Back in my early driving career, I would always find myself on a rural road, in a big damn hurry to get someplace where I was already five minutes past due. One of the things about living where I do - there are a hundred different backroads to the 'big' towns nearby. Ever the optimist, I would cut my departure time to the bone, and then figure I knew enough shortcuts to get me to my destination with time to spare.

Invariably, I would find myself on a rural road with no shoulders and hairpin, blind turns, following a senior citizen in a Buick, going about twenty miles per hour. I used to joke that one day I would write my autobiography, and title it "Stuck Behind A Buick Doing 20."
Life was so high-speed - late to class, late to work, paper due in the morning, only two dollars worth of gas in the car, and a test on Friday. I was always rushing, because I couldn't plan to save my life.

Not that the chicken minus head routine was a bad thing - I got a nice buzz off of the adreneline that accompanied a 100 yard dash to the timeclock. Oh, the frustration I felt cruising along BELOW THE LIMIT behind a pastel car with a broad, flaring rear. "Go! GO! I've got somewhere to be. I'm late. GO!" Lucky for those other drivers, I didn't have much rage to share with the world. I still don't.

Thinking about Lee's blogging burnout, I reflected on my own wimpy entries the last few days. In my case, it's not burnout, just life. Lee persists in calling me JehNAY ala Forrest Gump...which got me thinking about chocolates. (My stream of consciousness entries are my best work, huh?) Anyway, somehow I got to thinking about my life, and chocolate and came up with this:

No longer stuck behind a Buick, I am now slogging through chocolate pudding. Chocolate Pudding. That's right. (I know, I'm a nutbar.)

The more I thought about it, the funnier it became. So I present my compelling reasoning on Jenny's Life Is Like Slogging Through Chocolate Pudding.

By Jenny, of course.

I seem to still be in a huge hurry all the time, but at this point in my life, it's not the Buick doing me in. The kids, with their tidal pull and all the flotsam and jetsam they toss about are the scapegoats now.

Of course, it still is my fault for insufficient planning and gross overestimation of my mad departure skillz, yo. And that is where the pudding comes in.

My dad used to try to convince my younger brother to try foods by telling him they tasted "just like pudding." Stuffing, for example. My brother never fell for it, and I suspect that he isn't a huge fan of the pudding. It's a texture thing for him. Which reminds me, I need to start using that on my kids, who like the pudding just fine.

Anyway - have you ever walked through a muddy field, feeling the grip of the mud trying to suck your boots right off your feet? You find yourself digging your toes deep into the sole of your boots and high-stepping to the other side. There is always slipping, and the fear that if you slow for a minute, you'll be stuck.

Getting ready to leave the house with the kids is like that, only with chocolate pudding. There is a sweetness to it, even as it grabs your shoes and stains your pants. Like those rare moments when I was stuck behind Grandma and lifted my eyes to the surrounding orchards and rolling hills, it feels good to slow down and slog a bit.

When I am faced with missing shoes and a toddler who WILL do it herself - that chocolate aroma will sneak up on me, and help me to laugh as I notice the determined look of my baby as she struggles with her coat, or the heel of a shoe poking out of the toy box.

Actually, my house is like a giant box FILLED with pudding. It envelopes us as we move through our day. I've learned over time that thrashing and flailing leads to children who make pudding angels as I'm trying to pull them out of the goo. You have to be one with the pudding. Flowing, gliding, moving fluidly. Short, jerky movements don't work well. It's like a constantly moving ballet to keep this family flowing. A pudding ballet. Dude.

That is exactly my problem - I approach parenting like a sheep herding dog. I'm busy running around and barking and keeping the flock together and moving. I'm so busy controlling, in fact, that I lose sight of the beauty of sheep. Er, pudding. Yes. I never roll my sheep in pudding. I think. I'm so confused.

Okay, I need some hip-waders and another cup of coffee. And, like my brother, I think I've lost the Love of the Pudding.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 30, 2004 8:37 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

Alright, if anyone thinks this would be a great gift for my kids - No.

from the MindWare catalog - shop at your own freakin' risk (Aaaaargh!)

Encourage Engineers in Your Own Backyard
Jump-start some healthy (and safe!) youthful experimentation around the laws of science, math and even thermodynamics with this step-by-step guide. Detailed diagrams and photos show how to build tennis ball mortars, potato cannons and more. A great way to get kids excited about engineering, physics and chemistry. Strong emphasis on safety from an engineering professor who includes engaging facts and inventor profiles. 274 pages.

Ages 11 to adult (Close adult supervision recommended)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 29, 2004 2:17 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (14)

I drank two huge mugs of coffee this morning. My entire body is vibrating like a rocket on final countdown to launch.

I'm pretty sure I'll achieve orbit. The only question is: where is the softest landing spot for my inevitable crash?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 28, 2004 10:42 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

The hubs, on seeing my youngest go trotting by holding a partially opened box of powdered sugar.

"Get it, quick! I just took that away from her earlier, too! She must have got it when the big kids opened the pantry... it was barely open, but she was laying face down on top of the box, kicking her feet and sweeping her hands and snorting it up like an 80s party girl."

laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller

I hear racing footsteps down the hall, with *snap* "Ow!" every few steps. My two oldest are chasing one another, playing snap the underpants waistband. And laughing hysterically. When the hubs gets up to make coffee, they sneak up behind him and snap his waistband.
Hee!

laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller laller

I decided to refresh the lovely copper shade of my hair on Thanksgiving morning. I applied it to my roots and combed the color through my hair and massaged per the instructions.

Despite my adherence to the laws of Feria, I ended up with Deep Copper roots and ends, and a 6" long, head-circling band of faded red color on the hair between my eyebrows and my chin. Hah! I'm so re-coloring.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 27, 2004 9:40 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

We had a wonderful holiday yesterday. After years of lukewarm dinners, eaten at high speed while attending to the nutrition needs of small people, I enjoyed an almost leisurely meal with my parents, my sister, my husband and my wee little monkeys. If you would have told me a year ago that this was even remotely possible, I would have chuckled in disbelief.

It seems that my children are not only growing physically, they are learning how to be civilized. *Gasp*

I sound like the most naive parent in the world, I'm sure. I live with these chest pounding, vine swinging, tree climbing, primal screaming jungle children. Every morning, I grab my machete and hack down a few vines as I beat a path into the wilderness. I see the potential there - the intelligence, the warmth, the humor, the raw strength and unbridled joy, coupled with the innate need to laller laller laller and strip nekkid at any given moment.

My aim is not that of an anthropologist - the pygmies in THIS forest are subjected to outside culture and influence. My role is to teach these savages to be ladies and gentlemen. I put on my pith helmet and mosquito spray and head in, hoping that by the end of the day, the children will say "Yes, I want to leave the jungle and come live in society and wear clothes."

We read books and discuss endlessly the advantages of being cultured. Still, book learning and behavioral experiments in a controlled (ie, my kitchen) setting don't always translate well to the outside world.

There have been many events in the past where I have dressed my children to froofy glory, and led them out into the world to display my fine skills as a Savage Reformer. "You can dress them up, but you can't take them out" originated right here. Oh, the stories I could tell of babies in party dresses sitting spread-eagle with maryjane decked feet propped up on the stroller tray - of disappearing armpit manuevers and slumped, playing dead toddlers - and let's not forget the nose picking.

Part of my problem is my anthropologic interest in these yahoos of mine. I watch with envy as they swing across the monkey bars. I see their joy as they sit behind the armchair/scary cave and feel nudges from my own inner savage, longing for the jungle. As I applied my daily war paint, the kids asked for eyeliner whiskers on their cheeks. I obliged and watched as they galloped on all fours, growling and snarling. Turning my attention back to my own face, I fought the urge to pencil on whiskers of my own.

