A pee-pee story

There are those things people tell you might happen, but you don't ever do anything about them until they actually happen.

This weekend we enjoyed our first trip this season to our community pool. It was a beautiful day, and the kids were actually enjoying themselves - Dylan was even going down one of the little kid slides completely on his own. Kyle had been a bit more timid, but after a while he discovered the bubblers that send spouts of water about two feet into the air, and I had to grab my camera. Leaving Michael with the boys, I ventured back to our lounge chairs.

On my way back across the pool play area, I could see Kyle stepping on top of each bubbler, joyfully making the water disappear and then reappear with his foot. Michael was sitting on a mini lounge chair that sits at the edge of the beach-style entry to the pool, sort of staring off into space, enjoying the sun and the water. Dylan had taken a break from playing and was now - and this is the picture I have as I stand roughly 30 feet away - revealing parts of his body and had begun to pee on a palm tree nestled near the edge of the pool. Around him children are playing, adults are tanning, gossipping, chasing down other children. Kids are splashing. My kid is peeing. In public. At the pool. Thankfully, he wasn't peeing in the pool, but still ....

After a shout out to Michael, Dylan was scooped up and taken to the bathroom with a total look of shock on his face. It's the same look I see when Kyle is doing something he shouldn't and instead of saying, "Kyle!" I bellow "Dylan!" accidently and completely baffle poor Dylan who is on the other side of the room doing something perfectly normal and nice and not at all mischievious.

Michael lets the kids pee outside, my parents let the kids pee outside when they are in the pool, and even I have pulled my car over so a barely potty-trained kid can relieve himself by the side of the road. So after all of these experiences, it makes sense that my kid would think it perfectly normal to pee outside.

This would never have happened had I had twin girls.

Sharing

Dylan and Kyle are really starting to understand the true meaning of sharing. Like, the other day, I was eating ice cream, and Kyle asked for a taste (don't worry - Kyle had already had his own dessert. He chose vanilla pudding). And then he asked for another taste. And another. Then I had no more ice cream. Kyle smiled and said, "Mommy, I shared with you!"

Blog Expectations

Lately the expectations I've been setting for myself have been so ridiculously high, and these raised bars have infiltrated my world of blog. This is not a good thing. I think I'm finally learning to cut myself some slack - to quote a wonderful mentor, "I am a choice." I can choose to be this way or that way. I can choose to do laundry or watch The Apprentice. And at the end of the day, I have to own my choices and know that whatever I did was the best I could do at that moment ... and not feel guilty. To quote another budding mentor (I'm sure a mentor to many, but a new face in my life), "Sometimes we have to say no to the good so we can say yes to the best."

So, on that note, I restart my blog. Ta da!

I was in Tucson most of last week (Tuesday night through Sunday afternoon) to play my part in the opening of ATC's RepFest - an amazing theatrical feat, I must say. I've spent this much time (and more) away from my kids, but they're getting to an age now where it affects them more.

It's not unlikely for Dylan to wake up in the middle of the night or early part of the morning and crawl into bed with us. He's learned to go to Michael's side, because while I eventually put him back in his own bed, Michael treats him like a teddy bear. Michael would also sleep through a tornado, so his tolerance for the kicking and snoring is greater than mine.

Every night since I have been back, Dylan has woken up in the night (around 11:30 or midnight), crying and calling for me. He never does this. He always comes to us. This time he sat in bed and cried until I went to him. When I got to his room, he asked me for milk. I got him some. He then lay down in his bed and sucked on his sippy cup, just like a baby would a bottle. Then he fell back asleep.

Coincidence that I had returned? Probably not.

Despite my displeasure for having to wake up and cater to him like an infant (minus the diaper change), I enjoyed knowing that even though they are growing up so fast, they still need their mommy every now and again.

You read about the pink hat - Now meet the pink apron!

Dylan and Kyle go to school. OK, so it's preschool, but it's school. They seem to love their teacher, Miss Melissa, and I think they are in desperate need of the structure that preschool provides - You know, especially since Michael and I let them run around all crazy-like and do whatever they want. No, no no . . .

I drop them off at 8:30 AM and pick them up at 12:15 PM. During that time they learn about something: butterflies or birds and feathers or Valentine's Day or whatever. They do an art project that revolves around the lesson. They play outside. They have storytime. They eat lunch. They have free time to play inside. In just under 4 hours, it's about all you can do with 6 kids. Usually when I pick them up at 12:15, they are enjoying some free play time. It's always fun to see A) who they are playing with and B) what they have chosen to do with their time.

On Monday when I walked in the door, Dylan was cooking. Not really cooking, but pretend cooking on one of those kid-sized pretend kitchens. If I remember correctly, I believe he was frying eggs. It was adorable, but more adorable was the pink apron he was wearing. Oh, and the purple beaded necklace. Just like a good little homemaker.

Kyle was running around with a giant snake trying to scare the other kids.

It's such a gift that I can experience the juxtaposition of my children's likes, dislikes and talents. Dylan loves to "pretend," loves storytime, and loves to talk (and listen). Kyle loves any kind of hands-on activity, whether it's cutting paper for an art project, or stacking blocks, or pointing out the letters that make up words.

I love that they are completely different kids, that they play well with others, that they are so aware of each other's likes and dislikes ... Although I wince at the thought of them being all grown up just yet, I can't wait to see what fabulous people they become.

"Where is pinkie? Where is pinkie? Here I am!"

I've stalled for long enough.

Almost two weeks ago, I nearly cut off the entire tip of my left pinkie finger. Yesterday I had the stitches removed, but my finger still looks like a piece of dried-up meat. Click here to see the damage.

