally), I drive a PRIUS, and I buy ORGANIC, and I won’t use detergents with PHOSPHATES. I won’t put national name brand baby lotions or diaper rash creams on my kids because they contain PETROLATUM and ETHYLPARABENS. I might as well have a string of love beads wrapped around my unwashed neck and dance naked in Golden Gate Park with the rest of “THOSE FREAKS.”

That conversation, by the way, started because I couldn’t find a grocery store that had a decent amount (meaning, more than one or two items) of organic products, something I thought my mother ought to have more of, considering she has no immune system left, and is already pumping an ungodly stream of chemicals into her system via chemotherapy. I had to drive to Florham Park to get to a Trader Joe’s, which, some of you will note, is 45 minutes from my parent’s house (or 35, if you drive like I do in rented cars). I had no problem doing this drive, because I felt it was the very least I could do, me normally being nearly 3,000 miles away from my mother, who is battling this horrible disease, and me not normally offering very much, other than telephonic support.

But I was amused by the recent surge of nouveau riche in my parent’s neighborhood (think houses on steroids on plots divvied up from former farmland), and I found it appalling that they didn’t yell and holler for such services nearby. My dad said there wasn’t enough of a demand for such a store. He also wondered aloud how many of those families moving into to those structural monstrosities had no furniture inside. I wondered aloud why then, house-rich and otherwise-poor theories aside, there was enough of a moneybags saturation to have a doggie spa down the road. And six uppity children’s clothing boutiques. And several (people’s) day spas. But for food, you go to Shop-Rite. Or Wal-Mart. Or Stop N Shop. They are fine as supermarkets go, but they are high on the processed and packaged inventory, and on the non-preserved, non-dyed, non treated products … not so much. I said they should demand the local chains carry more healthier choices, which then got me a look like: “Oh, when are you going back to smoke some pot and hug a tree, you flake.”

Enough about that. I didn’t even set out to talk about that, but it was an interesting aside. My beef today is about the mother effing Whole Foods clientele, which is the rudest, most self-absorbed, self-entitled bunch of angry consumers this side of the Mississippi, and I am not exaggerating even a little bit. As I started to say, if I wasn’t such an ingredient MP, and if I wasn’t addicted that that bleeping chocolate they sell by the cheese counter, I would certainly drive right the hell by their store on Ashby St. in (insert your favorite curse word here) Berkeley and give them the finger. I still do that, if I don’t have to stop there.

But today (March 1) wasn’t one of those days.

Today, I had to strap the girl in the baby carrier and the boy into the cart and hoof it into the Land of Jerks. And let me just say that I generally like the staff there; they have to put up with these people all day. I want to think I am not one of These People, but who knows. I do smile at them. I do say “Excuse Me” without malice when I’m trying to get by some shopper taking up the entire goddamned aisle, and I don’t trip the said shopper when he or she invariably gives me a sigh and moseys a millimeter to the side. But by the middle of the shopping session, I do find myself wearing a scowl, so I could see how I could be perceived as one of the many. Anyway –

Today, I decided I would first stop outside at the flower and plant area, because I wanted to get a couple of peace lilies, which I read help eat up toxins in the air when used as indoor plants (yeah, roll your eyes, people, but I have a husband and, it looks to me, a son who suffer from seasonal allergies). I went midday, of course, and there was no one else perusing the blossoms and buds, okay? So I wheel all three of us into the main aisle between the plants, and the florist says right away: “Oh, you need to put that cart out over there” – and she gestures toward the sidewalk by the cars – “because we have a problem of bumping into carts.” First of all, she’s speaking of her Royal We, since there is no one else but her working the joint, and secondly, there is no one else but me looking. Finally, and most important, my two-year-old child is strapped in the cart, and I am not about to leave him off on the sidewalk where people walk back and forth with their carts, and where there is a long ramp easing down into the parking lot. I look at her and say, “Okay,” and promptly turn around and head into the store, which startles her.

I get inside and battle the throngs, and deal with the aforementioned sighers and not-yet-mentioned sneerers. I get a smile from the butcher, mainly because my daughter, who is strapped to me, but is facing out, is trying to talk to him earnestly by squawking and flapping her arms and legs like a marionette. Kane helps me pick out items and eats grapes while I dodge the pinched, malnourished-looking shoppers, and then he tries to help the bagger when we get to the checkout line.

When I get to the exit doors, I have to hang a left on the sidewalk to get to our car, and someone who is trying to come in with her cart decides she will not wait one goddamned minute for me to get by her even though her cart is empty, and mine is full of both groceries and ANOTHER HUMAN BEING. (You can say that part loudly; I’m done whispering.) This wouldn’t be such a point of contention with me, except that this woman took enough of a berth to force me dangerously close to the handicapped ramp, which is weirdly situated right in front of the exit and entrance. Picture throngs of people trying to move in and out of the doors, all of them trying to turn left or right to get in to the stuff or out to their cars. Now picture a ramp, really a steep divot, more than anything else, right there at the point where the carts have to turn. Yeah, dumb, I know.

