Jane and her Dad

I went through nine months of pregnancy and delivered her. I'm the one who gets up every night with her . . . still. I take care of her all day everyday. And what do I expect in return? Not this:



But her Dad loves it and she loves him, dearly. I, however, would like to make a small point. A time will arise in which she will want to know how to say Mom. Take, for instance when she is asked, "Jane, do you want Mom or Dad to take you bra shopping?" I'm pretty sure she'll want to answer, "Mom." (I'm also pretty sure Sean hopes that is her answer).

Going, going, lost

After almost ten years with virtually the same hair-do (long), I finally got my hair cut. I usually don't post pictures of myself, but here is the before (I show a back-shot so everyone can appreciate the length):




And the after (ta-da):

There are many benefits to having short hair, but also some detriments that I didn't consider before cutting it:

Pros

• Jaunty
  
• No really long hairs on the floor, clogging the vacuum, and in my hairbrush (eww)
• Nice and cool for the summer
• It takes only 1/3 of the time to dry every morning
  
• I have a 'hairstyle'.

Cons

• No ponytails - I manage to get crooked pigtails on the top of my head when I'm going to bed but Sean is repulsed, to say the least.
  
• Inelegant
  
• I could never spur-of-the-moment join an Amish community to protect myself in anonymity - no long hair to pull back into a bun)
• The one pesky piece that will not go in out, or straight. It just frizzes.
• Long hair is warm for the winter and for church (temperature is set by men in suit jackets - I wear my sweater or a coat all summer).

But the worst part of cutting my hair is losing my hair . . . I'll explain. I kept the foot-long ponytail to donate to Locks of Love. I had the hair sitting in a ziplock bag by the front door, but decided that it should be moved when our friends were coming over. In a familiarly not-so-brilliant move, I put the hair "away." When I went to go mail my hair, I couldn't find it. It was nowhere, and yet it was omnipresent in my thoughts -

I kept thinking "how disgusting. What if we get a mouse in here? Mice love hair for their nests. Do bugs love hair? What if I attract some? What if I can't find it and then when company comes they pull it out from under a couch cushion? (I checked the couch just in case).

I finally found my hair, and the first thing I thought when I discovered it was, "Oh. That was a good place for it."

Sigh

I love my kids

I was having a really crummy day yesterday. There was no obvious reason for the day to be bad; it just all seemed to spin out of my control until it was 6:00 and I had ruined dinner, the house was a disaster, a basket of unfolded laundry sat ominously on the couch, and Jane was crying and hanging onto my pants leg.

The girls had been suspiciously quiet for several minutes, and I knew they had to be up to something. Up to something usually means that I am going to have some kind of disaster on my hands. Most of the time it involves paper, scissors, glue, paint, glitter, and a whole lot of mess.

I walked into the living room to find them quietly folding the dishtowels and tablecloths in the laundry basket. I know! I couldn't quite believe it, and I was so deliriously happy that I was afraid I had imagined it; but see - I have photographic evidence.



Anna said, "We knew you were having a bad day, so we decided to help you out. Does it make you happy, Mom?" I told her that they had made me very, very happy. "Even happier than at Disneyland, Mom?" I told her it was even better than Disneyland.

She thinks I'm weird.

I love my kids.

My Super Husband

Anna asked one of those questions the other day. I hate trying to answer those questions, and I feel like with Sean's work schedule that I end up doing the bulk of the parenting during the week. Sean happened to be home, so I steered Anna to her father.

Anna: Dad, why do boys like to see Barbie dolls with their clothes off?

Sean: Because boys like to see naked girls.

(May I take a short pause to point out that I would NEVER have said that. I would have come up with something much less direct and kind of confusing. For those of you who know Sean and I well, I'm sure that you can imagine the look on my face when he said that. I stared back and forth from him to Anna, shocked at his brazen statement, and ready to tackle him the minute Anna wasn't watching.)

Anna: Oh, that's gross.

Sean: Just remember that's why you shouldn't wear clothes that aren't modest. You don't want any boys to see your body.

