Can You Feel the Love Tonight?

husband: Doesn't ice cream sound good right now?

me: (Silence. I know what's coming.)

husband: Should I go get some?

me: Sure. (Here it comes...)

husband: Ohhh, I'm SO tired. Do you want to go get some?

me: No thanks. I'm tired. It's late.

husband: Oh. Yeah. Right, right. I'll go. (Silence. No movement on his end of the couch.) Man, it was such a stressful day. I'm totally feeling it in my back. It's KILLING me...

me: Fine. I'll go.

husband: Really? Ok, but only if you want to.

me: Remember when we we're first married and you never let me go anywhere at night because you were terrified something horrible might happen to me?

husband: Yeah... Vanilla Heathbar sounds good to me.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

Yesterday was Christmas in July on our kitchen floor. Mr. and Mrs. Claus, masquerading as Grandma Lainey and Grandpa Nudge, dropped by with a jumbo-sized black trash bag stuffed to the gills with old princess gowns from our friend Jennie's granddaughter. Lil' Miss was awestruck. Dumbstruck. Movestruck. She just sat there. The phrase "She didn't know what to do with herself" comes to mind. Nearly drowning in the foofy mounds of pastel taffeta and chiffon, I could see she needed a moment in the coach's corner, "Breathe, honey. Breeeeeathe."

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day playing wardrobe assistant. Putting on the blue Cinderella gown with matching clutch bag. Now taking it off. Now the chartreuse Tinkerbell ballet suit with biddy wings. Now taking it off. Now the Snow White dress with white cape that is not quite making it over her head. Now taking it off (but not without first bracing my hand against her skull for leverage against said cape). Replacing with pink Aurora dress and crown, and so on, and so forth... All of it exhausting, but too precious and short-lived in the whole scheme of life to really complain about.

Little did we know that the Mary Poppins bag-of-neverending-princess-costumes had one final gift to bestow. One costume, nearly overlooked and discarded down at the bottom of the bag, was discovered by Lil' Miss early this morning. Not even remotely princessish, this prize find ended up providing more entertainment than any of those frilly frocks ever could. Lil' Miss decided that this little doosey was definitely going to be worn, but not by just anyone. It could only be worn by one, THE one, worthy of all its splendor. I couldn't have agreed more. I grabbed the garb and scooped him into my lap. I was prepared to do whatever it took to wrestle him into this thing, but wiggle and squirm, he did not. He wanted to wear it, knew he was MEANT to wear it. From the candycane-stripped knee high socks all the way up to the red-haired night cap, he sat perfectly still, a willing participant. A good man knows when destiny is staring him straight in the knickers.

Funny how the word "destiny" never came up in my husband's emailed response when I sent him this picture. I do vaguely remember him saying something like, "if he... crossdresser... blame you..." Oh well. It was hours ago, so it's all a bit fuzzy to me now.

Sight for Sore Eyes

I'd be willing to bet that the word "disheveled" was definitely invented by a young mom. Only a young mom could come up with a word that so perfectly describes the way I look and feel most mornings. Actually, the word "haggard" works too.

This morning is no exception. I am hardly the diva at dawn. To write this, I'm typing with one hand and with the other pushing back a mop of nearly dreadlocked hair swirling around my head like a cotton candy machine. I have an inch thick line of black mascara smeared in football fashion under my eyes, and my eyeglasses are teetering on my nose at a forty-five degree angle. It's amazing my husband can stomach a goodbye kiss this morning. I know I couldn't.

Actually, the eyeglass mishap could have been prevented. As I fell asleep reading last night, I took them off by dropping them over the side of the bed. And truth be known, anything on the floor is fair game in our house. So as Baby Dude came bounding into my room first thing this morning, his destruction detector honed right in on those perfectly intact frames. I wince at the thought of BD's chubby, sticky fingers crushing its bridge and twisting each temple. Knowing my glasses the way I do, I'm sure they were cowering in his sight, screaming at decibals too high for human ears, begging for mercy. But sadly, no rescue ever came. Hours later, I found my glasses rammed between the tv and the entertainment unit, a bruised, beaten, and humiliated shell of a frame. I tried everything to revive its original shape, but there is no question now that a trip to Costco's optometry office is in order. As for the restored dignity of my glasses, well, let's just say we're still not on speaking terms.