Despite our constant teaching process, it's hard to be objective. I would love to make a blanket statement about the fact that my kids are well-mannered. It just can't be done, though. They still have that wildness, and I don't give them the benefit of the doubt often enough.

It was with surprise and pride that I watched my children enjoy our Thanksgiving meal, participating in the conversation and behaving politely. Here, finally, was proof that my attempts to tame the wilderness was not futile. (Stop laughing, Mom.)

As we loaded the kids into the car, my son drifted off to sleep, but both daughters stayed quietly alert. As we pulled into the garage and began to unload the van, I noticed both girls were meditatively picking their noses, while gazing out the window. "Hey, are you digging for gold?" I asked the oldest. She turned sleepy eyes to me, and said, "I'm a Goooooold Diggah. Digging for Goooooooold." The baby echoed, "Gooooooold!"

I put my machete back in the holster and covered my face with my pith helmet so they wouldn't see me laughing.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 26, 2004 7:41 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

Wishing everyone a wonderful day!

Can't blog much now... too busy polishing off Reception Sticks before we leave for dinner.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 25, 2004 11:17 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

When I bought the tub of "Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Dipped Peppermint Reception Sticks" I said to myself "These here treats would be a fun addition to the Thanksgiving spread." And they have the word "Thin" in the description. They are DIET treats.

And now, I have a wee pile of wrappers and a half empty tub of said treats. I had myself a little reception. Which is okay, because I was seriously never considering sharing these. Nope.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 24, 2004 4:01 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

Once again, I missed the memo about the Tuesday all-nighter to be held in my living room. Whoever is not cc'ing me on these things really needs to be put on administrative leave.

The boy and the baby both took early evening naps and I thought they might just be extra tired and therefore planning to sleep on through the night. They had a late lunch, too, so I wasn't stressing about dinner.

Hah! Hahahaha! Muwahahahahahahaha! *cough*

Uh, no. I got my oldest settled, and for ten glorious minutes, there was silence. I turned off the TV, and crawled into bed and just lay there, basking in the stillness of my house.

I heard shuffling footsteps heading for the kitchen. They retraced to my bedside and the tousled head of my son appeared two inches from my face. "Mommy. HUNGRY."

Sigh.

I got up, made some scrambled eggs and toast and gave him a glass of milk. He was like a space traveler coming out of hypersleep. He was groggy at first, but by the time the meal was complete, he was ready to kick some alien butt. In that it was 9 o'clock, I decided he could play on the floor while I watched The Amazing Race. (That entepreneur guy, yelling at his wife, and her high pitched drill-sounding whining voice...aaaargh!)

As the show ended, I broached the B word. "Bedtime, honey." He put up a half-hearted protest, but allowed me to lead him back to his bed.

I flipped off the TV, and headed back to my room. As I passed the baby's room, I heard stirring. I began to tiptoe with exaggerated movements. As I got one knee up onto my mattress, she let loose.

"Mama! Up, up! Dee-nah! Deeeee-naaaaaah!"

More eggs. More toast. More milk... oh. Out of milk. Open soy milk. Whew. Crisis averted. Baby wiped down, snuggled, sang to, tucked back in, back to bed. Except not. More alien butt-kicking was on the agenda.

After a prolonged make-out session (where the baby had me by my ears and was kissing me REALLY. HARD. and then saying "wuv mama" and then repeating 700 times) she conked out on my chest, and I carried her back to bed.

As I burrowed into my pillow, the boy showed up next to me again, with an assortment of dinosaurs and some burning questions. I tried to get him to snuggle with me, or with the hubs, but no, I found myself answering such important queries as "Wanna see my patootience?" and "Have you ever eaten a dino nugget, get it? Dino nugget, Mommy. Nugget?"

Finally, I shooed him out to the living room, where he played with his dinos and I reclined on the couch, watching for signs of weakness where I could drop him with a bedtime story. The baby heard the party, because my son has not learned volume control. Everything is pretty much shouted. Of course, he spends much of his day jumping, too.

I went in to try and settle the baby, and discovered that soy milk should still be avoided at bedtime - it works like a laxative on my youngest. I tried using my son's rosy outlook "It's a diaper celebration! A blow-out of epic proportions! Whee!" but yeah. No.

I'm adding a new item to my list of parenting must-haves. Stun-gun, cattle-prod AND flamethrower. Because it would have been much easier to incinerate the crib than wipe the whole thing down.

Baby bathed, dressed, sheets changed. "No crib! No crib!"

Fantastic. I choose a couple of books and settle in on the couch with a kid on each side. Mercifully, my oldest slept through all this.

I read for an hour and carried sleepy eyed children back to their beds. I glanced at the clock: 2 o'clock in the morning. At least there was no school to rush off to this morning. We could sleep in.

Uh, no. I've been up since 4:45.

By rights I should be off my game. Yet, it's a crisp morning, with wonderful golden light filling my home and bright blue skies. I have lots of errands and busy work ahead of me today, and I feel good. Must be the baby kiss attack and patootience viewing. A smile keeps creeping onto my face. I feel like I could kick some serious alien butt. Or, I guess I could just blast 'em with death rays from my cyclops eye.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 24, 2004 7:41 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

All around the country, people are anticipating the arrival of relatives. Family bonding is part and parcel of Thanksgiving. Granted, not all of us are giddy about it. I enjoy my immediate family, but it's the impending arrival of my least favorite aunt that has me feeling put out.

Good Auld Auntie Flo. Howdy do. Perfect freakin' timing. At least we're supposed to eat a bunch of crap and be bloated and sleepy, right? They really should make a law around my poor timing, like Murphy's Law.

Actually, I had just recently ordered some cosmetics online, and got myself a whole bunch of freebies in the box. Whee! Free makeup stuff ROCKS. I got mascaras and lip glosses and a variety of lotions and perfumes and a nifty little compact with a magnifying mirror that was, like, super cute. Ohmigod. To the MAX.

I tossed the compact into my purse and went about my day. Later, in the harsh light of the day, I did a quick lipstick check with the darling little compact and AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGH! What the hell! What is with my giant pores? Oh, mercy. Gag me with a spoon!

As soon as it was feasible, (after the kids were in bed, and I was looking more - if that is even possible - haggard) I began a wicked cycle of skin treatment featuring exfoliation and alphawhatever stuff and strips that I stuck on and strips that I pulled off and THEN I found my "blemish extractor" and went to town on each magnified segment of my really irritated skin that could stand some extracting. I say segment, because I wasn't able to take in the full visage in the mirror.

After I had tortured my face into an angry, red, swollen mess, I smoothed on some overnight super regenerating high falutin' rootin' tootin' what the heck ever cream and laid myself out like a mummy so the miracle cream could resurface and brighten my skin. You know, bring out a new youthful glow and all.

My hubs had been doing the "Hey, Baby, You Wanna?" dance earlier, but as he climbed into bed, he took one look at me, snorted (seriously...he fully snorted) and turned on Sports Center. Perhaps my youthful glow was not as appealing as the ads would have you believe.

The net result of this episode is a really epic breakout, including a giant red atoll smack dab in the center of my forehead. Just in time for all the family photos and first time meeting my brother's girlfriend. Oh, and we'd hoped to get our family Christmas card photo, too.

So really, you won't want to miss out on this year's greetings. I'll be the Cyclops in the back.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 23, 2004 4:37 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

So there I was at the park, trying to keep track of all three kids and carry on a conversation with my daughter's classmate's mom, when I realized that my son was not in my immediate eyesight.

He hadn't gone far. In fact, he was standing next to the drinking fountain. I turned my attention back to my youngest. A minute passed, and I heard a bellow. "Hey, Mama! Look!"