Anna: Okay. I won't. Thanks, Dad.

Translation: Dad, you are awesome. I have learned more from you in ten seconds than even Torquemada could have gotten out of Mom in days.

(Okay, so I exaggerate - Anna never would have thought of Tomas Torquemada, but you get the point.)

And that, my friends, was the end of the conversation. I stand in awe of my husband, his candor, and his ability to provide just enough information to Anna to answer her question but not so much that both Anna and I were embarrassed. Unfortunately for him, from now on he is the go-to guy for all of those questions (under my careful supervision, of course - a little more description from him and I would have passed out on the floor).

The Polly Holocaust

A very sad and troubling event shook our house last week:

The Polly Pocket Holocaust (think ominous music playing in the background).

I walked into the girls' room to behold a horror for anyone familiar with "The Velveteen Rabbit" or "Toy Story." Elizabeth and an unnamed friend had ripped the head off of every Polly Pocket in the toy box. Dozens of bodies littered the floor; tiny arms and legs ripped out of the socket and thrown cavalierly to the side; heads in a pile.

When I asked for an explanation, she said "I thought I had too many of them."

Has the child gone mad? I got mad.

Me (thinking): What do I do . . . . What do I do . .. . What do I do?

Me (out loud): You think you have too many toys? (Repeating a shocking statement in a dangerous voice is a very effective mothering technique)

Elizabeth (hearing the dangerous sound in my voice): Yes.

I take a moment to point out that my dangerous voice needs some fine-tuning. How could she hear THE VOICE and not quake? Actually, Sean doesn't fear THE VOICE either. The only one who gets nervous when I speak in my ultra-soft, murderous tone is Anna, and she's afraid of silly putty.

Me (In a scarier voice): Are you sure you have too many toys?

Elizabeth (now openly ignoring THE VOICE): Yes, I do. That's why I pulled their heads off.

Note to Self: get a scarier voice and a parenting manual.

Being Jane

So three kids is hard. Jane is crawling and eating everything and I find myself frantically grabbing things and saying the most bizarre things like, "No girls, Jane doesn't like to eat Polly Pocket Shoes! Please don't let your sister lick the bathroom floor! Jane isn't old enough to play on the computer - is that her sippy cup sitting upside down on the keyboard?!" We came home from a date the other night and our sweet and frazzled looking babysitter gratefully left. We didn't understand the extent of the carnage until I was cleaning up and found a half-chewed caramel stuck to the Wii remote.

Me: Who did this?

Anna and Elizabeth (casually): Jane

Me: Who gave Jane caramels (and the Wii remote, I might add)?

Elizabeth: Anna did. Jane was getting sad.

Anna: Yeah, it really cheered her up.

Me: Where was the babysitter?

Anna: She was cleaning up the water that Jane spilled on the rug.

Well, there you go. Caramels are an effective babysitting tool for eight month old infants with two teeth. I mean, if you're going to go that far, you might as well give the kid a beer and a package of cigarettes. Good grief (just so you know, I'm not foolish enough to actually say that to the oldest two, who would, no doubt, find a method of procuring said substances.)

Suffice it to say that finding time to blog has gotten harder. I find myself debating whether or not I am going to blog, go to the bathroom, or try to chip off macaroni and cheese from the counter. I can only choose one, so blogging has taken a back burner.

I'm not kidding - As I type, the kids are clinking together cups from my wedding china and shouting, "Cheers!" while Jane is eating dust from the floor.

But I can never be upset with this face (unfortunately for the other two, they don't have that kind of effect):


I mean, somebody has to look out for her welfare:


But I have decided that I need to blog. My journal is filled with all of the boring churchy things that my descendants will read and say, "We always knew she was old and boring; now we have proof." Where is the venue to discuss things like MacGyver reruns and how if you vacuum up another Polly Pocket shoe someone is going to get it? Where else can you mock your kids with impunity? I think blogging makes me a nicer mom. On those days that I want to assume the fetal position and weep, I find myself instead thinking, "What a great blog entry this will make." And that is a beautiful thing