As for my morning slovenliness (another, possibly even better word to describe my condition in the wee hours), it stands in stark contrast to the regality of Lil' Miss. While I stumble around in the kitchen playing the part of mummy from the crypt, she is all aglow, gliding through each room in a glittery pink princess gown and white flowy wedding veil that is trailing down her back. How she finds the will and where-with-all to put herself together like that each morning is beyond me. Maybe it's because these princess ensembles are not just costumes to her but the expression of her true nature. She is not just a simile of a princess, she is the whole stinkin' metaphor. Well, maybe its high time that I claim my own royal metaphor! You know, I could use a little glitter and silk myself every once in a while. And as the queen of this castle, I deserve it! So, um...does this mean I get to go shopping?

First Lie

Some sounds are undeniable and this one was no exception. The unmistakeable, meat-tenderizing "thunk" of a child's punch. I quickly moved from the kitchen to the living room where, sure enough, Baby Dude was leaning over the coffee table, his back arched out and his mouth gaped open in a "Did-she-really-just-do-that-to-me?" expression. Lil' Miss was close at hand, a little too close actually. Her hands were fiddling nervously behind her back and her guilty eyes were looking everywhere but at me.

"Lil' Miss, did something happen to Baby Dude?"
"Nuffing happened, Mom. I didn't do nuffing to him."

No response came from me. I was too stunned to speak. I needed to sit down. Now I was the one asking the question, "Did she really just do that to me?" I knew this day would eventually come, as it does for most parents, so why was I so surprised, so unprepared? First smile, first laugh, first tumble, even first tantrum I was ready for, but first lie?

Ordinarily when she'd hang up her angel wings and wander from the straight and narrow, she'd always come right out with it, even if she hadn't been caught. No coaxing required. She'd climb into my lap (a makeshift confessional of sorts) where I'd wrap arms of absolution around her and offer atonement in the form of a "time out". After apologies were made and forgiveness granted, she'd return to her playing- a lighter, freer version of herself. And this, like clockwork, is the way it always went. Purge, Pardon, Penance, Play. Purge, Pardon, Penance, Play. So why the sudden need to conceal the truth? Had I been taking her pure honesty for granted? Didn't she know how important trust was in a relationship? I had to help her understand.

"Honey, let's say one morning Mommy told you that if you were a good girl all day, I'd give you a piece of cake before bedtime. So all day you did what you were told and listened to Mommy. You were SO excited for the cake Mommy had promised you. (Lil' Miss's eyes are lit up so I know I've got her.) But at the end of the day when you asked Mommy for your piece of cake I said, 'I never told you that I'd give you cake. You can't have cake!' And let's say the next day, I promised you the same thing, but at the end of the day I again refused to give you some cake. Well, you would be so hurt and sad. And maybe after a while you would stop believing Mommy about the cake. Mommy kept lying and you just couldn't trust me anymore. Lil' Miss, do you understand why it's so important to be honest and tell the truth? It's so people will trust and believe you. Now, is there something you'd like to tell me about what happened with your brother?"

"No, nuffing happened. But Mom, can I have a piece of cake?"

The Grass is Always Greener (and Naked) on the Other Side

Soon after we moved into this house, my husband became obsessed with replacing our fences. The fence we share with our neighbor Barbara could hardly be considered a wall. It's more like a picket fence, a reasonable height if you're a family of dorps. As it happens, Baby Dude's window is just a stone's throw from Barbara's room and a constant source of anxiety for my husband. "We need block walls. We can see right into her room!" he rants, his voice almost reaching hysteria. He is terrified that one of these days he'll be minding his own business and happen to glance out the window only to have a "close-encounter-of-the-naked-kind" with Barbara. For some reason when I imagine this scenario she is not only naked but also dancing around the room to psychedelic music, her sagging seventy-year-old body swinging in slo-mo to the beat.

But truth be known, Barbara was actually the one who should've been afraid, been very afraid. She was the one "exposed to the exposed", if you will. Last Saturday afternoon, Barbara had taken out the trash and was heading back inside when she made the fateful decision to look up in the direction of our house. The garage door was open as it usually is on the weekends and standing amid the bikes, strollers, and surfboards that clutter our garage was my husband's stark naked body. He was apparently trying to put on his wetsuit when she caught sight of him. He must have heard her jaw hit the ground. He quickly looked up, and their eyes locked. There was no covering up and definitely no way to pull off a "maybe-she-didn't-see-me" exit strategy. What to do? He did the only thing you can do in situations like this. He said hello. I know, very "An-Affair-to-Remember/Sleepless-in-Seattle"ish but without the sentimental saccharinity or fully-clothed actors. No doubt, Barbara returned to her house, to her "happy place", a little more worldly and a lot more wobbly.