It was Sunday. My mother-in-law was making a cozy lunch party for some friends who were in town for a short while. Michael was freaking out because his football banquet was that evening, and he still had not completed the annual highlight film. So, the twins and I headed over to help prepare lunch, and Michael was to follow shortly thereafter.

There were many deli meats and cheeses, and bag after bag of interesting bread selections. To be helpful, I started slicing open the various rolls. Let's start with ciabatta bread. Sliced one perfectly. Next. And, yeah . . . that was it.

It happened so fast, I didn't even see it coming (and usually seconds before I do something stupid I feel like I am outside of myself watching my own stupidity). Towel. Pain. "Call Michael. Now."

When he showed up, he tried to hand me the car keys. The highlight film still wasn't done and wasn't going to be ready unless he worked non-stop on it. But no one else could drive (except my mother-in-law who was expecting company), so off we went. He dropped me off. David met me right as I was being seen (you know, after they make you pay and everything).

David is a medicinal boy scout - always prepared. Valium (when the nurse wasn't looking). Truly more damage had been done to my mental state than to my finger. Better.

It took 9 stitches to make my finger stay on. Somewhere in there my mom left work and showed up at the hospital as well. Michael called to joke around. He sort of thought I had just cut myself and they were going to give me one of those butterfly bandages or something.

People have been asking me, "Are you mad at your mother-in-law?" or "Are you even talking to Michael? Is he in the dog house?" First of all, I have no reason to be mad at my mother-in-law. I was the idiot who cut myself. Plus, I offered to help. I chose to be careless while I was cutting. She just chose to buy a thin, dense bread that is hard to cut. Not to worry - It will never be seen in our homes ever again.

And Michael . . . He was so worried about taking care of so many other people, he failed to take care of me. Not that this makes it OK, but don't we all tend to take for granted those who we love and need the most?

---

And now, some accolades.

A few people said (or wrote) things to me that made me really laugh when I was recovering. You'll enjoy these:

Cary: "Now how are you supposed to order 5 beers with one hand?"

Matt: "Look at the bright side: if you get back into teaching at a later date, you are now qualified to teach woodshop."

Joshua: "What the hell is the point of Ciabatta anyway? Even when it's right it tastes stale and crunchy. Impenetrable sponge keeping me from my meat. Be gone."

emu: a large, flightless bird of Australia, resembling the ostrich but smaller & having a feathered head & neck & rudimentary wings OR Jen's nemesis

It feels a little strange to have been trumped by emu oil.

On Saturday I participated in the Farmer's Market in my community. So, from 10 AM until 2 PM I sat under some palm trees by the lake and didn't sell anything. OK, so I sold one 1 oz tube of hand creme for $4.

I went with the intention of selling holiday gifts. Everything was packaged and ready to go. Easy spa shopping, right?

I was sandwiched between a sage burning, cedar flute playing hippee and the emu lady. The emu lady had a huge booth with emu-related products like feathers and eggs. Across from me was the fruit and nut mountain man. My spa stuff looked pretty good . . .

At first I worried that I had made a mistake by really promoting the holiday items because it seemed like most people were really shopping for themselves. People would stop at my booth, comment on how cute the packaging looked, maybe smell a demo product, hear my schpeel about Spa Escapes, and off they went.

Not a single person who stopped at the emu lady's booth left without buying something. Some bought expensive starter kits with a bunch of products, but most got their own 1oz bottle of emu oil. Want to get rid of scars? Emu oil. Have arthritic pain? Emu oil. Sore muscles? Emu oil. Dry skin? Emu oil. Cracked heels? Emu oil. There was a woman with a sad-looking Yorkie that was recovering from a horrible flea problem, and what do you know? Emu oil will make it all better. It's great to put directly on the irritated skin, AND she can give the pup a teaspoonful with her food everyday to keep her healthy and strong.

About 30 minutes before the end of the event, two young women came up to me and were very interested in the adorable stockings I have that are filled with miniature versions of our holiday products. Everything she looked at was chocolate, gingerbread, pumpkin, or peppermint scented. After smelling everything, she asked, "Do you have anything a little more Christmas-y?" I was speechless. Um.... So I picked up a snowman mug filled with cocoa mix and peppermint body tonic and a sparkly red 'Happy Holidays' decoration. She said she'd be back. Uh huh. Michael came by soon thereafter to help me pack things up, and I told him about the girl. He looked at my display and said, "More Christmas-y? Did she want little elves passing out samples and Santa Claus ringing her up?"

The next event is December 16th. Perhaps more people will be looking for gifts at that time. On the bright side, I heard the emu lady can't make it on the 16th. Too bad.

A house of animals: or a really bad toddler version of 'A Chorus Line'

The twins have a new game, and it's hysterical. You name an animal, any animal (dog, cat, lion, Stegosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex, meerkat, bird, etc.) and they act it out. This is really Kyle's game, and Dylan plays along. It is a riot to watch. For the most part, Kyle only has two (maybe three) animals. Half the animals make high-pitched noises, and the other half make deep, throaty noises. Most walk on all fours.

The other day, Kyle was being a jaguar, and Dylan didn't like it:

Dylan: I no like the jaguar Kai-Kai. No do that one.

Kyle: OK.

Dylan: Be a zebra Kai-Kai.

Kyle: OK.

Interestingly enough, Kyle's jaguar and zebra walk on all fours and make the same deep, throaty noise. Dylan wasn't scared.

Today we challenged them: Be a fish! Be a turtle! Be a snail!