So, the lady is not budging at all to her right, which would give me the inch or so I need to avoid this ramp. Me, I’m thinking I can get around it anyway, which is super stupid of me, considering I have weakened leverage, having overloaded my cart with bulky diaper packages and groceries for a week, which forced me to carry one grocery bag while using the other hand to guide the cart.

You can guess what happens – the cart goes over the divot, and starts to go down, because I am trying to push it out toward the left, and it wants to force me down into the parking lot. The woman who took up the sidewalk? She’s gone, off in to the store where she can get her stuff. As the cart tips over to a 60-degree angle or so, my son, who is still trying to master language, says the only thing he really knows is related to mishaps: “I’m sorry.” As the cart tips precariously, he says over and over: I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” But with a “w” twang to the “r”s. Now, if you have had young children, and you hear something like this, you better believe you will eat bullets before they get hurt. I refused to show either child I was panicked, so I told him gently: “It’s okay, Kane, you’re fine,” as I dropped the grocery bag and tried to right the cart back up. It was happening very fast, and I was trying very hard to concentrate on Kane and the cart, but, as I dropped the bag and struggled with the cart, eventually righting it again by using my left shin as a wedge of sorts, I did notice in my peripheral vision that there was a man with one grocery bag (no cart) right behind me who stopped for a second when I stopped, and then who walked around me to get to his. There was also the florist lady directly to my left, and one man with a cart who came right towards me to get into the store. Not one person stopped to help.
For anyone who remembers my post about my car tow day in Berkeley, the following statement will be familiar: May the city and all its hypocritical, self-absorbed peace and love on their terms jerks choke on their hyperbole. I’m changing stores.

Who am I kidding. I am a badger. I will continue on paths I have established for myself, even if I have to gnaw through plants and dirt hills that appear in my way. Someone should just sprinkle some D-Con in my path and put me out of my misery.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 11:35 AM
Monday, February 13, 2006
I am SUCH. A. Hypocrite

What is the word for a person who reads this inspirational story with barely uncontainable excitement, joins up for the group, begins plotting new ways to recycle and reuse, and then, with nary a blink of an eye (and there's no pun intended there), ends up going here to purchase the favorite mascara she wants because she is running low.

Yeah, I hear you. I have a long way to go.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 2:27 PM

Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Other Part of My LIfe

I've been spending a lot of time lately doing everything I can not to write about this, but it's time.

My mom is really sick. Most of you know she has cancer, and most of you know she is going through chemo now, and that it's not going very well. She's had two transfusions so far, and has only been able to have chemo a handful of times, rather than the usual schedule of twice a month. She was supposed to be have the round of chemo over with by June, but that has gone to shite, since she's only been able to have chemo once a month, at best.

I've gone through the gamut of emotions on it, and I'm still processing, mainly because it's still going on , and because it's not going as planned. I'm not going into details of what I've been feeling, because I just can't right now, but I wish I was there, or at least closer to her. I don't know what I could do for her, but it would be a hell of a lot more than what' I'm doing now, which is wishing her luck on the phone 3,000 miles away. I offer her my love and support, but again, 3,000 miles away.

One of the developments that surfaced during her ordeal is that she was tested for the BRAC-2 gene, which determines whether she carries a hereditary mutation with a propensity toward cancer. She tested positive, and the mutation is such that she has more than a 70 percent chance of dealing with breast cancer by the time she's 70 (which she got in her 50s), and another ridiculously high chance of contracting uterine cancer by the time she's 70. Again, she got it way before. There is also a high percentage of recurrance for both cancers, with this mutation.

Now, the reason I'm writing this is because this mutation has a 1 in 2 chance of being passed down to her children. If I have it, I get the same percentages, as far as contracting those cancers. My brother has an increased percentage, too, but his is in the single digits (and his uterine is substituted by prostrate cancer).

I had my blood drawn yesterday to test for this gene mutation. I had my kids with me. It was surreal, in a sense, and I felt I had it quite together, but a part of me also felt that while it was being done, I was distancing myself from the whole process, because I knew that, if I hear four weeks from now that I have the mutation, I will remember that glorious, 70-degree February morning in which I trotted my children to see me discover my fate in a much different rear view mirror than if I don't have it. And if I do have it, I will have to worry for the next two decades whether my daughter got it, too. If I don't have it, I know she doesn't have it. And I will remember the sunny morning in the lab as just a sunny morning in a lab.