This story was not much of a surprise to me. At our old house with its monumentally tall block walls, I often found him watering the backyard plants in nothing but his ankle socks, a vision in white minus the beautiful bride and gown. He argues that he did it just to shock me, but I know better. He's a naturist at heart. Sometimes after he surfs, I find him showering au naturel in the backyard which I suspect is the real reason why he wants better fence coverage. So until we can afford to replace these fences, think twice before peeking into our backyard, or it won't just be the green grass and palm trees that you'll be admiring. Sorry, Babs. This warning is coming one week and ten seconds too late for you.

A Waste is a Terrible Thing to Mind

Motherhood has definitely tampered with my faculties. It's hard for me to believe that just a few years ago I was a Socrates of sorts, guiding young minds to deeper levels of critical thinking and reasoning. Now I'm lucky if I remember to zip up my pants before leaving the house, let alone think or say anything reasonable.

Take today's lunch, for example. Why am I playing verbal tennis with Lil' Miss about the order in which she consumes her food? It's all equally disgusting and terrible for her, food I would never dream of putting in my own mouth (except for maybe a few or, let's be honest, all of those shoestring fries). But instead I choose to engage. "No, no. If you want any fries you have to eat your corn dog first." (Yeah, that sounds about right. Eat the greasy, artery-constricting corn dog equivalent to a week's worth of fat before indulging in the triple bypass french fries. Mmmhmm... good logic, Mom.)

Or how 'bout the absurd amount of time I spend negotiating. "Tell you what, honey. If you let Mom write this one email, you can wear your bathing suit over your clothes when we go to the grocery store. Do we have a deal?"

Or the unimagineable things I say that would sound so ridiculous to an outsider but make perfect sense given the situation. "Lil Miss, if you brush your teeth again, you'll have to go into time out." What they wouldn't know is that our little dental hygenist has already cost me fifteen dollars this month in toothpaste replacements because of that irresistable strawberry flavor.

Or the empty threats. I know it's wrong and horrible and will probably cost me an arm and a leg in therapy bills so she can deal with issues of abandonment, but I still call out this final warning every time we're running late, "Okay, I guess we'll be leaving without you!" A frantic Lil' Miss comes tearing out of the house with every conceivable toy tucked under her arms like a quarterback gunning it for the end zone yelling, "Wait! WAAAAAIT!!!"

Who or what's to blame? Was it the massive amounts of hormones pumping through my body during pregnancy? The wear-and-tear of conversing all day with little people who ask the same question ten times before really wanting to know the answer? Or maybe karma for all the sarcastic comments I made as a young teacher about obnoxious parents who seemed so "completely unreasonable" about their students? Whatever the case may be, I have plenty of time to ponder it. I don't think I'll be leaving Crazy Town any time soon.

The Wishing Well

Afternoon naps? Check. Sippy cup refills? Check. Painted pictures and assembled puzzles? Check, check. It was the long, slow part of the day in the late afternoon when time stretches out like a Salvador Dali clock. Too early to cook dinner (or so I told myself) and too late to make a trip to the park. But the natives were clearly restless, on the verge of some misdemeanor offense. Lil' Miss wandered aimlessly from room to room while Baby Dude loitered about in the kitchen slamming cabinet doors and cackling each time the pots inside clanged together. Trouble was brewing like a cumulonimbus. "Kids, get your shoes. We're going on a walk!"

In a flash, Baby Dude and I were out the door and headed down the driveway. I lugged the red plastic car stroller out of the garage and buckled him inside. Baby Dude was practically break dancing in his seat, shimmying with excitement and shaking in all directions at once. (Yes, it is possible to shake in all directions at once. Don't argue with me.) I called for Lil' Miss who soon appeared in the doorway accessorized with her own little pink stroller and baby doll strapped inside. She tore off down our walkway at a mad speed, the wheels of her stroller only making contact with the cement one side at a time. The baby doll was death-gripping the sides of the stroller as she flopped about, her meerkat eyes pleading with me to save her. Sorry, baby, you're on your own this time.

Just as we walked past our own house I couldn't help but smile when Lil' Miss asked me the question she always asks at the beginning of our neighorhood walks. "Mom, can we see the Wishing Well?"