Oh my goodness . . . Isn't there a scene in A Chorus Line where someone talks about having to be an ice-cream cone or something in acting class?

Paging Ms. Babcock! Ms. Babcock, are you there? Is Tyler around? . . . .

Just for funsies

An anecdotal highlight of the last few days . . .

I had a Spa ESCAPE at my house last Thursday for some ladies in my community. As we were getting settled (the guests on my couch and me on the floor in front of them), I started tooting Michael's horn. Maybe it was because someone ask where my children were--I honestly can't remember. So I'm mid-sentence when I notice that the archway between our family room and formal dining room still has blue painter's tape at the top. Lovely.

Once all my guests had left on Thursday, I called Michael to tell him to come home. Turns out the kids had lice. It still gives me shivers thinking about how disgusting that is. There was apparently an outbreak at the elementary school, and my kids got it too. I was such a bad mother. I couldn't handle it at all-like instant anxiety attack. I was wearing my spa shirt that says "Got Stress?" on the front. My mom was with me and said, "Got stress?" Not funny. Michael took care of everything.

(Blue painter's tape is still on the wall, and I don't care)

Friday night was part 1 of a 2 part workshop led by a life coach. Apparently, every successful person has a life coach, and I now see why. Prior to our session, Stacy and I met Heather at US Airways and we went to Mill for dinner (I have no idea what the name of our restaurant was . . . Everything was organic, and I had a So-Cal Chicken Salad that was SO SO good). After dinner, we decided to hop into one car, and Stacy drove us to the hotel where we were meeting. There was a non-permanent sign that said you couldn't park in the lot after 6 PM, but Heather said it was nothing, and if Heather (of all people) wasn't going to fret about it, then I wasn't going to either. 45 minutes after the originally scheduled completion time (so it's now close to 10 PM), Stacy takes us back to our cars. They aren't there. Instead, there is some kind of reception space being set up. Panic. We later discover the cars haven't been impounded. They were towed to an empty lot a few blocks away. Whew. I'm completely exhausted, still have to drive 45 minutes home to Goodyear AND need to stop at the store for dog food and more lice stuff. So, I end up in my personal hell (Walmart) at 11:00 PM because where else can I get dog food and lice shampoo for the kids at 11:00 PM? AND.... part 2 of our workshop starts at 9 AM the next day. Heather saves the day by bringing everyone breakfast from McDonalds.

Saturday (post amazing session), my parents bring us dinner and take the kids (now lice-free) home with them. Hallelujah! After some errands, we end up at our neighbor's house for a glass of wine and good conversation. I slept until 9 AM the next morning. Hooray!!! I spent the bulk of the day mastering the art of "shrink wrap."

Meanwhile, the kids are at the zoo. Apparently, they were enamored with the baby goats in the petting zoo. Rumor has it that they ran from goat to goat giving them hugs and saying, "my baby...my baby." Within 10 minutes of being home from the zoo, the kids were in the bathtub.

Is it Monday already?

I felt like Julia Child. Or, at least like Rachael Ray.

Last night I received my first unsolicited cooking-related accolade from one of my children.

First may I saw how positively wonderful it was to come home on a Monday evening, pick up the kids, meet my husband at home, have him give the kids a bath while I cooked dinner, and had us all sit down together over a weekday meal? Ahhh. It's the little things in life.

I didn't do anything fancy for dinner. We had spaghetti with meat sauce, and I put some of those really buttery crescent rolls in the oven. Kyle was more interested in his apple, but Dylan just went to town with his pasta. He tried using his fork once and then set it aside and shoveled his food in with his little fingers. I know at some point this will be rude and inappropriate at the dinner table, but it's still cute for now. Michael and I shot each other smirks because Dylan totally has a thing for Italian food (red sauces especially). About three-quarters of the way through his bowl of pasta, Dylan stopped for a moment, took a breath, turned to me and said, "It's really good!"

Gold star for Mom!

Gentle Bitterness: A writing revisited

Michael has been bugging me for months to get all of our paperwork filed away (instead of neatly stacked on the desk) so we can talk to some guy about how we have no money (OK, not quite like that, but you know...). Anyway, I organized it all tonight and also stumbled across some lovely old photos and drawings and writings, and I felt compelled to revise/update something I wrote over five years ago. OK, so here it is:

Gentle Bitterness

I can never finish a cup of coffee. It's not that I don't like the way it tastes or that I get bored of it. It's the pacing. I start with short, quick sips. It's hot at first, and it only takes once - well, maybe twice - before you're extra careful. Then there's usually either some sort of conversation occurring between another party, or else a good book, magazine, or other distraction. The coffee is soon forgotten. Once remembered, the liquid has cooled, and the beverage has lost its main purpose - to warm the body, and (in a way) the soul. What you're left with is nothing but a half a cup of cold bitterness, one of the most undesirable things at a moment when all you want is something warm and gentle.

Although not everyone is fond of coffee, it seems to play an important role in many peoples' lives, adapting its purpose as the respective person grows, ages and learns. As a young child, coffee was an intriguing distraction. It kept my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles at the dinner table long after the dishes had been cleared. My headstands, twirls, and acrobatics were no match for those creamy white mugs of black bitter conversation. 'What could be more exciting than me?' I'd often wonder as I walked on my hands, back and forth across that olive-green shag carpet. I found myself willing to play the coffee game in exchange for some adult attention. Straightening myself out and speaking in the most adult-like way possible, I finally asked for a taste of "that." It only took one asking, for the next few years I was presented with my very own mug of coffee. It was really a mug of milk with about two tablespoons of coffee, but it was mine. And so I found myself at the dinner table those long hours sometimes listening, but often sleeping, as the adults shared their stories of "so and so" getting married, how "he" wasn't Jewish, or how "she" lost her job.

