survival skills

Observe: mismatched socks, rah-rah skirt with velvet strips, salmon shirt of a different hue-d purple, bald spots cut in by her brother in a moment of "helpful" 5 year-old inspiration. What you don't see: The tantrum and distraction tactics it took just to get the shoes to match and her out the door in a reasonable mood, the other bald spots, the nubbie and stained castle shirt under the salmon shirt.

I kept hoping that no one would notice her on our day trip to the Queen's palace, Holyrood, in Edinburgh. But it is the Queen's palace and it is Edinburgh and G is, what I call, "super two." They chalked it up to our American-ness. What they didn't realize is that it's just who G is right now and I generally only intervene when there are threats of bloodshed or "poo-poo stupid" name-calling.

Earlier this year, I had posted a story of what I thought Bug's brain looked like - the rooms and corridors of facts and animals lining the Natural History Museum in London. Each animal and corner whispering its own stories to him. Below, I offer what I think G's brain must look like. A room strewn with loving colors and an elusive wanted thing stuck in the back under a unknown banana hidden by my children "for later." Because, as much as I love them, I never seem to feed them enough. From my experience with the littles prior to having kids of my own, I know that these super-two seasons can last weeks or months or years or lifetimes. I now know that we will survive this when-G-never-matched season, no matter how long it lasts, because there is random rotting food hidden around my house from which they will feed.

of money and baldness

Take a look at my kid. I've often thought that someone could make a lot of money off this mug.

I inherited the ability to talk to myself from my mother. She can often be found in her yard having sweet conversations with herself while pulling stubborn honeysuckle from the earth. I can be found muttering stories for this blog while walking this guy home from school. When I've muttered one enough, I sit down and write it out just for you. But, today, my writing process was scrapped.

Today, I was trying to save money for this kid's future. I was on a very long, long distance phone call with USAA. They don't have international 1-800 numbers, so the charge is all mine to incur. These are the kinds of things I'm very happy to do for my family. I like being a parent. I like worrying about his financial and educational future. I like sticking up for him and his allergies. I like him. Except, when on this phone call to save for his future, he cuts numerous bald spots in his sister's hair.

I was muttering more than blog stories today when I found my disturbingly shorn daughter playing happily with the transgressor pictured above.

I'm trying to figure out how to make money off that mug above as that's the only way I know how to pay off the cost of a hairstylist that will actually attempt to fix the inflicted baldness. Also, when I look at this incident in the big picture of who my son is, I have a feeling that this is not the only cost that I will bear. There's just no way I know how to afford his experimental nature without him footing at least some of the bill....

other than allergies

Try saying, "M is anaphylactic to all forms of milk and egg in any amount baked into any food." Then, if people don't understand what anaphylaxis is you must repeat the same information in a different way, "M stops breathing if he eats any form of milk and egg in any amount baked into any food." Mouthful. No pun intended. It wears me out some days, though it is always my pleasure to provide this safety buffer for him. Being new, even a year-and-a-half new, I must always be on my best behavior as I don't want to offend someone that I might need in an anaphylactic emergency. I've found I must always have his life-threatening allergies be one of the first things you learn about my family. I have found that, rightfully so, I get questions that cause me to remember the anaphylactic episodes in the midst of relative strangers. One of the reasons I wouldn't want to return to home is because a return means that I have to be new again. I would have to remember in the most unlikely places with relative strangers what happens when M eats one of the allergens that sends his body into anaphylaxis. I went out with some ladies the other night and it seemed that whenever the conversation came round to me his allergies came up. It was overwhelming for me.

A few years back, I was searching for something to keep a conversation going with a very boring person I had met. Work. I only knew about her work. So I asked about her work. She then brought up that she liked Irish Dancing. I asked why. She pointedly replied, "Because they don't only talk to me about work." Letting her rude comment reply slip by, I only thought to myself, "Well, I'd have more to talk to you about if you offered a bit more, Ms. Boring." Maybe I'm too boring to talk to? Perhaps I need to offer a bit more than M's anaphylaxis? Though, I can't see how one couldn't guess that there is loads more interesting about us than M's anaphylaxis. I offer the video below as a bit more about ourselves. We like costumes, cross-dressing, and saving imaginary animals in peril...for a start...

Sorry, once again, my technologically odd skills come to light. Please copy and paste in your browser window. Merci.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gcCrgIleqkQ

Too hard to whistle...

It is jaw-dropping news to my sisters that I have become more fastidious the older that I become. This blossoming skill of mine is also in direct contradiction to the life-purpose of my children. Still, I try my best to maintain some sort of cleaning regime within the chaos and grunge these littles exude. I found a new "eco-cleaner" at the store, which is hard to do here in Glasgow. It not only smelled nicely, but when I started to use it today I found that it was working, very, very well! Happy Saturday to me!

It is a sign of a good debater to be able to argue the opposing side's view as well as your own. (The kids are excellent debaters. Excellent.) With this in mind, I changed my cleaning viewpoint and sat at the dining table in G's spot. With my new cleaner in my new cleaning spot, I was happy to wash the table. It was then that I discovered that the rental agency's table did not have marks and mars organic to the wood and giving it character. No. No. It was all grime that I just couldn't see from my standard cleaning angle. I was working too hard to swallow a spoonful of sugar or whistle while I worked... Where is the young Julie Andrews and her special effects crew when I need her?

boys are smelly

Costume changes are imperative for G. In fact, the wildness of her outfits is in direct proportion to how late I am and how potty trained she is. I was running late and needed her to be reliably potty trained. Therefore, I allowed her out the door in her brother's underwear, a diaphanous blue tutu, the heart sweatshirt you see above, wellie boots, red knee highs, and the kitty cat hat pictured below. To state the obvious, I was in a hurry and therefore and sadly, I don't have a picture.

We went to C's house for a long playdate. It was G, two boys, a girl and a few mums. G loved chasing the two boys for a while. They played all the games she understood from her older brother: Crashing cars, chase and tackle, jump on the bed, build/crash tall towers. Then, the boys had to use the potty. From the sound of things and without being graphic, the boys had a lot of boy type of fun in the bathroom. Amid this fun, G came down stairs in her outfit. She looked deeply into my eyes. She wondered if I would handle this information she was about to impart. She said, "Boys are smelly." The mums laughed. I said, "Hm." She then said, "I don't like boys. Not at all." I said, "I think boys are fine. M is a boy." She sighed a sigh of exasperation, pointed to the raucous potty-goers upstairs, "These are boys. They are smelly. M is not a boy. He is my brother." Then one mum said, "I'm sorry G, but boys will be smelly for the rest of your life." G replied, "But I don't like them today." She proceeded to list the boys she did like, "I like M. I like Papa. I like UDP. I like UB. I like....I like them WHEN they are not smelly." All of the boys in her rather long list were in her family, immediate and extended. That's right, you only have to tolerate someone if they are in your family and only if they are not too smelly. After we mums received our lecture on who G liked and did not like and why, she went to play "dinosaurs attack barbie land" with the girl in the group who became distressed when a triceratops ate barbie's head, but soon got with the decidedly boisterous and destructive and not smelly program. Thankfully, G was indeed reliably potty loving the whole morning.