And it all sounds selfish, considering what my mother is going through back in a cold February in New Jersey. But that was what was on my mind yesterday.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 9:18 PM

Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Werd

One of the most endearing things about my son right now is that he is our own little backup chorus, repeating the ends of phrases or one choice word that occurred somewhere in the middle of the conversation. I'll be giving him some simple directions, like: "Kane, don't choke on that lollipop," and he'll walk around for the next five minutes saying "Don't choke, don't choke," and then giggling gleefully, like it's the funniest joke he's ever heard. What's more, he picks up inflections, so it really sounds like Mommy using the sing-song voice that translates to: I'm-not-going-to-freak-out,-but-I'm-freaking-out-a-little-so-ha-ha-let's-make-this-warning-sound-like-it's-not-the-big-deal-it-is.

Another thing he does is pick the funniest-sounding word, and then repeat it over and over, entertaining himself to no end. Example of the day is: "Kane, don't chew on the bottom of your shoe; it's disgusting." "Dis-gusting, dis-gusting, hahahahaha!"

This is how we have a conversation. I had to escape tonight to see what real adults sound like, and ended up picking the one movie -Brokeback Mountain - where the main character hardly speaks. Still, I got to watch something uninterrupted and I got to eat a Reese's peanut butter cup, and to me, at this point in my life, it's freakin' heaven. So what if two hot guys were kissing eachother instead of, oh, say, me. The plot wasn't about trains or fuzzy muppets, and so it was just fine.

Madamoiselle Carly, she turns 9 months tomorrow, which begs the question: Are you Shitting me?!? She's still into playing the game of "brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr." And "blahblahblah. Mamamama. Dadada. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Brrrr." The new thing for her is not verbal; it's sitting on her bum, her legs out like a yogini - knees at opposite directions, heels of feet touching one another - and then launching herself across the room like she's being propelled up off her cute little derriere by a blast of hot air (no, she's not a Harley, anymore). She actually moves clear across the room in this way, moving herself like a crazy humanoid version of an early Wright Brother aeroplane, pumping up and down on her butt. I need video, but she's wily; she stops whenever she sees me whip the camera out.

Kane's conversation with himself right now, as he winds down in his crib: "Tickwish. Tickwish. Oh, no. Gordon, stop! (It's not as distressing as you think, which you'd know if you had to sit through 100 episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine. Condolences to the people who can, sadly, say that.) Big trucks. Tractor on farm. Digger! Mixer truck. Grader. Grover's dere. Count. Dere he is!"

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 8:33 PM

Thursday, February 02, 2006
Stardate, February 2, 2006

DSC00346
Originally uploaded by Rubberpants and Erpy.
Where ... am I ...
Both, small creatures here ... mobile...
Can't ... compete ... must. get. more. caffeine.

Christ, I didn't think my life would so abruptly change once the two of them started moseying around on the carpet, but it's like they've ganged up on me with the sole intent of finding new ways of making my heart leap in to my throat.

You understand, I mean that in both the aw-shucks,-that's-just-so-damned-cute-I-may-just-lose-it-altogether way, and also in the if-you-don't-put-that-utensil-down-now,-I-may-just-lose-it kind of way. It varies, really. One minute, Kane will be calling "hello, Carly!" and plopping himself down in front of her - to her uncontrollable delight, and by that, I mean, she will start grinning her beautiful toothless grin and clap and bounce across the floor in sheer bliss at his having acknowledged her - and he may even go so far as to share one of his trains with her or give her a kiss. Then, just when my heart feels like it just may explode in a bloody pile of sentimental goo, the boy will start conducting science experiments on the nature of gravity with regard to all inanimate objects resting at very great heights, preferably those in close proximity to the girl, who will somehow, in an unrelated series of events, find herself stranded at the edge of a chair or a table - some elevated plateau upon which she has hoisted her torso and from which she cannot find a way down. She will then discover a new pitch to convey her displeasure, one that is only heard by dogs and mothers. The boy will then seize an opportunity to proudly smoosh Play-Doh into the carpet with the heel of his foot, just to show me how he has grasped the concept of making an imprint in clay.

That was just two minutes out of the day. Please understand if I take a break, now, and return to you, dear readers, on the morrow.
Later. Me sleepy now.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 10:19 PM

Thursday, February 02, 2006
Cheeseball

DSC00306
Originally uploaded by Rubberpants and Erpy.
My two-year-old son did indeed yell "Cheese!" when he saw me whip out the camera and point the lens his way.

All he's got to learn how to do is kiss babies - oh, wait...

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 9:42 PM

Thursday, February 02, 2006
Purl This

DSC00322
Originally uploaded by Rubberpants and Erpy.
I MADE THIS HAT!
Me, meaning, the Woman Who Cleans Up After the World's Cutest Mobile Superfund Sites.
Can you believe it?
Yeah, me neither.
Poor girl, I'm sure she hates wearing it in the bathtub, but I'm not taking it off her until her head grows so large, it naturally pops itself off.
At her rate of growth, I give it another three weeks.

posted by That Chick Who Cleans Up Around Here @ 9:33 PM

Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Happy 2006, Y'all.

