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Oh My Goth, It's Hot!

I think I've mentioned that J is a reformed goth too old to wear black head to toe any longer.  But we can still celebrate the brothers and sisters of the dark side.  Yes, they still exist, and they're really starting to sweat it out as the summer solstice approaches. 

As they say, "what in the name of the Sisters of Mercy is going on here?"

See more at www.gothsinhotweather.com

 

And I Thought I Was Busy

I Feel It All

Recently, J remarked that it seemed like maybe I need a break or a Valium prescription or something.  He was reacting to some of the writing I've been doing here lately, and I think he may have been a little concerned that he would come home and find my head in the oven and the kids in front of the tube.  Both of which are really awful things to do to your children.   (Just kidding.  Ruby's first word this morning:  "Melmo!")

The thing is that I feel the divots of this experience as hard as I feel the high points.  I feel it all.  My heart breaks hard when they're cute, and it breaks when they demand more of me than I think I can give.  It breaks when it swells and when it's put upon, both.  But I'm okay.  This is my sounding board lately, so I may sound a little nuts down but I'm not.

I'm a deeply satisfied person.  Very "happy," and truly grateful.

Here are a couple of recent examples of why that is.

Oh -- also, Bennett sings in his sleep.  You can walk into his room at - well, right now it's 9:21 in the evening, and he's fast asleep, but filling the room with song.  Lately, it's an all-babble version of Jingle Bells.  Life can't suck when you have someone in your house who does that, even if they do crap in their own pants on a regular basis. 

peace

We Just Keep Rolling

We're on the mend.  Well, they're on the mend.  I'm sick.  Thought I was getting better yesterday, but not so fast, says The Bug(s).  I never used to get sick like this.  Sore throat, etc.  Yech. 

J wanted to watch a movie from beginning to end last night, and we looked at what we had from Netflix:  27 Dresses (why? do I click these?), Nashville (J not an Altman fan -- really, I know.), so we watched Shortbus last night.   It couldn't have been a more unsuitable film for how I was feeling, though I still enjoyed it for its less corporeal elements, and it turns out that I know a couple of people who were in it.  It was kind of like when we went to see Y Tu Mama Tambien in the middle of some experimental ambulatory IV therapy I was doing.  Let me tell you, almost nothing can kill the mood like a bag of drugs hanging from a tube in your arm, so it was mostly about how happy we were for all those frolicking lovers on the screen finding true bliss; it just wasn't going to be any of the sort that we'd be experiencing anytime soon. 

I did an odd little thing that's circulating around the blogoshpere (Did I actually just write that?  I have a feeling I'm going to regret it.).  It's a service that claims to analyze your blog.  I guess you can't hide from your true nature, though some of the description makes me cringe and some of it really makes me laugh -- "not friends of many words?"  My clients would love that one.

ISFP - The Artists

The gentle and compassionate type. They are especially attuned their inner values and what other people need. They are not friends of many words and tend to take the worries of the world on their shoulders. They tend to follow the path of least resistance and have to look out not to be taken advantage of.

They often prefer working quietly, behind the scene as a part of a team. They tend to value their friends and family above what they do for a living.

Analysis

This show what parts of the brain that were dominant during writing.

 
And all this time, I thought myself the brooding intellectual type.

Just Toss It

Last night, I sat on the floor looking for one of the 42 books the kids usually pull out and ask us to read the first three words of before bed.  This is what they do:  go to the shelf, where there are 80 or so age-appropriate selections on topics such as hippos, bedtime, "their" letters, numbers and colors, picnics, the word "please," and you get the idea.  They pull one out and set it on the knee of Jason or me, who have been sitting patiently, cross-legged, waiting for their selection.  Once they've placed the book on our knee, they stand back up and turn around, studying their feet the whole time with the deliberateness of an amateur disco-dancer trying to remember exactly how many steps in this part of the Hustle.  Once they've reached tush side to Mama or Daddy, they plop in our lap and sit, contentedly, for approximately the first 2 and a half lines of whatever book they've chosen before they're off to the bookshelf again to find the tome THEY REALLY WANTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.  Repeat some nights until parental weariness of the exercise ends it.  Last night, though, it was me looking.  "Jason, where's Elmo Loves You?"

Bennett loves Elmo Loves You, though I think it's cos I read the whole book in the Elmo voice, which thanks to a girly vocal range, I can kind of mimic.   

Jason:  "I threw it away." 

Willa:  "DAMMIT, Jason!  Bennett LOVES Elmo Loves You!!  I can't believe you threw it away!!!!  GOD!"

Can you tell I was really fed up here?

Jason:  "I didn't, I was just kidding." 

Now you may notice here that nowhere above did I express any particular amount of disbelief or inquiry into WHY he might have thrown it away.  And that is because Jason throws EVERYTHING away.  He has thrown away every set of instructions and warranty information accompanying our purchases, from the home office printer/fax/scanner, the sofa, the iPod, our camera, the food processor.  He threw away our CURTAINS one day because they came out of the dryer wrinkled.  I kid you not.  He regularly throws away the liner to the shower curtain, and in fact, keeps a stock of new ones in the bathroom closet.  He just likes them fresh, even if they're clean.  If I didn't make us take the time to go donate clothes the kids have outgrown, I'm pretty sure he'd put them in the trash.  Such is the intensity of his compulsion to get. rid. of. stuff. On the one hand, it makes him a perfect Manhattanite.  But I think he's going to have to come around.  Apparently hanging on to stuff is the new thing; it's the blowback to consumerism run amok borne of a housing/credit/stock market crisis that is supposedly going to trickle down to the shower curtain industry.  I, for one, am looking forward to it.

Wot?

It's official: they're talking.  And I know some people think that this is really where the trouble begins, but I couldn't be happier.  Really.  Today we heard "cwackuhw" ("cracker") again and again (the moment
they had fewer than one mini peaunt butter cracker sandwich in their mouths and each hand) and I melted each time (not like peanut butter exactly, more like a first time mom). We've heard "bath," "water" and "fortitude" (not really), but in my proudest moment, I did hear "please."  No lie. 

The fundamentals of our children's etiquette are strong. 

Okay, I will grant you that it was just a mimicking of sounds that I demanded in ransom for Ruby's milk, but it was there. 

"PEES, Miwk!!!!!!" 

And it kinda made my day, because I think the thing that matters most after whether my kids will be homicidal maniacs or young earth creationists is whether they will say please and thank you to waiters.  And me. 

Although the difference between the two is really splitting hairs about now.