Survival of the Best-Dressed

By all rights, I should tell you about Thunder Baby's first haircut. How he likes me to whisper the words, "whisper, whisper, whisper, cuddle, cuddle, cuddle" in his ear and then how he gives me a large, soft-mouthed baby-kiss on the cheek that is more "like a fart than a kiss" according to Little M. But what I need to tell you is that G is adorably nuts. I try to find a theme to sum up her dress sense. "Drag-Queen-Gone-Bad" was a thought when she requested a jewel-sparkled-rainbow-with-butterflies belt for her birthday that is 6 months from now.  But, that term didn't catch the near lunacy of her preferences nor the sometimes sheer genius and cuteness when items do remarkably flow together. Note: I never use the word "match" in reference to her clothing choices. I thought "crazy bag lady," after the woman who lurked outside my university study hall after hours. But, G does not mutter to the wind, has no independence privileges after sunset, and the bag lady, I have to honestly say, dressed much better than G does about 75% of the time. G is not wearing a coat in the above picture because lions don't ever wear coats. Haven't you ever watched National Geographic Safari? No coats on lions. However, according to her, lions do wear bandanas, hello-kitty skirts, rainbow leggings and mismatched neon socks. Lions also apparently survive suffocation. Today I walked into the kitchen to find Big M saying to G, "Take the plastic bag off your head." G replied, "Ok, but lions can do that you know." She then goes on to say, "I could put a hole in it..." in a hopeful manner, as if a hole-y plastic bag would trump our request for her to survive despite her fashion choices. I must have fallen asleep during that last installment of National Geographic Safari. You know, the one where the lions walk around with plastic bags covering their heads...

A year in the life of T-bird.

Happy Birthday T-Bird! 

We are thrilled you're here!

                                                                  Thunderbird born.

                                                         4 months old. Fingers preferred.

5 months old traveling to the U.S.

6 months old.

Technical difficulties downloading 7 month old pic.... :(

8 months old at the ocean.

9 months old hiking thru Forest Park!

10 months old!

                                             11 months and attacking his sister's hair...

Preg Head

I have some really great pictures and a few stories to share, but getting it all together would mean that I would most likely forget to tell you the most important story of this week. So, no pictures and no sifting through what to share...just this one tidbit. G has taken to calling her beloved stuffies by their patent or registration numbers on their tags instead of their names. So Lolly her lamb is now 516. Horsie is now 247z8. These names/numbers are abbreviated because I would forget the longer strings of numbers as I forgot that I did the dishes this morning. I  walked into the kitchen with the sole purpose of doing the dishes and saw that they were done. I thought G was the fairy dish mother. She said, "No." I then broke into a sweat and thought maybe there was a very dark deep chasm in our time/space continuum like on a Star Trek or Battlestar Galactica episode or something and now I had proof. My dishes were done! But then G said, "You just did them mum." Aha. Yes. I remember now. I had done them right after I found 516 and 247z8 in my sock drawer whilst putting away the clothes. What?! Who put away the clothes?!

they win

To steal from the latest Sherlock Holmes, I find children just as Sherlock finds horses, "Dangerous on both ends and crafty in the middle." There is something innately gross about children. There are, of course, the dirty appendages. Little M, dutifully removed his shoes at the door, yet his socks were so dirty they left squidgie marks on the carpet and floors. Then, there is the perpetual dampness from runny noses, tears from real injuries or perceived yet non-existant ills, blood and pus from said injuries as they are healing and picked at and healing again, drool, diapers, spit-up, snot... My modus operandi in life is to make an encounter successful for as many involved as possible. The kids will not stop picking their noses no matter how often I ask or bark or threaten. Neither party is successful in that case. Therefore, I think, why ask or bark or threaten? Rather, I offer what I find to be great opportunities. I said, just the other day to the kids, "You could pick your noses at night. Wait all day. I bet there would be big boogars at the end of the day and we could wash your hands in the morning and I wouldn't have to witness anything." Little M considered and said, "Well, I just harvest them in the morning." G said, "Oh, I eat them all day. When can we teach T-Bird to pick his nose?" They are gross. They win. Bleach and industrial hazard showers needed.

new identity acquired

There are some phrases and actions that I know without a doubt come from outside my house rather than within my house. For example, Big M knows that I am right 99% of the time and I am also aware of my uncanny ability to be almost infallible. Therefore, the rhetorical question, "Am I right?" never surfaces in our house. I am right, usually. And, usually, everyone else is not.

So, the other day, we were stumped as to what the Big Hohoho would bring our little minions especially Little M. When asked, Little M sighed, "I don't see what he could possibly bring me." For reasons too large for this blog entry, I am interested in Little M arriving carefully at the truth; if you believe in Santa he will bring you a gift. If you don't, he won't.

We asked, "What do you mean? Santa can do some surprising things." He replied, "Well, he knows your rules too. No video games. Am I right? No lizards. Am I right? No snakes. Am I right? No fish or tarantulas or hissing cockroaches. Am I right?" His list continued and in 6 year-old parlance, he was indeed right. Very right. Learned-the-phrase-on-the-playground-right. "Not even in a glass tank!" right. According to Little M, "Santa's you know, a good guy, but I'm not so sure he can change your mind."

I am many identities. I am a mother, a writer, a wife, a sister.... but, this year I added a new identity. I am a 6-year-old's buzz kill. Am I right?