My son was standing on top of the drinking fountain, wearing sweatpants and yellow rain boots, naked from the waist up. He was swinging his wet shirt around his head in broad arcs in lariat-fashion, and swiveling his hips to enhance the total effect.

As I hustled over to the fountain to retrieve my good time boy, he egged me on with "Woo! Lookie! Woo! Yeah! Wooooo!"

I'm raising a future Chippendale dancer. Oh, help.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 22, 2004 1:46 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

Since noon yesterday, our area has been bathed in a steady, swirling wind. All the trees that were gloriously alive with fall colors now stand ankle deep in puddles of colored leaves. The naked branches look shocked, like a plucked chicken, twigs quivering in the relentless gusts.

The kids and I have been collecting some of the brilliant leaves to make wax paper creations to decorate our windows. In our world, the leaves change because of the fairies and their magic paintbrushes. As we walked home from school on Friday, several of the trees on our walk had dropped thousands of tiny red berries, blanketing the sidewalk. While I thanked my lucky stars that those trees weren't in my yard, my son and daughter skipped ahead of the stroller, giddy as they regarded the berry strewn pavement.

"Mommy! It's a berry celebration!" shouted my son.
"No, it's an EXTRAVAGANZA!" corrected my daughter.
"SO EXCITED!" added the baby from the stroller.

I have to admit that crunching through the "Berry Extravaganza" was quite enjoyable, once I had the proper outlook.

Anyway, all around the town, gutters are clogged with leaves, and still the wind continues. The leaves swirl through intersections, and collect in recessed doorways. As I passed an upscale furniture business, I noticed that three employees with rakes were stationed outside the store, fruitlessly clearing the leaves from the sidewalk and gutter, only to have a fresh layer arrive within moments. As I sat at the red light, I became concious of the giant smile that spread across my face.

The employees hunched against the chill, and wielded rakes with a methodical, yet defeated motion. Drag, scoop, repeat. Drag, scoop, repeat. Drag, scoop, repeat. Drag, scoop, repeat.

Who would ask these people to do this? It was like an obsessive-compulsive dream date. Even better was watching the man in the car next to me track each motion of the leaf scoopers with minute head motions and eagle-eyed focus. It really was a surreal scene.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 21, 2004 4:20 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

Okay! I'm not a sadist! I swear!

I'll be back this evening with tales of frantic house cleaning and the birthday party at the ice rink for 20 first time ice skaters.

I think I just heard a pin drop.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 20, 2004 7:49 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

I'm discovering that I have a touch of the sadist in me. After several weeks, I finally have the proper size Halti Headcollar for Donna the dog.

I bought our first headcollar in October. Although we had the dog with us at the time of the purchase, we still managed to go home with the wrong size collar, in the right size package. With the illness that was swarming around our house, it took me two weeks to get back out to the store. I exchanged it for the right size collar, in the right size box, but when we got it home, we discovered that the part that buckles had been sliced off, probably by someone who was trying to detach the security pin thing.

Which hadn't worked, because the pin was still in place, but the headcollar was ruined. Yeah. Great.

More illness. More delays in returning. Receipt spontaneously implodes. Dog still running amuck. Kids begin referring to dog as "freaking dog" which gives me new motivation to get freaking dog under control, as well as my language.

Finally, yesterday was The Day. We needed dog food, and we had 500 other errands to run. I decided to suck it up and go back, again. This time I would leave with the right collar for the freaking dog, or I would die trying. With the kids in tow, we marched into the store.

"Mommy, I want a parakeet!"
"Mommy, I want a lizard!"
"Fish! Fish!"
"Oooh, GERBILS"
(yes, gerbils are just fantastic, aren't they. WHATEVER!)

I grabbed the dog food we needed, and marched the kids to the halter aisle. We grabbed three of the proper size, and opened all of them to inspect. Two of the boxes had the wrong size in them, but we found one in the right size, that hadn't been mutilated.

At that moment, a ray of light shone down on the Circus family, as we sang a song of thanksgiving, and did a little jig. Then we hauled ass to the cash register, where we did the switcheroo with no problems, despite the lack of receipt. (The cashier had obviously seen this issue before.) As we prepared to make our exit, I noticed that the baby was missing one of her shoes.

After a high speed retracing of steps, complete with whining for other pets and attempted break and run stunts, I left my phone number with the cashier, and made a break for it.

Back at home, I hooked the dog in to the headcollar and pranced around the yard. The dog keeps giving me these looks. Oh, I'm such a mean mommy. But WHATEVAH, because she can't pull, and she is totally docile.

Bwahahahahahaha! I so am inventing these for the kids.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 19, 2004 9:06 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (2)

This is a cautionary tale about the WORST PARENTING DECISION EVER MADE.

For once, I didn't make it. My hubs did, and he will NEVER live it down.

Just over three years ago, the man I love was standing at the coffee pot, adding sugar to his mug. My son, around a year and a half old, hovered near his heels. Even at this young age, my son was chirping away about Bob the Builder and dinosaurs and who knows what all else. My husband, desperate for silence, did the unthinkable:

He dipped his wet spoon into the sugar bowl and handed it to my son like a lollypop.

*reee! reee! reee! reee! reee!*

First of all, this was still back in the days where I was pureeing tofu and sweet potato and freezing it in ice cube trays. Second, we had recently crossed the remembering threshold with this boy. New experiences didn't fade with a good night's sleep - no. He remembered EVERYTHING and often hammered us over the head with it the next morning and every day thereafter.

The boy's eyes lit up and he said "Mmmmmm. Soogah!"

I shot a panicked look at the hubs and said "What does he have?"

The hubs turned unconcerned eyes at me and said "I just put a little sugar on a spoon."

From knee level came "Soogah shpoon." A pudgy hand thrust the spoon skyward, where the kitchen light reflected off its shiny, wet, licked completely clean surface. "Mooooooore soogah shpoon!"

I picked up the boy and relieved him of the spoon in one sweeping movement. Dropping the spoon in the sink, I made for the living room to distract my squiggling child. The tantrum began ("SOOGAH!") as I neared the hall, and I shot a look at my husband that could have melted his nose off his face had he been man enough to meet my eyes.

And so it has come to pass, that in the three years since this seemingly minor incident took place - and I have NOT seen it happen again since the first time: I have had to deal with related tantrums, from all THREE children, on a weekly basis.

"Mom, can I have sugar on a spoon?"

"No."

"Remember when Daddy gave him some?"

"La la la, I can't hear you nananananana"

"Sugar! On a SPOOOOOON!"

"No, and time-out if you ask again."

"Waaaaaaah! No fair!"

"Blame Daddy."

Learn from me. If you are going to bribe with sugar, either do it before they will remember, or give them something that will stick their mouth shut.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 18, 2004 8:17 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

While driving out to my parents' house this afternoon for a quick visit, I saw a truck carrying a load of hay approaching from the opposite direction. As we met and passed each other, I found myself murmuring a wish almost without thought.

Since my earliest memories, I've heeded the hay truck wishing rule laid out by my parents during roadtrips and jaunts around town.

"See a hay truck? Make a wish and don't look back."

The sudden urge to look back and mark the progress of the truck rises in the wake of the wish, and I have to force my eyes to remain focused on the road ahead.

Over the years, my wishes have changed. I remember wishing for a new bike, a slumber party invitation, attention from a certain boy in my class and a good grade on a test. I wished for the lead in a school play, and the miraculous recovery of one of my mother's friends who lay dying of breast cancer.

Wishes leaped from my heart to my lips as the flatbed truck would draw near, bits of straw flying in the turbulant air. Scrunching my eyes as I focused on the truck, I would whisper the wish and then stare at the back of the seat in front of me, lest I mistakenly catch a glimpse of the hay truck in one of the mirrors.