In Junior High the only acceptable coffee drink was an iced-mocha from Gloria Jean's. We'd pile it up with so much whipped cream, sugar, cinnamon, and chocolate shavings that you really couldn't call it coffee. At age thirteen we bustled around the mall feeling totally independent with babysitting money in our pockets and grown-up drinks in our hands. Once, finding ourselves without motorized transportation, my friend Jessica and I thought we could make our own iced-mochas. We poured some of my parents' leftover coffee into two mugs. It was cold already, but we decided to add some ice to it anyway, just to be sure. Then we proceeded to add milk, cinnamon, granulated sugar, and Nestle Quik (my kitchen wasn't equipped with chocolate shavings). As you might imagine, it was disgusting. It wasn't anything like Gloria Jean's. It tasted like, well, like coffee! Yuck. Soon after the iced-mocha craze, someone told us that coffee would stunt our growth. We four-foot-seven'ers decided to put down the coffee-flavored chocolate for a while.

Maybe it was the "Central Perk" Friends explosion (who knows) but coffeeshops quickly became the meeting place in high school. They weren't chosen as great hangouts because of all the fabulous Bay Area coffee. No way. In fact, at first the drink of choice was the Italian soda. Fruity or creamy, they were fizzy and fun, and a speciality of our favorite coffeeshop. As the weather grew colder, I had to drink something warmer. Hot chocolate was OK at first, but soon I started trying drinks like white chocolate mochas and a fabulous concoction called an "Irish Storm" (my five-foot-five status a more secure place to be). These drinks were warm, tasty, and they were coffee. They were also expensive. There were no refills on four dollar drinks, hence marking the importance of the coffee stirrer. There had to be a reason to stay for hours at a time, and those long red coffee stirrers worked as a substitute drink and helped me rationalize obscene loitering. An accomplished coffee stirrer chewer would chew at the straw until the plastic was soft, flexible and could fit entirely in the mouth. Only then could you begin your tricks, tying the stirrer in knots the way people often do with cherry stems. It was something to do, and it didn't cost any extra money. Toward the end of high school, we developed more ethics and less cash flow. This turn of events led me to the purchase of the one dollar cup of coffee with the twenty-five cent refill. I couldn't rationalize sitting there for hours on end, taking up valuable customer space, chewing on a coffee stirrer. Nor could I afford those four dollar drinks - I needed that extra money for college coffee. And I think one day I just started to like the taste of coffee. No sugar, no sweet-and-low. Just non-fat milk.

Surprisingly, coffee played a very small role in my college life. I wasn't up until all hours of the night writing papers and tossing back cups of caffeine to stay awake. Somehow my friends and I found the energy and stamina to get through long lengths of time with joyful ease . . . Sugar may have played a role. If we did partake in a coffee, it was an outing, and there were no loyalties to one shop or another.

Today (oh my), today coffee is almost a daily need. I'm not like my grandmother who walks into walls and is more incoherent than usual before she has her cup of coffee in the morning. But hey, I like that warm cup of liquid sunshine, this time sweetened and doused with cream. Still, I never do finish an entire cup of coffee. You see, it has to do with the pacing . . .

Nuggets and "Pup"cakes

Have you ever banged a frozen chicken nugget on a granite countertop to prove a point? I have.

A few days ago my children requested chicken nuggets for dinner, so I plugged in our handy dandy pizza pizzaz-thing-a-ma-bobber (it's a pizza cooker, but we use it for anything that is frozen that you are supposed to put in the oven). This action was greeted with a loud cry of disapproval, "No Mommy! No Mommy! No cook it!"

"Kyle, I have to cook the chicken nuggets for you."

"No Mommy, I eat it cold."

"Kyle, they're frozen, you can't eat them like this. I need to cook them."

"No Mommy!! I no like it hot. I eat it cold."

It was at this point that I took a chicken nugget and started banging it on the counter, trying to show Kyle that the nugget was frozen and, really, inedible. He was amused by this, and was then distracted by his brother and the dog.

My kids must be a little confused. I make things really hot, and then we have to wait for them to cool off, or I have a little trick of putting the hot plate of food in the freezer for a minute or so . . . . Ahh, the freezer. And there you go!

Later that evening, I noticed the bananas were looking, well, a little ripe, so I decided to whip up some banana muffins (which Dylan called "pupcakes").

"Mommy, what you doing?"

"I'm making banana muffins."

"Banana muffins like pupcakes?"

"Yes, they're like cupcakes."

"Mommy, I eat them now."

"Dylan, no you have to wait until they're cooked. I'm making them."

"No Mommy, I eat them now."

So, I show him my mixing bowl full of batter.

"Mommy's making them?"

"Yes, go to your playroom and I'll tell you when they're done."

I know my children are constantly learning new things, and it's easy to forget that there are just so many new concepts they experience every day. It's nice to get a chuckle every now and then when certain concepts are skewed . . . For example, right now if something is "broken," Dylan thinks it just "needs batteries." Or if I tell them we're going to the store (and this can be any store), he thinks we're going to "get ice-cream," because a week ago I took him to the grocery store to buy ice-cream.

We probably should go out and buy ice-cream more often.

Reunion

When I think about those good old college times, I'm usually thinking about my sophomore year. Lots of fun, lots of laughter, (ahem) lots of drinking...And good friends.