Jesscarlylaugh
Originally uploaded by Rubberpants and Erpy.
Okay, 2006 is off to a rough start, if one of my resolutions (which I never keep anyway, but let’s just run with it) is to re-establish writing regularly in my blog. Here it is, oh, what, the 16th? 17th? I don’t even know. I do know, however, that one of the problems with me keeping this resolution thus far is that we’re having weird problems with our service provider. By the time you read this, it will be old news, I’m sure, because I haven’t been able to log onto the web for a couple of days, now, and ditto for my email. If any of you out there are trying to keep in touch, I want to apologize right now. We got the Comcast guy coming to our house on Thursday (the 19th? 20th), so, hopefully, I can return to the land of the linked. Weird, how you can only vaguely remember a time when you didn’t have instant access to information via your computer. We are so screwed if our perpetuity of enemies gets wise and figures out that the real way to cripple us is to bomb our electricity stations.

Anywho, here we are, in the beginning of 2006, and my baby boy is 25 months old today. Yes, he blew right by his 2nd birthday, singing the song to himself and clapping his hands and generally basking in the glow of his anniversary. God, what a sweetie he is, and what a frigging pain, sometimes. And really, when I say that, I mean that I am an impatient jerk, because HE’s ONLY TWO, and I expect him to know certain things or behave a certain way, and, if we’re going to be frank, the kid’s still shitting in his pants, so how am I supposed to expect him to remember every single time to stop throwing his toy trains around or not to purposely crumble cookies onto the carpet because he likes the way it looks and feels when it breaks apart in his hands. I’ll take his predilection for science experiments any day, considering how loving and considerate he is with his parents, his sister, and even strangers. I have never seen a kid who tries so hard to share as this one. It breaks my heart to see him figure out that being nice doesn’t always pay off, as we learn pretty much each time we go to the park and we deal with other two or three-year-olds. Kane will see them playing with something he likes, and he will go up to them and offer them a toy in exchange for theirs. Granted, he’s got to learn that we all have to take turns, and we can’t just get something just because we want it right then, but still – pretty good kid, right? But then Kane will be playing with something, and a little kid will come right up and take it from him and walk off while Kane is playing with it, and, after I quell the urge to kick the little shite in his Geranimals bum (I hate grabby kids. Period.), I have to explain to Kane that sometimes, he has to assert himself or just get over it, or he will lose lots of things he likes to pushy people (that has gotten me a few looks from other moms or nannies, but eff ‘em; they should be teaching their kids to be a little better at working within a society). Most of these grown-ups don’t even pay attention to how their kid is behaving, or else they think it’s cute. And usually, the kids act a lot like the parents. I haven’t made many friends at the park, as you might guess.

Bottom line: My son is a good sharer. Needs to speak up a little more when he’s upset with his peers. Still a very gentle little soul (the Thomas trains notwithstanding). He’s talking fast and furiously, and copying everything we say. Loves learning new words, and will pick up the new word out of a sentence, and will repeat only that word. He just learned he can sing the past two weeks, and has been belting out his favorite tunes he’s been weaned on. Still learning the alphabet and numbers, and picking up one letter extra a day, as far as randomly spotting it and saying what it is within a written word.

As far s the peanut is concerned: Holy Crap – she’s crawling. And by that, I don’t mean, oh, holy crap, isn’t that precious? I mean, Holy Crap – I have TWO MOBILE BABIES. I’m getting tired just typing it.

The favorite word for Miz C? Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Brrrrrrrr. Brrrrrrrrr. Brr. Brrrrrrrrrr. Yep, we can do this ALL DAMN DAY.

The kids also like to play Dueling Wails, which is kind of like Dueling Banjoes, but much more annoying. This usually happens when they’re both put down for their afternoon naps, and if one of them ain’t sleepy, ain’t nobody gonna sleep. They really do try to imitate the other’s cries, I’m not kidding. I think I’ll tape it one day, just so I can play it back for them when they get older. I may also tape Kane in his whiny stage, because that’ll be fun to play back to a significant other when he’s older. Muhahahaha.

Oh, and Carly had figured out that if she turns up the volume to 11 when she wants something, it’s much more effective than if she gently crescendos on up to that point. She is so Daddy’s Little Girl on that one.

Other than that, I have been dealing with two teething babes (Carly’s getting several of her first teeth in at once, and Kane’s getting his two-year molars), so life has been a steady stream of Cranky and Congested.

And now, let us pray: Oh lord, please let life get back to Normal, which means poop in the pants, yes, but also means there will be five minutes for Mommy during the day. We ask this through Elmo and Grover, amen.