In my early twenties, my wishes became laundry lists - let me find a wonderful man to share my life with - as long as he's not controlling and likes to pay for things. Oh, and he should be cute and smart. But not too cute, because I don't like stuck-up guys.

Often, by the time I finished wishing, the truck would be miles away, and my thoughts would be far away too, lost in the drama that I artlessly spun around myself. In the qualifying rounds, the simple wish that burst out of my heart was weighed down and flopped about helplessly, shackled to the bumper of the speeding hay truck.

When I discovered I was pregnant with my oldest child, all the wishes were condensed into a wordless ache, a nameless fear, a longing so fierce it burned my throat when I tried to speak. Shortly after I married, I was driving alone, and passed a hay truck. My heart leaped into my throat and I mouthed 'happy and healthy' while willing my eyes to follow the white lane divider in front of me.

Since then, every truck has been met with the same words, no qualifications necessary. What I wish, of course, is that my children will be happy and healthy - my family and myself, as well. That our lives will be long and our joy plentiful. And that our road ahead is smooth.

As I passed the truck this afternoon, I felt the familiar lump in my throat as my lips moved silently, forming the words that encapsulate my greatest wish. As my eyes stayed stubbornly on the road, my mind raced ahead to the years yet to be enjoyed. The firsts and the lasts. The milestones celebrated. Happy and Healthy. Don't look back.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 16, 2004 4:29 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (18)

Seriously, people, I have to be the WORST 'expert opinion' you could possibly get.

Jenni asks:

When will my four year old understand the English language? Will this flaw rub off on my younger children?

As best as I can tell, four year olds DO speak English, but with an accent. It's kind of like whale song, really. Lots of whining noises, and sighing, with the occasional high pitched wailing and booming sounds, similar to fists hitting a floor, or perhaps stomping.

I currently have one four year old, and he demonstrates a remarkable ability to respond favorably to certain phrases, usually involving dinosaurs or push-up pops, while at other times, he looks at me from the corner of his eye while I leap about and gesture broadly, trying to speak in Very Simple English. Occasionally, I hit upon the right combination of squealing and booming to get a response.

If your four year old is the Alpha Whale, he will spread his English knowledge on to the younger kids, which means you can look forward to whining and glares out of the corner of eyes at an even earlier age. Never fear - once you hit upon the English words that are understood and responded to, you can slip them into other phrases and lure the beligerent little whales into listening, if not actually responding.

Good luck.

GraceD says:

Michael Jordan or Denzel Washington?
Colin Firth or Colin Farrell?
Letterman or Leno?

What is this "or" business, Grace? I'm thinking "and." Let's see, we have 1,2,3,4,5,6 of 'em... we're good Monday through Saturday, with Sunday off to recover. Except, actually, with Letterman and Leno, I pretty much have to be the funny person in the relationship, so they might be off the list. I might have an extra helping of Denzel. Or a Colin sandwich. Perhaps a funny man or two at times when I am predicibly cranky would be just fine. Yes. The whole buffet for me, thanks.

TW wants to know:

Will my children ever stop squabbling? If so, will I still be alive to see it?

First of all, let me just say: Your children wouldn't squabble if you were a better mother. Hee! Hell, if you were a better mother, the children would be so busy walking in front of you throwing flower petals and singing songs about how wonderful you are that they wouldn't have time to squabble.

But then again, we're talking about actual kids here, not Stepford children. I'm going to say yes, they will eventually stop squabbling (at least about the stuff they are fighting over today.) You will also live to see the day, but you might be bald from tearing your hair out or deaf. But your vision will be fine.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 16, 2004 8:08 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

I was chatting with my almost 2 year old today (okay, I was on the toilet, and was trying to keep her from climbing on the counter) and to keep her engaged, I began to quiz her.

What does a dog say?
Oof, oof!
What does a cat say?
Wee-ow!
What does a monkey say?
Ooh-ooh-ah-ah! (with fists tucked into arm pits)
What does a bear say?
Rrrrrrr.
What does a cow say?
Moon.
What does a pig say?
Honk.
What does a pirate say?
Arrrrrg!
What does Mommy say?
Stop that!

Nice. That Mommy is so much fun. I really want to hang out with Mommy, don't you? Bah.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 15, 2004 5:30 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

More questions answered!

Carmen asks:

Why does someone always get sick on my birthday?
This is your family's way of distracting you from dwelling on your age. They do it out of love.

What makes me crave chocolate and not, say, lima beans?
This is because you are NORMAL. I would love to know who craves lima beans. You can't crave lima beans. CAN'T.

How am I going to survive the next three months of construction on my house?
I suggest you interview all workers to check for suitable hotness. Besides that, I think a big fat balance on your Starbucks card, and an ipod should do it.

When will I be able to see you again?
Ouch! I just poked myself in my all-seeing eye. I wish I knew.

Oh, wait, one more. Will you let L wear thongs?How about K?
Thongs are perfectly acceptable footwear, and with the kids' Asian heritage, practically mandated. I enjoy thongs myownself, although I have a problem with people who wear socks with thongs. That is just wrong.

Lu wants to know:

What's a classy/witty response to the forlorn look and the "Oh, I'm so sorry" I get when explaining I'm in the process of divorce making me a single mama of two? Oh, and what to do with that uncomfortable pause that comes afterwards where the other party is waiting for details...how does one, if so inclined, provide an explanation for the state of affairs without tripping up in the too much information realm?
First of all, classy and Jenny are mutually exclusive. Are you mocking me?

How about saying "Thanks. You know, I was just too much woman for him." or "It's such a relief. The stink was really overpowering."

I don't know how much people really want to know. If you are pressed for details, you could say "My ex had trouble remembering that marriage means no more girlfriends" or "Our goals were too different - I wanted a faithful husband."

If you don't want people to feel sorry, or you don't want to get into it, I would suggest "Don't be sorry. I'm happier than I've been in years, and am achieving some lifelong goals."

Or you could default to "Well, I thought about killing him, but I don't look good in orange jumpsuits. Besides, alimony rocks."

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 15, 2004 8:47 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

So, I'm standing at the sink washing my 17" cast iron skillet. This requires advanced rinsing skill, since the skillet is larger than my sink.

I seized our faucet's pull-out wand, and got to work.

Suddenly, I was standing at the sink, one hand on the pan, the other on the wand, and my forehead was being assulted by a steady stream of water. It took me a good ten seconds to realize that the wand had somehow detached from the hose, and the faucet was spraying me in the face. I turned off the faucet, dried my face with the dish towel, and then headed to the bedroom to change my shirt.

And I said I'm not a good multi-tasker. Sheesh.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 14, 2004 11:21 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

Let the Q & A begin!

Mrs. G asked:

Say, where does the term "throw a monkey wrench into the plan" come from?

A quick google revealed the following:

Monkey Wrench
What monkey wrenches have to do with monkeys is unknown. The term for a wrench with an adjustable jaw dates to the early 19th century and is originally British, although now is chiefly North American in usage. It has been suggested that the monkey is an alteration (folk etymology) of the inventor's name, but this explanation lacks supporting evidence.

The phrase to throw a monkey wrench into the machinery dates to 1918, although the metaphorical sense of throwing a monkey wrench, meaning an obstacle or hindrance, is a bit older. On 30 July 1907 the Chicago Tribune published the following:

It should look to them as if he were throwing a monkeywrench into the only market by visiting that Cincinnati circus upon the devoted heads of Kentucky's best customers.

The British version of this phrase, to throw a spanner into the works, dates to 1934.

(Source: Oxford English Dictionary Online)

But let's forget that. Here's what really happened. Originally, the phrase was "Moneyed Wench" which clearly refers to an uncouth but wealthy woman. Oh, the difficulties caused by ill-mannered women with beaucoup bucks. Just look at the Hilton sisters, right? Those "moneyed wenches" can really mess up the best of plans.