I was DREADING returning to college after my first summer back home. I had just broken up with someone and my two good friends were studying abroad. I had made plans to live in an apartment with my friend Casey. We bonded during a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream (she was Helena, I was Hermia). Sometime over the summer, plans changed and what started out as a two bedroom apartment for me and Casey turned into a four bedroom apartment with one other girl I sort of knew and another girl I had never met.

That girl I had never met - that's my friend Jaclyn. She is one of the most amazing people I have ever known, and I love her so much! (This post is going to be very picture heavy, so here is one of many)

We took this picture of us in the bathtub for her friend Toby (and if he asks, we had pillowfights in our underwear...).

This past weekend, all of my favorite sophomore year memories came flooding back as Jac and I headed westward to Joshua Tree, CA for Casey's post-elopment party. This was the most amazing non-wedding I have ever experienced -- what a ridiculous amount of fun! Part of the fun was just being with Jac and going on our own little road trip, singing along to Wicked . . . I know, sounds like a horrible teeny-bopper movie. Oh well...

(If you scroll to the bottom there is a picture of the three of us - the new bride is on the left). So, of course, lots of stories were told because all of Casey's friends wanted to know some crazy college stories. Truly, we were pretty tame, but there are a few anecdotes that had me collapsing with laughter. Really. This guy who was there (friend of the groom's cousin, I think) I think got a little worried that I had stopped breathing. I think we have a picture of him....

Yep, he's the one in the blue. I know his name is Jeff...The other guy is who Jac and I call "Particle Guy." He was taking pictures and kept complaining about all the "particles" in the shots (photos, not alcohol-that comes later).

Jac and I really didn't know anyone else there, but we're in the middle of cocktail hour - oh wait, gotta tell you about the signature cocktail of the evening: A shot of vodka, then champagne to the top, then a melon-ball size scoop of prickly pear sorbet.

Here's a picture of me and Jac with our drinks (you can sort of see Jac's pink fizzy drink).

OK, so it's cocktail hour and this guy (later to be named Dave) says to me, "Are you Jen?" So I probably look completely puzzled because I have no idea who this guy is, and I tell him yes. He then says, "You partied at my trailer in Tucson." OK, so I have never partied at any trailer before in my life, so I'm wondering what he's talking about...Then it hits me: "Oh, were you housesitting for a lesbian couple?" Yep. That was him. One evening Casey and I were going out and stopped at her friend's trailer - well, not his trailer. He was housesitting or subletting for a lesbian couple he knew. I guess I haven't changed much since 1998 . . .

The elopment party is at a place called Skip and Margie's Desert Hideaway. It's a cute little place in the middle of nowhere, and if we had to go to the bathroom, we had to use one of the six villas on site. It was odd at first just walking into someone's hotel room to use the bathroom, but everyone got used to it I guess. At one point, Jaclyn went into a room and said, "Hello? Anyone here?" No answer. So, she turns the corner and there is Dave peeing. Jac makes a U-turn and we head to another room.

When Dave exits the room he goes up to Jac and says, "PARTY FOUL!" He then tells everyone he encounters, "Hey, see that girl over there? She saw me peeing!" His wife bows her head and shakes it in shame. Later, on the dance floor, Dave thought it would be fun to start undressing. We caught it on camera. Here it is for your viewing pleasure:

We had a fabulous barbecue dinner, and we were in great company. Seated at our table (among others) was the groom's cousin (the groom is Norm, the cousin is Mark-I think) and his wife, Ann. She also made the cake (coconut and very very yummy). Jac and I thought she was hysterical because instead of tapping her glass with a utensil to get the newlyweds to kiss, she was banging her plate. Really. She thought this was better.

Later in the evening, our entertainment (besides dancing, stripping Dave) was a firedancer. This was slightly odd but very interesting. I couldn't do it.

The evening ended all too soon, but I will savor every moment of this trip. I've got to close with a picture of me and my girls. I feel so lucky to have known this two fabulous women, and I can't wait to enjoy their friendship for years to come.

Somewhere beyond community youth theatre

Our parents influence us in ways that are both obvious and latent. Knowing this, I wonder, 'What will my children be like? What will I do that will shape them and either a) bring them great happiness and success or b) ignite years of therapy?'

Yesterday my parents and I took the twins to see a play. It was a production of The Emperor's New Clothes by Spotlight Youth Theatre in Surprise. Overall, it was a cute little show, and the actors ranged from 12-ish-year-olds to adults.

Act One was enjoyable. Dylan and Kyle were very into the show, and Dylan kept turning to me and saying, "I'm watching, Mommy." Then intermission came. You would think intermission would be a good thing for young children, but it really did us in.

At the back of the "theatre," there was a table with little souvenirs. At first Kyle wanted a pinwheel and Dylan wanted a sparkly silver magic wand, but then they both saw the blow up snake sword, and that was that. Once Dylan knew there was "stuff" at the back of the room, he had a hard time paying attention to the show. At one point he leaned back in my arms like a baby, pressed in my nose and said "piggy, piggy." He was interested in anything but the people on stage, so I kept getting up and taking him to the back of the room, then trying to sit again, and we continued this routine for the remainder of the performance. Sometimes when the actors would sing, he took this as an invitation to break into song as well; although, he was singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea." Eventually, there was a loud dragon roar from stage left that caught his interest, and then later a flying rubber fish. Of course, as soon as the show ended both he and Kyle scurried up to the stage to check out the fish.