One of our neighbors down at the end of the street has a fountain near their front door. It's a wooden water well with a hanging bucket that continuously trickles water down into the well. It's very storybookish and for some reason reminds me of the charming hillside houses I took pictures of during my travels through Switzerland. Not an edifice I would choose to put in my front yard, (preferring the cozy beach decor of soggy wetsuits strewn along our walkway), but still very cute.

Lil' Miss would respectfully disagree. She would never describe the Wishing Well as "cute" even though it's the word she uses for everything she likes and she would never reduce it to a distant memory of a place she once visited. To Lil' Miss, the Wishing Well is much more. It's confimation. It's finally the proof she's been waiting for, the union of fact and fiction, the trace of fairy dust right under our noses (or at least at the end of our street). It's hallowed ground, worthy of a whispered voice and tiptoed steps.

We quietly park our strollers in front of the house and mouse over to the Well. Lil' Miss is wearing a smile of pure joy. She is standing perfectly still, waiting and watching. Even I half expect a sea nymph to poke her head up out of the water well to greet us. As she does every time we visit, Lil' Miss asks, "Can I see it closer?"

"No, honey. It's not our house and not our garden. Let's just look from here." And while this is true, I partly keep her at a distance so the Well doesn't lose the otherworldly magic it holds for her.

Then suddenly a rumbling sound comes from the garage. The garage door is opening and a man comes walking out. We have never seen one of the owners of this house during our visits to the Wishing Well. I am nervous and embarrassed because we look strange standing so close to his front door. Sheepishly I say, "Hi. We were just admiring your Wishing Well." He seems confused and walks over to see for himself. "Oh, the fountain! Help yourself. Come any time!" He is very sweet and so I try to include him in on our secret. "You wouldn't by any chance know where Snow White is would you? I'm running out of excuses to explain her absence." He is chuckling but clearly has no idea what I'm talking about. I realize he is not ready for this yet.

As we get the babies strapped back into their strollers and head toward home, Lil' Miss pipes up , "Mom, I know where Snow White is. She's in the castle with the prince and the three dorps!" I turn my head away because I'm laughing so hard. And once again, I'm reminded that it's not my job to solve all the mysteries of the imagination. That job position has already been filled by a younger, shorter, and much more qualified person than me.

No Thanks. You Can Keep Your Stupid Rose.

The only thing more surprising to me than The Bachelorette's DeAnna choosing Jesse over Jason at last night's Rose Ceremony is the fact that I actually sat and watched it. Disgusting, I know. But really, what choice did I have? If I wanted to spend any quality time with my husband last night I was going to have to share him with all those morons on the Bachelorette. After ten years of marrriage, I am still rattled by my husband's fascination with this reality show and its ugly stepbrother, The Bachelor.

Any of you who know my husband are probably scratching your heads in disbelief. Join the club. We're talking about a guy who has surfed daring waters all over the world, traveled by seaplane to remote fishing resorts in Alaska, and has snowboarded the backcountry of Utah. He's an outdoorsman, a true man's man. He greets his friends with, "Hey there, tough guy!" He's ruled by logic, common sense, and answers only to the voice of reason (which of course means I'm ignored much of the time around here). So it begs the question, "Why, why in the name of all that is masculine does he like watching this show?"

I've posed this question more times than I can count over the years. As a matter of fact, I bring it up every time he makes me sit down and watch one of these excruciating episodes with him. And with the dreamy eyes of a teenager watching High School Musical for the first time he says, "I don't know. I guess I just like to figure out which guy she's gonna pick."

So each week I sit on the couch, squirming, crawling out of my skin for an entire hour while perfect strangers throw themselves at eachother, cry like little girls (I'm talking about the men here), and declare undying love and devotion to someone they've only known for twenty days in the Bahamas. It's completely unrealistic, voyeuristic and pukey enough to make me hack off every rose in my neighbor's yard. No offense, Muriel.

And for the life of me, I can't figure out why he wants to watch it with me. I'm a nightmare. Throughout the entire show, I'm yelling at the TV and at him for making me watch it. I curse these desperate fools for their shallowness, their "ho"-ness. I scold their friends and families for putting up with it. All the while he ignores my rants and continues to watch, peaking between the stars dancing in his eyes. Every so often he'll lift up his head which has been resting amorously on the arm of the couch to invite me over for a cuddle with him, probably hoping to quiet me down long enough so he can hear what they're saying.