In kitchens and maid's quarters, factories and barns, laborers cursed these snotty women of means and the whims that kept them working like slaves with no thanks. Over time, the accents of immigrant workers changed the sound of the words, and like a game of Telephone, the phrase became "Monkey Wrench."

"Besides," said Seamus Finnegan, after hauling home a drunken debutante on what was supposed to be his night off. "Not much difference between a monkey and a wench, I always say."

Lee wants to know:

If you were really Jehnnay fom Forrest Gump - would you have let Forrest crash that black panther party?? If I was THAT Jehnnay, heck yeah. She was a bit dense. Now, if it was ME (as played by Robin Wright Penn) I'd like to think there would be more nude guitar playing. Also, the movie would be called "Jenny" and Forrest would be a supporting actor, showing my benevolent, tender side.

If you could have any super power (other than your stunning beauty) what would it be? Being a Libra, the first thing that comes to mind is swift and peaceful conflict resolution, with no bloodshed and willing compromise. That would be my power for GOOD.

However, as I've mentioned before, I'm more likely to be a force of evil, on accounts that I'm not real noble and just. My evil super-power would be total mind control of others. Because, you know, that would ROCK.

I'm shooting big here...perhaps the power of unlimited spending? Sounds like an Amex ad. Nah. I'm sticking with total mind control.

If you accused a child of pooping their pants at a very crowded upscale store, and they retaliated with pulling their pants down and screaming at the top of their lungs, "See momma its just farts!!" - how would you handle that?

Wait... is this a trick question? Because I usually just lift the child bodily into the air and sniff the seat of their pants if there is tell-tale odor. I'll also seize a waistband and have a gander.
This actually reminds me of the time my son announced "Mommy! My dingus is SO BIG!" and whipped it out in the line at Target.

I said calmly "That's nice, honey. We'll go to the bathroom as soon as we finish here." I gave a neutral smile to the cashier and other people in line (who were HORRIFIED) and helped my son put his BIG DINGUS back under wraps.

We paid, visited the bathroom, got to the car. I explained sometimes dings just get big, and it's not all that exciting, and also that pants needed to stay in the fully locked, upright position. Then I turned up the music and laughed myself sick, all the way home.

So, I guess in your hypothetical situation, I would probably
a)treat the child's wardrobe malfunction and declaration as I would treat a comment about the weather.

b) I would correct the malfunction with as much nonchalance as I could muster under the circumstances.

c) Remove the little offender from the premises after completing our business.

d) Engage them in a very serious discussion of appropriate times to moon your mother, followed by a little song or other mneumonic device to help them remember that flashing tiny heinies to make a point is frowned on in most public venues, and pisses off upscale customers (except the Moneyed Wenches, who enjoy this sort of thing.)

e) Turn up the music and laugh myself sick all the way home.

Hope that helps.

Got questions? I'm here all week. Ask away.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 13, 2004 7:02 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

Jennifer has dubbed me Yoda (Let's face it, I'm DOWN with the Force, and have CRAAAAZY knowledge, in addition to my small size and green, hairy ears.)

Have you found yourself wondering "What would Jenny do?" Here's your chance to find out. Go on, ask. You know you want to.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 12, 2004 8:58 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

I've been a fan of Iron Chef since 1996. I used to watch the broadcasts in straight Japanese, with no subtitles. I understand enough basic Japanese to get the gist, if not the full impact of the show. Still, I was even more giddy when they added subtitles.

I don't care if you are a superstar in the kitchen, or can't boil water. I have yet to meet a person who doesn't get sucked in watching the Iron Chef take on the Challenger. And after you watch a few episodes, you start believing that you can, and totally should, make a sorbet from shad roe and wintermelon, with a splash of Coke.

For a couple of years, we lived in an area with a HUGE population of Japanese speakers, and yet, inexplicably, Iron Chef was not on. So sad. In hindsight, since I was pregnant, I probably would have been put off Iron Chef forever, if the theme ingredient had been eggs. I was forced to turn my attention to Steve Irwin, who was just beginning his broadcast run. Oooh! See the crazy man with the crocodiles!

I'm seeing a pattern in my TV viewing - I like crazy, but benign.

Hey, that's totally a description of ME.

Anyway, when we moved back to my hometown, we once again got Iron Chef. Now, since Food Network is carrying it, fully dubbed, it is easy to get my fix. My grasp of Japanese only scratched the surface of the hilarity. All the sports metaphors! Hah!

It appears that the actor who plays "The Chairman" has it written in his contract that his voice will not be dubbed, so he's still subtitled. The vanity! The outfits! The way he bites that bell pepper! Maybe he really IS an eccentric millionaire who is devoting his life and fortune to finding never-before tasted masterpieces!

Or not. Doesn't really matter. Because it's thrilling watching two chefs try to make a zillion different dishes in one hour, all with a common ingredient.

The reason I'm bringing this up? I've got to pull dinner out of my hat, and I've got nothing. Well, except things like canned tomatoes (which my kids, like our forefathers, think are devil's fruit.)

I do have a few sweet potatoes. Aha! The theme for this battle? Sweet Potato. Sound the gong!

I think I will cut them into pieces and roast them. Or, I could grate them and make sweet potato patties and fry them and call them croquettes. Or! I could chop them and steam them with rice and then top the whole thing with caramelized nuts! But I don't have any nuts.

I DON'T HAVE ANY NUTS!

Whatever, like the kids are going to eat it anyway. I think I'll mash them and serve them with butter and cinnamon. With a birthday candle in the top, on a plate garnished with fall leaves to evoke autumn.

O sweet potato
You are not a common yam
With that candle lit

I'm sure the kids will score me high for presentation, and low for taste.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 12, 2004 3:42 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

Just put a guest entry over at Rude Cactus!

***edited to include text of guest blog entry "Crunch Time"***

I've never guest blogged before. The power! THE POWER! Bwahahahahaha!
*head thrown back, shaking raised fists in the air*

Speaking of power - I've been busy in self-contemplation, and I think that I'm more likely to be a evil super power than a force for good. To wit:

1) I laugh when surrounded by chaos.
2) I unleash my hell-spawn on our community on a semi-frequent basis.
3) Save the world or watch Desperate Housewives? Not even a tough call.
4) I have about eight arms, which I use like a snake charmer and also? To shock and awe.
5) I like to dress like a bad girl.

Shortly after the birth of my second child, I ventured to the zoo for an outing with a friend. All was well until the baby had a diaper blowout of epic proportions, and my 18 month old took off for the playground while I was trying to change his diaper.

Crunch time. Baby with naked, poo-covered butt. Toddler heading for the hills. Stroller with purse and camera and video camera and enough supplies to survive a winter in the arctic plus run a triage unit in a major city hospital, resulting in a heavy load that required two hands to push.

Time's up. What do you do?

With a strangled aaaaaargh! I shouldered my month old son, slimy naked hiney displayed to God and Country, and abandoned the stroller as I sprinted after my fleeing, flapping daughter, who had the indecency to giggle and say "git you!" at me as I was closing in on her. In slow motion, I reached a hand out, and snagged her shoulder. I spun on my heel, long hair swinging in an arc, baby wailing, and toddler protesting. We made it back to the stroller and I held my daughter's torso snuggly between my knees while I wrangled the baby in to a clean diaper.

And then I began to laugh and cry at the same time.

That was the transforming moment, when I went from normal woman to Evil Mommy. I'm thinking the time has come for me to design an outfit. Probably would be a good idea to stick with poo-brown, though, to save on dry cleaning.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 11, 2004 9:56 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (1)

I was chatting on the telephone with my friend, and trying to load the dishwasher. I say trying, because I was stopping every 30 seconds to remove the 22 month old from the area. She loves to swipe silverware, and thinks it's hysterical to close the door as I'm trying to put things in. My conversation with my friend drifted to those rollicking childfree days where we didn't need dishwashers, since we were so hot and were treated to frequent meals out with handsome dates. Sigh.