The twins had been to a Disney on Ice show and a puppet show, but this was their first true theatre experience. I'm sure it will be one of many, and I hope that my kids will have an appreciation for the performing arts...and that I won't turn into a horrid stage mother and try to live vicariously through my children. Although, you have got to hear Dylan sing "Beyond the Sea." It's hilarious.

Lyrics to "Beyond the Sea"

Somewhere beyond the sea

Somewhere waitin' for me

My lover stands on golden sand

And watches the ships

that go sailin'

Somewhere beyond the sea

She's there watchin' for me

If I could fly like birds on high

Then straight to her arms

I'd go sailin'

It's far beyond the star

It's near beyond the moon

I know beyond a doubt

My heart will lead me there soon

We'll meet beyond the shore

We'll kiss just as before

Happy we'll be, beyond the sea

And never again I'll go sailin'

***INSTRUMENTAL BREAK***

I know beyond a doubt,

My heart will lead me there soon

We'll meet, I know we'll meet

Beyond the shore

We'll kiss just as before

Happy we'll be, beyond the sea

And never again

I'll go sailin'

(No more sailin')

(So long sailin')

(Bye bye sailin')

Planny Plannerson

I am a planner. I will come up with a very specific, highly defined plan. I don't always stick to my plan, but I'll be darned if I don't have some sort of plan in mind, regardless of what adventure I am beginning. Granted, I'm not as bad as my friend Corey who was pained to go into the grocery store without a list. I know, I know...I'm a list person too, but we were buying groceries for one meal. One. For the two of us. I digress...

Earlier this week I decided I was fed up with the fact that one little button on my cell phone wasn't working. It was the "up" key. This was especially annoying when I would scroll through my contacts and go too fast and then not be able to go up and select the right one. I called tech support to try to remedy the situation. Apparently a lot of dropping on the ground is not good for your cell phone (and is not what the company calls a "manufacturer defect").

After much research I discovered that I was eligible for the deepest discounted upgrade and made the decision to purchase a similar phone for under $20. It rings, the buttons work, great. That was my plan.

I've mentioned before that my dear friend Joe is always willing to come along for the ride, right?

So the two of us visited the T-Mobile store, and as I walk over to the more conservatively-priced phones, Joe heads straight for the fancy stuff. Apparently, the phone he had been trying to convince me to get (the one he has) was available to me at 50% off ... oooh. And I kind of wanted it. I had been carrying around my ATC cell phone, my personal/BeautiControl cell phone & my Palm Pilot (now about 4 years old) and it was just too much. So the SDA is a phone and holds my contacts and my calendar and syncs to my Outlook and has internet capabilities and more I'm sure, if I sit down and read the manual.

I was interested but skeptical, and over walks Mr. Salesman. Now Mr. Salesman is not a very good salesman. He doesn't know much and just stands there and Joe tells me all the reasons why I need this phone. I ask a question. Mr. Salesman says "I don't know," and Joe answers. This continues.

I decide to buy the phone.

We get into a discussion about commissions because I'm feeling sort of bad that I talked to T-Mobile woman on the phone for nearly an hour the other day, but now I'm buying it from Mr. Salesman. Mr. Salesman says that the phone people don't get commissions--they provide customer service "for the good of the company."

So we ask, "Do you get a commission?"

"Yeah, "he replies.

Joe then spends a great deal of time trying to convince Mr. Salesman that he should buy Joe a coffee from Starbucks (right across the parking lot) because I wouldn't have purchased the much more expensive phone had he not been there (and this is true). Mr. Salesman completely ignored him. It was at first a bit uncomfortable and then really funny. We would talk about him in the third person as he was organizing my new toy.

He didn't blink, and nothing tall, grande, or venti was exchanged.

Adventures in toddler-hood

The other morning, after the twins' bath, Kyle went pee-pee in the potty.

Then he wanted to go more, but he wanted me and Dylan to leave the room. He shut the door to the bathroom and came out a few minutes later yelling, "I went potty! I went potty!" We rushed in and he had pooped in his potty. I was so excited, so I ran to get Michael.

Meanwhile, Sasha had eaten the poop.

--------

Fairly regularly, Dylan has been getting out of his own bed and climbing into our bed at some point during the night/very early morning. This morning around 4:00 AM, he made himself comfortable right between me and Michael. About 30 minutes later, Kyle came padding in, and I heard him sort of collapse somewhere on the ground. When I checked to see where he was a few minutes later, I saw him fast asleep on Sasha's bed. He stayed there until 6:45 AM when I picked him up to get him changed and ready for day care. It sounds silly to think of a little boy sleeing on a dog bed, but actually Sasha is the only one in the family with a memory foam mattress, so Kyle was quite smart to commandeer her bed.

--------

The unfortunate thing about Dylan coming to our bed in the morning is that when Michael gets up at 6:00 AM for work, Dylan gets up too. I am not a fan of this set up. My goal is always to sleep as long as I possibly can, and this morning was no exception. In fact, I was completely exhausted this morning. Dylan must have sensed my sleepiness because instead of saying, "Mommy get up!" he went to the kitchen, got his bowl from the cupboard, selected his cereal of choice, and brought both to my bedside so I could pour it for him. Then he stood there and ate his cereal dry and watched Kyle who was asleep on the dog bed.

Sally Hansen lies

I did something kind of stupid this evening.