My only consolation is that I don't have to deal with midweek Bachelorette "rehash". That's taken care of by the girls at his office. As the ladies chat between cubicles about the previous night's episode, my husband will suddenly interject from his office across the hall, "I know! I can't believe she dumped Jeremy! He was so much better for her!" I feel nauseous just imagining the looks on their faces.

It just shows to go you that everyone, even the Chuck Norrises of the world, need a little wiggle room. Fine. Watch the stupid show. But just don't expect me to ever jump up and down over a bouquet of roses. Those flowers were goners eight seasons ago. You're better off bringing home two tickets to the Bahamas. And if you're good, I'll let you hold my hand as we ride horses along the shore, the Carribbean ocean water lapping up our legs and the wind blowing through my hair, just like on episode ten with DeAnna and Jesse.

Lil' Miss's Room- 3,584 , Leilen- 0

I surrender. I am but a pawn in your tireless game. I sit here, surrounded by a pile of books, dresses, and hundreds of microscopic princess accessories that I already put away just hours ago. The fight is over. You are the undisputed victor. I give in to the clutter. I give in to the mess.

The Virtues of the Babysitting-Playdate

Today I did the best kind of babysitting. The kind where you're helping out a friend who loves you for it, but really it's a no-brainer. It was more like hosting a playdate because the kids are close in age and get along famously. No matter how you slice it, a win-win.

A babysitting-playdate is a great time had by all. They're playing, laughing, having a grand ol' time. And the extra bonus is that your kids have some fresh meat for their latest imaginative games. Today's "meat", if you will, was Ella, a beautiful and sweet five-year-old who is adored by Lil' Miss. Immediately after Ella's dad dropped her off this morning, the girls began their transformations into royal princesses complete with shimmering gowns, tiaras, and high heels. I'm still amazed by the immediate magical effect these princess get-ups have on them. Their necks suddenly stiffen, their noses turn up, and their chests puff out. They are also noticeably quiet, practically speechless at the majesty of their own beauty. To be sure, this is the work of the infamous Fairy Snob Mother.

After my inspection of their beautifulness, the dramatic reinactment began. As usual, Lil' Miss played the part of Sip-n-Rooney, better known as Sleeping Beauty, while Ella took the traditional role of her namesake, Cinderella. I'm not exactly sure about the details of the plot, but I know they were looking for Cinderella's lost stepsisters who must have gone through some intensive family counseling because they were now "very nice". In a strange turn of events, Cinderella swiped the poison apple from Snow White (who was probably quite thankful later on) and lay sprawled out on the floor, teetering on the brink of a "deep sleep". She did, however, experience a brief moment of consciousness in which she lifted her head and whispered, "Go get the prince!" Lil' Miss sprang into action. She raced through the house yelling, "Prince! Prince! Where are you?" She finally found the handsome suitor in his room, knocking all the books off his shelf and squealing with delight as some of them crashed into the wall. Baby Dude was oblivious to the fact that he was about to take the role of leading man in the most dramatic love story of all times. Enter the Wicked Stepmother. Fearing what this scene might lead to, I plucked him up off the carpet and called for a Popcorn Intermission.

One entirely selfish motive for sponsoring a babysitting-playdate is that I love witnessing the hilarious interactions and conversations that take place between these little people. While playing various games throughout the morning, Ella would suddenly blurt out the word "boring" which sounded more like, "Borrrrrinnnggg!", something she no doubt picked up at preschool from a kid with an older sibling. Lil' Miss soon caught on to this and tried it out herself. But somehow the word got lost in translation. "Boring" became "moring" and late into the evening we could still hear Lil' Miss yell from all parts of the house, "Morrrrrinnnnng!"

The less obvious but equally significant reason for a babysitting-playdate is that it opens a vast portal to priceless dirt on your friends. While driving Ella home today, she shared an interesting morsel from the backseat about her mother. "You know what, Leilen? One time when we were leaving Jennifer's house, my mom killed a duck. We ran over it." Actually, I think she used the word "squished". Upon further questioning, I learned that it was not the first duck her mom's annihilated. I decided to press the issue a bit. "So, Ella, what else has your mom run over?" And although nothing came to her mind at the time, it's a subject I'll gladly revisit . The beauty is I've got Ella once a week for the rest of the month. Heh, heh, heh...