Then we reminisced about our childhoods spent slaving over the dishes every evening, while our parents engaged in adult conversation and relaxation. (No, Mom, I don't think you were really relaxing. Now, anyway.)

THE INJUSTICE! My sister and I used to say that our parents had us for the sole purpose of washing their dishes every night. We complained bitterly, but you know, it was really one of our only chores, so boo-hoo little spoiled Jenny. We also used to sing at the top of our lungs while we washed, and not the blues, either. I still hum "Clementine" while I'm washing pans.

You know those "lightbulb moments" that Oprah is always talking about? Well, I had one. I thought, hey! I've got me some kids. And they love to play with water and soap. They can do the dishes! Bwahahahahahaha!

It hasn't worked out yet. I stand vigilant, and gently remind my kids that PRETTY PONIES AREN'T DISHES and SOAP STINGS EYES while I resist the urge to remove them bodily and just do it myself. My plans for indentured servitude and world domination are failing.

Holy moly! Another lightbulb moment! Maybe just having the kids stand near the sink will be enough motivation to make me WANT to do the dishes.

Have I talked about my kids and butter yet? They are all like Homer Simpson. Mmmm. Butter. Seriously. I frequently find sticks of butter with a huge bite out of them. If I am using butter in a recipe, they sit at my side and beg for a pat. Which I do not give them, because it's BUTTER. Not a stand-alone snack.

Nevertheless, they find ways to get their fix. This morning, I buttered some toast for the baby, and was chatting with my mom on the phone. I watched her slurp the melted butter off the surface of the bread, and then tear the bread into pieces and scatter them on the floor. (Yes, I could have stopped it, but it was buying me a few moments of conversation.)

I shared this snapshot of my morning with my mother, who said "Well, just call Donna in. She'll eat it." Nope. My dog will not eat toast. She will not eat 99% of dog food. She does, however like her some chow mein and lemon chicken. She also loves pizza and fried chicken. Even my DOG prefers take-out. I think there's a lightbulb moment in there somewhere.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 11, 2004 8:35 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

Remember me? The Mistress of Outrage in the face of would-be panty viewers? Get this:

While walking up to the kindergarten classroom, with a zillion other parents hanging about, my son pinched my butt. When I looked down at him, he had two hands over his mouth (looking for all the world like the speak no evil monkey, by the way) and was giggling.

Trying for an imperious, but for his ears only tone, I said "We do not pinch. Ever."

He replied, at the top of his lungs. "Sorry, Mommy."

Two steps later...

He DID IT AGAIN. Now, I'm amongst my peers, most of whom watch with unbridled glee while I behave like a loony sheep-herding dog trying to get the kids and the dog to move in the general direction I need them to go. Today, without the dog, I figured I would be less conspicuous. With Butt-Pinching Boy testing limits, it was apparent that my issues are comedy gold.

Squelching my urge to Aaaaaaaaaargh! at him, I dropped to my knees and got all up in his face and hissed "No pinching. Evaaaaaaaaaah."

He winked. Right at me. Just big as you please. All around me, parents began to titter behind hands.

"I mean it!" I was getting a little louder now. "Pinching hurts bodies and feelings. DO NOT PINCH." Satisfied that I had crushed that urge into the pavement, I stood up.

HE DID IT AGAIN. A BIG PINCH ON MY BIG BUTT. Oh, hell no.

First of all, I yelped, because it was unexpected and it hurt. And then I looked down at my son, standing there with two palms raised and an innocent look on his face and said "Why? Why did you just pinch me?"

He shrugged and shouted "I just couldn't help myself! IT HAD TO BE DONE!"

With that, the group around us started to howl with laughter, and I fought to remain stern and disapproving. We marched double-time back to the car, with the baby in the stroller yelling "Bye! Bye!" as we passed through the throngs of parents. My son beamed at all the parents. He would have been throwing roses if he had any.

As I put them back in their carseats, my son said "Sorry, Mommy."

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry I pinched you."

"Thank you for apologizing. It's not funny, and I don't want you to do it again."

Just then, the baby farted, and all four of us laughed until our sides ached. Oh, parenting gods, was this a sign?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 10, 2004 1:37 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

Thursday is Veteran's Day, and a school holiday. This throws me off. Three days school, one day off, one more day school, two days off. I'm out of whack just thinking about it. I don't know where I'll find whack to replace the whack that will be out. I don't even know what whack is.

Cluck!

Speaking of holidays, my kindergartener is learning about Thanksgiving at school. Every day, she brings home a "Native American" craft - Native Americans are totally all about the construction paper and staples. She is full of "First Thanksgiving" stories, and emphasizes CORN. CORN was SO IMPORTANT. And HATS. Also important, because that way you could tell the peoples apart. By their HATS. The class is baking cranberry bread on Friday, and the kids are learning their lines for the Kindergarten Thanksgiving Pageant, held sometime next week. Unless whack is involved, then it maybe the week after.

While giving them their bath, I decided to teach them the two turkey songs I know, because I am an involved parent, and eager to help reinforce the curriculum. And I like to sing silly songs.

Five fat turkeys are we,
We run around, you see,
On Thanksgiving Day,
We will run away,
So you won't make dinner out of me.

and

Oh gobble, gobble, gobble
Fat turkey, fat turkey
Oh gobble, gobble, gobble
Fat turkeys are we.
We're not long for livin'
'Cause this is Thanksgivin'
Oh gobble, gobble, gobble
Fat turkeys are we.

About the third time through, I started actually listening to the lyrics. Poor fat turkeys! So fearful, so tormented, so resigned. It was freaking me out a bit. Not the kids though. They seized on the concept like good little Pilgrims and began freestyling.

Five little turkeys falling off the bed
Landed on the dog and squished him up to his head.

Turkey, yummy
I'm gonna eat you dummy!
(We do not say dummy, even about a turkey! But mooooom, they like it!)

It went on and on. Turkeys avenging turkeykind. Turkeys leaping into ovens and off of roofs. I finally had to engage them with a round of Jingle Bells to get the tormented turkey talk to end.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 9, 2004 7:56 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

"Mama - you do it!" My son looked on in abject terror as I brandished the inhaler.

"I'm trying to do it, if you'll just hold still and let me spray this crap into your face!" I am paraphrasing, but the gist should be identifiable. I might not have said "crap," for example. We struggled for another minute, the boy getting more hysterical and me getting less AP with each passing second . I think I told him I was going to strap him to the cabinet with duct tape. Again, taking the 5th on that.

In a fit of exasperation, I finally sat him on my lap so he could watch me take a rip of Qvar off the kid-sized bong with the attached face mask. He furrowed his brows and watched me intently, sure I was going to keel over and confirm his suspicions that I was trying to poison him.

Having made myself sick to my stomach (Qvar=blech!) but selling it like a pro (I'd like to thank the Academy) I resettled him on my lap and convinced him to take his puffs like a good soldier.

Parents are like the Royal Taste-testers and Court Jesters all rolled up together.

SEE Mommy in rapture over green beans!

HEAR how she does not die from taking that medicine, and in fact enjoys the cherry flavor muchly!

WITNESS the general awesomeness that is flossing!

LISTEN as she performs an epic poem about early bedtime!

LAUGH as she tries to reason with your sugar-addled brain!

You know, I would die to protect my children. I really would. But do I REALLY have to wash all the pesto sauce off the freakin' ravioli because today it is icky when yesterday it was not? Should I flog myself for being able to read minds while I am unwilling to comply with their borg-like will? Shall every new anything be preceded by a parental dress rehersal and subsequent play-by-play rehash?