Wait, let me rewind and start from the beginning. After work I went to happy hour at Applebees with a friend (Could that place be any cheaper? Oh my goodness . . . 2 very tall beers and 3 appetizers later, we were out $16--actually only $6 because we had a $10 gift card). The kids are with my parents for the night, so I stopped at Linens & Things because I had a gift card burning a hole in my wallet and thought I would buy a scale (since I'm trying to gain weight and need to start paying attention to these things). After trying many scales ranging from $29 to over $100, I discovered that they all sucked. I JUST went to the doctor and was weighed by their super-fancy scale, and all of the scales at the store said I was 7-10 pounds heavier than what I weighed at the doctor. Since I know I didn't gain 7-10 pounds in a week, the scales must all suck. So, what to buy? I found myself in the random iPod accessory section and selected a lovely iPod dock that is also an alarm clock. I love it.

So, I'm home now and have played with Sasha a bit and hooked up my snazzy new iPod dock and decided to take a relaxing bath in my enormous tub that has not been getting as much use as it should. I put my Therapeutic Bath Minerals in the tub and applied my Fango Seaweed Masque and listened to my iPod, controlling it with a lovely little remote. Ahhh, heaven. Notice I haven't done anything stupid yet.

After my bath I decided to continue pampering myself by waxing my eyebrows. Please note: waxing one's own eyebrows should never be paired with the word "pamper" or any derivation of the verb "to pamper." Damn that facial waxing kit! A couple of months ago a friend told me to go to a particular Albertson's that was going out of business. Apparently, all of the items were 25% - 80% off, so I stocked up on household items that I needed anyway. While I was there I encountered a do-it-yourself facial waxing kit. I'd always wondered if they were good and thought I'd try it out and save the $15 or so I spend to have my eyebrows professionally waxed.

There is a reason people charge you money to do this to you.

First I had to microwave the wax so it was warm and pliable but not too hot. Then there's a little plastic paddle you use to apply the wax. The paddle is cute and all, but it's really not great when you need to be precise. Also, I should add that the instructions told me that if the wax was too hot the paddle would be blue but if the wax was the perfect temperature the words "wax is ready" would appear. Neat, huh? Except that when I took the paddle out of the box, before I even touched the wax, it said "wax is ready." Oh really?

Application. This stuff is ridiculously sticky. I'm trying to apply small amounts and strings of wax are sticking to my cheeks and eyelashes. When I try to remove the wax from the non-waxing places, it sticks to my fingers and no amount of water, soap, or abrasive towel-rubbing is getting rid of the wax. OK, now time to pull the wax from my eyebrow area. Not bad. I'm used to the sting, and it actually feels kind of good to me. But there's a residue. And it's hard to get to some areas without risking wax getting on other parts of my eyebrow that I still actually want. I do the best I can do and then scrub my face to try to remove any excess wax, but there's some still on my actual eyebrow and all of the hairs are bound together, mocking me. All I can do its wait for it to dry and then try to flake it off without yanking out the rest of my eyebrow. Horrible thoughts of eyebrow baldness are seeping into my mind, and I notice lots of little hairs that I was unable to get with the wax (because of precision), so I pull out the tweezers.

I hate tweezers.

I tweeze and tweeze and tweeze until the two eyebrows look decent. Not bad, I guess. The wax is still clumped on my one eyebrow, so I reach for the conditioning/finishing oil that comes in the kit. It's supposed to soothe and soften the skin and hair. Onto a cotton pad it goes, and I apply it to my eye area and OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT HORRIBLE HORRIBLE PAIN? Conditioning oil, my ass! My eyebrows are now bright red and on fire. It doesn't feel like this at the salon. I dab my eye area with a tissue and reach for some facial moisturizer, hoping that will soothe the stinging. Nope, it feels worse. Tears are filling my eyes as I reach for all of these horrible, horrible products and toss them into the garbage can.

Never ever ever again!

No like matches

Driving the twins to their sitter today, I had the privilege of eavesdropping on a wonderful conversation. It blows my mind to think that not very long ago they shared the same crib, the same bouncy chair, the same bassinet and even the same womb. When they were little, we worried that they didn't interact with each other as much as we would have liked. Now, they're like little partners in crime. Actually, prior to our car experience, our entire family was in our master bathroom/closet (dog and cat included), and Kyle was upset about something . . . Being scolded for slamming the door, I think. In any event, he was totally what Joe would call "butt hurt," so Dylan went over to him and gave him a kiss. It was so incredibly adorable.

Now back to this morning. The conversation went something like this:

Kyle: Dylan, where's the sun?

Dylan: (looking) There Kai-kai! There!

Kyle: Where?

Dylan: Over there! Oh, flags Kai-Kai! Flags!

Kyle: Flags! Bird, Dylan! See the bird?

Dylan: I see the bird!

Kyle: Go to Val's house? Mommy, Val's house?

Me: Yep, you're going to Val's house.

Dylan: Mommy, I push the button.

Me: OK.

Dylan: Mommy, I push the button. I no like to walk. Mommy hold and I push the button.

I love how they understand me and understand each other. It's such a joy to experience this. We do have hiccups in the learning process, though. A few nights ago I was getting them into their PJs, and Dylan picked a Nemo top and a Nemo bottom, but they were from two separate Nemo sets. I tried to get Dylan to change bottoms:

Me: Dylan, let's wear this one. See, it matches.

Dylan: No. No like matches.

I did get him to switch so he matched.

When he moves away, I'll cry.

A very good friend of mine quite recently had a bit to drink and let me know he was, basically, not feelin' the love from me. So, I've decided to honor him with a blog:

He knows when I'm upset even before I realize that I'm upset.

When I'm upset, he does little things to make me happy (like play music he knows I like).

Once, when I was doubled over in pain, he took me to the pharmacy to fill a prescription for me and did the whole, "Can't you see she's in pain? Hurry!" routine.