I spent much of my morning at the doctor's office again, trying to get to the bottom of my little guy's hacking cough and labored breathing. Nowhere else on the planet (except maybe at my MIL's house) do I perform so much surrogate service. My son wants to see MY ears looked in, my tongue squashed, my back frozen by the stethescope, and he wants details, people. The doctor was into humoring crazy sick kids...

Oh! Get this: we are walking behind the nurse from the waiting room to the exam room, when my son suddenly starts clutching his face and crying. When I say suddenly, I mean, one second he is behind me, trotting along, and the next he is behind me, still on his feet, weeping hysterically. Apparently, he fell down, hit his forehead on the heel of my wooden soled clog - without me feeling or hearing it, and bounced back to his feet before anyone saw him fall. He had a nice divet out of his head, and the nurse and I were flabbergasted. It's like it happened on an alternate timeline.

Anyway, so I endured a check of my facial orifices, while exclaiming "whee!" and "that was tickly and fun!" Then she asked us to go get a chest x-ray. I had to draw the line at taking off my top and standing in front of the camera. The tech seemed vaguely bummed, but thankfully, we're talking about the Nudito Bandito, so he was more than happy to lose his shirt for the chance to see his bones on film.

Luckily, it's a minor infection, and with the new drugs we got on our way home, it should clear up. And who knows... one of these drugs might actually be fun! Whee!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 8, 2004 6:31 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (11)

I enjoy reading the stories in your magazine each month, but I never thought something like that could happen to me until a few nights ago, when I stepped out of my sheltered, stay-at-home-mom life and took a flying leap into the world of MOMS GONE WILD.

For several years, many of my social interactions stemmed from an intimate internet community of women. Late one evening, while 'chatting' online, a plan was hatched for a weekend getaway in Tempe, Arizona. While the other mamas made plans, I ruled it out immediately. I had never left my children before. Money was tight. My husband was not likely to be supportive. It seemed impossible.

As I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor a few days later, pot of macaroni and cheese in one hand and a sippy cup in the other, listening to the cacophonous whining coming from my impatient children, a vision planted itself in my brain.

I was dressed in a flirty summer dress that didn't include nursing openings. I was squirming in my seat as a delectable plate of food was placed in front of me. I savored my food, and smiled benevolently at my companions, occasionally tossing out a well received, witty remark.

I shook my head violently as I rinsed the plates at the sink. "That's it," I announced to the faucet. "I'm going." As the kids napped, I purchased my flights, and booked my hotel room. My husband registered a half-hearted protest, but wisely interpreted the crazed look in my eyes as "VACATION BOUND, SUCKAH!"

Eager to book my room quickly, I gave them the wrong dates by an entire week. I blame this on lack of sleep and all available brain space being occupied by the lyrics to "The Wheels On The Bus" and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." A few phone calls netted me an executive suite and a favorite buddy to share the room.

One of the mamas decided that we all needed tiaras, and loaded her suitcase full of glittery regal-ness. Not to be undone, I decided that we needed feather boas as well. I had two-dozen feather boas shipped straight to the hotel. As I packed my bag the night before, I was nervous. All the what-ifs crowded my head, and made it tough to sleep.

Kissing my family goodbye the next morning, I wiped away tears and turned the key. The car sprang to life and as I rounded the corner from my house, I turned up the volume on the stereo. Apparently, the husband had been listening to Guns N Roses. As I howled along with the first few lines of "Paradise City," I suddenly let out a war whoop and shot my fist into the air.

I was met at the airport by several other incoming mamas. Together, we descended on a local restaurant to meet up with earlier arrivals. Most of the other women had brought spouses and children along. As I made the rounds, I was struck by how gorgeous each of these women were. Celebrating my first night out without my children, I ordered a gigantic drink and found myself giggling and hugging people left and right.

We retired to the hotel, where my suitemate and I picked up our keys and the box of feather boas. When we joined the rest of the gang, the party was in full swing. A standard hotel room full of giggling women in tiaras, eating chocolate fondue greeted us with cheers, and when we handed out the boas, many vampy photos were taken. Sultry looks were thrown at the husbands, who stood en masse at the far end of the room, herding the children behind them. What next? Would the tops come off? In that we were mostly nursing mothers, you could bank on it. Woo!

The following day was spent wandering an urban art festival in small groups. We meandered about, enjoying corn dogs (quick, take a picture of me biting this corn dog!) piña coladas, funnel cakes, beer and frozen, chocolate covered bananas on a stick (Ooh! Look at me bite the banana! I’m dirrrrrty! Take a picture!) We returned to the hotel where we lolled by the pool and drank some more, while swapping slightly naughty stories.

As dark fell, we decided to return to our room for the evening. By virtue of my poor planning, we had ended up with a suite that included a full conference table, living room and a large screen TV. We ordered pizza to be delivered, and sent runners down to the bar for another round. The pizza boy was grinning ear to ear as we bedecked him in boas and tiaras and made him pose on the table. The husbands and children grew tired and they returned to their rooms, leaving just the mamas to carry on.

We changed into our pajamas and partied on into the wee hours. There may have been a pillow fight, in white cotton panties and babydoll nighties. I'm not saying. With our flights leaving at 9 am the next morning, my suitemate and I crawled into our king-sized bed, where we passed the final few hours before dawn in a happy stupor. When we pulled our luggage out the next morning, the bounty of feathers that had dropped from the boas rose in cheerful little puffs in our wake, a final salute to crazy dames.

Back at home, I gave out presents and kisses. I felt wonderful. There was a spring in my step, and a twinkle in my eye. I felt like I had gotten away with something.

Two weeks later, I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test, in shock. My youngest child, as best as we can figure, was conceived right before I left town. Shockingly, we couldn’t remember if we had even, uh, been together. With all the confusion, my husband declared that he was never letting me go out of town again, and I informed my suitemate that she was the “co-mother” of our Tempe Love Child.

True to his word, it’s been almost three years since that wild weekend. I’m ready for another vacation – but I’m thinking I better bring the husband and leave off with the miracle boas, lest I spontaneously reproduce.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 7, 2004 1:07 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (26)

I should note that it took me three tries to write that title - as I have had a wee bit to drink the evening, and my fingers were convinced that the word was Cowbebs. Which, in the grand scheme, is a great word, and I might start using it.

Anyhoo - I spent a good portion of the day sorting through my closet and bedroom, trying to find homes for much of the clutter that has taken up tenacious residence on every flat surface. This is aggressive clutter, with an ogre-like stance. It did not want to go quietly.

Unlike Mir, whose hot new glasses spurred her on in a marathon cleaning session of her own, my own motivations for cleaning were murky. Sure, it had to be done. I shouldn't have let the clutter set up outposts and stockpile weapons. As I sipped my cup of coffee this morning, I mentally prepared myself for the battle.

Ugly pants? Check. Ponytail? Check. Garbage bags? Check. Good music? Check. I reached for the first basket of clutter and was dropped to my knees by a stack of baby photos of my son. So cute. Must look fondly at baby boy. I set aside the stack, and dove back in. Midway through the first hour, I had the makings of a season-ending headache, but I soldiered on. I could take one for the team. They were counting on me! I made a fair dent, swallowed a couple of Advil tablets and headed back in.

Ignoring the taunts from the laundry basket full of thirty pairs of kid shoes, none of which fit any of my children, I turn back to the stack of recipes that I had pulled out of their respective cookbooks to do what? Why did I take them out? Do I even have this book anymore? Ooh! Baked Oatmeal.

Full stop. Must make Baked Oatmeal. I turned my back on the clutter, knowing that it would be pawing through the playbook and ready to wipe the floor with me when I got back. As I slid the pan into the oven, I felt a huge twinge in my back, and a complimentary throb in my temple. I chugged a big glass of water and sprawled on the chaise in the living room, wrist over my eyes.

My husband poked his head in the door and asked "You okay?"

"No, I'm Headache Girl. And my back hurts."

"Oh. Hmm. Okay." He disappeared into the kitchen.

It dawned on me, just that moment, that whenever we plan a big "catching up" day, I end up with a raging headache, or some other malaise overtakes me, leaving me pissy and broken.

"Babe! I think I have an anti-housework gene!" I hollered into the kitchen. "I get sick headaches every time I try too hard!"

"It's psychosomatic, but whatever," he offers. "Could be all the dust you're kicking up..."

"Yeah, yeah." I went back in, armed with my ENJO dust glove. Using my gigantic brain, I decided to tie a red bandana over my nose and mouth to help filter out dust. Then I came upon the rest of the costume, and promptly donned the kid-sized black felt cowboy hat and "Sheriff" star.

A few minutes were spent swaggering around the room, warning the clutter that "This here house ain't big enough for the both of us" and "Best be outta here by sundown" with fits of giggles and pretend quickest-draw-in-the-west finger-pointing action. Then I stood in the bathroom and practiced lines from "The Quick and The Dead" for a few more minutes. That is some funny, funny stuff.

The hat started to itch a bit and the handkerchief seemed like a stupid idea after all, so I turned on Bollywood Flashback Part II and had myself a funky old time moving stacks of things to new locations.

All told, I carried out a foot high stack of catalogs and other mysteriously kept junkmail, several large bags of trash and a couple more of items for charity. I will be back at it tomorrow - fortified with Baked Oatmeal and strong coffee.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 6, 2004 9:13 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

When the crib rail rattling started at 4:30 this morning, I burrowed a little deeper into the pillow, and scrunched my eyes up real tight like, so the husband would only have to crack open his eyes and see that I was SLEEPING REALLY DEEPLY and would go quell the uprising his ownself.

Clack-a clack-a clack-a clack-a clack-a clack-a!

The wee inmate had not started calling out names and demands. I lay still, feeling my left leg and hip go numb. Must. Not. Roll. Over. Do. NOT. Want. To. Seem. Awake.

CLACK-A CLACK-A

*crickets chirping*

BOOM!

The sound of tiny feet in footie pajamas came bustling up to my side of the bed. "Hiya!" says my girl. "I down. Wake up! Get up! Up! Up!"

When I failed to respond, she started to screech and hop up and down. My husband lifted up on one elbow, looked over my STILL TOTALLY SLEEPING (hah) form and said "Aw, Freak-out. Le Freak, c'est chic." totally deadpan. She stopped and glared at him. The important thing here is that SHE STOPPED. It was a good save.

We find ourselves frequently singing to our children in their hour of need. I guess we could quote poetry, or great literature, but we seem to revert to the truly familiar. And it stuns them to see me or the hubs launch into a manic rendition.

My oldest was beginning an epic tantrum over my lack of interest in purchasing her a trio of parakeets to torment. I launched into a very upbeat version of "Big Girls Don't Cry-yi-yi" complete with schizophrenic backing vocals and a weird dance. Now all she has to do it say "Para..." and I start pumping my arms and rotating my hips and she just stops.

Another favorite tantrum song is the chorus of "Tragedy" by the Bee Gees. It really can be a showstopper. As can Bohemian Rhapsody.

We're just a bunch of singing fools here at Three Kid Circus.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 5, 2004 10:47 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (17)

I'm savoring my first cup of coffee of the day. And it's 11:45 am. This is SO wrong that I don't know how to explain it.

What with the cold, grey weather, and the cloud of blah hanging over the planet right now, I hereby proclaim a Stooge Day.

Stooge Day is a childhood tradition shared by me and my sister. On cold, cruddy days, we would hang out in the backyard, either perched on top of the swingset thinking up naughty things we could say to the boy who lived over the fence (poopie-head!) or collecting pods from the Pedanyo tree (I don't know what this tree's species actually is, but we called it a Pedanyo and it had pods.) We used the pods for elaborate rituals that we concocted on the spot.

Stooge days were filled with secret society meetings, reinacting scenes from Little Women and Trixie Belden, and dressing in the strangest outfits we could put together. The best part of Stooge Day was eating a pomegranate and spitting the seedlets. We would be stained purply-red for days - a sign of our tribal allegiance and participation in Stooge Day.

*closing eyes and chanting*

Hi lo eenie meenie ka-ka, um-chow chow with a pee-wa-wa! Icka-da meenie ox-eye, boom-dee iddie, addie, oodie, yoo-hoo.

There was never a television on, or a formal meal eaten. We ate finger sandwiches under the picnic table with a blanket draped over the top. We made up plays and fought over starring rolls. (If this sounds familiar - you have to check out the Early Reader books about the Golly Sisters. May-May and Rose ARE me and my sister.)

Which reminds me - the much admired RocketMom was inspired by my "If I was a better mom" entry a while back, and created a button - voila!

I inspired ART, people. That is Stoogerific. Feel free to swipe it for your own sites - and let me know. We can be a not-so-secret club!

Anyway, the whole point of Stooge Day was and IS: be silly. Spend some time making ridiculous plans. Chant nonsense. Act out a fantasy. Eat a pomegranate. Laugh with someone you love. And come up with a real zinger of an insult for the mean kid next door.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 4, 2004 11:40 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

Congrats to Lindsey!

I'll email you about your surprise :)

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 4, 2004 7:35 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

Hey! What with all my personal trauma and serious loss of funny today, I didn't notice that Three Kid Circus is almost at 5,000 hits.

Dude, that's like SO MANY.

Screen-shot it, and email it to me - #5000 gets a surprise!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 3, 2004 9:31 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)

First of all - THANK YOU for all your kind words. It helped me put this situation in perspective, which was no easy task.

All the kindergarteners were given a stern talking-to, the panty raiders were made to apologize and the ringleader's mother was called. I hope that his parents reinforce the message from the school. I don't know that we've completely slayed this dragon - apparently my daughter's good friend was teased by the same kids for tattling (she didn't - my husband and I did) but they backed down when the friend stood up to them. Sigh.

I will say that when I saw the bounce in my daughter's step as she left class today, and the sparkle in her eye as she talked about the bits and pieces of her day, I let go of some of the angst. I hope that it ends here.

These other kids are good kids, from good homes - and I'm sure someday I'll be the parent on the other end of the phone saying "My kid did WHAT?" The parenting gods are like that - keeping us humble, lest we forget the unkind thoughts we harbored about the "Jimmys" and "Tommys" of the world. But tonight, I'm glad my daughter knows that we're in her corner, and that she has a right to stand up for herself (even as I wish she never has to.)

I've been humming R-E-S-P-E-C-T all night.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%November 3, 2004 8:39 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)

I'm a swirl of emotions right now. I'm angry and scared. I'm feeling righteous and proud. I didn't sleep much last night.

And it has nothing to do with the election.

My oldest has been coming home from school with a backpack full of art projects, an empty lunch box, and hurt feelings. She told me a week ago that "Jimmy" has been trying to see her panties, and that he won't leave her alone.

When I pulled the details out, it became apparent that "Jimmy" and "Tommy" like to sit behind her during circle time, and could see the waistband on her underpants, because her jeans gapped slightly at the waist. When they teased my daughter about it, they got a strong reaction (she told them to leave her alone, in an angry voice).

I mentioned it to the teacher, who assured me that she would address it. I began dressing my daughter in pants that fit close at the waist, with shirts tucked in. "Jimmy" was sick a couple of days last week, and I thought we were done.

But yesterday, my daughter came home agitated, and said that "Jimmy," "Tommy," and "Susie" were trying to pull her