He barely knew me and followed me to a friend's house where I was dropping off my car, despite the fact that I took a wrong turn and pulled over to get my bearings right near a curious-looking fellow who he believed I was going to for drugs.

He has no qualms about eating something that has been near or in my children's mouths.

I can usually count on him to "come along for the ride" if I need to drive somewhere and don't want to go alone.

He carries heavy things for me. Even those "heavy" things that I probably could carry but don't really want to carry.

He is, by far, the funniest person I know.

He trusts me.

I can tell him exactly what I'm thinking or feeling all the time without fear of judgement or rejection.

We have both seen each other cry.

My extended family knows him ("But he's so tall..." - Guess what statement received this response--HA!)

He's important enough to me that I blogged about him. I hope Michael's not pissed that I've blogged about another man, my kids, the cat and the dog, but not him.

A title just seems really unnecessary right now

My God, I love being inspired. The whole process of inspiration was what got me into teaching way back when . . . What a lifetime ago that was.

I’m such a sucker for a good tale, motivational talk, memoir-like conversation. Maybe I’m easily manipulated, but I love the feeling I get when suddenly everything is clear and there’s this fire inside of me burning to do something magical.

I had a class in college that used to really get me going. It was just a writing class—a class to teach writing, actually. Yet, instead of learning how to teach others to write, it would charge me into my own creative consciousness and for a moment (or two), I felt anything was possible. This is probably what made me a good teacher . . . I prescribed to my own doctrine.

I’ve come to appreciate the fact that I am not a creator, but a chronicler of sorts. When inspiration strikes me, I don’t suddenly invent something miraculous. Instead, I find myself in a pensive and open state where I am able to see things so clearly, and I feel compelled to capture the essence of my clarity.

The cause of my passion this evening? I finally saw the film version of Rent. I know, I know—horrible for a person who lives and breathes theatre every day. How dare I wait so long? I have my reasons, one quite sillier than the next. In any event, the clarity I’ve found right now is really just an affirmation of the wonderful life that I am so grateful to have. The details are small enough to look silly on paper, so I’ll breathe them all in silently and enjoy them, and be happy to share with anyone who asks.

Big Bang Piggy Bankin'

Well, it's been over a week, but we recently took a lovely road trip to Vegas. Aside from our overnight Sedona excursion in March, this was the first road trip Michael and I had taken alone in a while (before we were married, in fact). We also discovered around the third day that it was the longest we had been completely alone with each other since the twins were born. As much as I love my children, it was very nice to spend some quality time with my Michael.

I always try not to laundry list events, so I'll try anecdotal highlights. You might say that's just a fancy way to laundry list, and I'd say, well, it's my blog so I'll do whatever I want.

All the single guys in Vegas wear the same uniform. It's true. Michael and I took great pleasure in our people-watching activities, an enjoyable pasttime in a place like Las Vegas. Apparently, it's fashionable for young men to wear jeans, black dress shoes and an untucked and vertically-striped blue shirt (preferably light blue; although, darker shades of blue may also be acceptable). If they have hair, it is to be short on the sides and sort of spike up a bit on top. This might not sound like a big deal, but it cracked us up to see a group of five guys, all hanging out in a bar, all wearing the exact same outfit. I hadn't seen something like that since my UofA days when I would see flocks of sorority girls walking down the street--All wearing the same black, flared pants, black wedge/slides, and gaping v-neck shirt. And they all had shoulder-length blonde hair. All of them. If they didn't have blonde hair, they dyed it. If they didn't have short hair, they cut it. Seriously. I can see the image perfectly . . . walking by the Delta Delta Delta house on my way to go read books onto tape for blind students . . . (I am such a nice person!--Joe, that was for you).

White socks do not go with black dress shoes. OK, so this I knew before I went to Vegas, but I promised to embarrass our friend James. We were fortunate to have our good friends James and Heather join us for an evening out in Vegas. We had a fabulous time eating, drinking, playing, etc., but I thoroughly enjoyed the white sock experience. Thanks to James and Heather, we had special passes to a very exclusive lounge called The House of Blues Foundation Room. It's at the tippy-top of Mandalay Bay, and it was the coolest bar/lounge I have ever been to. We had a man-servant. I'll leave it at that. Anyway, before we could get into the club, the guys had to meet dress code inspection. Michael passed, but James needed to put on pants and black shoes, so up we went to their gorgeous suite. Apparently, James didn't receive the memo about needing jeans, black shoes, and the blue stiped button-down shirt, so he was in a bit of a pickle as he tried to piece together an outfit that would meet the approval of the fancy-schmancy bouncer. The biggest concern: socks. James brought dress shoes but no dress socks, so it was white or nothing. He really wanted to wear no socks at all, but I thought that would be extremely uncomfortable, and Heather and I told him to suck it up and wear the white socks--no one would see because his pants were plenty long. Then, of course, Michael sticks out his leg and reveals that he was actually wearing little white golf socks with his black shoes--not, of course, out of necessity, mind you. James was so embarrased to be wearing white socks and black dress shoes, that I felt the best thing would be to assure him that I would blog about him so everyone out there in my shared cyberspace world would know . . . James Scriven wore white socks with black dress shoes.

Big Bang Piggy Bankin' was once at Mandalay Bay, but it is no longer there and may actually no longer be in existence. Poor Heather. She purposely booked her hotel room at Mandalay Bay so she could play a slot machine called Big Bang Piggy Bankin'. We looked everywhere for her game, and after a few drinks we were very vocal with the Mandalay Bay casino staff and had them on their walkie-talkies trying to locate the machine. Alas, Heather never got to play her game.